The town of Daugavpils lay far from the front, set back beyond the immediate reach of the Black Legion's aircraft and tied by rail to the rest of the Russian line. That was why Northwestern Front Headquarters had been placed there. Close enough to command, distant enough to feel secure, and important enough that the staff had convinced themselves the Germans could not reach it quickly.
By morning, the town was already awake.
Its small wooden town hall, a three-story building never meant to carry the weight of empires, had been turned into the headquarters of the Northwestern Front. Telegraph clerks worked with sleeves rolled up. Messengers came and went with mud on their boots. Officers bent over maps, argued in low voices, corrected pins, crossed out old estimates, and wrote new ones with hands that were not as steady as they pretended.
In the main command room, General Yakov Grigoryevich Zhilinsky stood with Litvinov's report in his hands.
Around him, his officers listened in silence.
He read the report aloud.
Riga had been attacked in full force. Airborne troops had taken the castle district. The bridge was held by the Iron Prince and his Third Company. German armor had broken into the southern defenses. The fleet was smashing the coast. Marines were landing north of the city. The city might fall within the day.
If they had not been fighting the Black Legion since the fifteenth of July, Zhilinsky might have laughed.
A city like Riga, with its river, its garrison, its coastal batteries, its Guard detachments, its prepared defenses, falling in a day? It should have sounded like madness. It should have sounded like panic written in official ink.
No one laughed.
No one doubted it.
By now, every officer in that room knew enough about the Black Legion to understand that impossible reports had become the safest kind to believe. The Germans had machines Russia did not have, methods Russia did not understand, and speed that made old orders rot before they reached the men meant to carry them out. Their aircraft hunted roads. Their artillery answered too quickly. Their armor broke lines that should have held. Their radios turned scattered actions into one hand closing into a fist.
And then there was Oskar.
The Iron Prince.
The black-armored giant.
The man who fell from the sky, killed generals in their headquarters, and rode or ran into battle beside a black horse that soldiers already spoke of as if it were a demon from old stories.
They were the Russian army.
Yet more and more, it felt as if they were a nineteenth-century army trying to fight something dragged out of a dark future.
Zhilinsky lowered the paper.
For a moment his face seemed empty, hollowed out by fatigue and pressure. He looked not like a commander receiving news, but like a man being asked to admit aloud that the world no longer obeyed the rules by which he had been trained.
He knew why he still held his position.
Not because he had solved the Black Legion.
No one had.
He held command because no one in Saint Petersburg could honestly say they knew how to defeat Oskar either, and no one with power wanted to be the next man handed the task. Failure against ordinary enemies could destroy a career. Failure against the Black Legion had become almost expected.
But Zhilinsky had been given five armies.
Five.
The weight of that command pressed on him like a stone slab. He felt chosen. He felt honored. He also felt trapped. If he failed now, Russia would blame him because Russia needed someone to blame. The court would whisper. The ministries would point. The newspapers would invent courage after the fact. The Tsar would receive reports written by men who had never watched their maps turn black.
He had to act.
He had to produce something that could be called victory.
Before him lay several possible courses. He could continue defending and buying time. He could order new lines built behind Riga and let the city hold as long as it could. He could beg Saint Petersburg for reinforcements. He could ask the Southwestern Front for help. He could try to concentrate everything on Riga and retake the city before the Germans fully secured it.
The most rational course was probably retreat.
Fall back in order. Scorch the land. Stretch the Germans deeper into Russia. Trade space for time, time for men, and men for the eventual exhaustion of German industry.
But Zhilinsky did not choose that.
He could not.
Russia had retreated too long already. Since Warsaw, they had burned their own land, abandoned towns, dragged civilians east, and called every backward step a plan. The men could be told only so many times that retreat was strategy before they began to hear cowardice beneath the word.
So he would do something else.
Something unexpected.
He would not throw his armies directly into the Black Legion's main concentration at Riga.
He would attack everywhere else.
