Chapter 667: Flight

At this moment, however, by opening fire, this machine gun position had no intention of leaving. Their position was too far forward and too isolated, without even a communication trench to cover their retreat. From another perspective, the weight of a 13mm large-caliber machine gun did not allow them to move as quickly as they could with an MG 42.

Sure enough, it didn’t take long for the U.S. military to begin their counter-attack. A tank’s turret turned to its side, aiming at this overlooked machine gun position. The coaxial machine gun began to fire fiercely, suppressing the German machine gun’s fire. Then, the main gun suddenly spat out a ball of fire, and a shell blasted a crater where the position had been.

On the position of the 1st Company, a dozen German soldiers who had run out of ammunition were grimly fixing bayonets to their rifles. They softly hummed a song, occasionally looking with their sunken eyes at the American soldiers not far away. This was their last battle for their country, and their last charge.

We can’t go back to our homeland; I hear it’s full of cattle and sheep now. We can’t go back to our homeland; I hear it’s full of songs everywhere now. We can’t go back to our homeland; I hear it’s been turned upside down. We can’t go back to our homeland; my dear, are you well? The sacred and beautiful fatherland seemed to have nothing to do with them anymore. All they could do now was to walk to the end of their lives for their oath.

When the Americans approached with their weapons, these resolute soldiers leaped out of their trenches. Their agile figures startled the American soldiers opposite them. Some Americans reacted quickly, immediately opening fire and cutting down the ferocious-looking enemies in front of them. Others were a step too slow and were stabbed to the ground by the German soldiers’ bayonets.

Borol lay on the edge of a foxhole, holding his assault rifle. A short burst cut down an American soldier. He pulled his head back, avoiding the hail of bullets that swept over, then moved to another spot, poked his gun out, and turned another young American into a sieve.

If it weren’t for the war, they came from various famous American cities, some from Philadelphia, some from California. The German paratroopers might have come from Hamburg, or their homes might be in Munich or Frankfurt. If they had met, they would have likely bragged to each other about their hometown’s beer or their country’s cars and prosperity—at least not like this, using bullets and bayonets to send each other to hell.

But if it weren’t for the war, they probably wouldn’t have gathered together in such a sandy place to draw their swords against each other for different beliefs, different ideals, different futures, right? At least their oaths were similar. They had all sworn to fight for their country until the last moment, until the end of their lives. The ridiculous thing was, the only thing missing was fighting for themselves.

Rat-tat! Rat-tat! Click! The last bullet flew out of the chamber. Borol removed his magazine and fumbled at his chest pocket, only to find he had only one last magazine left. He gave a bitter smile, as if remembering that desperate night, the night that had truly made him a veteran. On that night, he had also run out of ammunition. And after that night, the German paratroopers had become world-famous, invincible in every battle.

“Commander! Commander!” A soldier crawled up from the communication trench behind him and sat on the ground, panting dejectedly. “We’re out of Panzerfaust rockets. We have no more heavy weapons. There are too many American tanks. The company commander sent me to find you, said we’d better think of something, get some reinforcements.”

Leaning against the wall of the foxhole, Borol took a crumpled cigarette from his breast pocket, put it between his lips, lit it with a match, and exhaled a puff of smoke before speaking, “There won’t be any reinforcements. The battalion behind us was transferred away half an hour ago. The American forces to the north are attacking even more fiercely. General Student himself has gone over there.”

Silence. An almost suffocating silence. Then the communications runner smiled, and Donner also started to laugh, and finally Borol laughed along with them. The runner stood up and went back the way he came. Before he left, Borol suddenly said, “I’m going back. If anyone makes it out of this alive today, they must preserve our battalion’s designation. If you can’t, then die with the rest of us.”

The soldier, carrying a G43 rifle with a fixed bayonet, paused for a moment, then left without looking back. “Alright!”

There were more American soldiers opposite them. The position where Borol was located was now less than a hundred meters from the tracks of the American tanks. He fired his last bullet, then pulled out the very beautiful pistol issued to him as a battalion commander. This pistol was made in Belgium, powerful, reliable, and durable. It was very similar to the M1911A1 pistol used by the Americans, without any aesthetic appeal, filled with the aura of mass industrial production.

