Working as a police officer in Mexico-Chapter 1701 - 767: Picking the Softest Persimmon

Antonio suddenly stood up, his eyes red: "I'm going to make a call, to the liaison office of my son's unit..."

"It's useless." The bald man grabbed him, "My nephew said, the communication has already broken down, there's no way to get in touch. The Department of Defense is now clueless, trying to figure out the situation."

This sounded like a bomb exploding in the bar.

People who were originally chatting about football and complaining about work fell silent and looked over to this side.

"Is what you said true?" An old man asked, "My grandson is also serving in North America."

"My nephew is too..."

"My neighbor's son..."

The crowd gathered around.

The bald man became the focal point, somewhat proud yet uneasy, but continued sharing the "inside news" he heard from "friends at the newspaper" and "police cousins."

The details became increasingly abundant: How many tanks the Mexicans deployed, how the Italian troops were surrounded, how the commander tried to break through but failed, and how they were "suspected captured" in the end...

With each detail, Antonio's face grew paler.

By nine-thirty at night, no one in the bar cared about the football match anymore. Everyone was discussing the news of the "North American defeat." Some were angry, cursing the government's incompetence; others were panicked, worrying about their family; some questioned, demanding the truth.

Marco tried to reassure them, but it was useless.

When fear and rumors combine, reason is the first thing to be discarded.

At ten o'clock, Antonio staggered out of the bar. He wanted to go home and call every institution he could think of: the Department of Defense, the military district, the congressman's office...

But no one answered.

This made him feel extremely uneasy, and he could only pray to God, hoping that his son could, if worse came to worst, rely on his traditional skills—surrender!

Living is always better than dying.

Rumors spread like a plague.

2:00 a.m. on May 11, at the Griss City Command Headquarters.

Kitchener stood in front of the communications console, listening to reports from various units.

"The special operations team has infiltrated the north and south high points of the crossroads without encountering enemy patrols."

"The 11th Armored Cavalry Regiment has begun mobilizing, expected to reach the target area by 3:40 a.m."

"The artillery unit has completed adjustments to firing parameters and can provide fire support at any time."

He nodded, looking at Fernando: "How are things in Italy?"

Fernando handed over a newly decrypted communication intercept, "Two hours ago, the Italian Department of Defense sent three encrypted urgent telegrams to the North American War Zone, demanding Bertolini report the status of the troops immediately. According to signal analysis, the Italian Army Command is attempting to establish a backup communication channel."

"They can't get in touch."

Kitchener looked at the map, "Because we started electronic interference two hours ago, at least until noon tomorrow, communications between Italy and the front-line troops can only rely on the most primitive messengers."

"Unless they can swim."

He walked to the window, outside the night was deep.

"Now, just wait for the prey to enter the cage."

4:15 a.m., "Crossroads."

Tanks and armored vehicles of Mexico's 11th Armored Cavalry Regiment emerged from the forest like iron beasts, quickly occupying this crucial traffic node.

Engineers jumped off vehicles, starting to plant land mines and set up anti-tank obstacles around. Artillery observers climbed to the high point, setting up laser range finders and radios.

Meanwhile, at the Italian Brigade Command.

Bertolini was shaken awake by a staff officer, eyes full of bloodshot.

"Colonel! We've lost the crossroads!" The staff's voice was filled with panic, "The patrol team reports Mexicans deployed at least an armored regiment's force and have already established a defensive position there!"

Bertolini suddenly stood up, rushing to the map.

The crossroads were circled in red, like a knife stabbing into his logistical artery.

"How did they get past?!" He roared, "Where are our forward alert posts? The reconnaissance team?!"

"They bypassed our defensive line."

The operations staff, face pale, "Through the abandoned logging area on the west side. The terrain there is complex, we only set up sporadic posts..."

Bertolini punched the map.

It's over.

The ammunition stockpile only lasts for three days. 𝗳𝚛𝗲𝕖𝚠𝚎𝚋𝗻𝗼𝕧𝗲𝐥.𝚌𝚘𝐦

Food only lasts for four days.

The fuel... If used sparingly, may last five days. But if engaged in combat, it will be exhausted in two days.

Most importantly, the wounded can't be transported out.