Zhilinsky's eyes moved to the great map pinned across the table. Around the room, the faces of his officers hardened. They understood before he spoke. Whatever was about to be ordered would not kill thousands. It would not even kill tens of thousands.
It would kill in numbers no one wanted to say aloud.
The front stretched almost eight hundred kilometers across rivers, lakes, forests, marshes, fields, railheads, small towns, and a handful of elevated positions that the Black Legion had fortified with ugly care. The German-held territory lay across the map like a dark stain spreading from the west. Pins marked known strongpoints: fortified villages, hilltop nests, river crossings, observation posts, radio stations, hidden batteries, wire belts, and minefields.
But much of the line remained uncertain.
That uncertainty was itself a weapon.
No one knew exactly how deep the German defenses ran. No one knew where all the mines were. No one knew how many bouncing mines had been buried in the dark, how many machine guns waited behind trees, how many field telephones or radios linked a quiet outpost to artillery miles away. Sometimes Russian scouts learned only by dying. Sometimes wildlife found a minefield before men did. Sometimes a patrol vanished, and only silence returned.
Everyone knew the danger of attacking.
The Black Legion did not need great masses to kill great masses. It used traps, machine guns, artillery, mines, radios, and discipline. Russian batteries that fired too long from one place were often answered before they had done enough damage to matter. Infantry attacks that pressed forward bravely became bodies in wire. Cavalry found mines and machine guns. Officers discovered that courage did not silence artillery.
Any attack against that line would be costly.
Perhaps catastrophically costly.
But Zhilinsky had one advantage left.
Men.
Not quality. Not training. Not equipment. Not officers of the old standard.
Men.
Russia had men in endless, brutal abundance, and now Oskar himself had helped supply more. The expulsions from occupied territory had driven masses eastward: angry men, displaced men, boys old enough to hold rifles, fathers with nothing left but hatred, refugees who could be turned into labor battalions, militia, replacements, or infantry if the state pushed hard enough.
They were poorly trained. Many could barely read. Many had no proper boots. Too many officers were dead, leaving retirees, political favorites, frightened cadets, and half-prepared men in command of formations too large for them.
But they had legs.
They had arms.
They had bodies.
They could carry rifles, dig, march, charge, and die.
And if the Black Legion had thrown its air force, armored fist, marines, fleet, and the Iron Prince himself against Riga, then the rest of its line had to be weaker.
It had to be.
Zhilinsky placed both hands on the table and leaned over the map.
His body trembled slightly.
His voice did not.
"The First Army," he said, "or whatever remains of it, will hold Riga and the surrounding approaches for as long as possible."
The room became still.
The sentence sounded simple.
It condemned tens of thousands.
"Litvinov is to hold with the city garrison, the remaining First Army formations, and the Guard detachments. His task is to tie down the German northern assault. Every hour he holds is an hour bought for the rest of the front."
A colonel began writing.
Zhilinsky's finger moved southwest.
"The Tenth Army will attack toward Šiauliai. Its purpose is to threaten the German flank and force the enemy to fear encirclement of the force at Riga. If the Germans have overextended themselves, the Tenth will cut at the roads and rail lines supporting them. They will proceed even if the First Army must hold alone."
A staff officer lifted his head. "And the rest of our armies, General?"
Zhilinsky's finger moved to the center.
"The main blow falls here. The Ninth Army attacks toward Kovno. If success permits, it will drive toward Königsberg."
Murmurs stirred.
He cut them off by continuing.
"The Seventh Army attacks toward Białystok and pushes west. Its long objective is Warsaw."
His finger moved farther south.
"The Second Army attacks from Brest toward Siedlce and Lublin. Lublin is to be taken if possible. From there, pressure continues toward Warsaw."
Another officer asked, carefully, "And Austria-Hungary?"
"The Fourth Army holds the southern flank against Austria-Hungary and prevents the Second Army from being cut from below. The Southwestern Front will keep the Habsburgs occupied."
