Codegease: Air and Land Warfare 1946

Page 148

As the two were pondering, a squadron of green Soviet fighter jets, with a reconnaissance plane sandwiched in the middle, flew towards the group of uninvited guests.

The general and colonel didn't want to move an inch. They anxiously raised their binoculars to their eyes, tapping the lenses incessantly. Occasionally, they would turn back to look at the jeep with the radio on it, waiting for all the news they cared about.

"Alright! Comrade General! We've flown close to the fleet... Oh, thankfully these warships haven't all pointed their anti-aircraft guns at us. We can see the St. George's flag on the warships; this is definitely the British fleet."

"What other movements are there? Have these warships made any significant moves?"

"Absolutely not. All the warships' main guns were lined up straight ahead and behind, with no intention of firing a salvo. Not a single warship broke formation, and there were no escort aircraft of this British fleet nearby."

"Alright then, comrade. Let's continue to circle around the British fleet for a while until the Red Navy comrades arrive."

……

Time passed second by second. The general and the colonel had long since retreated to a trench, but they never put down their binoculars. Following behind them was the same jeep carrying a radio.

The southern part of Rügen Island was once again engulfed in a cacophony of gunfire from both the enemy and their friendly comrades. The sounds pierced the ocean, creating even more unpredictable waves, and carried far and wide to the two Red Navy destroyers that were getting closer and closer to the Royal Navy.

The light signals flickered between the two groups of warships like candlelight in a raging fog.

The comrades on shore were anxious and worried, sincerely hoping that at some point, the muzzles of the cannons of the two fleets would not suddenly blaze with light, and torpedoes would fly from the sides of the warships into the water, eventually turning into a sea of ​​fire that filled the sky.

……

Radio waves from Rügen Island traveled by sea as the sun rose and set, crossing Szczecin to Poland, and also flying over Berlin to the south of the Soviet-occupied zone in Germany.

This is Leipzig, a city 150 kilometers from Berlin. It is a German city that is just as dilapidated as Berlin, a labyrinth of ruins. Finding an intact house still takes some effort—especially a hotel that is flying the Soviet flag.

"Marshal Zhukov, another telegram has been sent from Rügen Island."

“Oh, I’m not really interested in watching anymore… ‘The British fleet is patrolling in the waters about 30 degrees northwest to north-northeast of the island,’ am I right?”

"Yes."

"Well, isn't General Prokhorov being a bit too meticulous? Even the Baltic Fleet, which got close to the Royal Navy and shone its lights on, isn't that much more serious. Is it really necessary to be so overly tense?"

"Perhaps the comrades on the island are indeed in a difficult situation right now."

"I think they have enough ammunition to hold out, they have no right to think that way." The marshal handed the telegram back and walked to the map. "These guys who came out of Berlin seem a bit too confident? It looks like we can set up a formation along the Leipzig-Oder River line. How many battered army groups and corps do they want to take out of the encirclement this time? Ha."

"Marshal!" Another officer walked in at that moment. "A telegram has arrived from Moscow; they have resumed negotiations with the British. Which general should we send to the British-occupied zone this time to meet with Field Marshal Montgomery and his men?"

"Wait a minute, let me find someone. This time, we need a different person." The marshal rubbed the pencil in his hand. "But I'd like to know first, has the American side announced the date of their next bombing of Berlin?"

"Not yet. But Comrade Zhukov, shouldn't we suggest to the Americans that they send some forces to attack enemy positions and clusters near Rügen Island?"

"The journey isn't very convenient, as they've mentioned. But compared to that, I believe that with air support from the West, both the northern and southern fronts can manage."

"Can we protect our comrades returning home by ship with only a limited number of Polish airmen and the Baltic Fleet?"

"Comrade, remember this." Zhukov turned around and smiled slightly. "The only great enemy of the Soviet Air Force and the Red Navy was the German bombers of 1941. Now, four years have passed, and all those black things can do is provide a warning to the new bandits coming out of Berlin with the wreckage scattered all over the ground. Ha!"

