Chapter 227: The Spirit of Paratroopers
"Darn it, Karl, pass me the 'Iron Fist'!"
Sergeant Luftwaffe Loncin Fritz, with a large eagle-hook nose, grumbled in frustration as he slung his submachine gun over his back. Taking a club-shaped weapon from his subordinate, he cocked the firing mechanism, preparing to use it. But bullets from the opposite direction whizzed past overhead, forcing him and his comrades to huddle against the wall of the fountain pool in the center of the square. The sergeant muttered curses under his breath as the machine gun behind them roared like tearing linen, momentarily silencing the gunfire from the other side. Seizing this opportunity, he leaned back and raised the "club" in his hand, swiftly pulling the firing mechanism. Two fist-sized projectiles shot out with white smoke trailing behind, carving a clear arc in the air and landing far away at the street corner north of the fountain pool.
Boom!
The violent explosion shook the ground, causing the stone pavement to tremble slightly. Dust, debris, and unidentified objects were thrown high into the air before falling back down. The sergeant nervously peered out from under the fountain pool wall as the white smoke from the explosion spread, realizing that the explosion was not as far away as he had hoped.
Rat-tat-tat...
The Browning light machine gun annoyingly resumed its fire, bullets piercing through the smoke. Sergeant Fritz quickly pulled his helmet-clad head back behind the temporary cover. "Damn! Still not far enough!"
Seventy meters away, indeed beyond the maximum range of long-handle grenades and the "Iron Fist," but without tanks and armored vehicles, the British machine guns at the street corner had already mowed down more than a dozen German paratroopers attempting to rush across this circular square. The paratroopers' only choices were either to stay put and wait for reinforcements to break through other streets, or to charge across at any cost!
As a promising young man who had made a "leap" from private to sergeant within six months and as a former subordinate of the legendary Luftwaffe figure Hans Roggen, neither of these options was what Sergeant Fritz wanted. He scrutinized the surrounding buildings, contemplating a third path. The buildings around the square were at most three stories high, and several of them had white parachutes visible on top. But there were also unlucky souls hanging from the buildings' facades by parachute cords, naturally becoming targets for British riflemen practicing their aim. However, more people should have already freed themselves from the constraints of their parachute packs. Due to the timely attack by the German airborne forces near the airport, the British had not yet cleared the streets in the Belfast harbor area. Some German paratroopers took advantage of the high ground to become snipers, while others gathered in small groups to fight against the British.
According to the principles of physics, launching the "Iron Fist" from the rooftop would have a longer range than from the ground. Although Fritz had this idea, it wasn't easy for him and his fellow paratroopers to retreat back after rushing to the fountain pool amidst the dense enemy fire. Furthermore, based on aerial reconnaissance photos from the previous day, the streets in the Belfast harbor area were still interconnected. German commanders speculated that an able-bodied adult could run from the airport to the docks in 40 to 50 minutes, even considering pauses in advancing attacks. During this short hour when the British troops were occupied with the German capture of the airport, they managed to construct primitive barricades using doors, beds, cabinets, sofas, and other items from the street residents, and converted some thick-walled windows into machine gun firing ports. In this way, wouldn't all the paratroopers encounter such a dilemma?
The torment of time was unbearable, and Fritz continued to curse— it was futile, but half a minute later, he suddenly heard a "bang" from behind, as if someone had opened a beer bottle in a bar. Stimulated by the taste, the sergeant couldn't help but swallow his saliva.
Boom!
A louder explosion came from the street corner ahead, and the veteran soldiers knew that their 50mm mortar was coming to assist! This simple and effective weapon had a range of only 600 meters and was not highly regarded in the army, but it had become one of the most reliable combat partners for the paratroopers!
Seemingly inspired by the mortar team's participation, the German paratroopers' MG-34s roared even louder, and the paratroopers on the rooftops opened fire rapidly with their rifles. Sergeant Fritz leaned against the cold pool wall, watching as Lieutenant Ols and about twenty soldiers rushed into the square. With the attackers already gaining fire superiority, Fritz stopped overthinking and shouted, "Charge!" as he crawled out from behind cover and ran forward!
Five meters, ten meters, twenty meters, the ugly barricade of the British soldiers was just in front of them. The soldiers who had been shooting from behind it seemed to have been killed by mortar explosions. Sergeant Fritz ran with all his might, clutching his MP38, feeling like he was back in the rookie competition of his first year in the military. Amidst the cheers of his comrades, he crossed the finish line first, winning the first honor of his military career. But now, there were no cheers, only the whizzing bullets and explosions, and the Iron Cross First Class on his chest was pulsating with his heartbeat!
