Tim Turner, 24 years old, is a typical German. He is serious, rigorous, confident and brave. This is a very excellent character in the eyes of many people. However, everything has two sides. Too serious is often lacking in flexibility. Too rigorous can easily become self-confidence. Blindly confident may make wrong decisions. Blindly pursuing courage and glory is no different from a reckless man.

Everyone has shortcomings. The key is not the size and amount of shortcomings, but whether they can correctly view their shortcomings and correct them. While floating to the ground under a parachute, Tim Turner did not close his eyes and pray, but reflected on his mistakes. If he did not pursue the results too much, he would not ignore the threat from the rear, nor would he maintain a stable flight posture for several seconds. Such a simple truth was known in the first tactical class of joining the Royal German Air Force.

After these four years of experience, he thought he had matured and had all the qualities of becoming an ace pilot, but in fact he was still far from it. His colleagues often said that the pilot sitting in the cockpit of a fighter was a proud eagle. Once he jumped out of the cabin with a parachute on his back, his destiny was completely in the hands of God. Turner did not agree with this. But when he saw four British cavalry riding horses and no trace of a coalition soldier within a radius of 1,000 meters, he suddenly felt unprecedented frustration.

Just a Ruger pistol can fight against these British cavalry?

Although the hope of getting out smoothly was very slim, Turner did not intend to surrender. He kept taking deep breaths, deducing in his mind that the situation after landing was to break free from the constraints of the parachute as quickly as possible to resist on the spot, or to wrap himself in the parachute and paralyze the other party to wait for an opportunity to attack?

When speculating on these, Turner did not consider whether the British cavalry would kill him due to the casualties of his companions. This was obviously another mistake made by one-line thinking, and it was a very fatal mistake. Fortunately, God favored the German pilot: the Irish scout crawling among the sea buckthorn bushes took decisive action, killing two British cavalry, forcing the remaining two to retreat in panic.

The danger was temporarily lifted, Turner relaxed his mouth, but when he landed on the ground, he stepped on a pile of loose sand, and a heartache suddenly came from his ankle. The unlucky guy groaned, endured the pain and untied the parachute bag as fast as possible, pulled out the delicate and small Ruger 08 from the gun holster, and alerted the surroundings in a kneeling and squatting position.

After a while, a whistle came from the sea buckthorn bush. Turner caught a glance of a guy lying there waving at him, and hurriedly used his cat to go over. After crawling down, he glanced at the other party's uniform and armband, and asked in broken Irish Gaelic language: "Irish Army?"

While looking ahead vigilantly, the scout replied quickly: "The 373rd Infantry Battalion of the Royal Irish Army, Private Roll Eduardo, is performing a battlefield reconnaissance mission."

Although it was not the time to speak, Turner still expressed his gratitude seriously and was about to shake hands with the other party, but the Irish scouts suddenly pressed their heads and faced against the ground, gnawing on the sand with their mouths. Before he could react, a rapid roar broke through the air, followed by a thunderous thunder, and the air instantly filled with the pungent breath of gunpowder.

"Retreat, retreat!"

The Irish scout grabbed Turner's sleeve and signaled him to move backwards. But before they could leave the sea buckthorn bush, shells fell one after another. Not only that, a cluster of sea buckthorns in front of him instantly rose up in a series of dust. It was the scene of machine gun shooting!

Turner heard the Irish scout beside him muttering something vaguely. He didn't ask much, but just followed the other party back little by little. The terrain here is wide and the terrain is flat, but there is no undulating at all. Some sea buckthorns grow on small hills slightly higher than the ground, and some are rooted in low-lying positions. The sea buckthorn they had previously hid was more than ten centimeters higher than the surrounding ground, barely providing some protection for the crawlers. However, the killing of the shells is in a divergent form, and the mechanical shells can penetrate the loose mounds. If the range is roughly bounded by the enemy, it is probably a little bit of a bad thing to stay here.

In a blink of an eye, the artillery fire from the British position became extremely fierce. In order to avenge the two cavalry, the British army used four or five field artillery and at least two machine artillery, and the coalition bombing was not over yet, which made people wonder about their tactical thinking.

Not far from the sea buckthorn bush, there was a naturally formed puddle, which was similar to the size of a crater hit by a heavy shell. There was rain at the bottom deep in the knees and the edges were loose and muddy. Seeing the Irish scout slipping into the puddle without hesitation, Turner followed closely behind, his shoes and pants were immediately soaked in water, but this did not make him feel uncomfortable, but instead felt relieved.

The British artillery fire was still sweeping the area repeatedly, looking for gaps in the explosion. Turner asked the Irish scout beside him: "Will the British send cavalry again?"

The answer is simple: "Who knows?"

"We've been hiding here?"

"At least wait for the shelling to end."