The arrows took shape as he spoke.
First Army would bleed at Riga.
Tenth Army would strike toward Šiauliai.
Ninth and Seventh would carry the main weight through the center.
Second Army would push toward Lublin and Warsaw.
Fourth Army would shield the southern flank.
It was enormous.
More than a million men would move under those orders, directly or indirectly. Far more, perhaps, once reserves, artillery, cavalry, rail guards, supply troops, labor battalions, and supporting formations were counted. If the attack succeeded, it might crack the Black Legion's overstretched line. If it failed, Russia would spend men by the hundreds of thousands and gain only more graves.
Zhilinsky knew that.
Everyone in the room knew it.
But if he did nothing, Riga would fall, and Russia would do nothing but explain another defeat.
Russia could not retreat forever.
Russia had to strike.
"Send the orders," Zhilinsky said.
For half a heartbeat, the headquarters remained frozen.
Then the room exploded into motion.
Officers turned to clerks. Clerks ran to telegraph rooms. Messengers seized dispatch cases. Phones rang. Pencils moved. Maps were marked. Codes were opened. Orders began to travel outward from Daugavpils to army headquarters across the great front.
The Northwestern Front began to move not like a smooth machine, but like some vast wounded animal deciding to lash out with every limb at once.
Zhilinsky remained before the map.
His heart beat hard beneath his uniform.
Since Warsaw, they had retreated, burned, rebuilt, and gathered strength in the rear. They had told themselves time was on Russia's side.
Now the time had come to find out if that had been true.
By that same morning, the order reached Brest.
General Sergei Mikhailovich Scheidemann received it in the town hall, which had been turned into the headquarters of the rebuilt Second Army. Outside the windows, the streets were full of soldiers who scarcely looked like soldiers at all.
The Second Army existed on paper.
In flesh, it was still a crowd being forced into the shape of an army.
Nearly three hundred thousand men had been gathered under its name, but more than nine in ten were new conscripts, reservists, minorities, peasants, laborers, refugees, or frightened men sent forward before anyone had properly taught them how to be soldiers. Some had rifles. Some did not. Some had rifles but so few cartridges that their officers had forbidden them from wasting ammunition on practice. Many wore civilian coats with white armbands tied around their sleeves to mark them as Russian troops. Others wore mismatched boots, army caps, village jackets, old greatcoats, or ordinary shoes already sinking into the mud.
Scheidemann knew the empire possessed supplies somewhere.
That was the cruelest part.
Russia had rifles somewhere. Boots somewhere. Coats somewhere. Cartridges, shells, blankets, oats, flour, medicines, wagons, horses, spare parts, all of it existed somewhere inside the vastness of the empire.
But the arteries were clogged.
The railways ran day and night and still could not carry enough. They had to feed cities, move refugees, haul coal, shift wounded men, deliver shells, replace horses, carry uniforms, support the civilian economy, and sustain armies spread across an enormous front. More than two million soldiers needed food every day simply to remain upright. Civilians needed food as well. Horses needed oats. Guns needed shells. Rifles needed cartridges. Men needed boots, socks, blankets, belts, soap, bandages, wagons, tools, grease, wire, timber, and a hundred other things that became important only when missing.
And everything was missing somewhere.
The Second Army had been rebuilt from ruin and given a name before it had been given the substance to match it. It was half-fed, half-equipped, and held together by anger, fear, officers' threats, old songs, village stubbornness, hatred of the Germans, and the quiet return of vodka into places where the Tsar had officially declared it forbidden.
Scheidemann knew the state of his army.
So when he read the order to attack immediately, the weight of it settled over him like wet wool.
He did not speak for a long moment.
Beyond the window, in the muddy square before the town hall, young conscripts practiced with axes and sticks because there were not enough rifles for every training group. An instructor shouted until his voice cracked. The men swung badly, clumsily, coats flapping, white armbands bright against brown sleeves. One slipped in the mud and fell on his back. Others laughed too loudly, the laughter of men trying not to understand what this training meant.