Suddenly, Fritz saw a Tommy helmet in front of him, below which were a pair of extremely cold and sinister brown eyes. Almost at the same time, several British soldiers appeared from behind the crumbling barricade, followed by their weapons and gun barrels. Twenty meters, no more than twenty meters, the sergeant could clearly recognize the distinctive vertical magazine of the Browning light machine gun, as well as the Webley revolver in the hands of the middle-aged officer next to it, and others... Lee-Enfield rifles that could be quickly aimed!
His thoughts and footsteps couldn't stop due to inertia. The gunfire at close range was so clear, and Sergeant Fritz wanted to dodge, but suddenly he felt as if his left arm had been punched hard, and he lost his balance and fell to the ground! Bullets from the front burst out like a flood. Not only behind the barricade, but it seemed that there was a British gunman behind every window on both sides of the street, pouring fire at the exposed Germans on the square!
As he fell, the pain from his elbow and hip was instantly overwhelmed by the intense pain from his left arm. Sergeant Fritz lay on the ground, looking at his comrades, one by one, getting hit and falling. Sometimes, fearless courage could bring victory, but sometimes, it led people to a heroic death!
When the last figure fell to the ground, the noisy gunfire finally subsided and eventually ceased. All his strength seemed to drain away through his numb left arm. Sergeant Fritz tiredly rested his head on the cold, gravel square, his eyes fixed on the azure sky, occasionally obscured by black smoke, polluting the purest beauty!
Last night, Fritz had clearly slept comfortably, but now his eyelids felt incredibly heavy, and his vision began to blur. Fritz struggled to stay awake, thinking of his former commander, hoping that one day he too could wear a handsome general's uniform and become an idol admired by thousands of soldiers and civilians, commanding and strategizing. However, he felt lighter and lighter, a kind of detachment that came with...
Boom!
A violent explosion shook the ground suddenly, jolting Sergeant Fritz awake as if from a deep slumber. His mind became clearer than ever before: he needed to stay alive!
Swish... Boom!
That was the sound of artillery shells, coming from behind and crashing into the front. Those damn doors, sofas, and even the infamous Tommy helmets were turned into flying debris.
It was artillery, their own artillery! They had played a crucial role in breaking through the enemy's makeshift defenses during the assault on the airfield. They were top-notch!
Swish... Boom!
This time, the artillery shells clearly hit a building, as the scattered debris included rocks and chunks of concrete from the walls. Some hard fragments hit his shoulders and chest, causing a searing pain, but a satisfying one for a wounded soldier. Regaining some consciousness, Sergeant Fritz struggled to turn his head and saw Private Karl lying beside him, unresponsive. Two M24 long-handled grenades were tucked into his belt. Summoning the last shreds of his willpower, Fritz extracted the last bits of strength from the depths of his body. Half-leaning to the side, he extended his right hand, a simple movement that felt unusually difficult!
The long-handled grenade was finally grasped in his hand. Fritz looked up and saw that the bulwark had been blown open by the artillery shells, but those ghosts might still be hiding nearby.
With trembling, blood-stained hands, he unscrewed the grenade cap, using his left hand to support his body. Pulling the grenade's fuse, he exerted all his strength to hurl it out in a half-crawling posture, then watched it fly towards the bulwark...
In a daze, Fritz saw his own flowers, applause, and the Knight's Cross!
Across the fountain pool, a stout German paratrooper was loading shells into the 75mm LG40 recoilless cannon, while Count von Bülow watched the previously inconspicuous German officer's combat process through a telescope. He regretted being late for his gun crew, but he was proud of his comrades' resilience. Though he was still a low-ranking officer himself, he had already faintly sensed the fighting spirit left by his ancestors: Attack, attack again! Relentless assault was the best weapon to defeat the enemy!
"Loading complete!" the gunner shouted the command.
"One last shot... German warriors, prepare to charge!" The paratrooper captain stood proudly in front of the cannon, overlooking every German soldier on the circular square. Although this middle-aged officer was still loud, he made every paratrooper on the street feel the contempt for the enemy. They slowly rose to their feet, holding their guns as if they were athletes on the starting line, eager to give it their all once the starting gun sounded, pouring all their strength into this battle!