Chapter 662: Not a Good Place
Damanhur. This was a necessary stop on the road from Cairo to Alexandria, an important transportation hub. A main railway line connected it to Cairo and even the hinterland of Egypt. It was one of the Allied army’s key material depots in the rear. However, this place had just been baptized by a full 600 tons of aerial bombs, and the fires had not yet been completely extinguished.
On the streets of the ruined Egyptian town of Damanhur, a squad of German paratroopers sat on the roadside, chewing on the food they carried with them. These soldiers, carrying their weapons and packs, had only just arrived. Next to them was a huge bomb crater, still emitting a little bit of heat. A pile of civilian corpses was stacked next to the crater, not yet cleared away.
The “Butcher” bombers had dropped their entire bomb loads here. This was the best way to ensure the safety of the German paratroopers after their airdrop. The entire city’s infrastructure had been destroyed, but both General Student and the other army commanders believed that good soldiers could always find what they wanted in the ruins.
The city, which had originally had a population of over a hundred thousand, had already been mostly evacuated when the flames of war spread to Alexandria. Now, after the saturation bombing by the bombers, the place was as quiet as a dead city. Occasionally, the crackling sound of burning could be heard, which was unsettling.
The once-prosperous streets were now as hideous and terrifying as hell. The German paratroopers were using everything they could find to fortify the nearby defensive positions. They used collapsed houses as cover, setting up traps and fire points everywhere. The entire city was being turned into a temple of slaughter in the hands of these experienced soldiers; every position seemed to exist for the sole purpose of killing more people.
“Take your men and bury these dozen mines over there! Yes! On the side of that rubble pile. The enemy’s tanks and infantry might appear there!” Borol was analyzing the placement of the various fire points in his defense sector with his deputy battalion commander. Seeing his 1st Company commander walk in, he immediately pointed to a dozen anti-personnel mines placed on the ground and said.
The types of weapons and equipment used by the paratroopers were not numerous. In most cases, they could only use the guns in their hands. But this did not mean they only relied on rifles to fight. For example, just now, men from the division headquarters had found an Allied ammunition depot set up in Damanhur and discovered 5,000 perfectly preserved mines inside.
And so, this batch of munitions was distributed to all the frontline combat units as an ammunition supplement. Borol’s battalion, as the main force of the frontal defense, was allocated a full 300 of these mines. He had already laid a huge minefield on the flanks and front of his unit. The remaining mines were now being used as filler, buried in the junctions between the several company positions.
The battalion’s several 75mm short-barreled infantry guns had already been set up in firing positions, with some cover and shelters for protection. After all, these paratroopers were veterans who had experienced the bloody battle of Crete. When the enemy was not counter-attacking, they were accustomed to using all their time to fortify their defensive positions.
“Clear the retreat routes for the machine gun positions. We don’t have many heavy weapons,” Borol said, scribbling a few lines in his notebook to represent the several battalion-level 13mm heavy machine gun positions. This firepower was intended for surprise suppression of large enemy formations and could, of course, also deal with targets like light tanks and armored cars.
After looking at the surrounding terrain, Borol pointed to a distant place and said to his deputy battalion commander, “Notify the battalion’s logistics team. Distribute one-third of the hand grenades and machine gun ammunition. According to the plan’s estimate, the Americans may be arriving here soon.”
Before he could finish his sentence, dust rose in the distance. A Kübelwagen, still in its gray paint scheme, kicked up sand and dust as it drove over. The soldiers in the vehicle swayed back and forth with the vibrations, but their helmets and uniforms showed they were from the German paratrooper reconnaissance units.
Before the car had even come to a complete stop, the soldiers on it began to shout, “The enemy is less than 5 kilometers away! I think you’d better hurry up and hide, don’t let the enemy see your asses. There are a lot of tanks, too much dust to see what’s behind them. This is really not a good place.”
“You guys ran back so fast, I suppose the enemy saw your asses?” Borol said with a laugh, tossing a pack of his own cigarettes to these brothers who had risked their lives on reconnaissance. The other party clearly appreciated the gesture and left two of their own magazines behind.
“I figured you’d need some help, so I brought it over,” came a voice from the other side of the road. A paratrooper fighting vehicle, equipped with a 75mm cannon, drove up. The front of the vehicle was piled high with sandbags, the gaps filled with more sand. As the vehicle moved, sand would occasionally fall from the gaps.
