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Unexpectedly, this medic was a rather inexperienced newcomer, and the intense gunfire ahead made him quite nervous.
"Morphine... morphine can relieve pain..." He thought to himself, and took a dose, but the soldier was still howling uncontrollably on the ground. Instinctively, he took out a second injection.
No one knows what the medic was thinking when Garcia was put on the stretcher. He sat alone on the ground, staring at the syringe he hadn't dropped, as if he had suddenly come to his senses, with a look of fear on his face.
Chapter 212, Section 283: The Scars of the Umbrella Flower (Part 2)
Burns are often far more intense than the pain of a bullet piercing the body. They often burn large areas of the skin, like a scalding grinder biting into the skin. Even a breath can make the pain of the wound more excruciating. In addition, there are germs that immediately try to take advantage of the damaged skin tissue.
Fortunately, April wasn't a very warm month, and that year, Cologne on the Rhine River even experienced a cold snap in early spring.
After days when he couldn't even bend over or stretch his legs, Garcia, somewhat unexpectedly, lay on a hospital bed in the medical station for more than ten days with bandages and gauze wrapped around his thighs and abdomen. Finally, he was able to pick up the Purple Heart medal that he had been looking at every day and get out of bed to walk.
The first thing he did after changing back into his military uniform was, of course, to leave the barracks and find his crush—his comrades-in-arms? They'd been keeping him company quite a bit lately. The girl was in Cologne? That was certainly on their lips, but the news was truly unexpected. Perhaps Mira had the talent of a globetrotter?
Today is April 30, 1945. The afternoon sun shines gently on the side of Cologne Cathedral. Garcia, with Mila in tow, walks unsteadily across the square—and equally unsteady is a message about to be sent from Berlin to the world: the evil Hitler has committed suicide by poisoning himself.
So, have you thought about where you'll settle down in the future?
“If possible,” Mira smiled at him, her tongue swirling in her mouth for a long time, “could I cross the Atlantic with you and enjoy the beaches and sunshine of Miami together?”
"Really?" Garcia's roses swayed excitedly in his hand, her arm trembling. It meant she wanted to go back to Florida with him. "Well then, I have something I want to give you, although it's a little damaged, but..."
"Let me see it. Anything you can take out is good."
"Okay, now blindfold yourself."
Before she closed her eyes, Mira already imagined what surprise awaited her: a small, square box was clearly visible in Garcia's pocket, the size of which was definitely meant for storing jewelry.
However, to her utter surprise, instead of hearing "Put your hand down, darling," she was met with a few chaotic footsteps, followed by Garcia collapsing to the ground with a painful groan.
"Oh no..." Mira sensed something was wrong. She saw the soldier rolling around on the ground, pulling at his hair, and muttering incomprehensible nonsense. The necklace in the small box had also fallen onto the dirty ground.
"Honey, what's wrong?!" The girl was terrified. Passersby on the street watched Garcia's actions and were too scared to approach and help—who knew if the soldier would pull out a gun or dagger and hurt people indiscriminately?
"Hey, what's wrong with him?" Just then, two more soldiers appeared out of nowhere—they had actually come with Garcia to record some big news.
"I don't know, he just suddenly became like this!"
"Damn it, could it be..." Two soldiers pinned Garcia down, making sure he had no weapons on him. "Charlie, go back and get a car right away. I'll keep him under control."
……
"Yes, that's right. The medic who was on the battlefield gave you an overdose of morphine to control your stress response, so now... your addiction is a natural consequence."
"Back then, when I was in the hospital bed, I often sweated, felt hot, and got goosebumps... I thought it was from the bandages and blankets, but it turns out..."
"It's a pity, these are all symptoms of addiction... I'm sorry, soldier, there's nothing more I can do here now."
Garcia lay on the hospital bed, looking puzzled. This time he wasn't injured again, but woke up after being under anesthesia. He watched the doctor walk away, speechless.
"Hey, buddy..." One soldier remained by his side, keeping him company. "I never expected this to happen..."
"Mira...does Mira know?" He was so excited he almost jumped out of bed.
The waiter nodded helplessly: "What she means is that she feels all of this has happened too fast, and she doesn't know how to face someone who might go crazy again in the future..."
"Oh no... why did you tell her that?!"
“I’m sorry, she pressed us for details, and we couldn’t keep quiet… I’m sorry, Garcia…”
……
He is currently able to move around and should not be occupying a bed after being diagnosed.
On the night of May 9, 1945, a day known as VE-Day, the European theater emerged from the fog of war and into the triumphant celebrations of today, with the signing of the surrender document by German Grand Admiral Karl Dönitz.
Although Cologne, with its Stars and Stripes flying, was inhabited only by bewildered German civilians, the only exception was the American military camp, where lively songs and laughter emanated. Only Garcia was running frantically through the city streets, repeating a street number to himself as he raced through the dim ruins.
