At the Gates of Moscow, in the November Frost

Mid-November 1941. The ground, hardened by the first frosts, finally replaces the mud of the rasputitsa that, since October, had bogged down trucks, horses and guns on the road to Moscow. For the German command, this frost is almost a deliverance: the tracks become passable again and Operation Typhoon can resume its drive toward the Soviet capital, now barely a few dozen kilometers away. You serve in the 4th Army, somewhere beyond Mozhaysk, where the vanguards have closed in on the great city.

But the cold that frees the roads also bites into bodies. Convinced that the campaign would be over before autumn, the high command made no provision for winter equipment: no fur-lined greatcoats, no suitable boots, no antifreeze grease. The men shiver in their summer uniforms, frostbite spreads, and the metal of the weapons sticks to bare skin. In the early morning, the breechblocks seize up, the engines refuse to start, the oil congeals. The troops are worn out by weeks of marching and fighting, the losses mount, and the surrounding villages, half emptied, offer wooden izbas where a stove sometimes still burns.

Around you, every man weighs what strength remains. Press on toward the objective the orders still designate, or conserve yourself against the Russian winter that is now setting in for good. The hour of decision draws near.