Working as a police officer in Mexico-Chapter 1706 - 768: Hymn of Courage
Capítulo 1706: Chapter 768: Hymn of Courage
A young Mexican soldier, looking under 20 years old, shot in the abdomen, with some intestines protruding, futilely trying to stuff them back with dirty hands, his face pale as paper, his eyes unfocused due to severe pain and blood loss.
His rifle lay discarded beside him, the magazine empty.
Bertolini looked at him. Enemy soldier, child, dying person.
The young Mexican soldier also saw him, dressed in Italian officer’s attire, his eyes first startled, then closed resignedly, awaiting the final bullet.
Bertolini remained silent for a few seconds and did not shoot.
He walked over, crouched down, and took out the last bit of bandage from his first aid kit, recklessly pressing it onto the other’s wound, despite knowing it was futile. Then, he picked up the other’s canteen, unscrewed it, found there was still half a jug of water, and brought it to the other’s lips.
The Mexican soldier opened his eyes, looked at him in surprise, and swallowed a few mouthfuls instinctively.
“Why…” The soldier asked weakly in broken English with a Spanish accent.
Bertolini did not answer.
Why? He didn’t know either. Perhaps it was because, at the end where everything had collapsed, killing a dying child was already meaningless.
He stood up, took one last look at this dying enemy, and turned to leave.
“Bang!”
A gunshot rang out from the other end of the cornfield.
Bertolini’s body jolted, feeling a scorching sharp pain in his left flank.
He staggered, grabbed the tree trunk beside him, looked down, and saw blood quickly staining his uniform red.
The silhouette of a Mexican infantryman flashed tens of meters away behind a ridge, probably a scout coming to check upon hearing the commotion.
Bertolini gritted his teeth, raised the AR70/90 in his hand, fired a short burst in that direction, forcing the other back. But he knew he was losing blood fast and wouldn’t last long.
He slid back against the tree trunk, sitting on the ground, his breathing becoming labored. His vision began to blur, and the sounds of gunfire and cannon in the distance seemed to fade away.
He fumbled, once again took out the silver flask, drank the last sip of whiskey, and then, with a trembling hand, pulled out the Beretta pistol from his waist.
He didn’t want to die from a finishing shot by a Mexican soldier, or from slowly succumbing to blood loss.
He raised the pistol, the muzzle pressed against his chin.
Screens flashed before his eyes: his father’s stern face, the pride of graduating from the Military Academy, the moment when he first wore the Colonel insignia, the smoke of the Komodo River Valley, the fall of colorful underwear everywhere, and… those young faces who followed him to this strange continent, now staying here forever.
“I’m sorry…” he murmured, perhaps to his father, those soldiers, or himself.
His finger pulled the trigger.
“Click.”
Misfire.
Fate even withheld the dignity of ending himself!!!
“God damn it!!!!”
Bertolini paused for a second, then uttered a sound that was neither a cry nor laughter.
The last perception was the increasingly close rumble of Mexican tanks’ engines and footsteps trampling over crushed soil.
The gunfire had mostly subsided.
The Mexican 11th Armored Cavalry Regiment and Quick Reaction Brigade had completed the cleanup of the Italian Brigade’s final resistance stronghold.
The Italian “Sniper” Brigade, as a combat force, was formally declared annihilated on the North American battlefield!!!
Their commander, Colonel Luca Bertolini’s body was found at the edge of the battlefield by the Mexican troops cleaning up the battlefield the next morning.
Beside the corpse were discarded an empty pistol and rifle, the uniform riddled with bullet holes and bloodstains.
…
