Chapter 10: Able to Bear Injuries

The victory of infantry over infantry suddenly clarified the previously uncertain battle situation. The remaining Soviet soldiers hurriedly retreated to their own tanks, attempting to rely on the last two T-34 tanks and one BT tank to block the German infantry's assault. However, this was precisely the situation the Germans hoped to see! Under the cover of their comrades, German soldiers armed with "Panzerschreck" and "Tank Killer" swiftly took up positions. These two weapons could effectively attack Soviet tanks from the side or rear, but their fatal flaw was their short range: the improved models of both had ranges of only 100 meters and 200 meters respectively, well within the effective range of machine guns. The operators were highly vulnerable to enemy infantry accompanying the tanks. Therefore, they were typically used in defensive positions and ambushes, where the suppression of enemy infantry by friendly infantry was the most advantageous attack situation.

Standing near a disabled truck, Lynn witnessed the entire firing process of the improved "Tank Killer," also known as the RPzB 54 88mm anti-tank rocket launcher, at close range. Unlike watching a movie or reading text, such firsthand experience was quite thrilling—a sensory experience akin to riding a roller coaster compared to merely watching others do it!

After firing the rocket, the stout German anti-tank infantryman swiftly retreated behind the truck with the rocket launcher shield. A deafening explosion erupted ahead, and the powerful shockwave sent countless large and small fragments flying, while the rising smoke spread like mist. Another member of the anti-tank team, carrying an ammunition box, immediately retrieved another rocket. The two cooperated seamlessly to reload, while another intense explosion occurred ahead, followed by a slightly lighter one.

The anti-tank team member responsible for reloading peered forward to observe, then gestured to his companion with four fingers closed together. Lynn didn't know what that meant, but he saw the soldier operating the "Tank Killer" swiftly move out, kneel down, and shoulder the anti-tank rocket launcher horizontally. He took three or four seconds to aim and adjust, then fired the rocket again.

Boom!

The powerful explosion shook the ground. Afterward, Lynn suddenly heard excited shouts. Had all the Soviet tanks been taken out?

At that moment, gunfire was still ongoing around him. Lynn dared not risk peeking out but instead focused on searching for the "Butcher's" figure. However, the surroundings were filled with smoke and dust, making faces and even figures somewhat blurry. Lynn slightly hunched his back, angled his rifle, and cautiously moved sideways a few steps, his pace slow—this was where the difference between a veteran and a rookie showed. Bullets whizzed past at close range, and Lynn felt a jolt on his left arm as if someone had bumped into him. However, he didn't see anyone nearby, and the spot where he was bumped suddenly stung painfully. He couldn't help but be shocked: he was wounded!

The most worrying thing had finally happened. Lynn couldn't help but think of Huang Mao and other comrades wounded in battle. Some had died like this, while others, with less severe injuries, either stopped the bleeding and bandaged themselves with the help of their comrades or were lucky enough to receive timely treatment from medics. However, many had to wait until the end of the battle to receive medical attention, by which time their injuries might have worsened due to excessive bleeding.

With a terrified and panicked mind, Lynn finally made a correct response: he quickly crouched down and surveyed his surroundings. He quickly spotted the shooter lying beneath a truck ahead. Before the shooter could manually reload a second rifle round, Lynn aimed his rifle as quickly as possible—pulling the trigger!

Bang!

The rifle's recoil hit his shoulder, and Lynn instinctively unloaded the rifle and pulled the bolt. If the first bullet had missed or if there hadn't been timely assistance from his comrades, or if the enemy had a submachine gun instead of a rifle, he would have been dead for sure. Fortunately, none of these hypothetical situations occurred. At a distance of less than 15 meters, Lynn's shot hit the soldier's head, and the Soviet soldier lay face down, blood from the glaring wound seeping into the muddy ground from beneath his helmet.

As the saying goes, killing in war is fair and reasonable, without fault or guilt.

His left arm still stinging, but his sensations gradually becoming clearer, Lynn knew the bullet probably hadn't hit bone. He mustered courage and glanced at the tear in the outer side of his uniform's sleeve. Blood had not seeped through the clothing yet, so the situation shouldn't be too bad.

"Der Unteroffizier" (German: Sergeant)

Lynn finally called out to the "Butcher" as he returned to the truck. That's what the soldiers called him—Lynn guessed it wasn't his surname or name, but his rank or the meaning of his superior officer.

