Working as a police officer in Mexico-Chapter 1705 - 768: Hymn of Courage
Capítulo 1705: Chapter 768: Hymn of Courage
“For Italy!!” Over 30 voices roared in unison, the remaining Italian soldiers followed their Major, launching a near-suicidal charge.
Machine gun bullets swept across the charging ranks like sickles.
Continuously, men fell after being hit, but those who remained did not stop, yelling, running, shooting, like moths diving into flames.
Major Marino was hit in the chest by at least three bullets during the charge, stumbled a few steps, used his rifle to support himself, glanced back at the soldiers following him, then turned towards the enemy and slowly knelt down, finally collapsing on the ground, fingers still tightly gripping the trigger.
His eyes wide open, somewhat unwilling to rest. 𝕗𝐫𝚎𝗲𝘄𝐞𝕓𝐧𝕠𝘃𝕖𝐥.𝐜𝚘𝚖
This tragic and futile charge was crushed within seconds by the fierce firepower of the Mexican Army.
The era has changed.
10:50 AM, throughout the “Slaughterhouse” valley.
The large-scale battle was nearing its end.
There were remnants of burning vehicles, bodies, and scattered weapons and equipment everywhere in the lowland.
Sporadic gunfire continued, as Mexican infantry meticulously cleared the battlefield, eliminating the last stubborn soldiers, or capturing those too injured to move or those who had surrendered.
A few Italian soldiers hid in the bushes by the stream or shell craters but were found one by one by Mexican military dogs and infrared surveillance.
West side hilltop observation post.
“Send a message to the headquarters: ‘Slaughterhouse’ mission complete, the Italian Brigade’s mobile reserves have been annihilated.”
The battalion commander instructed the signalman, then looked at Sanchez, “Your ‘provocation’ and rumor warfare worked well. Their commander indeed panicked and sent the last reserves into our trap.”
Sanchez nodded, “Pressure came from many sides, we just gave a little push, next, it’s time to tackle the main course.”
He referred to the main advance force of the Italian Brigade, still confronting the 11th Armored Cavalry Regiment at the “Crossroads,” and Bertolini’s brigade command post.
Bertolini sat like a statue in front of the radio.
Ten minutes ago, he received a tearful report from an officer on the “Crossroads” front line, through an extremely unstable field phone extension: “Major Marino’s unit was ambushed in the ‘Slaughterhouse’ valley… communication cut off… possibly… possibly completely wiped out… we’re facing enormous pressure, heavy casualties, insufficient ammunition…”
Completely wiped out.
He lifted his head, forcing back his tears, he’d been friends with Marino… for twenty years!
The command post was deathly silent.
The staff looked ashen-faced, some had already started quietly packing personal items.
Bertolini slowly raised his head, his eyes empty.
He remembered his father’s words: “Living, existing, is victory.” Now, even “existing” is a luxury. His troops were decimated, reputation ruined, family shamed, going back? Military court? Parliament inquiry? Media condemnation?
No.
He slowly stood, tidied his dusty and sweat-stained uniform, smoothing the folds, and straightened his military cap.
His actions were meticulous.
“Colonel?” The Chief of Staff asked cautiously.
Bertolini didn’t look at him, walked to the wall, took the Beretta 92FS pistol hanging there, checked the magazine, then put it back into the holster. He picked up an AR70/90 short rifle leaning against the wall, skillfully checking its condition.
“You.”
He turned to the remaining few officers and signalmen in the command post, “Destroy all classified documents, codebooks, maps. Smash the radios. Then figure it out on your own. Head north or west, try to find the German or French lines. Good luck.”
“Colonel! And you?” A young Lieutenant asked in panic.
Bertolini showed a very complex smile, “Me? I’m Luca Bertolini, Colonel of the Italian Army, Commander of the Sniper Brigade. My troops are here, my position is here. I’m not going anywhere.”
“My brothers have martyred, now it’s my turn.”
He ignored the astonished looks of his subordinates, grabbed his rifle, and strode out of the command post shelter into the afternoon sunlight filled with the smell of smoke and unease.
He walked towards the “Crossroads,” towards the place where his troops were still fighting fiercely.
Just as a soldier, as a commander, to be with his soldiers, facing the inevitable end.
Around 1 PM, approximately two kilometers southeast of the “Crossroads.”
Bertolini walked alone along an abandoned country path.
The surrounding sounds of gunfire and artillery became increasingly clear, the smoke in the air so thick it was suffocating. He encountered a few wounded soldiers retreating from the frontline, supporting each other with terrified looks. They saw him but merely avoided him numbly.
He didn’t stop them, nor did he ask.
Turning a corner, a small forest edge appeared ahead, beyond which lay a cornfield ravaged by artillery.
Bodies of soldiers from both sides were scattered among them.
Bertolini stopped, leaned against an oak tree, raised his binoculars to look towards the “Crossroads.”
Thick smoke billowed, flames flickered, the Italian army’s defensive line was evidently shattered, Mexican tanks and armored vehicles steadily advanced, squeezing the last pocket of resistance.
It’s over.
He put down the binoculars, sat with his back against the tree trunk, pulled out a silver flask from his pocket, took a large gulp of liquor, the fiery liquid burned down his throat, bringing a bit of warmth.
Then, he heard faint moans coming from beside the furrow in the cornfield, he raised his gun cautiously and slowly moved over.
