Cannon Fire Arc-Chapter 848 - 4 Blood Type_2

Fortunately, the guerrillas didn't cause much trouble in this area most of the time, at most secretly planting mines on the transport paths to blow up a few horses.

These horses, without exception, became an extra meal for Wolfgang and his comrades.

For units like the 500th Division with low supply priority, the meat cans they received each time were pitifully few.

So Wolfgang and his men would occasionally trade unused bullets with the guerrillas for some meat or ask them to blow up a few horses.

Of course, these things could not be let known to the Quartermaster and the Constitutional Guards.

Sergeant Wolfgang's guitar playing was reaching a beautiful peak, and his voice became louder and more soaring.

A large number of birds took flight from the woods into the sky.

"Sergeant, you scared the birds!" someone laughed.

But Sergeant Wolfgang kept his gaze on the flying birds and stopped moving his fingers on the guitar strings.

Those who were laughing stopped at his gesture.

Suddenly, the entire camp was so quiet that only the sound of the horse meat soup boiling could be heard.

A dull roaring and the clattering of gears came through the air, along with a noise as if a heavy object was being dragged across the ground.

A perplexed recruit asked, "What's that sound?"

Sergeant Wolfgang: "The noise of the tank engines and gearboxes, and that dragging sound seems to be the noise of a tank turning by locking one tread."

"Huh?" The recruit gaped at the sergeant, "What?"

The sergeant put down his guitar on his lap and gestured with his hands, "When a tank turns, it primarily does so by the difference in the speed of the tracks on each side. To make a sharp turn, one tread is locked, allowing it to turn almost a right angle."

At that moment, their battalion commander ran over, his face still covered with shaving foam that hadn't been properly washed off.

"Wolfgang!" the battalion commander asked loudly, "What's that sound?"

Sergeant: "It's tanks, sir."

"How can this be? We don't have Armored Troops nearby!" the battalion commander's eyes widened, then he stopped, staring at Sergeant Wolfgang in shock, "My God, it's impossible! That swamp, let alone tanks, not even a bicycle could get through! Wolfgang, you're talking nonsense!"

Wolfgang: "Then what are we hearing?"

The battalion commander shook his head again and again: "No, no, something's wrong, I need to call the division headquarters, there must be some mistake!"

After saying that, the battalion commander ran towards the camp headquarters.

Sergeant Wolfgang: "Commander, your order?"

The battalion commander turned back, stunned for a moment: "Uh, take your positions!"

Indeed, the 500th Division had positions, but they were rather rudimentary; the trench was barely deep enough to reach the waist, and it was only with sandbags that it could protect the chest.

The covers for the anti-shell holes were all made of wood cut from nearby, which would be done for even if hit by a mortar shell.

The most outrageous thing was, there was always water in the trenches, if no one was assigned daily to bail out the water; there would be ankle-deep water all year round, and all the socks and such would be soaked.

This is why no one liked staying in the trenches, even on guard duty everyone wished to stay outside as much as possible.

For a while, the guerrillas liked to snipe these unlucky sentinels, but later the warriors of the 500th Division started bartering grenades for safety while on guard.

The guerrillas used the grenades to attack servant armies and Constitutional Guards, while the soldiers of the 500th Division obtained safety.

Later, they could report the consumption of grenades and bullets together as proof of their hard work.

Sergeant Wolfgang: "Take your positions!"

Though the soldiers were confused, they still rushed towards the trenches as they had trained to do.

Sergeant Wolfgang picked up the helmet that had fallen to the ground and caught up with the bewildered Private Second Class: "You need this, kid!"

"Oh!" The Private Second Class paused, then added, "Thank you, Sergeant."

"Don't thank me, move it!"

As he said this, Sergeant Wolfgang grabbed the Private Second Class by the collar and sprinted forward, only a few steps later realizing he was carrying a guitar, not a rifle.

He hurriedly threw the guitar down and looked for his rifle.

In that instant, a panicked Sentinel rushed into the camp shouting, "Tanks! Antean tanks! Round, round ones!"