Chapter 168, Section 231: Altitude, 6,000 meters, Top-notch Facial Washing Service

It had been a long time since the two of them had been able to properly look out into the distance from the battlefield—Anton and Lemilia were still in the same trench, rubbing their icy hands together in the winter air, listening to the wailing songs from behind.

Ahead, the earth resounded like a thunderous drumbeat of gunpowder; somewhere behind, an organ, its shells gleaming with messages, echoed. The song of the Katyusha rocket launcher reverberated throughout the heavens and earth, just like the bucket of water at their feet—the clear water washed away the dust from their comrades' faces, and the song of the Katyusha cleansed their ears and souls, wiping the mud from their faces, along with the rotting corpses of the wailing enemy, into the pit. There was nothing more invigorating than this.

"Ah, Comrade Rocket Artillery seems to be singing a bit late." Lemilia wiped her nose. "We'll probably have to wash our faces a few more times, ha!"

"Be careful not to get the water frozen, comrade." Anton laughed. "Your hands will turn to mush, but of course, that's better than being blown to bits by the enemy."

"So how long do we have left to launch a counterattack? I feel the situation up above is a bit unclear. Do we really have to hide in the trenches a few more times?"

"You mean them?" Anton picked up his binoculars and looked up at the sky—those bandits from Berlin, their bombers flying in groups of three or five, sending bombs and high-explosive rockets into Soviet territory, just a few hours ago.

And now, besides the green figures, those western birds carrying white stars have also just arrived, their presence echoing the chorus of Schwaker's machine guns, a gift to these uncooperative enemies. What can the winged behemoths and the machine gun-wielding puppets do besides cover their ears and run?

“But there are quite a few of these fascists. Look at those surrounding the bombers.”

“I see it, comrade.” Anton looked in the direction Lemilia was pointing. “But that is no reason for us to misunderstand or distrust our friends in the West.”

……

"Hey! What's going on?! Another unit has crashed?"

This group of aerial behemoths flew north amidst the dogfights between fighter jets and humanoid weapons, and even the black cotton candy-like debris blasted apart by anti-aircraft guns.

"Damn, this is not good." The leader of the armed transport plane was a major. "What the hell? We were supposed to fly back to the airport near Berlin after dropping the bombs! We almost got slapped in the face while dropping the bombs, and now they're going to mess with us on the way back too?"

"This is District 45, Major," the co-pilot muttered. "They prey on everything from the Knights of the Round Table to beds and latrines..."

"Hey, sir!"

"What is it, Corporal?" The voice of the gunner of the self-defense machine gun on one side came through the radio.

"Several enemy planes are rushing over again!"

"Pull the barrage! Pull the barrage! Damn it, can't you guys just fire a bullet first and then report this to me?"

The aircraft beneath them, along with the nearby transport planes, lit up the ports on both sides of their fuselages, forming a shimmering net of flames with their gleaming ammunition belts in front of them. The newly arrived Flash White fighters and KMFs fought back and forth between them.

"Yeah, we shot one down!" came the corporal's cheerful shout, but the major remained unmoved—the bird with the broken wing falling was barely visible in his blind spot; what truly terrified him was the sound of a cobblestone machine closing in from behind, making his scalp tingle. Then, several KMFs and fighter jets, chasing each other, formed an irregular straight line and flew forward, firing from their noses, right above his head.

"Are you all alright, sir?"

At that moment, the cargo officer rushed in, and the major turned around. But this time, he wasn't looking at the cargo officer or anyone else, but at the upper part of the cabin wall behind him, where several bright bullet holes stared at them like the eyes of wolves.

"Uh..." The cargo manager seemed to have seen through the captain's thoughts, and subconsciously, and coincidentally, picked up something that looked like a bullet from the ground—it had been completely deformed during the drilling operation on the fuselage just now.

The major took the bullet, his heart pounding with fear.

