No Time to Catch a Breath

Bread, pea soup, and canned beef—these simple yet filling foods were a feast for the hungry and exhausted paratroopers. In their haste to eat, few of them still longed for the delicious meals and soft beds waiting for them in the rear. If they hadn't been ambushed by the British on the way, these comforts would have been theirs to enjoy!

"Man, I thought the British were just running for their lives. I didn't expect them to launch an attack like that! Really didn't see that coming!"

Mark Ella, holding a can in one hand and a large spoon in the other, shoveled food into his mouth with remarkable speed. Goalkeepers weren't known for their stamina, but he had carried a nearly 200-pound man for several hours.

"It's just their last gasp of desperation," said Lieutenant Steffenberg, who now sported a white bandage around his head. He gloomily chewed on his bread. Although his artillery team had taken out two British tanks, his performance in the latter half of the battle had been lackluster. He was still far from meeting the standard of a "versatile paratrooper."

Corporal Dirk chugged an entire canteen of soup, let out a loud burp, and asked, "Do you think the British will push all the way here?"

"What's meant to come will come, and you can't stop it; what's not meant to come won't come, no matter how much you invite it."

Logan appeared almost silently behind Dirk, startling the relaxed soldier so much he nearly jumped out of his skin.

"Oh, Leutnant, I didn't hear you coming!" Dirk said, patting his chest.

"That's because my ancestors evolved from felines," Logan quipped. He served himself a canteen of soup, grabbed a piece of bread, and plopped down next to Dirk, eating ravenously without a care for appearances.

Perhaps it was exhaustion numbing his senses, or maybe the sheer physical toll, but the nausea from the bloody scenes hours earlier had vanished. He even felt that getting injured wasn't such a big deal—filling his stomach was what truly mattered.

After satisfying his most basic needs, Logan went to the field hospital set up in the church to check on his wounded subordinates. Including Tobias and Groth, five paratroopers were now confined to hospital beds. For them, the battle was essentially over. Once the road between Wormhout and the rear was reopened, they would be sent back. As for their return to the battlefield, the quickest recovery would take a month, while the longest... might require several months of bed rest.

Leaving the church, Logan lit a cigarette. The late May night still carried a chill. He wandered aimlessly, listening to the crisp sound of his boots on the cobblestones. He thought to himself: Dirk, you weren't paying attention, and now you're blaming me for being quiet. But the guy's loyal and brave—a soldier you can rely on.

Late at night, the German field kitchen had long since shut down. The fact that the paratroopers could still get hot soup was entirely due to Dietrich's kindness in pulling some strings. However, the sound of splashing water still came from the well, and faintly, a few busy figures could be seen. Logan walked over and saw a small mountain of military mess tins piled on the ground. Damn, these Germans aren't worried about the French poisoning them? A few dozen grams of potassium chloride, and the Leibstandarte SS Adolf Hitler would be wiped out!

The frightened French civilians were likely powerless to act. A German soldier wearing a steel helmet and carrying a submachine gun leaned against a nearby wall, coldly watching them.

Without much effort, Logan recognized the slender "Little Sophie Marceau." The French girl was wiping a German mess tin with a ragged cloth—a task made awkward by the tin's size compared to her small hands.

"Hey, Kylie!"

The girl turned around in surprise. "It's you?"

"Yeah, we ran into some... minor trouble on the way, so we had to come back."

This "minor trouble" was anything but minor. When Logan had left earlier, his uniform had been neat and tidy. Now, not only was his head wrapped in extra layers of bandages, but his clothes were also wrinkled, and his pant legs were torn in several places below the knees. However, despite his slightly flippant tone during conversation, his demeanor had grown noticeably more composed. His deep blue eyes seemed even more profound, and upon closer inspection, he exuded an aura of quiet authority—a transformation that had occurred in just a few short hours. It was a testament to the extraordinary experiences he had endured.

The French girl didn't seem to care about Logan's "trouble." She spoke in a pleading tone, "We're so tired! Really tired! Can we rest for a bit?"

"Of course! Why not?" Logan blurted out.

"Great!" "Little Sophie Marceau" immediately relayed the news to the others. The elderly couple, the middle-aged woman, and the children all let out relieved sighs and tossed their mess tins to the ground. The clattering noise immediately drew the attention of the "fanatical" guard watching over them.

"French pigs, what are you doing? Trying to get yourselves killed? Don't stop!"

Whether the French understood him or not, the SS soldier walked over, cursing rudely in German.

Logan turned around calmly. "Don't worry, buddy! They're just tired. Let them rest for a bit. By the way, from your accent, are you from Bavaria?"

"No, Württemberg!" These were two distant regions, and their accents were likely quite different. Logan then pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. The SS soldier didn't refuse, taking one and handing the pack back.

Logan gestured generously for him to keep it. "British stuff. Tastes pretty good."

The young, strong "fanatic" quickly stuffed the pack into his pocket. In the army, cigarettes—especially good ones—were highly prized.

After taking a puff, he nodded. "Yeah, not bad. Thanks!"

"Don't mention it!" Logan checked his watch. It was already past 3 p.m. "These old, weak, and sick folks can't do much work anyway. Once we finish off the French and British in this battle, we won't be short on laborers, right?"

The "fanatic" wasn't a fool and went along with it. "Yeah, that's true."

The two chatted about some trivial matters before the SS soldier said he was going to take a nap. He casually mentioned to Logan that mines had been laid around the town.

Logan, of course, knew what this meant. He calmly walked back to the well. The French were sitting on the ground, resting. Though they still looked at the German officer with some fear, their hostility had noticeably diminished.

"It's alright now," he said in French, addressing "Little Sophie Marceau," his precious little girl.

"Thank you," the French girl said earnestly this time.

Logan sat down gently beside her, trying not to look like a creepy "uncle."

"Why didn't you evacuate with the others? To the south?"

"Grandpa and grandma can't walk, and we don't have a car," "Little Sophie Marceau" said gloomily.

"What about your parents?"

"My father's a sailor, and my mother passed away right after giving birth to my little brother," the girl said, gently touching the youngest boy, who had already fallen asleep.

A tragic story, Logan thought. France's defeat was all but certain, and under German occupation, their lives would only get harder.

"If possible..." Logan began, but his words were cut off by a sudden explosion in the distance.

The SS soldier, who had said he was going to nap, bolted out. He looked in the direction of the sound and then warily at the French. He said to Logan, "Leutnant, that sounded like a mine! Someone might be trying to escape!"

The explosion had indeed been isolated. Logan suddenly realized that if it wasn't a prisoner trying to escape, it was likely the enemy attacking! After all, even at the Matilda's sluggish speed, it would only take about an hour to reach Wormhout from the site of the previous battle. Considering the enemy might not thoroughly clean up the battlefield before pushing east, they could very well be on Wormhout's outskirts now!