Chapter 812: All are the Best

Yes, this was just the beginning. The German paratroopers were veterans of fighting tanks, but even they were stretched thin against the Soviet armored torrent. The density of Soviet tanks was comparable to Germany’s, or rather, they had been forced by the German panzer divisions to maintain such a density. This also meant the German paratroopers had just experienced a head-on collision with a “German-level” armored assault.

The anti-aircraft gun that had fired from the flank, taking out a Soviet tank, had turned its muzzle and destroyed a second T-34 that was accompanying the attack. After that, the Soviet tankers had opened fire and destroyed that meddlesome gun. The good news was that after this chaotic exchange, the Soviet tanks had become separated from their infantry, giving the Germans more opportunities to strike. The bad news was that the second wave of the Soviet attack was right on their heels.

BOOM! A 75mm anti-tank gun, which had been airdropped with the paratroopers, suddenly opened fire from a concealed position. A T-34, too close for comfort, was pierced by the shell and exploded into a brilliant ball of fire. Its wreck billowed thick smoke, obscuring the vision of the other Soviet tanks. The German artillerymen began to reload rapidly, waiting for the next enemy tank to come and meet its end.

Night was drawing in, and the battle grew more bloody and intense. The German positions were being compressed bit by bit, and more and more ground was being retaken by the Soviets. But the Soviet casualties were also extremely heavy. They were practically filling the German-dug foxholes and trenches with their bodies. For every inch they advanced, they had to pay with the fresh lives of many soldiers.

On the German side, things were not going smoothly either. In fact, Borol was already planning how to blow up the railway bridge behind them. In just 40 minutes since the battle had started, the German soldiers had already been forced to resort to individual anti-tank tactics—in other words, using soldiers to get close to the tanks to destroy the behemoths. This tactic resulted in huge losses, and the German casualty figures were rising sharply.

In the beginning, they could effectively contain the attrition. Many of the wounded could even be sent across the bridge to the field hospital on the other side for treatment. But as the fighting grew more and more intense, the Germans gradually ran out of spare energy to waste on small matters like transporting the wounded. And so, the wounded German soldiers on the entire battlefield were basically ignored.

Many of the wounded were forced to pull the pins on their grenades and take the approaching enemy with them. Others just lay there quietly and were then stabbed to death by the charging Soviets with their bayonets or shot. In short, there were no prisoners in this battle. Everyone was fighting with a “you die or I die” attitude, vying for that important bridge.

Borol’s battalion had already lost 77 men. In terms of casualty ratio, he had already lost one-seventh of his unit. Under normal circumstances, his unit should have already collapsed. But this paratrooper battalion was still holding its ground, facing the ever-increasing number of Soviet tanks with their bodies.

Compared to Damanhur, the bridgehead of this great bridge was a true hell. After all, the quality of the American tanks was still a certain gap away from the Soviet Stalin tank, and the American army was not as desperate as the Soviets, swarming up in a frenzied attack.

The mortar shells of the battalion headquarters had already been expended, and what made him even more desperate was that the ammunition for the anti-tank teams had also run out. The two towed 75mm short-barreled anti-tank guns had also been destroyed by the Soviets. The number of weapons they had to deal with tanks was dwindling.

Crack! Working the bolt, Borol stubbornly returned fire with the rifle in his hand. The Soviets opposite seemed to not care about casualties at all, or rather, their eyes had been blinded by the mountain of corpses and the sea of blood before them, and they had forgotten the unnecessary emotion of fear. Everyone was fighting with all their might. From time to time, one could see German soldiers who had run out of ammunition, holding their entrenching tools and grappling with the charging Soviets.

Further in the distance, more than twenty Soviet tanks were on fire. With all their might, the German paratroopers had finally blown three of the attacking Stalin tanks into scrap iron. The battlefield was littered with the wrecks of tanks and the mangled, incomplete corpses of German soldiers.

“Commander! Commander!” a paratrooper shouted, holding his helmet and jumping into Borol’s foxhole. He had clearly run all the way, and as he jumped in, he began to pant heavily. After he had calmed down a little, he swallowed and then reported rapidly, “Good news! Commander! Good news! Reinforcements from division have arrived, a whole battalion! They are crossing the bridge now. We just have to hold on for a few more minutes, and then we can pull back and rest.”