……

"It seems these guys called Americans are using smaller caliber machine guns on their planes? If it was a Soviet plane's cannon, then it's not a question of how big the hole is, but whether we'll all be dead..."

"In that case, there's no need to worry too much, sir. Machine guns and cannons are what KMF's armor is concerned about. We can't possibly fall down just because of a few bullets. Right now, there's enough light coming through the cargo hold to find a needle."

"With so many enemy planes, we should have asked for more escorts from the beginning. Damn it, I shouldn't have only asked for the few squads of the Knights of Agincourt that were specifically requested. It would have been so much better to have sent an ordinary regiment instead."

"Hey! Captain Griffin!" He grabbed the radio. "Where are you? I can't see you. You were supposed to escort me!"

"Roll to the right! Major! Hurry, to the right!"

The urgent rebuke didn't make him hesitate much. After the transport plane veered to the right to correct its cumbersome body, it saw a fighter jet falling to the ground in disarray, trailing a trail of black smoke. Then... then it watched as a dark blue giant was chased and attacked by two other identical fighter jets.

"What... what's going on, Captain?" The major gripped the control lever and gasped.

"Don't worry about me! I'll draw them away!" Vincent flipped over and ran behind one of the planes, ready to fire, but the latter dodged him. Then, as Griffin continued to hold off the six, two planes flew away in arcs from the left and right. Immediately afterwards, the fighter jet, Vincent, and the second fighter jet were sandwiched together. The major could only watch as the third one kicked the captain's butt hard.

"Alright, alright, I'm outta here. This fighting isn't good." With that, Vincent swooped down. "I need to speed up and shake them off. Goodbye!"

"What? What are you doing? Where are the other girls in your team?"

The major looked around and could only shake his head as he watched the familiar Gloucester fighters still battling against swarms of fighter jets in the air.

"Enemy aircraft approaching from directly ahead! Sir!"

It was that fighter jet again, with its red nose and black and white stripes at the wing roots. Its solitary, slender figure somehow swooped down from an even higher place and stared at the transport plane.

"Holy crap!" He quickly buried his head under the control panel. The sound of a hammer smashing an iron door, along with the slight cracking of glass, and the roar of the propeller engine like a barber's razor brushing against the major's scalp as it flew behind him.

"My God..." The wind overhead howled even louder. "Corporal! Where did that plane go?!"

"We're fighting! He's flying around us!"

The silvery-white P-51 Mustang fighter jet, its sturdy wings swaying, leaped and tumbled on the blades of the transport plane's defensive ammunition belts with a roar of air currents, darting left, right, up, and down. Clearly more courageous and patient than the pilot who was the defensive gunner, after a series of maneuvers, the six machine guns on its wings finally fired, aiming at the transport plane's wings.

"It's bad, Major! The engine!"

A dazzling spark flew from the engine's rear end, accompanied by machine gun cartridge cases that were thrown into the sky. The defensive ammunition belt was a step behind the Mustang. Seeing the ammunition belt next to it, it raised its head, rolled around, and then swept the aircraft's fuselage horizontally.

"Ouch!" The cabin was a mess, and the major could only shut down the burning engine with a heavy heart amidst the screams of the crew on the radio.

"Take it down right now! What are you doing?!"

"We're almost out of ammunition." As they spoke, it sounded like fighter jets flying past from below, tearing out several more bullet holes in the fuselage from the bottom up, blending into the haphazardly spread defensive fire.

"New enemies are coming!" came another desperate radio call. The major closed his eyes and listened to the whistling air passing by his ears. Only the sound of his own men's belts could soothe him.

……

“Uhmmm… The enemy is far away, sir. Now, only the guy who stabbed our engine is left here with me.”

"What are you standing there for? I can't hear you firing."

"No, sir, we've run out of ammunition..."

"what?!"

"Now all I can do is watch him put his landline next to ours!"

