Working as a police officer in Mexico Chapter 1702 768: Hymn of Courage

May 11, 1996, 9:17 AM.

Southern Indiana, five kiloters southeast of the "Crossroads," in the valley of the "Slaughterhouse."

The na sounds ominous.

Just like the damn Luofeng Slope.

The last reserve force of the Italian Brigade, the remnants of the 2nd Sniper Battalion, the brigade engineer company, and a cobbled-together logistics guard platoon, totaling approximately four hundred n, seven VCC infantry fighting vehicles, and four M60 tanks, under the near-crazed orders of Colonel Bertolini, left the relatively safe defensive circle, advancing along the Route 73 branch, to reinforce the fiercely combated "Crossroads."

Bertolini himself did not advance with the team.

He remained at headquarters, his face ashen, his fingers nervously tapping the radio panel. Communication with the holand was still disrupted, and the backup channel only emitted ear-piercing electrical noise.

But half an hour ago, he had barely connected through the field telephone line to a minor channel of the right-wing French Army command post.

"I need air support, Durand! Now!" he yelled into the microphone, his voice hoarse.

Then he pleaded, "Please, for the sake of our relationship, help ! Help !"

If it were that tough, perhaps Durand would refuse, but the plea made him sowhat reluctant.

"Luca, my Mirage needs maintenance, ground support... I'm under pressure on my front too."

The other party paused, feeling sowhat guilty for being unable to help, finally speaking, "However, I will have my artillery conduct a deterrent barrage at the enemy assembly area to the east of the 'Crossroads.' Good luck."

"That's all I can do, God be with us."

"Deterrent barrage..." Bertolini hung up the phone, slamming his fist onto the wooden tabletop, splitting his knuckle and drawing blood.

He knew he had been abandoned.

British, French, Germans, all watching him die.

One less person to share the spoils...

Isn't that better?

He glanced at the shortwave radio in the corner of the command post, a personal item he occasionally used to listen to broadcasts from Italy. At this mont, tuned to the Ro national radio frequency, amidst the static, the broadcaster's urgent tone was faintly audible: "The Departnt of Defense urgently calls on the public to remain calm. Unverified news about the North Arican war is under investigation..."

"Can't wait any longer." Bertolini stared at the map, his eyes unfocused but suddenly sharp, "Must break through the supply line, must have so battle results, even if small. Then, withdraw with the troops, even if it ans bearing the burden of cowardice, to preserve these seeds... Yes, withdraw, apply to the Allied Command Headquarters for rest, saying the casualties are too great, need reorganization..."

He grabbed the field phone, connecting to the commander of the reserve force advancing towards the "Crossroads," Major Carlo Marino.

Marino was his military academy classmate and one of the few officers still willing to follow him and relatively maintain calm.

"Carlo."

Bertolini's voice was unusually dry, "Listen, your mission is not a frontal assault on the 'Crossroads.' The xicans are well-defended there. You bypass from the edge of the 'Slaughterhouse' valley, see the hill marked as H-7? Cut across its southern gentle slope, the forest is dense there, terrain poorly observed, it may be their weak defense point. Pierce in and attack the enemy forces at the 'Crossroads' from the rear. No need to annihilate, just create chaos, open a gap for our supply convoy to rush through at least once. Even if just a bit of ammunition and dical supplies, we will have a reason to retreat."

There was silence for a few seconds on the other end, then Major Marino's voice ca through, very weary, "Understood, Colonel. Flanking maneuver, H-7 hill south side, create chaos, open gap, then disengage, I'll do my best."

Bertolini's lips quivered, after a while he said, "Marino, if we both survive, I'll treat you to my treasured red wine."

The other side also paused for a mont, then laughed, "It's a deal."

9:45 AM, west entrance of the "Slaughterhouse" valley.

Major Marino erged from the top hatch of the VCC fighting vehicle, raising binoculars to observe the terrain ahead.

So-called "Slaughterhouse" is a codena marked on the map, derived from an early temporary livestock pen here.

The actual terrain is where two low-grade roads intersect, forming an irregular "X" shape. Surrounding the intersection is a relatively flat depression, overgrown with half-height dried yellow grass and shrubs.

And on the east, north, and west sides of the depression are rolling hills ranging from fifty to eighty ters in elevation, the slopes covered in dense oak and pine forests, appearing dark and silent in the morning light. The south side is slightly gentler but also blocked by large areas of forest.

An unnad creek flows through the depression from the northwest, forming a shallow pool near the intersection, then bends eastward, disappearing into the woods.

Overall, this place resembles a large bowl, the bottom is the depression at the intersection, and the sides are the hills on three sides.

"It's eerily quiet." Marino whispered to the Sergeant Major beside him.

He did not choose to approach from the more open but obviously heavily guarded south side and strictly followed Bertolini's orders, creeping along the base of the western hills, trying to sneak around the southern slope of H-7 hill.

The forest here was denser, visibility less than fifty ters.

The Italian convoy crawled at low speed.

Leading was an M60 tank, its heavy tracks creaking over the forest litter and rubble. Following were two VCCs, carrying half a platoon of infantry.