Chapter 839: Advancing Through the Mud

A gray Soviet truck, with a large Iron Cross painted on it, moved slowly forward, jolting with the undulations of the road. The muddy and rugged path, combined with the heavy load of supplies, forced a slow and cautious pace.

Germany lacked transport vehicles, so they were adept at using captured ones. Many of the frontline units had vehicles from the enemy, such as French trucks, British trucks, and, of course, the Soviet truck before them.

To avoid being mistaken for the enemy by friendly troops, these non-frontline pieces of equipment were often painted with conspicuous identification markings. The almost exaggeratedly large Iron Cross and the drab, earthy gray paint were all to prevent a friendly from getting jumpy and firing a 75mm anti-tank round their way.

However, caution could not always avoid trouble. Sometimes, bad luck meant you would still run into problems you didn’t want to. With a violent lurch, the truck’s wheels finally got stuck in a deep pit where the ice and snow had melted.

The German soldier in the passenger seat, cradling his rifle, was jolted awake by the sudden, violent shaking. He sleepily glanced at the driver beside him, then at the rough road ahead, and finally realized his truck was in trouble.

“Vroom! Vroom!” The engine let out a heart-rending roar, but it still couldn’t pull the heavy cargo out of the muddy pit. The deliberately uneven treads on the wheels were filled with mud. After spinning and slipping, they had become as smooth as if they had been polished, unable to get any traction, let alone pull several tons of supplies out of here and continue forward.

“Damn it! A muddy place like this, and these Soviets call it a road! Don’t they have a word for ‘swamp’ in their dictionary?” the soldier in the passenger seat complained, frowning and holding his gun. It was already annoying enough not to be able to smoke in the truck, and now this mess had happened.

The driver turned off the engine, opened the door, and jumped out. As soon as his feet touched the ground, he felt the muddy road sink. Slippery mud splattered all over his leather boots, making him frown involuntarily. He struggled to walk to the back of the truck and saw that the drive wheels were sunk in the mud. It was impossible to get out.

“Damn! At this rate, we can’t get this truck out on our own!” the driver said with a helpless shrug. At this moment, the soldier from the passenger seat had also walked around to the front, his rifle slung over his back. He felt as if a piece of candy were stuck to the soles of his boots; every step required more effort.

It really was a rotten road that left one speechless. It was believed that every soldier who walked on such a road would silently curse the female relatives of the Soviet road builders in their hearts. After being ravaged by more trucks, mules, horses, and even people, the road, which could have been described as muddy before, could now be described with the word “swamp.”

Having lost the ultimate means of land transport, the railway, it was a tacitly acknowledged fact for everyone that the efficiency of the German transport roads to the front was low. But only by personally walking on such a muddy so-called road could one truly appreciate the hardship and difficulty of these transport units.

In some of the muddier places ahead, the passing troops had already laid down all sorts of miscellaneous things: crushed stones from the roadside, some harvested bushes and branches, and even worn-out tents and unwanted military uniforms. In short, this road looked like it was full of patches, which made the German army, who were used to the autobahns in Germany, feel helpless.

“What can we do? Are we supposed to push a two-ton-plus truck out of a pit by ourselves?” the soldier with the rifle asked, looking around. He then kicked the half of the tire that was exposed outside the mud pit with his foot. “Let’s just wait. A friendly vehicle or some infantry will probably come by in a little while. We’ll have them help us get this broken-down truck out.”

“That’s all we can do,” the driver nodded. He forcefully pulled his leather boots out of the mud, wanting to walk back to the truck. But he suddenly saw four men and a woman standing on the side of the road, looking at him with expressionless faces.

They were wearing the black uniforms of the SS panzer troops. One of them was even wearing a worn-out tactical vest over his chest. A big boy with light freckles on his face seemed to be the leader of this group of SS. At such a young age, he was already a captain, with a well-made Iron Cross hanging around his neck.

The SS were not an uncommon sight. At least, Army Group A had many SS units, such as the 1st SS Panzer Division and the 13th SS Panzer Division. There was even the entire army’s number one tank ace in Army Group A, Captain Michael Wittmann. Unfortunately, the captain in front of them was too young to possibly be that legendary man.