At this address, his beautiful figure was nowhere to be seen, leaving only a dark room and a tightly locked door. No matter how hard and earnestly he knocked, he did not receive the expected response.
He was in despair. There were no messages, no warnings. He had lost the link to this bright future. Garcia staggered and slumped down next to a lamppost by the roadside. Disappointment and resentment, along with the flickering light, crept onto his tear-streaked face.
All of Europe was celebrating the victory and the end of the war, but not a single person was there to weep with the paratroopers as they drifted off to sleep through the disorienting midnight hours.
……
The military police found him late at night, thinking he had fallen ill again, and sent him back to his hospital bed.
After several days of care, he was released from the Red Cross building, but the paratrooper who was immersed in love, in the eyes of his comrades, would never be seen again.
With the end of the war in Europe, the 82nd Airborne Division was fortunate enough to be assigned to Berlin to carry out missions in the occupied territories. Although it was somewhat tiring, there was no longer the roar of tanks and warplanes, and they were even fortunate enough to avoid being assigned to finish off the Japanese. This gave Garcia a lot of free time after routine missions and medical checkups, but no one knew what he did—according to his comrades, he suddenly started traveling alone, and no one knew where he went or what he did.
Later, he even brought back a small locked box from outside the military camp. Every time he came back from an outing, he would put a note or something inside. Everyone was a close friend and knew about his past, so they didn't question him too much. However, everyone found it strange that Garcia almost always came back with something unusual about him—either he was shivering from the cold, or his facial muscles were twitching, or he looked like he had heatstroke.
No one asked any questions, and he secretly took out the key and opened the box behind everyone's back.
"Amphetamine can be used as a stimulant," "Barbital can calm people down"—piles of notes that seemed nonsensical to the soldiers were hidden along with the needle marks on Garcia's arm or the powder around his mouth.
……
Later, someone asked him why he didn't go to find that girl.
He said that deep down he would never allow himself to see her while suffering from this drug addiction, even if Mira wouldn't mind, he himself would never forgive himself. In fact, to obtain the formulas written on those slips of paper so he could later adjust the medication, an astonishing willpower spread from his heart throughout his body. He suppressed his drug cravings many times in front of doctors and comrades, using this as an excuse to "reduce his addiction" and gain more opportunities to leave his hospital bed and go out.
However, this could not conceal the restlessness in his heart. Every time the postman from the camp brought a letter from home, he would always check to see if there was one written to him by Mira—unfortunately, either the recipient was not him, or it was from home across the ocean.
By September, the skies over Tokyo Bay were shrouded in blue carrier-based aircraft, obscuring the setting sun, and the world war came to an end.
To celebrate, Berlin also held a grand military parade involving the United States, the Soviet Union, Britain, and France. The glorious 82nd Airborne Division, as the garrison unit, naturally became a member of the parade formation. On this day, however, Garcia received a letter that was completely at odds with the joyous occasion.
……
It wasn't Mila's heartlessness that came from me, but from my brother who works in our hometown. It was written a month ago.
"My dearest Maifik, I'm writing this letter with a belly full of anger." It was clear the first few strokes of the pen felt like they'd been stabbed. "Just yesterday, Father and Mother were on their way to a trip in Uncle Heller's car when they were hit by another damned truck… I don't even know how to describe it. When I heard the news that neither of them could be saved in time, my heart…"
"I simply can't believe what happened next: the beast who caused the accident is still alive, and the reason he caused it was that he used heroin before he drove... Yes, my father and mother died because of a whore whose womb was ruined by heroin... I know it's hard for you to accept this news, but listen carefully, Myfick, I'm now going to join a group of anti-drug grassroots associations and join their cause. I can't hear anything related to these drugs now, and I don't want my brother and I, or our relatives, to become addicts."
……
Another bolt from the blue struck the paratrooper, who nearly fainted in the military camp.
"Why is it like this again..." There was rousing military music, majestic soldiers, and even IS-3 heavy tanks, which were rarely seen by the Western Allied soldiers present at the time. Only Garcia's sickbed was deathly silent—everything was too similar to VE-Day a few months ago.
But life goes on.
Before long, the entire US division would also be returning to the mainland for rest and reorganization, leaving Garcia with less and less time to wear his uniform. He couldn't wait to apply to his superiors to postpone his return home to the last batch, hoping to buy himself more time. Things were indeed improving in the direction he hoped for; he was having fewer and fewer cravings, and his reactions were getting milder.
Unfortunately, after Berlin was invaded by extraterrestrials at the end of October, all hopes of returning home were dashed.
……
"God must have entrusted his life to a juggling angel, tossing him up and down all the time." This was John's summary of the tragicomedy after hearing the story from Taylor.
