Chapter 414: The Longest Night

“This was the longest night of my life. When I saw the dawn, I felt as if I had been reborn.” — Wilhelm Donner, veteran of the 1st German Paratrooper Division.

A bullet struck a tree branch, shattering the dry wood. The German paratrooper lay calmly beneath the dead tree, waiting for the attacking British soldiers to get closer. They had set up machine-gun positions on both flanks. Once the British entered the pocket, they would be slaughtered.

These were battle-hardened veterans, not some amateur new recruits who fired at will. They were determined to live, because one of their lives was worth ten, or even twenty, of the enemy’s.

Borol lay in a hastily dug foxhole, squinting at the dense formation of attacking British soldiers. He curled his lip in contempt; these Brits were truly asking to die. It seemed they had not yet learned how to attack, nor had they mastered any real combat skills. Attacking like this would only lead to sky-high casualties as they were cut to pieces by the German machine guns.

The German paratroopers had been through countless battles like this. They were skilled at fighting isolated and unsupported behind enemy lines. They were skilled at seizing key military objectives the moment they landed and then holding their positions to the last. For the other German troops, this was their first night in Britain. But for the German paratroopers, it was far from it. They were used to the cold and the wind, their faces pressed to the dirt. They were used to killing and dying on nights like this.

Don’t so many people yearn to be special forces? Don’t so many people worship the “king of soldiers”? To leap from a height of 5,000 meters into dense anti-aircraft fire, to be tossed about by the wind in a storm of bullets until you hit the ground, to pick up your rifle and immediately attack your objective. You might be alone, or with two or three others, but you must attack. And then you must hold the position you just captured from the enemy, maybe for a day, maybe for two, maybe reinforcements will never come in this lifetime.

If there truly were “kings of soldiers” in this world, truly fearless warriors, then these German paratroopers came closest to that title. Most of them were numb to killing, most of them were so accepting of death that they had become indifferent, even cold-blooded.

Brrrrt… The sound of the German MG 42, like ripping linen, roared once again. This machine gun, known throughout the world as “Akado’s Saw,” was something that drill instructors repeatedly warned new recruits about. It had the sustained fire of a heavy machine gun with the mobility of a light machine gun. Countless men cursed this weapon, cursing that it wasn’t the one in their own hands.

When this machine gun fired, it meant someone was going down. The sudden and intense firepower inflicted a terrible price on the attacking British soldiers. In the night, the tracer rounds were brilliantly bright, and while they showed the gunner his line of fire, they also exposed the machine gun’s position to the enemy.

Unfortunately for the British, the German machine-gun teams were probably the fastest in the world at relocating. Their machine guns were likely the best in any army’s hands, and their experience was the most seasoned.

After a short, violent burst, before the British could even react, the German machine-gun position had already moved. By the time the British bullets started sweeping towards the now-silent spot where the intense fire had just come from, it was already too late.

“How on earth did these boy scouts who’ve never fought a real battle manage to hit our landing force so hard on the beach?” Borol asked, his face a mask of contempt and disdain as he watched the British soldiers in the distance, who were constantly giving away their positions and numbers by firing.

“Maybe it’s because our army isn’t that great either,” Baru said with a grin, an unlit cigarette dangling from his lips. “After all, we can’t be both paratroopers and marines.”

Borol chuckled softly. “You’re getting more and more humorous… Get ready to fire. They’re coming.”

Rat-tat! Rat-tat! Crack! Crack! The MP-44 assault rifles and G43 rifles began to fire fiercely, and the entire German defensive front erupted in a sea of fire. The German’s vaunted rate of fire instantly turned the area in front of them into a living hell. The British soldiers, unfamiliar with night combat, were thrown into confusion and broke before they could even effectively return fire.

Hundreds of British corpses were left in front of the German positions. They had not managed to capture the town of Bite; they had not even managed to see the place that once belonged to Britain. They were just one group among the countless who died on this long night, their deaths neither unjust nor heroic. They had shed their blood for their country, but few would ever remember their names.

Boom! Boom! The British artillery, suppressed by German bombers during the day, came into its own at night. Shells rained down on the German paratroopers, and the entire position trembled.

