Battlefield Priest's Diary

Chapter 146 Hope and Death

"Be careful, the syrup is about to spill." The priest in the black robe tapped a cook on the head with a spoon. The cook had been looking out of the camp for the past half hour and had almost spilled the syrup bucket used for making desserts.

The soldier rubbed his head, looking somewhat nervously at the black-robed priest. "Sir, aren't you worried at all? Just now, the colonel and the others..."

Others looked at it with the same gaze.

The war had been going on for some time, and the German soldiers knew how formidable they were. Hundreds of thousands of troops on the front lines had been routed, and some of them were even former soldiers who had been routed in previous battles.

The colonel led a squad of old tanks to launch a proactive attack on the elite German armored forces; by all accounts, it seemed like a mission from which there would be no return.

After two months of fighting, the Germans not only shattered the French defenses, but also eroded the confidence of the French people. Now, even the army itself no longer believed it could achieve victory.

Once a rout occurs, there's no doubt the Germans will pursue them relentlessly, and their feet will certainly not escape the tank tracks.

In this life-or-death moment, they couldn't understand why the man before them was so calm.

"Gentlemen, shall we make a bet?" The man put down his work and looked at the others. "The colonel will surely return victorious and safe this time. If I lose, I will give each of you 50 francs."

Within the military, betting is a peculiar thing; even if they are uneasy, the soldiers still gather around.

“Father, but we are penniless and don’t have 50 francs.” Someone raised their hand high.

"Are you all like this?" the priest in black robes asked, turning around.

The others rummaged through their pockets, then nodded vigorously.

"Alright, if I lose, each of you will get 50 francs; if I win, each of you will give me 10 francs, how about that?"

After saying the above, the priest in the black robe looked around mysteriously, smiled, took the biscuits from the cook, placed them on the cutting board, and began to process them.

The odds of 1 to 5, and the unwavering confidence they displayed, inspired the other soldiers and slightly eased their anxiety.

It was only then that people noticed a prominent burn scar on the person's profile.

"Maybe he's been in a lot of battles, that's why he's so calm..." someone muttered quietly.

“The colonel brought him here personally. We’ve never seen him before. Maybe there’s some inside story we don’t know,” someone chimed in.

"Maybe they're people sent down from above; perhaps a major counter-offensive is about to begin."

The soldiers started speculating amongst themselves, and the atmosphere unexpectedly became lively.

That's how people are; when faced with the worst possible outcome, even the slightest glimmer of hope will fuel their boundless expectations, no matter how elusive that hope may be.

Amidst this atmosphere, a communications Solex military motorcycle drove up from the road and plunged into the camp under everyone's watchful eyes.

The next moment, a huge cheer erupted from the front of the camp.

"We won! We won! The colonel has captured Monkorne! We've driven the Germans out!" someone shouted as they ran to pass on the news to those around them.

The soldiers were initially incredulous, but when the news was finally confirmed, everyone became excited, and some even threw their hats into the air.

They knew that Moncorne was just a small town, and even if the 4th Armored Division temporarily captured it, it wouldn't change the collapse of the northern battlefield.

They actually knew that the 4th Armored Division was an isolated force, and even if it achieved a temporary victory, it would not be able to expand its gains.

They also knew that hundreds of thousands of German troops were still lurking ahead.

They all know it.

But for this victory, which was not particularly large in scale, everyone was genuinely happy, since the word "victory" had long been a distant memory for France since two months ago.

"Guys, let's make croquettes to celebrate our victory!" someone suggested loudly, and the cooks cheered enthusiastically from behind.

The soldiers were in disarray, but they all deliberately avoided talking about the 10 yuan they owed.

The priest in black robes smiled but remained silent.

The cooks began kneading wheat flour, while others opened jars of jam one by one. However, they encountered a small problem when making the syrup—they didn't have a large enough container to spread the syrup out to cool.

"Everyone, wait a minute!" A short, stout man in his forties lifted the hatch of a nearby Char B1 tank and crawled inside. A moment later, he came out carrying a long object—a 75mm high-explosive shell.

"Hey buddy! This is no joke!" "Brother, don't be impulsive! It's just a few dollars I owe you, I'll pay you back right away!"

"Stop joking, put it down right now!"

The surrounding soldiers suddenly started shouting, and some jumped up and down to get away.

"What's the panic? Take a good look!" the short, fat man said dismissively.

Sure enough, the soldiers noticed that the shell had blue markings, indicating that it was a training shell with a wooden projectile and a much smaller propellant charge.

The man laid the shell horizontally and then poured syrup on it. Soon the entire shell was covered in syrup, forming a thin, crispy shell.

"A very creative idea, you came up with that?" Qin Hao looked at the short, stout cook in front of him with some surprise.

“I used to do this when I was in the tank unit. We all called it ‘sweetheart baby’,” the man said, scratching his head and chuckling.

"You used to be a tank driver?"

“Yes, Father, I used to be a gunner, but I was wounded in the leg and became a cook.” The man pulled down a section of his trousers, revealing his calves covered in scars, and he walked with a limp.

“Antoine is the best gunner; he even used to tinker with the British stuff on the Somme,” someone chimed in.

"The Somme? Isn't that a veteran who participated in the last war? Are you still serving at your age?" Qin Hao looked at the other person with some curiosity.

The man sighed deeply. "Father, I didn't want this to happen either..."

Quack!! Quack!! Quack!!

A crow's mournful cry suddenly rang out, interrupting the conversation of the group. Qin Hao looked up at the sky.

A very peculiar sound rang in my ears.

hold head high!!!!!!!!!!!!!
It was a very strange whistling sound, as if someone was blowing a very unpleasant whistle in the air.

Qin Hao suddenly realized what the sound was.

"Death howl! It's Stuka! Spread out!!! Take cover!!!"

No sooner had he finished speaking than several small black dots shot straight toward the 4th Armored Division's camp from the sky!
Boom! Boom! Boom boom!

Rat-a-tat-tat-tat!!! Rat-a-tat-tat!!!
Six Stuka bombers simultaneously attacked the French forces with 7.92mm machine guns and 250kg aerial bombs, turning the camp into an inferno in an instant.

De Gaulle took away almost all of the fighting force, leaving the logistics personnel here with virtually no chance against the air raids.

Gua! ! !
Odin flapped his wings and flew high away, while Qin Hao darted to a corner to the side.

Rat-a-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat!!!

As the machine gun swept through, blood mist flew everywhere. The cooks, who had just been happily kneading flour and celebrating their victory, now had several bloody holes in their bodies and were swept to the ground.

The stench of blood spread! And Stuka circled around again, preparing to fly back.

"Damn it! We can't stay here, we'll become sitting ducks!"

Qin Hao cursed, grabbed the short, fat man who had narrowly escaped, and yanked open the hatch of the Xiaer B1 tank.

"Go inside, we have to get out of here!"

“Father, this tank has a problem with its suspension, and it hasn’t been repaired yet.”

"Never mind! As long as it can be driven!"

"But I'm a gunner, I can't drive a tank!"

"I know, I'll drive!"

"What?! You're driving?! This isn't a toy..." The short, fat Antoine was about to say something more when the man in front of him pulled him up and threw him into the tank.

The camp was engulfed in flames!
The Char B1 tank roared to life and charged forward!

(End of this chapter)