By this time, Wolfgang had found his rifle and, pulling the Private Second Class back up, ran towards the trenches with great urgency.

The Sentinel continued to shout: "Antean tanks! Round ones!"

The next moment, the camp's watchtower was hit by a stray shell, wooden boards blasted into the air, leaving only the steel framework.

The air-bursting shrapnel produced numerous fragments that scattered across the ground like rain - clearly, the wood floor of the watchtower could not withstand these pieces.

The Prosen Soldier who was hit lay on the ground, emitting a piercing scream.

Wolfgang turned his face away and pulled the Private Second Class onward, "Move it! Into the trench, at least you won't get hit by shells there!"

After taking two steps, he realized something was wrong. Looking down, he found that the Private Second Class was only half a body; he had no idea where such a large shard could have come from.

"Damn it!" Wolfgang dropped the Private Second Class and bolted toward the trench.

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Just as he reached the entrance of the trench, the tracks of the tank crushed the wooden walls of the camp.

Any discerning eye could tell that it was an Ante tank, as infantrymen sat atop it, draped in capes—Prosen Soldiers didn't wear capes, none of the military branches did.

"Damn it!" Wolfgang raised his gun and fired a shot that knocked the tank commander's cap off. As he worked the bolt, the Anteans' submachine guns spat out tongues of flame.

Wolfgang clutched his chest, falling backwards, just in time to see the battalion commander rushing out from the direction of the headquarters: "It's an Ante tank, our tank units are not moving—Oh God!"

The Ante tank fired, the battalion commander was pierced directly by a shell, and the next moment, the headquarters blew up.

Wolfgang used up his last ounce of strength. He lay on the ground, his field of view perfectly capturing his own guitar.

He saw the Ante tank drive past his guitar, its large road wheels covered in muddy sludge, as if they had just slithered through the swamp.

Then, a pair of Ante Army boots stopped beside the guitar, and a rough hand picked it up.

The hand seemed to belong to a worker, as it was full of calluses.

In his final moments, Wolfgang wondered, could a worker know how to play the guitar?

---

"Can you really play the guitar, you boiler technician?" asked Ivan, the infantry platoon leader sitting atop the tank.

Trudok smirked, "I'll give it a try. I have always been fond of 'I Have One Last Grenade,' practiced it for a while."

"That's not the name of the song, is it? I remember—it's something else," Platoon Leader Ivan thought for a moment then shook his head, "Never mind, let's just call it 'I Have One Last Grenade.'"

Trudok climbed onto the tank, sat on the engine and strummed the strings of the guitar. Accompanied by the sound of moving tank treads, he sang not the popular "The Last Courage" composed by Marshal Rocossov.

With his hand scarred with countless calluses from his work as a boiler technician, Trudok strummed the guitar strings and sang:

"In places so warm,

"But the streets await our footsteps,

"Like stardust falling on boots,

"Soft armchairs, checkered patterns.

"No trigger pulled on time,

"Bright sunny days exist only in dazzling dreams,

"My sleeve bears my blood type,

"My sleeve bears my military number!

"Wish me luck in battle, wish me:

"Not to remain on this meadow

"Not to remain on this meadow

"Wish me luck, wish me luck

"Some things come at a price,

"Victory at any cost.

"I don't want to trample anyone's chest,

"I want to stay with you,

"Just to be with you.

"But the stars in the sky beckon me to journey on,

"My sleeve bears my blood type,

"My sleeve bears my military number,

"Wish me luck in battle, wish me:

"Not to stay on this meadow.

"Not to remain on this meadow!

"Wish me luck, wish me luck."

At first, the platoon leader wore an expression as if he wanted to ask "Why isn't it 'The Last Courage'?" but after listening to a few chords, his expression became solemn and silent.

Victory is near, who wouldn't want to be alive to welcome it?

After the song ended, the platoon leader asked, "What's this song called?"

"I didn't expect it, might call it 'Blood Type,'" said Trudok.