“Whew…” Hearing this news, Borol finally relaxed a little. His battalion was on the verge of collapse. If this reinforcing unit had not arrived, he would have really had to consider the plan of blowing up the bridge. After all, he was just one battalion, a paratrooper battalion with not even much heavy fire support. To hard-carry against two main Soviet armored divisions was simply beyond his ability.

The sky was also gradually darkening. Borol finally led the only intact squad he had left as a rear guard and withdrew from the position. The Soviet attack was still going on, but because several paratrooper fighting vehicles had arrived one after another, the German army on the bridgehead position still held the advantage.

On the bridgehead on the other side, Borol counted his troops and found that just in the process of retreating, he had lost another 20 outstanding paratroopers. His battalion had a total of three companies, and now almost one whole company had been wiped out on the position.

There was no good food. Everyone ate their boiled water-reconstituted potato powder at top speed. Because just as they were eating dinner, news came from the front again. Because the Soviet soldiers were beginning to attack through the night, their battalion had to go back to the front to prevent the Soviets from using their numerical advantage to take the bridgehead position.

This was not good news for anyone. After such a high-intensity battle, the paratroopers needed to rest. They were not the Terminators of the future. Many of the soldiers had not slept for a whole day.

Unfortunately, an order is an order. After Borol had finished his food, he led his men to the two trucks that had delivered the ammunition to receive the ammunition they needed to hold their position. Helping the machine gunners carry the belts, and others helping the anti-tank teams carry the ammunition boxes, this group of ragged paratroopers, who looked no different from beggars, once again, with messy steps, crossed the great bridge they had just passed.

As Borol walked, he heard Donner humming the paratroopers’ military song. Whenever the paratroopers encountered difficulties, they would sing this song, like a group of devout children praying to their god. And so he also began to hum along, his voice not loud, but with a hint of determination:

“Ah, who is it that marches in the enemy’s territory,

And sings the devil’s song?

A soldier stands on the bank of the Oder,

Humming silently.

Whistling, we walk back and forth,

And the whole world may,

Curse or praise us,

It’s up to them…”

With this song, the messy steps of the paratroopers began to become neat. They no longer walked in a jumble of three to five, but began to actively form up in horizontal lines. Row after row began to become neat, as if being reborn bit by bit, shedding their original ugly shell and transforming into butterflies.

And in the direction they were advancing, the German soldiers were firing fiercely. The bullets, in the dim environment, drew bright straight lines as they flew towards their targets. The Soviet soldiers opposite were also firing desperately. The entire position was a hail of bullets, as dense as rain. From time to time, a shell would land, kicking up a huge blast wave, tearing apart the people and weapons around it.

An occasional flare would rise, illuminating the entire battlefield as bright as day, and then many soldiers would be hit and fall to the ground. The screams were incessant. This scorched earth was no different from the surface of the moon. The trenches were filled in, craters were next to craters, it was muddy everywhere, and underfoot was bright red blood, constantly flowing and coagulating.

…

“Your Excellency, General, have you never thought that if the enemy were to break through the paratroopers’ defense line, the war might fall into a stalemate again?” a staff officer asked, draping a greatcoat over the shoulders of Guderian, who was staring tensely at the map.

“I have thought about it,” Guderian said with a bitter smile, then shook his head and replied, “But I firmly believe that they can win the war under the most arduous conditions… because they are the best soldiers I have ever seen. Besides them, we have committed the special forces created by the Führer himself, mobilized the ace fighter squadrons of the Eastern Front, deployed the most advanced helicopters, and even our most skilled tank crews have rushed over…”

Speaking of which, he paused, looked at the completely dark sky outside, and continued, “They are all the best. So we have no reason to fail. We are determined to win this campaign!”

…

Under the same starry sky, in the cold wind, Rein also looked up at the stars above. He leaned against the hatch of his swaying tank, enjoying the last little bit of quiet time. His unit now had only five tanks left. Another tank had just broken down, and in the end, the repair vehicle and another tank had been left behind as cover.

“Another 20 kilometers, and we should be able to get there on time,” the commander of the lead tank, No. 114, said with a sigh in the headset.

“Get there on time, and then prepare a defensive circle there. In fact, we have to defend against the enemy from two directions. The rear is not a safe zone,” Rein said, withdrawing his gaze from the sky and looking towards the direction of the railway bridge. “Three tanks to defend the front of the bridgehead, and the remaining two to defend the rear. Any problems?”

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