“Shelling again. Can’t these idiots try something different?” Borol muttered, shaking the dirt and debris from his helmet as he leaned back in his foxhole. He casually lit a cigarette and put it to his lips.

In truth, there weren’t many other options. Not far away, at the headquarters of the British IV Corps’ 4th Division, the British commanders were anxiously urging their men to take the enemy’s defensive positions as quickly as possible so they could advance toward Bite. After all, it was almost midnight, and they hadn’t even caught a glimpse of the town yet.

“We must retake Bacton before 5 AM, or the second wave of German landing forces will be entering Britain there! None of us can bear that responsibility!” Over the phone, General Powell’s voice roared, forcing the 4th Division’s commander at the front to hold the receiver away from his ear.

All the British forces near Bite wanted to swallow this tiny town in one bite, but the German paratroopers had constructed a deep, interlocking, fish-scale-like defensive network around it. The British had been attacking since 8:10 PM and still hadn’t managed to get close to Bite.

The tenacity and resilience of the German paratroopers were far beyond what these British rookies could comprehend. More than half of the British units that had ever fought the Germans were now under Montgomery’s command. It was no exaggeration to say that the Dutch and Belgian troops who had actually seen or fought German paratroopers were either in concentration camps or in their graves.

General Student, who had already set up his forward command post in Bacton, had expressed the sentiments of the German paratroopers in no uncertain terms before he went to bed: “Using infantry to fight my paratroopers? They must be dreaming! Wake me up when they bring in the tanks!”

His words, though arrogant, reflected the combat effectiveness of the German paratroopers. From Poland to Norwich, the German paratroopers had never been defeated by enemy infantry.

Never been defeated did not mean they could not be defeated this time; immense combat power did not mean they were truly invincible. It all pointed to one thing: these dust-covered German paratroopers, enduring round after round of enemy attacks in the dirt, had paid a higher price and sacrificed more than anyone else.

Are there soldiers who are invincible the moment they join the army? They simply accumulate and learn in battle after battle; they learn from their own wounds, from the bodies of their comrades, from the muzzles of enemy guns and the fire of their cannons. They learn how to be indifferent, how to endure, how to win.

But some things could never be learned, such as luck. Borol held his helmet, sitting beside a corpse, quietly smoking. Baru, who had been with him since the drop in Belgium, had just been killed in the shelling.

It was silent. A piece of shrapnel had hit his head, piercing his helmet and skull. His death was not heroic, not dramatic. He had died just as unceremoniously as those British rookies, just like that.

Borol thought of the bloody battle in that Dutch town, of the heroic death of Big Beard, of the embarrassing time he had called out Baru’s name over and over, of the pride they both felt standing before Akado… Sometimes he really wanted to complain about the unfairness of fate. He wanted to shout and ask why an experienced veteran would die as anonymously as a new recruit.

He knew this was only the first night, and this was only one of the countless injustices of this night, the most insignificant one. He looked at the body beside him, at the dried blood, at the Dutch Airborne Medal on his chest that signified his achievements, at the withered edelweiss.

When the great curtain of war is raised, who can guarantee they will live to a ripe old age? Are those who die first necessarily the unlucky ones? I have to live, he thought. Because if I die, no one will remember Big Beard, or Baru, or all the soldiers who once lived and laughed. Borol suddenly felt that he understood Raine, understood the true meaning of fighting desperately to survive.

He slowly stood up and muttered, “Damn it, you still owe me a bet…” The scene before him blurred. Had the night grown darker? Or had the mist dampened his eyelashes? God only knew.

“Time to kill! Kill a few more Brits, to see you off!” Borol laughed aloud. He took the young new soldier who was replacing Baru, a man named Wilhelm Donner, grabbed his MP-44 assault rifle, and, without looking back, walked towards the nearby front line.

The long night was still long. On this night, no one would sleep. The air was filled with the stench of seawater and the reek of blood. It was invigorating.

The novel has already been fully translated up to the final chapter. You can access it on my Patreon at https://www.patreon.com/caleredhair