"Honestly, I think it's going to kill me too." Taylor covered his face. "Damn, no wonder he's the brother of the whole American Normal School. He has the guts to strangle ten Hitlers."
When the two looked up, they found two Britannian soldiers staring intently at them in front of Garcia's ward.
"What's wrong?"
"Excuse our intrusion... but we just overheard a story from one of your comrades?" one of the privates asked cautiously. "My name is Green. We'd like to ask if we could exchange some history with you, since we'd like to hear about the great war in your world, and out of respect we'd like to call you Americans from your 45th District."
"Oh? Interesting." Taylor stood up smugly and patted the private on the shoulder. "I have a story to tell, you fucking have some wine?"
"I can have it."
“Alright, come in with me first.” He led John and the other two soldiers into the ward, watching Garcia silently gazing out the window, a glint in his eyes.
"You're alright, bro. Think positively, it's not a big deal. Look, last time it was 18 days, but this time it's been over a month, right?"
"Could you... buy me a rose?" The paratrooper stared blankly at the ceiling. "And could you write me a..."
"Okay, okay, we agree, we agree, but please wait until the doctor allows you to get out of bed before we talk about it, okay? Come on, do you want to sleep? I'll close the curtains for you."
“Forget it, it seems he doesn’t like dark nights,” Green stopped him. “Besides, if we’re talking about an even darker war in the dark, wouldn’t that make people sick before they even get to the battlefield?”
Just as they were about to start chatting, they suddenly heard a whooshing sound whistling past the windowpane.
"What the hell is that thing?" John squinted and looked over. It was something that looked like a fighter jet, but it looked very different from his Mustang and Hans' BF-109. It didn't have a cross-shaped fuselage at all. What flew through the sky were actually a group of things with swept-back wings. You could vaguely see two slanted vertical tails on their rear ends.
"Strange, aren't those our old fighter jets? They've been outclassed by the KMF in the skies for ages," the private muttered. "Why are they suddenly flying here? Are they heading to Sector 45 to die?"
"Damn it," Garcia thought anxiously, "Are our men, who are still at war, in trouble?"
Section 284, Chapter 213, Schönebeck, the Water and Fire Chessboard (Part 1)
The sun had just climbed above the horizon when the Elbe River had endured another cold night.
The Stars and Stripes flew all day, perched atop a pole in the distance, waving and welcoming the soldiers from the South.
Among the endless stream of soldiers heading to the city in vehicles, one jeep seemed particularly reckless—the soldier driving was in a panic, while Jonathan in the passenger seat, clutching a large bundle of white parachutes, swayed back and forth with the bumpy ride, glancing at the two people in the back.
Pat sat there, holding a water bottle, slowly feeding water to the guy next to him who was wearing a pilot's leather hat. The latter was so weak that Pat had to hold up the water bottle while also supporting the back of his swaying head to prevent him from choking.
It was really tough. When the sergeant and his team found the pilot, he had broken his leg and couldn't move. He hadn't eaten or drunk anything for two days and two nights. He was half-conscious and praying that not being discovered by the Britannian patrol was the only way to save him. The fact that the fighter jet didn't catch fire or explode after the forced landing also successfully masked his presence.
"Quick! Take him to a doctor!" The jeep stopped in town, and the sergeant called for a stretcher, instructing Pat and the driver to escort the pilot over.
"Phew, a life-or-death delivery, huh?" Captain Drucker saw it and greeted him from the side, "What's this bunch of umbrella flowers? A thank you for saving my life?"
“Warm.” Jonathan smiled mischievously—how could it not be warm? This pile of undyed stuff was made of silk. All the uniforms in their platoon combined weren’t as valuable as this big umbrella.
"That's awesome, buddy. Just think how many lives we've saved for the Flying Boys lately. Come on in, we have a guest here, let's have a chat."
……
Once inside, at the table in the center of the room, sat a guy with his arm in a sling, also dressed in a pilot's leather jacket, holding the PDA that the captain had played with earlier.
"Hi," the pilot greeted Jonathan first. "Sorry, the angel trees that God planted in heaven have been having a good harvest lately."
"Ha, of course, we farmers have to be able to catch it all with baskets too." The sergeant smiled contentedly, then paused, "By the way, guys, did you run into some trouble on top of the Nazi cemetery?"
"Well, how should I put it, it's a bit complicated." The pilot frowned. "I think you've all seen what it's like when we're fighting those dolls in the air. So, let me start from when they take off. You want to know why, despite our many sorties, the number of these dolls doesn't decrease? First of all, these bastards are like ground crawlers if you take off their wings, and like sparrows if you put them back on. They appear and disappear like wild rabbits, and what you found in the city before is evidence of that."