As he drew the pistol, he saw under his desert-yellow raincoat, on the chest of his gray-green German army uniform, the wound badge, the combat bravery medal, the paratrooper badge, the Iron Cross, and the commemorative medal for the invasion of Britain. The corner of his mouth turned up slightly, and then his grip on the pistol became firmer and more steady. Borol knew that the most important moment of his life was about to arrive.

“Planes! Our planes!” Wilhelm Donner heard the roar of aircraft engines. When Borol looked up, the huge shadow of a plane had already passed over his head. One after another, the planes formed a tight formation in the sky, eventually creating the illusion that they were blotting out the sun.

One hundred and ten “Butcher” bombers, for the first time ever, flew in formation at medium-low altitude and dropped a full 600 tons of bombs. One bomb after another fell on the American army’s positions not far away, kicking up a sky-blotting cloud of smoke and fire. That was a full 600 tons of napalm bombs. For the Americans, who were concentrating their forces for a fierce attack, it was no different from a nightmare.

The explosions began just in front of their position and extended backward, stretching until they were out of sight. The American soldiers panicked. The place behind them that should have been filled with friendly troops was now only a sea of mercilessly burning flames. In the hearts of all, there was now only one pitiful sentence: the 8th Armored Division is finished!

“Butchers! Hooray! I love you guys!” Donner stood up excitedly from the foxhole and waved his arm at the Ta-152 fighters escorting the bombers. He was carried away, completely forgetting that the enemy’s bombing position was at least a hundred meters away from their position, and that this distance was still filled with American soldiers.

“Are you crazy!” Borol quickly lunged towards his communications runner, but he was a step too late. The sound of American guns rang out. Borol felt blood splash onto his face and neck, and then he fell heavily into the foxhole, holding Donner.

“Ah!” Only then did Donner’s scream reach Borol’s ears. He looked up and saw that Donner’s wrist had been blown off by a bullet; his entire left hand was gone. Blood was spurting from the massive wound on his wrist, a terrifying sight.

Borol quickly pulled out a personal first aid kit from his side pocket, tore open the bandage inside, and hastily tied it tightly around Donner’s wound to stop the bleeding. The gunfire around them gradually thinned. It seemed the Americans had given up this attack and were beginning to retreat.

“You idiot! You’re probably the last stupid bastard to die in this battle! Where am I supposed to find a medic for you at a time like this? Why did you stand up? You have a death wish? Huh?” Borol cursed loudly as he bandaged Donner’s wound, completely ignoring the fact that the blood had already stained the trousers and shoes of his legs, which were straddling Donner.

“If… you don’t mind… it would be better to have a professional do the bandaging!” A voice suddenly came from behind Borol. The battalion commander, Borol, turned his head and saw an American medic with his hands raised high.

Borol was so scared he quickly grabbed the pistol beside him, but the American opposite him clearly had no intention of a life-or-death struggle. “I once studied medicine in Germany, so my German is not bad… I surrender. The battle is over.”

When Borol got up, he realized that his groin was covered in blood. He quickly felt himself and was relieved to find no wound. And so, two German soldiers and one American soldier chatted idly in the foxhole.

At that very moment, in the command post of the U.S. 8th Armored Division, Patton walked up to the already started armored command vehicle with his hands behind his back. He looked back at the still burning and exploding Damanhur, sighed, and gave the order to retreat: “Perhaps we will never come back. Order all units we can contact to retreat! Retreat directly to Suez. I estimate that if we go to Cairo now, we will never see Suez again.”

The staff and guards worked together to close the door of the armored car. The two armored cars around it also started up, their huge radio antennas swaying back and forth with the vehicle’s jolting, like desolate branches in the wind.

Then came a line of jeeps and a dozen trucks, filled with listless American soldiers. The convoy headed east, kicking up a cloud of dust along the road that made it hard to open one’s eyes. On both sides of the road were dozens of 155mm howitzers that they hadn’t had time to destroy, as well as haphazardly piled empty ammunition boxes and scrapped armored cars and trucks.

Not far away, one M4 Sherman tank after another joined the fleeing column. When they arrived, they were an army of over one hundred thousand men, with more than 1,000 tanks and hundreds of planes. Now, they were disgraced, forced to flee all the way back to a place far, far behind them.

Published: 2025-09-16T09:38:24.000+00:00
Last Edited: 2026-02-14T17:02:59.000+00:00
URL: https://www.patreon.com/caleredhair/posts/mtr-c667-flight-139012854

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