Chapter 914: One's Own Honor

Donatello felt he’d never been so unlucky in his entire life. He’d only joined the Blackshirts to dodge some debts, and somehow, he’d stumbled his way into becoming a core member.

For a few days, he’d even felt a little smug about it. After all, even within the Blackshirts, he was a small-time boss. But that smugness didn’t last long. That damn leader, Mussolini, had to go and start a war with practically every country around.

In France, Donatello had fought in the battle on the Italo-French border. The Italian army, which looked so numerous and powerful, had been inexplicably defeated by the inferior French border guards. They’d abandoned their ammunition and weapons all along the road, everyone wishing they had two more legs to run faster, just to save their own miserable lives.

The war hadn’t stopped just because Donatello was a coward. On the contrary, this great war of Axis expansion, this war to create a new world order, had become increasingly brutal, its scale growing ever larger. And he, this “high-ranking commander” of the Blackshirts who had luckily escaped from the French front and returned to Italy, had been transformed overnight into a “seasoned officer,” assigned to the regular Italian army as a core member.

And so, just like that, he had swaggered his way into becoming a battalion commander, an officer in command of 490 soldiers. He then led this unit to attack the Balkans and, finally, with German help, had completed the mission of occupying a part of the region.

What happened next was a bit confusing. Battalion Commander Donatello was met by two young instructors from the German Wehrmacht. He then began to learn various combat methods, how to deploy firepower, and how to arrange his troops into tight defensive and offensive formations.

After this special training, Donatello finally understood just how huge the gap was between Italy and Germany. At the very least, he found that his unit finally looked a bit like an army. It could even be said that only then had he seen what a real army should look like.

Subsequently, his unit was transferred to the Balkans to participate in a joint German-Turkish-Italian operation to encircle and annihilate the partisans. This time, his unit did not run. They even skillfully used the tactics they had learned to block a partisan unit that was attempting to break out. Donatello’s infantry battalion was not only not routed by the more than 1,200 partisans, but had counter-attacked and had annihilated a full 144 of the vicious Balkan partisan fighters.

It should be known that this was truly a remarkable achievement. In the past, when facing an enemy twice their number, the Italian army had only one option: to retreat quickly. And when they couldn’t retreat, they also had only one option: to surrender. So, to be able to open fire and finish off their enemies was already a very difficult thing for the Italian army.

Now, Donatello’s battalion and many other Italian units that had been trained by German instructors were no longer under the Italian command system. They had been detached and, as allies, had been assigned to the command of the German Southern Theater Headquarters. And they now had a new name: the “Italian Expeditionary Force.”

In fact, the Italian forces fighting on the Eastern Front had not been through any arduous combat. Most of the Italian units had been assigned to the rear to guard some unimportant transport lines and warehouses. Only a few very elite, combat-experienced ace units were assigned to unimportant areas of the front line.

The Belgorod Oblast, south of Kursk, was, unluckily, one of those “unimportant areas” that the Soviet and German armies had previously paid little attention to. However, unfortunately for them, the two most powerful armored formations in human history had collided nearby, and this not-so-important place had instantly become the most terrifying steel graveyard in the world.

Huddled in a trench, Donatello clutched his rifle, enjoying the magnificent dirge. At least two Soviet tanks were firing continuously within 50 meters of him. His entire battalion was now on the verge of collapse, and he, as its commander, was very clear that this time he had no chance of escaping again.

“Commander! Battalion Commander Donatello, the machine gun nest on the left flank has been taken out by that Soviet tank. The 1st Company is trying to fall back, but we lack cover,” a sergeant shouted, holding his helmet to ensure his only protection wouldn’t fall off as he ran. He squinted and reported to Donatello, “Communication with the 3rd Company has been cut. Our situation is very bad!”

Donatello glanced out of the corner of his eye at the trench over there. A few Italian infantrymen with rifles were pinned down by the bullets from the tank’s hull machine gun. He turned his head and said to his subordinate, “I know! I know everything you’re saying. I don’t know what to do now either. You know our battalion. We only know this one way to build a position.”

The German instructors’ skill was limited, and these Italian apprentices were even worse. So the final solution was for the Germans to mechanically prescribe the method of fighting in the most old-fashioned way, and for the Italians to simply form a habit. And so, everything was fine. A unit with a certain combat capability had been “quickly produced.” As for the effect, looking at this wretched state today, it was self-evident.