Yes, the corporal wasn't lying; the ammunition was indeed empty, and the Mustang had indeed stopped maneuvering and firing. He stood a plane's length away, silently watching him. It was as if the clamor of the surrounding sky was completely oblivious to them; above the blue sky, all was utterly tranquil.

"But there's good news, sir. His aircraft has some wounds and a white tail."

"Oh? That's good. We might be able to hold out until Berlin. He probably won't live much longer."

"He won't live long, but this guy... damn it!"

"What's wrong, Corporal?" The major listened to the radio and sensed something was off about the tone.

"He's making faces at me and giving me the middle finger! I can't take it anymore!"

"Calm down, bro."

"He's lip-syncing to me! I can read his lips! If you laugh again, I'll come out and smash your face in! I'll... Hey? Sir, watch out, he's coming from the front!"

"Huh?" The major had barely finished speaking when he saw the fighter jet flash past the corner of his eye. "What's he trying to do?"

The Mustang didn't do anything fancy, nor did it fire. Was it also out of ammunition? In any case, the major looked at the uninvited guest that flew in front of his nose with great doubt. And what was that white tail behind it?

Just then, the fighter jet wobbled a few times, flicking its white tail onto the cockpit windshield.

"Ugh! Damn it!" A foul stench, along with the white tail turning into a continuous stream of liquid, splashed onto the glass, flying in through the cracks and tiny gaps, instantly covering everyone in the cabin with a sticky mess.

"What is this! It smells awful!"

"I...uh cough..." The major grabbed a rag and wiped his face, then took a deep sniff. "Ah, this must be the smell of fuel. This is the enemy from District 45. They're using fuel from planes and tanks. Ah, maybe lubricating oil and coolant too."

"Sir, some of the oil has even smeared onto the control panel." As he spoke, the leaking fighter jet finally disappeared into the distance. "Perhaps we should..."

Before the rest of the words could be spoken, the entire plane suddenly shuddered violently amidst a series of unsettling explosions.

"Damn it, sir! The engine that was just damaged has caught fire and exploded!"

……

As they were speaking, the transport plane tilted to one side, its nose pointing downwards, and it drifted further and further away from the cloud cover.

"I can't pull him up!" the major panicked. "Captain! Captain Griffin! Are you there?!"

“No need to say anything! I know what you need!” Vincent, the man in dark blue, leaned closer. “Your engine is on fire too big! There’s no way I can help you like this.”

It was then discovered that Vincent's arm seemed to be useless, with only one hand gripping the wingtip to barely lift it up, which was undoubtedly a drop in the ocean in terms of helping to deflect the descending plane.

"What should we do? My men are still driving away enemy planes. We need to ensure our safety. Can you try opening the hatch so I can carry you out of the plane?"

"You're kidding, Captain! We can't leave this cockpit, or we'll be dead even faster!"

Then, just as everyone was struggling with their problem, as a gust of air approached from above, Griffin saw a black object, not much different from his own vehicle, flying towards them.

"Huh? Whose Vincent is this?"

Before anyone could react, the dark figure pulled out a long spear and flew to the wing, swiftly and precisely slicing through the engine mount. The remaining wreckage watched as two large fireballs covered in metal plummeted to the ground like bombs.

"Sorry, I'm almost late, Captain."

"Lily?" Griffin was somewhat expected, but still pleasantly surprised to hear that voice. "You're back from Area 11?! When did that happen?"

"Enough with the small talk, sir. Let's work together to rescue the plane, shall we?"

"Ah, okay, okay! But on the other hand, it's really not good for you to see me in such a sorry state."

"Ha, why bother? There are two elements to victory in a battle: we live and the enemy dies. Since we can still speak, shouldn't we celebrate?"

"Hey, right, right, right..." Just as the two Vincents were pushing the transport plane back to its original balance, Griffin noticed that a blue Gloucester had been following them without saying a word.

“Angelina? Is that you? What happened to you?…”

……

Soon after, a radio wave was transmitted back to Berlin.