"And they take off without needing a runway. I remember my wingman telling me this last time; he saw a doll jump straight up from the ground right there in a small town, on a side street. So you're telling me, is it useful to spend all day carrying bombs to search for their airport? Yes, extremely useful, because we finally know where those bastards' military base is."
“Jesus, that’s a foul.” Jonathan’s head was spinning. “I thought only helicopters went straight up into the sky.”
"Do you know what that feels like?" The pilot smiled helplessly. "Yes, you're diving, you've got your target in sight, you're ready to drop the bomb, and suddenly a monkey jumps up from the ground and tries to shoot you. You either have to recover quickly or you crash into that bastard. It's like you take off your pants, squat down, and start to relieve yourself, only to have your poop and pee splash all over your butt. It's just that disgusting."
“Dude, I haven’t had breakfast yet,” Drucker said with a wry smile, looking at the pilot. “Can we skip this?”
"Sure, sure. Besides that, their huge bombers do need to take off via a large runway. We've been waiting for them to show up at their airport for ages... Oh, and there's something I can emphasize to you. I saw on the ground that time, those puppets didn't just launch directly into the sky. Sometimes they would stand on a track similar to a train railway. One end would be lower than the other, and then they would suddenly accelerate up the track like an air pump, just like a regular airplane."
"Strange, can't they just not need these space-consuming decorations?" the captain wondered.
"I don't know, but you guys should pay more attention to these things on the battlefield from now on. Anyway, your bosses all tell you to 'go all out' to collect new gadgets, right?" The pilot finished speaking, took a sip of water, and poked the PDA with his finger. "Hey Captain, I want to know what you've figured out about this over the past few days?"
“Alright, it’s finally my turn to give a lecture.” Drucker carefully lifted it up, screen facing upwards. “You might not believe it, but these aliens have put cameras, watches, notebooks, military maps, and walkie-talkies all into this thing.”
"I wipe..."
"It took me ages to figure this out... First of all, let me explain to you that this thing called PDA has three modes: offline mode, communication mode, and battlefield mode."
"What is this fancy stuff?" Jonathan said with disdain, wondering if the captain was exaggerating.
"Come on, come on, you don't believe me? Let me show you." Drucker skillfully turned on the screen, showed off the clock displayed digitally, and then tapped a few icons. "Look, I'm in offline mode now. The PDA has limited functions in this mode, but you can take a picture without submitting the film and save it to the device. Of course, recording a short movie is no problem either. Just hold this back and point it at the scene you want to capture."
"Let me try it out?" Jonathan fumbled around, snapped a picture of the pilot's face, and then had the captain scratch it a few times. "Holy crap, this thing is insane, isn't it? And Captain, did you take this picture and record this video a few days ago?... Captain, why are you opening your mouth so wide at the camera in this picture?"
"Alright, alright, let's move on to the next one." The captain snatched the PDA back. "It's not over yet. Here's a notebook. Write whatever you want here, even copy a whole book, but you can't use a pen, you have to use your hands. See these letters, numbers, and punctuation marks? Those of you who have worked as typists should be very familiar with them."
"Finally, there's this map. This map isn't in the PDA itself. I'll tell you how to get it later. Okay, now I'll turn on the signal and switch to communication mode."
……
In just a few seconds, the cross disappeared from the upper right corner of the PDA screen, and four taller bars appeared side by side.
“First of all, let me tell you, only when this serial number appears can you use it as a walkie-talkie.” As he spoke, the captain casually fiddled with it again, and suddenly the PDA emitted a noisy melody, “Hello Lieutenant Oleg? Is your machine still on? I can clearly hear your guys causing trouble again.”
"Shut up! You drama queen." Jonathan could hardly believe that PDA was arguing with the captain. "Do you want to go see who hit him?"
Then the two people next to him watched as a scene appeared on the PDA in the captain's hand, showing two soldiers surrounded by a group of people, followed by the lieutenant's sour face.
"I'm very dissatisfied with these aliens' products, why can't I also bring my spittle to your face!"
“Wait a moment, sir, I’ll send a lieutenant over right away.” But Drucker ignored him completely. “Let’s move on to the next part. You see, I’ve already established a connection with the lieutenant’s PDA. All I have to do is open the map on my phone, tap a few places, and I can send the coordinates to the lieutenant’s PDA, if our maps match. By the way, if you can’t speak or are unable to speak, you can also send text messages to others by typing. The key is that these functions aren’t limited to PDAs; they can also be used with the KMF’s control machines and their command center.”
“Well, you did say before that you used this to mark artillery targets for the battalion commander and the others, huh?” Jonathan chuckled, then suddenly seemed to remember something. “Oh, speaking of which, that signal repeater we were told to bring back before, was it for this thing?”