Chapter 1199: Chapter 586: “Now I Tell Her, Those Are a Coward’s Tears Traversing the Atmosphere!!!!”_2

Mitrofan Nedyelin rushed over to take the loading position, and the soldier beside him noticed dark sweat stains seeping through the back of his combat uniform, blending into twisted tree shadows at his spine.

He adjusted the angle…

Just in time to see through the scope that the opposite tank’s barrel was aimed at him.

“Блядь! Сукин сын! Давай, давай! Пошел ты! Американский ублюдок! (Fuck! Son of a bitch! Come on, come on! Blow me up, American bastard!)”

Boom!

Boom!

“Come on!!!!”

Mitrofan Nedyelin shouted, glaring furiously.

The shells from both sides seemed to brush past each other at some point.

Boom—!

The M1A1 main battle tank was hit directly in the front…

The shell bounced off it like a “bumper car,” barely penetrating it!!!

And the shell from the M1A1’s 120mm smoothbore gun also landed not far from Mitrofan Nedyelin’s position, erupting in dust and thick smoke instantly.

“Company Commander——!!”

The burnt smell of pine resin mixed with charred flesh spread across the battlefield.

White fragments of a patella embedded themselves into the threading of the gun mount.

Leaning against the scalding barrel, he slid to the ground, his severed tendons swaying in the air like pulled phone lines, yet he still used his muscular arms to complete the loading process.

“Medic!” The shriek of a nearby soldier abruptly stopped.

A 12.7mm bullet pierced his left rib, and the young man’s not fully developed chest cavity was lifted open like a can, six ribs lodged into the pink lung tissue splattering onto the nearby ground.

The thick smoke cleared…

Mitrofan Nedyelin lay on the ground, both legs blown off below the knees, a terrible sight. When his eyelashes were touched by bits of flesh, he tasted the rust-flavored youthful blood—the child still biting part of a bullet chain when taking his last breath.

The crackling sound of diesel combustion echoed around the battlefield.

Mitrofan Nedyelin’s right leg, once as thick as a tree stump, now only had a few strands of dark red muscle tissue connecting it, and the crushed knee spurted blood that drew bizarre totems on the sandy ground.

This man, who once hoisted a 122mm shell single-handedly, now…

seemed like a paralyzed patient unable to stand, shivering lips watched around, slight ringing in his ears, with all those fallen were “family” he had known for long.

Thick brain matter dripped along his patterned path.

The shadows of the U.S. strike force four hundred meters away twisted in the heat waves, charging towards Las Cruces’s flanks.

A street battle is about to break out?!!!

“Regimental Artillery Company!!”

“Attack!!!!”

Mitrofan Nedyelin bellowed loudly, lying on the ground, holding a machine gun to fire wildly ahead!

Boom!

Another unknown shell landed…

The machine gun fell silent…

Mitrofan Nedyelin’s right arm was also blown off. He lay back, eyes vacant, gazing at the sky.

As blood dripped into his eye sockets, he envisioned the 1967 birch forest.

His seven-year-old self was tiptoeing to collect sap, and the sound of his father’s chainsaw scared off the nutcrackers.

The blanket his mother mended smelled of mildew, seemingly circling around his nose.

He remembered his wife’s bulging belly the night before leaving home, recalling the shadow her eyelashes cast when she pressed her face against the medal’s ribbon.

“It will be a girl with eyes like yours.” She circled his gun callus with her fingertip, the warmth at that moment reigniting in the blood that was now gushing.

Scattered sobs came from the southwest, not knowing which comrade’s severed arm still gripped half a bayonet.

The scent of jasmine drifted in the dusk, was the wild jasmine blooming behind his childhood home?

At eight, he fell into the creek playing hide and seek, the soaked linen shirt clinging to his spine felt as cool as this now, and the folded paper boat carrying cicada shells floated away, as his father said the stream would take them to the sea.

The sky began to fall, stars gushing out from his wounds.

He saw his mother holding a clay pot walking towards the vegetable plot, his father sharpening a sickle under the eaves, his unborn daughter tiptoeing to reach the light beyond the window sill, and his wife’s look back was full of reluctance.

Someone called for a stretcher not far away, and cicadas suddenly filled the entire summer.

Mitrofan Nedyelin’s eyes slowly closed.

“Davaris, love you!”

…

“Useless! Useless! Useless!!!” The operations staff officer from the US Army 1st Cavalry Division’s 1st Armored Brigade Combat Team berated the commanders of the 5th Cavalry Regiment’s 2nd Battalion and the 8th Cavalry Regiment’s 2nd Battalion, “It’s just a single battalion over there and you’re twice their size, with 120 tanks and armored vehicles, and you still haven’t broken through. What are you doing!”

“If this were Japan, you’d all be committing seppuku.”

The face of the two battalion commanders darkened.

Their losses are severe…

Over 30 tanks were destroyed, with more than 300 casualties and over 400 wounded. To be honest, at this point, they’ve done their utmost; they truly can’t go on much longer.

“Staff Officer Francis, the soldiers need rest; they’ve been attacking continuously for four hours, and morale is quite shaky.” The 8th Cavalry Regiment’s 2nd Battalion Commander spoke in a low voice.

The operations staff officer instinctively wanted to refuse but glanced up, seeing the nearby wounded and several officers looking at him with unkind eyes, gave a shiver, and suddenly quieted down.

“I’m not denying you rest, but you know the outcome if we don’t take Las Cruces. Mexican planes are flying all over, and if we wait for their infantry to return, we won’t hold out. Failure means facing a court-martial; you should understand that better than I do.”

The tone of Staff Officer Francis also carried a hint of despair…