Soldiers on the battlefield always find ways to survive. They don’t give up any opportunity. Even if it’s just a blank sheet of paper, if they have the chance, they will try to put it in the path of a potential bullet.
“Thank you for coming to support us. Over there, we’ve left a low wall with an old house behind it that can be used for cover. The roof is gone. If you need, I can have someone tear down the back courtyard wall for you as well,” Borol said, pointing to a house that was still smoking. It had already collapsed inside, leaving only the four walls, stubbornly refusing to fall.
“Thanks a lot. I’ll try to take out all the enemy tanks for you before we retreat,” the commander of the paratrooper fighting vehicle said with a smile. He then knocked on the edge of the vehicle’s open-topped turret and shouted, “Drive over to that house. We’ll set up a defensive position there.”
“Hey! Donner, go and get the platoon leader of 1st Company’s 2nd Platoon. I need him to arrange a cover team to set up a defensive position around the fighting vehicle. Hurry up, we don’t have much time!” After assigning the task, Borol ran towards the location of the battalion headquarters.
He had four Panzerfaust anti-tank teams prepared there. He had to deploy these teams now to disable the American tanks at the first opportunity. Otherwise, his infantry alone might have to pay a very heavy price to stop the enemy’s advance.
“Alright! Gentlemen! Into the trenches. No fires. Open your cans and roasted flour. Eat your fill before the battle. I reckon this one will last a long time, so don’t starve to death,” Borol shouted, shouldering the Mauser 98k rifle he disliked so much. He walked through his defensive positions, one by one. “Prepare to engage!”
Walking back to the battalion headquarters and seeing the dust rising on the horizon, Borol knew the enemy was very close. He tore open a bag of roasted flour, unscrewed his canteen, and ate, a mouthful of flour followed by a swig of water. To be honest, the flour had a strange taste, and the water had a faint smell of gasoline. It wasn’t very tasty, but he ate carefully, as if it were a French grand meal.
To make the easily perishable roasted flour last longer, the German army had used vacuum packaging technology. However, due to the large quantity and the not-so-advanced processing technology, many of the vacuum packages were damaged during transportation and storage. So whether the frontline soldiers could eat better food was entirely a matter of luck.
“This really is an unpleasant, broken place,” Borol said with a bitter smile, swallowing a mouthful of flour and looking at the surface of his already sand-covered leather boots. Although it was already October, the daytime temperature here was still very high. To conserve water, he was still wearing a trench coat-style desert yellow raincoat. One can imagine how uncomfortable it was.
He had heard that General Rommel had fought across a thousand miles of desert and had made the enemy look pitiful. But without experiencing this hardship firsthand, he now knew just how despairing it was to fight a battle in the desert.
He raised his binoculars to his eyes and looked towards the position where the Americans would appear. An American tank had already appeared on the horizon. Nothing special, an M3 Lee tank that he had seen in Britain, with thin skin and a large filling, nicknamed the “tin chimney.” But who knew what was behind this tank, because Borol then saw a second American tank, and then a third.
Grabbing the battalion’s new portable field telephone, Borol said with a smile to the silent other end, “American armored forces spotted. The battle will begin in a few minutes! Heil Führer!”
“Good luck to you! Heil Führer!” On the other end of the line, the regimental commander’s voice came through, crystal clear.
Soon, a staff officer with intelligence knocked on the door of a civilian house in the center of Damanhur. This was the German paratrooper force’s general headquarters, and also General Student’s temporary frontline command post. In another room outside the door, radio equipment was piled high, and a huge antenna was hidden among the ruins. Everything looked no different from the surrounding wreckage.
“General! News from the frontline units. They have spotted American forces, many tanks. The battle is about to begin,” the staff officer said, handing the intelligence to the father of the German paratroopers and their supreme commander, General Student.
Student took the report, then looked up at the window and said, “Issue a notice to the entire army. Student is in Damanhur with all paratroopers and will absolutely not leave early! Heil Führer!”
A rifle poked its muzzle out from the ruins. Not far away, another rifle also aimed at its enemy. The German paratroopers lay prone among the rubble and debris, their steely eyes fixed on the distant American soldiers. They had become one with the ruins, like corpses that had lost consciousness. But only by getting extremely close could one discover that their eyelashes were twitching slightly.
Published: 2025-09-16T09:35:26.000+00:00
Last Edited: 2026-02-12T18:39:44.000+00:00
URL: https://www.patreon.com/caleredhair/posts/mtr-c662-not-139012658
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