Chapter 247: You Are Too

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Borol shook his head, adjusted the steel helmet on it with his hand, brushed the white dust from his chest, and spat to the side.

“Hello? Hello?” he shouted twice to make sure his ears were really okay, then cautiously stood by the window, poked half his head out to glance outside, and quickly pulled his head back in.

“Baru! Have the French retreated?” he shouted up to the second floor, but there seemed to be no answer.

“Baru!” He had a bad premonition. In an instant, the image of the bearded man, grimacing in pain against the cannon, resurfaced in his mind, which made him very uncomfortable.

So he shouted in an even more anxious and urgent tone, “Baru! I’m calling you, you bastard!”

“I hear you! This is the third time I’ve answered you, Borol!” Baru’s voice finally came through his ear. It seemed his hearing had indeed been a little bit off, but now it seemed to be fine.

“Are the French gone?” Borol asked with a loud laugh.

Although he didn’t know why his platoon leader and superior was laughing, Baru, carrying a machine gun down the stairs, still replied, “They’ve retreated. I saw them get quite far before I came down. I don’t know why. They should have been able to crush us easily.”

“Gather everyone. I need to check our casualties. We can’t hold this position any longer. Make arrangements. Be ready to retreat at any time,” Borol said to Baru, then turned to leave.

Baru suddenly called out to him, “Hey, chief! Are you okay?”

Borol was taken aback, then stared at Baru. “I’m fine. Of course, I’m fine. What do you mean by that?”

“I was just wondering if it hurts to have a fork sticking out of your shoulder,” Baru said, pointing to Borol’s back.

It seemed that tension and killing could indeed make one temporarily forget pain. Only then did Borol realize that a fork was sticking out of his shoulder, apparently a piece of debris sent flying by the grenade earlier. He pulled the fork out and threw it on the ground. “Come on and help me. There’s a tourniquet in the pocket on my lower back.”

After bandaging his wound, Borol walked out of the house with his gun. Baru had gone to find the other survivors, while he walked slowly along the small village road with his gun at the ready. At a street corner, he saw one of his subordinates lying on the ground, his big eyes staring at the sky. There were several bullet holes in his chest and neck, and the bloodstains had already dried.

He walked over cautiously, closed the soldier’s eyes with his hand, then tore the identity tag from the body and very solemnly placed it in his breast pocket. He looked up toward the warehouse at the entrance of the village. That had once been an anti-tank gun position, just a dozen minutes ago. But now, a wisp of smoke was rising from it, and there was not a sound.

He stepped over the half-shattered fence and slowly walked to the place where his brave comrade had once fought. He felt an itch on his face, as if a small insect was crawling down his cheekbone. But he ignored it and walked straight up to the bearded man. Although the person leaning there was now just a corpse, no longer able to open his eyes or speak.

Four German paratroopers—or rather, air-landed infantry—had been killed here. Although these men had not received parachute training, they could be sent to reinforce the paratroopers via transport planes at the first opportunity. They could be said to be the paratroopers’ most effective support, and also Germany’s most elite infantry. These men did not have the mountain edelweiss, which represented the honor of the paratroopers, embroidered on their collars, but there was a button on them to distinguish them from ordinary infantry.

Walking to the bearded man’s side, Borol slowly sat down, looking at this man who had been sent to support him. Now he himself was still alive, while the man who had come to support him had died in battle here. Borol lit a cigarette, then, for some reason, took out another and placed it on a blood-soaked seat on the cannon.

“I’ll have a smoke with you. I hope you have a safe journey,” Borol said softly. He then raised his hand and wiped his face.

Behind him, the German sniper walked over. “Sir, the men are all assembled. They’re waiting for you.”

Borol nodded, stood up, took the identity tags from the fallen soldiers here, and put them back in his pocket. Then he walked back. As he passed the sniper, he pointed to the 75mm cannon behind him and said, “That’s a really good gun.”

“You’re right, sir! A very formidable cannon,” the sniper nodded, glanced at the burning tank wreckage at the village entrance, and nodded again. “A good gun!”

As if he had let something go, Borol’s steps became much lighter. But when he saw his subordinates, he became irritated for some reason. He did not find his former assistant squad leader in the familiar crowd, and… several other people he knew were also missing.