Amid the sporadic gunfire, Lynn didn't dare to peek around but focused on "Butcher's" figure, watching him pouring liquid from a flat metal bottle onto Lynn's wound after tearing open the sleeve. Feeling the sudden sting from the wound, Lynn endured without a sound, but his grimacing expression earned him another contemptuous look from the "Butcher," who muttered a couple of words, to which Lynn dared not respond.

With the wound simply cleaned and not even bandaged, "Butcher" stood up and left. Watching him walk away with a vigorous posture and a submachine gun in hand, Lynn increasingly felt that the failure of this war should be attributed to strategic decisions rather than the army itself.

The sparse gunfire soon subsided. The battle was over! Lynn cautiously walked out from behind the truck. He saw ahead seven Soviet tanks had without exception turned into piles of scrap metal. Three armored vehicles—one lying on its side by the roadside, two directly destroyed by shells or anti-tank rockets—while the trucks behind them were riddled with bullet holes and shrapnel. The bodies of Soviet soldiers lay everywhere, each in various poses of death. About thirty to forty surrendered with no choice. German soldiers were urging them to gather scattered weapons and rifles.

Looking at the scene before him, Lynn stood there somewhat bewildered—no experience or knowledge told him what to do at this moment. Of course, there were also the remains of his comrades around, but the victorious German soldiers wore a rare sense of relief on their faces. Overall, it was a beautiful and successful ambush, but the victors had no time for celebration. Besides treating their wounded, all they did was select weapons and equipment left by the Soviet soldiers and search them for dry rations and canned food. The several Soviet artillery pieces dragged by trucks could not be taken away. There were also some ammunition boxes in the trucks, which the German soldiers moved down and piled around the artillery, preparing to detonate them.

"Hey, Lynn!"

A tall soldier with a lean build and a rather tall stature, wearing a steel helmet and carrying a **sand, slung another one on his back, walked a few steps toward Lynn and tossed the Bobosha and in his direction. Lynn's left hand was injured, and his right hand still held the Mauser rifle. But with the reflexes of an amateur goalkeeper, he quickly crouched down, catching the **sand in his arms—although the butt of the rifle painfully hit his left abdomen.

Lynn couldn't recall the man's name, only knowing that he, like himself, was one of "Butcher's" men. As for their relationship, that remained unknown. So after receiving the rifle, he just smiled at the man. The man also grinned and casually threw over a drum magazine pouch used by Soviet soldiers for spare ammo and a large piece of bread. While the former would undoubtedly address Lynn's concerns about ammunition, the latter was evidently what he urgently needed now. Holding the hard bread, he wished he could immediately fill his empty stomach, but seeing everyone still busy, he only tore off a small piece to chew on, stuffing the rest into his pocket. Then, chewing on the bread, he slung the Mauser rifle onto his back—although Bobosha and was considered one of the most effective individual weapons in World War II, especially at close to medium range, Lynn had become accustomed to the Mauser rifle over the past few days and found it more convenient.

Regardless, a fully-automatic weapon always had its uses at critical moments. Lynn manipulated the simple yet formidable submachine gun, when suddenly, he heard some commotion ahead. Looking up, he saw some German soldiers herding Soviet prisoners towards a certain direction, while others formed an irregular arc around them. By the time all the prisoners were gathered near a truck, some seemed to understand what was happening, roaring angrily, while others quickly joined in. Although Lynn didn't understand Russian, he clearly heard the phrase "fascist," scenes from movies flashed in his mind—the sound of the German soldiers pulling back the bolts of their rifles immediately confirmed his grim suspicion. Before he could say or do anything, a continuous and crisp sound of gunfire rang out, as intense as heavy raindrops pounding on tiles during a storm. It lasted only four or five seconds, and when the gunfire ceased, the area near the truck was a scene of bloodshed.

Lynn was stunned, the piece of bread still stuck in his throat. Dozens of lives had vanished in just a moment. While combat on the front lines might be somewhat understandable, this pure and thorough slaughter brought an unprecedented shock to both his vision and soul. The German soldiers who had just been firing or watching were now all wearing expressions of indifference, be they Waffen-SS or Wehrmacht. This left Lynn deeply puzzled and introspective: Was the meaning of war simply the merciless slaughter of people by people?