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Yegorov was never absent from a charge.

The enemy had already suffered heavy losses in the town’s meat grinder combat, and with all their armored strength wiped out in a short time by a sneak attack from Tank 422, even the battle-hardened Prussian veterans’ morale collapsed instantly.

On the contrary, the morale of every soldier in the Amur Group went through the roof as they witnessed Tank 422’s remarkable feat to different extents.

This was evident from the deafening cheers of “Hurrah.”

Yegorov loved personally leading a charge in such situations.

The enemy was quickly driven out of the village.

Aside from a few veterans who hadn’t had their fill of killing and were pulling the bolt at the edge of town for target practice, the rest of the soldiers all gathered around Tank 422, shouting “Hurrah!” around the tank.

The roaring “Hurrah,” as if His Majesty the Emperor himself had arrived at the front lines.

Yegorov had to use his burly physique to push through several overly excited soldiers and spent a few minutes squeezing past them to reach the side of the tank.

It was then that he clearly saw that it was Count Rocossov sitting on the tank.

The count looked in a very bad state, his face was ashen, and he was sweating profusely.

The soldiers hadn’t noticed the count’s abnormality at all, which was not their fault; since the war began, they had been in constant retreat, and they had not won a battle in a long time—even such an insignificant local victory.

While everyone was celebrating the victory with great excitement, suddenly, the count swayed and fell off the tank but was immediately held up by countless hands.

The soldiers shouted excitedly, throwing the count up into the air—they actually thought the count was celebrating!

Yegorov shouted at the top of his lungs, “Cut it out! You’ll shake the count to death! He has a high fever! Cut it out!”

At this time, inside Tank 422, the tank operators were not as excited as the infantry outside.

It’s not that they weren’t happy about the victory; it was just that they had literally danced with death and hadn’t recovered yet.

The count was feverish with ringing ears and couldn’t hear. In fact, there had been all sorts of wails and howls inside the tank, and none of these tank operators had any actual combat experience. They really couldn’t bear the kind of life-risking and blood-licking tactics just now, and could only relieve their fear by shouting.

Now, the battle was over, and like exhausted screamers, everyone slumped in their seats.

Finally, the driver reacted first, letting out a feeble howl, “Oh oh oh oh! We’re alive! Hurrah!”

The loader and the gunner looked at each other and shouted together, “Hurrah!”

They had just started shouting when the count fell out of the tank.

The closest gunner reached out to catch him but missed.

“It’s over!”

“The count’s been smashed!”

“Our star of victory!”

A bunch of them scrambled, opening the hatch and climbing out of the tank, only to see the soldiers tossing the count almost as high as the second floor.

Yegorov picked up a submachine gun and swept a barrage into the sky; the festive crowd finally quieted down.

Yegorov said, “The count has a high fever! Do you want to kill him? Get a stretcher, take him to the hospital!”

The field hospital was originally supposed to withdraw in the villagers’ horse carts, but the enemy arrived too quickly, and they had time to set out.

The soldiers, awakened as if from a dream, hurriedly placed the count on the stretcher, brought in haste, and then followed to the hospital with the stretcher-bearers.

Yegorov climbed on the tank and cursed, “Where are you going? The enemy has only been driven back, not defeated! Quick, clear the battlefield, collect the enemy’s weapons, especially the machine guns and submachine guns!

“Go check the tanks that haven’t caught fire to see if their machine guns can be dismantled! And the ammunition, gather as much as possible!”

Only then did the soldiers disperse.

Yegorov turned his head and looked at the tank operators with a doleful expression.

The gunner asked, “What should we do?”

Yegorov said, “Why was the Count commanding you?”

The gunner replied, “Our tank commander was very scared. He locked the hatch and cowered in the turret shaking when we were in the distillery yard. Then the Count came over and knocked on the turret hatch, saying…”

“With a gun knocking on the turret hatch,” the loader corrected.

The gunner continued, “Right, came over with a gun to knock on the turret hatch, and said ‘You spineless coward, get out here’.”

The driver confidently said, “No, he said ‘You whimpering woman, get out here, or I’ll blast you’.”

The gunner questioned, “Is that so?”

“Yes, that fierce,” the driver nodded, then looked to the mechanic, “Don’t believe me, ask him.”

The mechanic also nodded, “Indeed, that fierce.”

The gunner went on, “Anyway, we were directly commanded by the Count. The Count had us drive straight out of the village; he had it all figured out, which round to load for each shot, crystal clear.”

“Yes, crystal clear.”

The gunner continued, “We had just left the village when we saw an enemy half-track, possibly an ambulance, and we sent the vehicle and the Prussian wounded sky-high with one shot!”

The mechanic chimed in, “The Count was even singing, saying goodbye to the enemy’s mother!”

“No, no, no,” the driver shook his head, “You’ve got to consider the context, you uneducated guy, didn’t you go to night school? The Count was saying farewell to his own mother, as he was about to go into battle.”

Yegorov was utterly confused, “The Count calling for his mother? Singing? What the heck?”

Then several tank operators responded in unison, “He was singing! And it was a song we hadn’t heard before!”

The gunner added, “The lyrics were not only about saying goodbye to his mother but also to his hometown, saying the star of victory would shine upon us!”

The others firmly agreed:

“Right, the star of victory, I heard it very clearly.”

“It went something like this, let me find the tune, do-re-mi-fa-so… Got it, ‘Farewell, my dear hometown~ the star of victory will shine upon us~’”

After the driver sang, everyone else immediately nodded in agreement that it was indeed the song.

Yegorov frowned, looking at the group of tank operators.

At that moment, Monk Yeca Neiko came over, “Colonel Yegorov, we need a new firing position. I think that the peripheral positions won’t be usable when the enemy attacks again.”

Just as Yegorov was about to reply, he saw Ludmila from Yeca Neiko’s Divine Arrow squad looking around uncertainly.

“The Count has fainted, he’s been taken to the hospital,” Yegorov informed her.

Ludmila was startled, “Eh? I—I wasn’t looking for him! Umm, I actually was looking for him. Monk, could I…”

Yeca Neiko said, “Go ahead, but make sure you’re back before the enemy attacks again.”

Ludmila immediately turned and ran toward the hospital.

After she left, Yeca Neiko continued the previous topic, “I need a new launch position. We still have three Divine Arrows; with a good setup, we can take out three tanks.”

He paused, then gave a self-deprecating smile, “Damn, that’s still not as many as the Count alone took out.”

The gunner from Tank 422 spoke up loudly, “We were a part of it too, your Holiness!”

Yeca Neiko quickly corrected himself, “Right, it was your crew under the Count’s command that took out more.”

Yegorov then said, “I’ll ask the group logistics to see if they can find some paint, so we can mark your kill rings.”

Kill rings are circular symbols painted on the barrel of the tank gun; one ring represents the destruction of one enemy tank.

The crew looked at each other and smiled.

It was then that Yegorov asked, “How are the other crews doing?”

The expressions on their faces froze.

Only then did they emerge from their joy of victory, realizing that many of their comrades, with whom they’d spent days and nights, had perished in the recent battle.