Chapter 559: A Graveyard of Compromises
Busan, May 1932
The city burned. Not in the sharp detonations of precise German bombardment, but in the ragged, clumsy swaths of Russian artillery fire and block-by-block incineration.
Smoke crawled low across twisted rebar skeletons. Chunks of masonry still tumbled from battered high-rises.
Here and there, a wall collapsed inward with a low, groaning sigh; as if the city itself was finally succumbing to exhaustion.
Major General Georgy Zhukov stood atop the shell-ravaged terrace of a commandeered customs building, peering through field glasses at the port below.
Russian soldiers were already raising their tri-color on what was left of the Busan harbor administration building.
Around him, staff officers spoke in low, eager tones. The voices of men who knew victory, who felt it tasted like blood and soot in their lungs.
Zhukov lowered the binoculars and exhaled through his nose. His mustache twitched with irritation.
"These fools," he muttered. "We’ve won ourselves a graveyard. No more, no less."
A colonel nearby cleared his throat, gesturing to a courier sprinting across the rooftop. The boy’s coat was torn at the shoulder, his eyes too wide to be calm.
"Message from Vladivostok headquarters, General."
Zhukov ripped open the packet. His eyes scanned the telegram. His brow furrowed, then smoothed in an unreadable line.