Scheidemann felt his stomach sink.
Behind him, his division commanders and staff officers waited.
At last one of them spoke.
"General," he said carefully, "are we truly to attack with this rabble?"
No one rebuked him.
The word was ugly.
It was also honest.
Another commander turned on him at once, face flushing with anger.
"And what would you have us do?" he snapped. "Wait? Watch the Germans dig deeper? Every day we delay, the Black Legion roots itself further into Russian soil. If their armor and aircraft are at Riga, then this is the opening God has given us."
A third officer nodded sharply.
"The Fourth Army guards our southern flank against Austria-Hungary. We are free to strike. The Germans do not hold their lines with masses. We have seen that again and again. Small detachments. Fortified points. Machine-gun nests. Minefields. Strong positions, yes, but thin. Thin lines can be overwhelmed."
The cautious commander looked at him in disbelief. "Overwhelmed with what? Men who cannot shoot?"
"With men who can march," the other officer said. "With men who can carry rifles, axes, stones, and grenades. If the Germans have machine guns that fire a thousand bullets a minute, then we send more than a thousand rifles against them. We answer their fire with numbers."
"That is not tactics," the cautious commander said. "That is slaughter."
"It is war."
"It is suicide."
"They are Germans," the angry officer said. "Not sorcerers."
Scheidemann said nothing.
He looked again through the window.
A boy outside swung an axe as if chopping firewood, slipped, and fell hard in the mud. The instructor cursed and dragged him upright by the collar. Nearby, a group of conscripts huddled around a pot of thin soup, dipping bread into water that had barely seen meat. Some smiled. Some prayed. Some stared at nothing.
This was what he had been given.
This was what he was ordered to throw against the Black Legion.
And yet the order was not entirely foolish.
If Russia waited, the Germans would keep advancing. If Russia only defended, the army would learn helplessness. If men came to believe that the Black Legion could strike anywhere and never be struck back, morale would rot faster than hunger could finish it.
An army had to believe it could attack.
A country had to believe it was not simply being driven backward toward its own grave.
Scheidemann folded the order carefully and set it on the table.
When he looked up, his face had hardened.
"So be it," he said.
The room quieted.
"We attack."
The words landed heavily.
One officer crossed himself. Another smiled with grim satisfaction. The cautious commander closed his eyes for a moment, perhaps in prayer, perhaps in despair.
Scheidemann turned toward the map.
"Prepare the men. Issue whatever ammunition can be issued. Riflemen first. Assault groups after them. Axes where rifles are lacking. Men without rifles will follow men with rifles, and when a rifle falls, they will pick it up and continue. Ready the artillery, such as it is. I want the army moving before noon."
A staff officer swallowed. "Before noon, General?"
"Yes," Scheidemann said. "Before noon."
He looked once more at the square: the axes, the sticks, the white armbands, the hungry faces, the men practicing how to throw stones because there were not enough grenades.
"If the Germans are truly committed at Riga," he said, "then this may be the only moment we are given. We cannot keep waiting for perfect conditions. We cannot keep watching them take one city after another while we explain why we were not prepared."
His voice grew colder.
"We will attack. We will show the men, the Tsar, and the whole empire that the Russian army still has strength enough to strike. We will retake what has been lost, or we will bleed trying."
No one cheered.
That was perhaps the truest answer.
Outside, under the grey morning sky, the conscripts kept swinging axes.
And along the eight-hundred-kilometer front, as telegraph keys clicked and orders moved from headquarters to headquarters, the armies of the Russian Northwestern Front began to stir.
By noon, if the wires held and the officers obeyed, more than a million men would begin moving west toward the Black Legion lines. The German front stretched nearly eight hundred kilometers and, with the weight of the attack falling on Riga, much of it was held by little more than a hundred thousand men.
Ten to one.
Those were the odds the Black Legion was about to face.
And with those odds, Russia moved, because it had decided it could no longer wait.