Cannon Fire Arc

Chapter 903: Chapter 24 Long Live Melania_2

His battalion no longer had a military chaplain; all were lost on the attack route.

Due to significant officer casualties, Filippov had no choice but to take up his old role and personally command the company.

Just as Filippov was racking his brains for strategy, the melody of a cello suddenly came from behind him.

He turned his head and saw an elderly man with white hair sitting amidst the ruins and corpses, playing the cello.

The cello was perfectly maintained, forming a stark contrast with the desolate surroundings.

A warrior said in broken Melanianese, “Old man, you still find it in you to play music at a time like this?”

The old man replied in fluent Antenese, “Wouldn’t it be even more bleak if there were no music for a farewell?”

Saying this, the old man drew out a mournful melody.

Filippov listened for a few seconds, then asked, “The Rainy Season of Casterly?”

“Isn’t it fitting?” the old man countered, “It’s raining in everyone’s heart right now, and not a soul to hear.”

Filippov nodded, reached into his pocket to pull out a harmonica, intending to accompany the wailing cello.

In that instant, someone held up a handheld radio (Federation-made) and shouted to Filippov, “Heard from the third and second battalion talking with the Special Envoy in succession! It should be our turn soon!”

Filippov put away the harmonica and ran over to take the radio, just in time to hear the conversation between Marshal Rocossov and Battalion Commander Makarov inside.

Marshal Rocossov: “What’s your situation?”

“The people are alright, but we’re out of ammunition. We’re gathering enemy ammo, but the enemy is pitifully poor too, General! I believe if you immediately supply us with 20 magazines and four grenades each, we can wipe out the enemy entirely!”

Marshal: “Can’t do that, standby and await supplies, over.”

While Filippov was concentrating on the radio conversation, Misha shouted loudly: “Alright, assemble, there might be a combat mission!”

“Combat? There’s no enemy nearby; the local civilians said they fled already!” said a sergeant.

Misha: “No more talking! Assemble! Eyes right—close ranks! Eyes forward—march!”

The old man playing the cello stopped: “Were you talking about the marshal? Which marshal?”

“Marshal Rocossov! We have several marshals here, but if a name isn’t mentioned and just marshal is said, it’s definitely Marshal Rocossov. It could also be Marshal Suvorov, but he’s been dead for over a hundred years!”

The old man looked skeptical: “Would Marshal Rocossov come to the frontline himself?”

“Certainly, he’s been commanding us from the plane. If the marshal orders ‘Mortar fire at coordinates 4-2-4,’ then we fire, and afterward, you can definitely find enemy bodies in the coordinate grid.”

“The marshal is the Star of Victory, a saint; he gets the enemy’s position from Saint Andrew, then guides us to eliminate them!”

The recently assembled soldiers chattered together.

Misha: “Enough! Assemble! Number off!”

The warriors counted off one by one, stopping at 75.

The entire battalion’s spearhead company was down to only 75 physically able warriors.

Misha: “76! Alright, the whole company is here. At ease!”

The warriors relaxed immediately, and one soldier told the old man: “I saw it with my own eyes; the marshal’s plane dropped a smoke screen to cover our advance. As we passed through the smoke, I saw it, the angel, with armor studded with the writings of Saint Andrew, and six silver nails on its head!”

Misha: “You’re at it again!”

“Really! The angel could hold a thread cutter in one hand and shoot, and hold a longsword in the other! He charged forward, cutting down all the enemies while firing!”

Misha: “The enemy was stunned by our explosives; enough of that, we’ve all heard the marshal’s engine sound.”

The Pe-3 engine roar came from the sky.

Everyone looked up, but the buildings on both sides of the street blocked the view, leaving only a strip of sky visible.

Suddenly, a red Pe-3 streaked through the gap.

“It’s the marshal! No, the Special Envoy!”

The soldiers cheered at the sky.

Filippov held the radio: “Special Envoy Davarish, I see you! Special Envoy Davarish, I see you!”

The radio responded, “What’s your battalion’s status?”

Filippov: “We’ve suffered heavy officer casualties; I can only personally command the spearhead company, but we’re still ready to fight! Special Envoy Davarish, order us, we can still advance!”

“Hold position, wait for supplies, no rush. Only thirty kilometers left; the Melanian Rebel Army can hold them off.”

Filippov glanced at the corpses lined up on the street, then at the elderly man playing the cello, hesitated for a few seconds before replying, “Yes, we guarantee to complete the mission.”

Marshal Rocossov: “I know what you’ve seen on the streets, and I understand your anger. But now, anger only leads to more casualties and serves the enemy’s interests alone.”

“Understood, we will wait for reinforcements and supplies. Over.”

After he finished speaking, he waited a few seconds to make sure the marshal started conversing with other units before handing the radio to the communications soldier.

Misha: “What did the marshal say?”

Filippov: “The marshal wants us to hold our position and wait for supplies and reinforcements.”

Misha: “We can still advance!”

“Follow orders,” Filippov replied.

“Yes.”

Misha began assigning tasks, preparing to hold the city.

Filippov took out his harmonica, walked over to the elder’s cello, and nodded in acknowledgment.

The old man plucked the strings again, stopping his performance just after hearing the soldiers talk about the marshal’s “miracle.”

The mournful melody once again echoed above the crumbling ruins.

A falcon soared high, flying in the direction of the Vistula River.