It wasn’t sadness, nor it was nostalgia. Borol didn’t know how to describe the feeling in his heart. He just felt very tired, felt that his breathing was out of rhythm. He walked step by step into the crowd, placed the gun in his hand on a table, picked up the dozen or so identity tags that had already been placed there, and stuffed them into his pocket.

“Can anyone drive? When we retreat later, I think that thing will be faster,” Borol asked. A few people raised their hands. He nodded and continued, “Organize the ammunition. Destroy everything we can’t take with us.”

“Baru, you take the 1st and 2nd squads and pack up… 3rd squad will set up a security perimeter. If you see anything, inform everyone immediately,” he said, pointing out the window. “Post men in all directions. I don’t know why the French gave up the attack. We have to be careful.”

Just as Borol and his men were packing their things onto a truck and preparing to retreat, a dispatch motorcycle from Waalhaven airfield drove into the village. The German dispatch rider was wearing a raincoat and leather gloves, and around his neck hung a gorget with an engraved pattern.

“Who is your commander here?” the rider asked without getting off his motorcycle. He didn’t even turn off the engine. It was clear he was in a hurry to deliver a message to the next place.

Borol stepped forward and replied, “I am their commander. Are there any orders from headquarters?”

“This is not an order this time,” the dispatch rider shook his head. “The Führer protects us. The French army has retreated. They are routing to the southwest.”

Retreated? How could they just retreat like that? Borol was stunned and hurriedly asked, “Why?”

“I hear the Führer learned of the difficult situation here and deployed more than 40 Stuka bombers and 20 Fw-190 fighters. They attacked this French unit in waves and broke their offensive. On the other side, the 11th Panzer Division of Army Group B is now only a few hours away, so the French had to retreat,” the dispatch rider said, giving a German salute. “Congratulations, Commander! We are victorious.”

Won? Unbelievable. Borol sat down on the steps, looked at his equally stunned comrades, and suddenly broke into a foolish laugh. The retreat seemed a distant prospect. It seemed they no longer had to flee for their lives to the Willemsbrug bridge. Everything felt very unreal.

But this feeling of unreality soon disappeared. The Panther tanks of the German 11th Panzer Division brought a sense of security to the at-this-moment vulnerable German paratroopers. Watching the tanks roll past, one after another, Borol and the others, who had just been frantically digging up the mines they had laid, felt an unprecedented sense of security.

At this moment, they truly believed that their battle seemed to be over. At least… at least for this stage.

Subsequently, an entire company of German infantry arrived. They were ordered to take over the positions here and to inform the paratroopers that they could return to Waalhaven on foot.

Borol was not stingy. He gave the wine and some supplies, along with the dug-up landmines, to these infantrymen. The cars were also left for the German infantry passing through here to use for transportation. He led his small parachute team, carrying their own weapons, and returned to Waalhaven lightly equipped.

On the way, their mood was very good. Because they had run into the personnel from their own battalion headquarters who were also returning, and on the road, they had met an artillery unit on the march. Dozens of trucks pulling 150mm heavy cannons sped past. It seemed that they had already secured victory in this battle.

These paratroopers, with cigarettes dangling from their lips, were full of confidence. Although they were covered in dust from head to toe, and some of their faces were still stained with blood, they were the victors of today, the heroes of the entire German Western Front.

Unconsciously, Borol heard the song that made his blood boil again. Although the singing was distant, it was very clear:

“We fight for Germany,

For freedom and for honor,

We will give the enemy no rest!

The cruel hand of death,

Often likes the best soldiers,

But we have won, the wall still stands,

The flood-like enemy has been defeated by us!

This makes us paratroopers,

The heroes of Germany!

March with us, comrades!

In the same medal of honor,

No matter where we are, let us continue to march forward!

And the devil laughs like this: Hahahahaha.

We fight for Germany,

For freedom and for honor!

We will give the enemy no rest!”

That’s a really good song, Borol thought to himself, walking on the side of the road with his MP-44 on his back. Behind him was Baru, carrying an MG42. And behind him was the medic, who had used up all his medical supplies, followed by one after another, the grimy German paratroopers. They were humming their battle song, their dry, chapped lips moving to reveal white teeth.

Yes, we are German paratroopers. We are war gods who have fallen from the sky! We do not fear death. We offer victory to the Führer! Borol put his hand in his pocket and touched the identity tags. You are too.