Wittgenstein's heart tightened as he told the cavalry commander, "Go farther out—to Shostka, Glukhov. Requisition at least a week's worth of supplies!"
"Yes, General!"
That evening, however, the Cossack Cavalry reported that they had failed to find sufficient food even within fifty versts.
Wittgenstein frowned. Just as he was calculating how many more days his logistical supplies could sustain a continued pursuit, he suddenly heard a chaotic uproar in the distance, seemingly mixed with gunfire.
He glanced at the staff officer beside him. "Go see what's happened."
The man returned a little over ten minutes later and said anxiously, "General, men from the 11th Infantry Battalion seized some alcohol and clashed with the Chamber of Commerce in the city."
"Damn it! Go there yourself. Don't let them take things too far."
"Yes, General."
Barely half an hour later, Wittgenstein received another report: the Guards Cavalry Battalion had seized bread from a Skirmisher Battalion—both sides had opened fire on one another, and more than twenty men had died on the spot...
Yes, the Russian Army had pursued through the no-man's-land Forced March Kutuzov had created for over three hundred kilometers. Tormented by cold and disease, and intermittently ambushed by small Polish Army units along the way, they had nearly reached the brink of collapse.
They had originally hoped to rest in Novgorod-Seversky, only to discover that not even a single fireplace in the city could be lit. Quite a few men immediately lost control of their emotions.
In truth, the citizens themselves had no prospect even of dinner. When Wittgenstein's corps entered the city, they had hoped to borrow food from the army. The conflict between the two sides was like gunpowder—one spark, and it ignited...
Before dawn the next day, Wittgenstein hastily ordered his troops out of the city.
What