Nearly a hundred severely wounded lie in the field hospital; if not evacuated for treatment...

"Gather the troops." Bertolini's voice was hoarse, "All forces that can be mobilized, the 1st Battalion, 3rd Battalion, Armored Company, Artillery Battalion... I want to retake the crossroads before noon."

"Colonel, this might be a trap!" The Chief of Staff tried to dissuade him, "The Mexicans exposed their forces deliberately, they might want to lure us out!"

"I know it's a trap!" Bertolini shouted, "But do we have a choice?! Sit and wait to die? Watch the wounded die due to lack of medicine? Watch the soldiers fight hungry? Then those bastards back home write us off as 'cowards', 'incompetent'?!"

He took a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down: "Moreover, they only have one armored regiment. We have artillery superiority, troop superiority. If we concentrate our strength, quick assault, there's a chance to break through the defensive line before their reinforcements arrive."

"And then? Can we hold on after breaking through? The other Mexican units might..."

"After we break through, I'll personally call Durand." Bertolini interrupted, "Plead if necessary, yell if needed, make him launch an attack from the flank to distract the other Mexican units. This is our only chance."

He glanced at his watch: "It's now 4:30 a.m. Order the troops, start artillery prep at 6, full assault at 7."

At 7:15 a.m., Italian artillery began a fierce bombardment of the Mexican positions at "Crossroads."

155mm howitzer shells rained down like hail, kicking up soaring dirt and gun smoke. On the positions, Mexican soldiers curled up in bunkers, listening to the explosions above.

"Observation group reporting impact points!" The armored cavalry regiment commander shouted into the radio.

"East offset by 150 meters, north by 80 meters... They are test firing!"

"Wait for them to start extending, then report!"

Three minutes later, Italian artillery began extending their range. This meant their infantry and armored units were about to charge.

"Here they come." The commander squinted his eyes.

Through binoculars, one could see dust rising at the end of the road. Italian infantry fighting vehicles and tanks began advancing towards the crossroads under artillery cover.

"Move closer to 800 meters." The commander ordered, "Anti-tank missile teams prepare, prioritize the lead vehicles. Artillery, wait for my order."

The Italian formation was very cautious, tanks in front, infantry fighting vehicles behind, infantry following on foot, advancing not fast but steadily.

700 meters.

600 meters.

"Fire!"

In an instant, all weapons at the crossroads positions fired simultaneously.

Anti-tank missiles streaked white smoke towards Italian tanks. The "Centaur" destroyer vehicle maneuvered urgently, releasing smoke, but one was struck on the flank and caught fire.

Mexican tanks emerged from behind cover, their main guns roaring. An Italian M60 tank's turret was directly hit, exploding into a fireball.

Machine guns on infantry fighting vehicles wildly swept, suppressing Italian infantry.

The battle immediately reached a fever pitch.

At 8:00 a.m., Griss City Command Headquarters.

Kitchener listened to the front-line reports, his face expressionless.

"The Italians have committed at least two battalions of forces, the assault is fierce, the 11th regiment is under great pressure, but the defensive line is still stable."

"Their artillery keeps shooting, when will our artillery respond?"

Kitchener looked at his watch: "Wait another half hour."

"General, half an hour, the front might..."

"I said wait."

"Let the Italians commit a bit more, let them think just a bit more effort can break through the line. Wait for their reserves to also press up."

He walked to the map, his finger pointing at "Slaughterhouse" — that inverted triangle terrain: "Tell the Quick Reaction Brigade, prepare for sortie. Tell the artillery, aim at this area, wait for my command."

At 8:40 a.m., Italian Brigade Command.

Bertolini's hands were sweaty. Front-line reports indicated their units had advanced to less than 300 meters from the crossroads but suffered heavy casualties, the assault had stalled.

"Press the reserves forward!" He yelled at the staff, "The last company, press it forward too! Now is not the time to hold back!"

"Colonel, if we commit all forces, the rear will be vulnerable..."

"I don't care! I only want results, if we can't take it, you'll lead the soldiers in a charge yourself!"

Under his stare, the staff dared not speak.

Damned bastards...

Truly, Romans are all dog bastards!