But among the SS, there weren’t many units that wandered around with a female soldier. Although the proportion of female soldiers in the German army was not low, most of them were at the division or corps level. To see a female NCO like this, fighting on the front lines with a group of men, was still acceptable in the air force, but in the army, it was a real rarity.

“Hello! We are from Army Group G, here on orders to study… May I ask, how far is it to the 503rd Heavy Panzerjäger Battalion?” the young captain at the head of the group asked in a friendly tone, not minding that the other had not saluted upon meeting.

Only then did the truck driver notice that this officer in an armored unit uniform was actually carrying an MP-44 assault rifle, and his tactical vest was stuffed with many magazines. He looked like a grenadier, the only difference being that he wasn’t wearing a steel helmet or a peaked cap.

Perhaps Rein noticed the other looking at his head. He smiled again and pointed to his own head. “Ah, sorry. My cap was shot off in the last battle. I haven’t had time to get a new one yet.”

“Sir!” Finally, this truck driver remembered that he hadn’t saluted yet. He waved a hand, then, as if remembering that the other was from the SS, halfway through changed it to a German salute. “Heil… Heil Führer!” But after hearing that the other’s hat had been shot off, he thought to himself, This idiot is actually a captain? What a disgrace!

After Rein’s crew had destroyed their own vehicle in the last battle, they had been sent to Army Group A to learn the driving and operating techniques for advanced tanks. After all, only Army Group A had large-scale experience with the King Tiger on the front lines, so the Rein Hardt crew had been sent to a field airfield and had boarded a plane to the Central Group.

But unfortunately, this plane was not arranged for just these five people, so it had flown to a temporary field airfield on the outskirts of Orsha. The rest of the long journey had to be covered on foot by the five of them.

New to this place, and on someone else’s turf, Rein had once again put on the harmless mask he had worn when he had first arrived at the 3rd SS Panzer Division. Without the madness of the battlefield, without the ruthlessness of a mass murderer, he just smiled and asked for directions, not even minding the other’s rudeness.

It really wasn’t the truck driver’s fault for not recognizing Rein, the number two ace of the German armored forces. Because the resolution of photos and posters in this era was really a bit low, and Rein and his crew were not driving their now-burnt-out-wreck of a Tiger tank, No. 113.

“The 503rd Panzer Battalion is not far ahead, but can you help us get our truck out of here?” the driver asked, pointing to the truck behind him, deciding to make good use of these laborers who had just shown up. The other soldier, with his rifle on his back, also looked at Rein’s group with an expectant expression, just short of a flirtatious gaze.

Alice, her face an icy mask of “get lost or die” after a full day of walking, plus Bruce, who was tall and imposing and looked like a monster who should have an iron chain around his neck to keep him from going berserk… so the two German transport soldiers really didn’t dare to whistle or flirt with the “pretty girl.” Unfortunately, it was precisely for this reason that Rein really couldn’t find any reason to refuse.

“If you don’t mind, I’ll drive,” Baumann said at this moment, walking to the side of the truck’s driver’s cab, his boots caked in mud. He just glanced at the stuck wheels, and without waiting for the two transport soldiers to answer, he turned his head and said to Bruce in the distance, “Everyone, give a hand. Push the left rear corner of the truck together. Just push forward.”

“He’s a driver?” the transport driver asked, incredulous, looking at Baumann’s mud-covered boots.

Andre had already walked to the corner of the truck with Bruce and found a good spot. Hearing the other’s question, he replied, “Yes, the best driver I’ve ever seen.”

“Aren’t those two going to help? The four of us can’t possibly get a three-ton truck out of this mud pit,” the transport soldier with the rifle said. He had pushed his share of trucks and was experienced. He felt that in this situation, it would take at least seven or eight people to have a chance of getting this truck out of the mud pit. He pointed at Rein and Alice, who hadn’t moved, and asked Andre.

“Vroom! Vroom…!” The truck’s engine started up again, letting out a cheerful roar. The wheels of the truck suddenly spun, and with the help of Bruce and Andre’s strength, the body of the truck lurched, and the truck charged out of the mud pit, driving a few meters forward before stopping with a burst of energy.

“If you don’t mind…” Rein said with a smile. “Can we get a ride?”

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