Chapter 847: Chapter 4 Blood Type

The commander of the 25th Independent Tank Brigade personally commanded a tank, advancing on a makeshift road made of logs.

The driver complained through the tank’s internal communication system: “The tank is shaking like it has dysentery, we’re definitely going to sink!”

The commander poked his head out to look underneath the vehicle: “Don’t be afraid, at least from my point of view, we haven’t sunk yet.”

The infantrymen riding at the back of the tank worriedly said, “Shouldn’t we just walk instead? There are ten of us carrying weapons and ammunition, almost a ton in total.”

The commander replied, “A 36-ton tank hasn’t sunk, an extra ton from you won’t make a difference! Just sit tight, look at the infantry beside us, wearing those shoes and still slipping into the mud every now and then.”

Infantrymen wearing swamp shoes kept slipping; if they fell where the mud wasn’t deep, they could climb out on their own, but the less lucky ones would try to use their hands to push against the ground, only to have their hands completely swallowed by the sludge.

Attempts to help often lead to others being dragged into the mud as well.

The swamp unabashedly “devours” the young lives with no restraint.

The commander said, “Look at the shoes you are wearing, just stay on the tank! When the tank finally sinks, you’ll naturally get the chance to struggle in the mud.”

One of the infantrymen muttered, “Who’s the genius that thought of attacking here?”

“The Marshal Rocossov,” said the commander. “Here, we just fight against the swamp, and lose maybe a tenth of our men. Attacking from other directions, we’d have to fight the Prosens, potentially losing thirty to forty percent in casualties!”

The boy who had just spoken immediately changed his expression: “It’s the marshal’s idea, eh? Then we’re definitely going to succeed! His plans always work!”

At this moment, other tanks of the 25th Brigade also entered the swamp, filling the entire area with the sound of engines.

——

At the position of the 500th Division of Prosen, Sergeant Wolfgang was playing guitar by the fire.

His squad sat around the fire, all eyes fixed on the pot of meat soup above it.

The closest private reached out his hand, but the sergeant slapped it away: “Don’t rush, it’s horse meat from the horses that have been working on the front lines. It’s tough; it won’t soften unless properly stewed, otherwise you’ll chip your teeth.”

The private sighed, “If only horses killed by the enemy could be available every day, then we could have meat every day.”

“Forget it. In this place, the Anteans wouldn’t even glance our way, let alone bomb us. That horse was probably killed by the guerillas.”

Private: “Can’t the guerillas kill a horse every day?”

Sergeant Wolfgang laughed: “That would be terrible. You’d have your horse meat soup, but what after that? These horses are responsible for delivering our supplies. In this godforsaken place, it’s impossible to deliver supplies by vehicle. If all the horses die, we’ll run out of food, coffee, and ammunition—well, running out of ammunition doesn’t matter, since we haven’t used up last year’s stock.”

The 500th Division’s area of operation didn’t see intense conflicts; casualties mainly occurred during deep swamp patrols or combat against the guerillas.

Whether patrolling or counter-guerrilla ops, having one per month wasn’t bad.

As Sergeant Wolfgang had said, the ammo issued last year hadn’t run out, thus reassignment to the 500th and the neighboring 501st Division was considered a cushy job by the supply officers.

Many present had been transferred here under the envious eyes of the supply officers.

The sergeant continued playing the guitar, and soon, someone teased, “Sergeant, you haven’t really got the hang of that guitar, have you? When I first came here, you were playing it all choppy, and it’s still choppy now!”

Sergeant Wolfgang: “I just haven’t found the feel yet!”

With that, he continued to strum the guitar strings, this time producing several smooth chords.

The sergeant smiled at the soldier who had just made fun of him and began to play and sing “Erika,” a popular song before the war started.

After a few lines, someone commented, “The first time I heard this song, I was just a kid; now…”

“Still a kid, right?” another laughed, “You still blush when you talk to a local Antean girl!”

“I do not!”

Everyone burst into laughter.

Then, someone unexpectedly said, “The first time I heard this song, my brother was still alive. He sang it to me.”

The previously noisy crowd suddenly fell silent.

For a moment, only the sound of the guitar and the boiling meat soup could be heard.

Everyone silently stared at the meat soup, their expressions reflecting memories of times long past.

Someone gripped their rifle tightly, holding it close like embracing a long-lost relative.

The equipment of the 500th Division was very poor; being the 25th wave of the Infantry Division, many held bolt action rifles that were not newly made but had been sitting in some warehouse for ages.

As for machine guns, a typical Prosen infantry squad was built around a machine gun—common knowledge written into the enemy combat experience summary.

But in units like the 500th Division, two squads shared one machine gun, and Sergeant Wolfgang’s squad was purely a rifle squad, typically operating alongside the first squad of the platoon, coordinating with the first squad’s machine gun during combat.

Recently, Sergeant Wolfgang and his men had participated in several operations against the guerrillas, then discovered that the guerrillas’ firepower was far superior.

The guerrillas possessed drum-barreled Papashas transported through the swamp, a single guerrilla fighter able to suppress Sergeant Wolfgang’s entire squad.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated on Novlove.com