“The Soviets didn’t use a central breakthrough to cut into our defense line, so the anti-tank guns can’t form a crossfire. Firing alone, they’ll be taken out quickly,” the sergeant said, pointing to the Soviet tanks that were constantly attacking the Italian positions in the distance. He ducked his head back and said to his battalion commander, “There are more than three enemy tanks. We can’t handle this.”

“If we retreat in this situation, we’ll lose two-thirds of our troops,” Donatello said, mechanically reciting the conclusion of a German instructor’s exercise. He remembered running away once, and his men had been brutally pursued until he himself had been killed. The enemy hadn’t lost a single man. That exercise had left a deep impression on him, and it was another reason that stopped him from throwing down his helmet and armor.

“Commander!…” The sergeant seemed to want to say something more, but a stray bullet struck his helmet. Blood spurted out from inside, flowed down the brim of the Italian helmet, and along with the owner of this blood, he collapsed in the trench.

“Ah!” Seeing his subordinate cut down by a single shot, Donatello was so scared he even dropped the rifle in his hand at his feet. He knew the Soviet tanks on the position were slowly approaching, and the 2nd Company soldiers in front of him were at this very moment collapsing at a visible rate.

He grabbed an Italian infantryman who was passing by him and gave his combat order: “Order the anti-tank guns on both flanks to open fire. We need anti-tank fire support.”

The Italian soldier looked back at his battalion commander, then, without turning his head, continued to run in the opposite direction of the Soviet Red Army’s attack. Donatello gave a bitter smile. It was a back he was all too familiar with. More than a year ago, he had fled from a French position in the same disgraceful manner.

But something different still happened. The Italian soldier who had run out was soon turned into a sieve by the machine gun on a Soviet tank. Tracer rounds, like lasers, pierced his body, and then he collapsed on the ground like a pile of mud.

“Have the anti-tank guns open fire! Fire!” Donatello staggered, then screamed hysterically in the trench, “Whoever it is, for God’s sake, just make those two cannons fire!”

BOOM! Whether his prayers had been answered, or whether someone had heard his order, in any case, the first anti-tank gun had fired. The shell struck the armor of a Soviet KV-1 tank, piercing its side. A rampaging Soviet tank stopped moving and was paralyzed on the battlefield, emitting a puff of blue smoke.

The two surviving Soviet soldiers jumped out of the tank. Before they had taken two steps, they were turned into sieves by the angry Italian soldiers. After all, this tank had just killed at least dozens of Italian soldiers, and from another perspective, it had also ignited these Italians’ fighting spirit for revenge.

The other anti-tank gun also opened fire, but the shell, for some unknown reason, did not hit the most threatening T-34 tank. Subsequently, both of these anti-tank guns were destroyed by the numerically superior Soviet tanks. Now the Italians had even fewer anti-tank weapons in their hands.

“Hey, I say! Are we just going to run away again like this?” Donatello shouted, watching another infantryman pass by him wretchedly, running towards the spot where a deserter’s corpse still lay. “Don’t you have any sense of Italian shame?”

Watching his subordinates die in front of him one after another, Donatello suddenly lost all thought of running. He remembered when he was in the Balkans, the exhilarating feeling of commanding his troops to hold their positions. Having experienced victory, he was unwilling to taste the shame of defeat so easily again.

“Go back and fight! Let these Soviets see what the Italian Roman legions are made of!” Donatello shouted, grabbing the arm of a soldier who had thrown down his helmet and armor, and shouting with all his might. “We can win! We are the brave Italian Expeditionary Force!”

“I’m sorry, Lieutenant, sir. I have to get out of here. There are too many Soviets,” the soldier said, pulling free from Donatello’s grip. He then stumbled and ran towards the road that led to “life.” That place seemed very bright, as if it represented hope.

Donatello hesitated for a moment, then took a step in that direction. He then suddenly felt that to do so would be to lose his last shred of honor. So he stopped, and involuntarily stood a little straighter.

Crack! From where the gunshot came, no one knew. Donatello felt as if his head had been struck by a hammer, and then an endless darkness enveloped all the scenery around him.

A few minutes later, the last battalion of the Italian frontline defense was completely wiped out. With their practical actions, they had proven that not all Italians were cowards.

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