As the Irish scouts finished speaking, the surroundings suddenly became quiet. Fighters were fighting in the air, bombs exploded in the distance, and the British anti-aircraft firepower kept roaring, and these sounds became clear again. Then, a roar that was completely different from the passing of shells or bombs came, and the ground was trembling, followed by violent explosions.

Turner looked at it and said, "Ha, it's our Junker bomber! Those British guys must have been stunned by the bombing!"

The Irish scout did not respond, but lay obliquely on the edge of the puddle, took out the telescope from the telescope box on his chest, and silently observed the direction of the British position. The German dive bomber had already flew away, and several cigarette pillars appeared behind the British position. This time the bombing should be those British field artillery soldiers who were ignorant of their lives, but they had no way to judge their losses.

Someone was on the alert, Turner turned over and lay on his back and tried to move his ankle: "Well, respected Mr. Eduardo, there is one thing I should tell you... I sprained my right foot while skydiving and could only barely walk. Do you understand? My foot was injured."

Turner's words are German mixed with Irish. The two languages ​​belong to different languages, and the differences in pronunciation and grammar are quite large. However, thanks to close military and economic cooperation, many Irish people know more about German. The German officers and soldiers stationed in Ireland are arranged to learn Irish to ensure that they can communicate with friendly forces on the battlefield.

The Irish scout should have understood the meaning, and he replied in half-interpreted German: "We're waiting here."

When Turner took out the cigarette box from his pocket, shook out two cigarettes, and handed one of them to the Irish scout, the other party glanced fiercely. He suddenly remembered his situation, smiled awkwardly, put away the cigarette and cigarette box, took out a piece of chocolate wrapped in tin foil, and split it with half for the other party.

"You came out to reconnaissance alone?"

Seeing that there was no abnormal movement on the British position, the Irish scout also relaxed a little. He put the chocolate into his mouth without hesitation and said while chewing: "No, we are in a group of four people. Two of us went back to report the situation, and one person went to pick up the pilot who jumped like you."

Turner nodded: "Our troops landed on the north shore of the Coen Peninsula should be launching an attack soon!"

"I heard that the British team has invested hundreds of thousands of troops here. Our troops landing in Abersohh almost lost their final defensive positions last night. Although our landing forces continue to increase, the British must have increased their troops faster than us. I always feel that the situation here is not very good." The Irish scout turned his head and looked at the slightly embarrassed but not panicked German pilot beside him. "If nothing unexpected happens, you will be sent back to the rear soon. Be careful when you come again next time."

The two people in the puddle said one by one, and more than an hour passed without realizing it. During this period, coalition fighter jets attacked wave after wave like waves, with a large number of bombers and a larger number of fighters covering bombers. Overall, the damage rate of British fighter jets was slightly superior, but such a war of attrition was not what they were happy to see. The further they went, the weaker the momentum of British fighter jets that took off to fight, which also meant that the coalition aviation forces were gradually gaining control of the battlefield air supremacy in the northern part of the Cohen Peninsula.

Hearing the long-lost motorcycle roar, the calm face of the Irish scout Eduardo finally showed a hint of joy. He looked back and saw the familiar figure and whistled. Then he saw a strong young man wearing windproof glasses slipping over like a wild cat, and a sideways slipped into the puddle. The guy saw a German pilot staying in the puddle, and asked his partner quips:

"Huh, is this your guest?"

"Yes, RAF second lieutenant Tim Turner, uh... I forgot to ask, are you a fighter pilot or a bomber pilot?"

"Fighter pilot," Turner replied, then shook hands with the visitor kindly: "It is an honor to be a guest of Mr. Eduardo."

Later, the scout introduced himself in German with a standard pronunciation: "I am Hank Purcell, Private, 373rd Infantry Battalion of the Royal Ireland Army. My aunt married a Hannover merchant. I would go to my aunt's house for some days almost every summer. I was very familiar with the Germans there. What impressed me most was that they always looked at things in a straightforward manner and did not allow any negligence."

Turner laughed: "What a coincidence, I am a Hanover native, and I am also a person who is very strict and cannot tolerate negligence, but today I committed a fatal negligence and was beaten by the British."

Of course this is not a place for chatting. The Second Class told his partner: "When I went to pick up the parachuting pilot just now, I met Lieutenant Sester. He said that the troops would launch an attack at 11 o'clock, and the fleet would launch artillery bombardment on the British defense line at 10:40. The battalion headquarters sent a radio-equipped 'sentinel' to take over the front-line reconnaissance, and our reconnaissance mission can be ended early."

The handsome face of the Irish Private's first class was covered with a lot of mud. He looked at the German pilot: "Mr. Lieutenant doesn't mind squeezing a motorcycle with us, right?"

"Of course not." Turner said with a smile, "As long as you can get back to the back as soon as possible, smoke a cigarette and drink a cup of hot coffee, it doesn't matter how much you squeeze in the car."
Chapter completed!