Cannon Fire Arc-Chapter 740 - 78 How Beautiful the Flower

Chapter 740: Chapter 78 How Beautiful the Flower

After the motorcycle rider had spoken, everyone turned to look at Wang Zhong.

Wang Zhong’s feelings were incredibly complex at the moment. Although he had not spent much time with his good brother Ivan and “old father” Duke Rocossov, after all, he was a transmigrator who had usurped another’s life.

Yet, the brief interactions had truly forged a bond, and two years had passed—this bond had not weakened despite their departure; it had only grown stronger.

Perhaps, now, the soul within this body contained not only Wang Zhong from another world but also a part of the real Aleksei Konstantinovich Rokossovsky.

Because of this, Wang Zhong felt a tumult of emotions inside, and it took all his strength to maintain a calm exterior.

Wang Zhong turned back and said to Nelly in the following jeep, “Nelly, find me two bunches of flowers—one dignified and composed, and the other a bit more flamboyant.”

...

“Understood, General. I’ll prepare the flowers and catch up with you,” Nelly responded as she hopped off the jeep and ran toward the roadside.

The Casalia Prairie in summer was never short of blooming flowers.

Wang Zhong looked again at the motorcycle rider. “Lead the way, let’s see how the Prosen Cemetery looks.”

“Yes, General.”

The motorcycle immediately turned around and sped back the way they had come, Wang Zhong’s driver flooring the pedal to follow.

About fifteen minutes later, the motorcycle stopped at a cemetery in the wilderness.

The reconnaissance platoon sent by Wang Zhong to find his close friends’ and father’s cemetery had already set up a perimeter, and several half-track vehicles occupied the corners of the cemetery’s wall.

The platoon leader and an old man stood at the entrance of the cemetery.

“General!” the platoon commander saluted. “The engineers assigned to our platoon have already checked the cemetery; there are no mines or booby traps.”

The old man spoke up just as he finished, “I care for this cemetery every day. If the Prosens had planted mines, I would know. But I told this officer here, and he wouldn’t believe me!”

Wang Zhong: “Old man, all members of my troop are comrades, no officers. I eat and live with my soldiers.”

This was no falsehood; Wang Zhong’s Ceres chef cooked in the headquarters’ mess every day, and the entire headquarters, including the attached Anti-Aircraft Artillery Battalion of the Guard Corps, could eat there—it all depended on who was quick enough to get food.

Wang Zhong always managed to eat because Nelly was always the first in line. Only in very special circumstances would the Ceres chef cook specially for Wang Zhong, such as when hosting commanders from various units heading to the front lines.

Moreover, when Nelly went to the mess, ordinary soldiers dared not compete with her.

If a new recruit was unwise, an old soldier would go over, cigarette in mouth, and tell the recruit stories of how Miss Nelly once killed two hundred Prosen soldiers with a dagger on a frozen beachhead.

Yes, now in everyone’s stories, the number of Prosen soldiers Nelly killed with a dagger was nearly as many as the tanks Wang Zhong had destroyed with his saber.

The old man was astounded, “But you are the King of Casalia, how can this be? Only those warriors with eminent merit should have the honor of sharing a table with you; it must be this way!”

Wang Zhong: “When the war is over, I will donate the crown and scepter to a museum. Times have changed; the era that no longer needs kings has arrived, old man.”

The old man seemed unable to comprehend all of this as he kept repeating the first syllable of “but.”

Wang Zhong: “Thank you for leading the way, and thank you for caring for this cemetery over the years.”

“Uh, it’s my duty,” the old man quickly bowed.

Wang Zhong walked past him toward the interior of the cemetery, faintly hearing the old man mumbling behind him: “No more king, days without a king…”

The voice gradually faded away.

At the center of the cemetery, atop a tall pedestal, lay a destroyed tank.

Wang Zhong immediately recalled that this was the tank featured in the Prosen newspaper headlines two years ago, which, according to the article, was the last tank Crown Prince Ivan Nikolayevich Antonov rode in.

Standing in front of the tank, Wang Zhong remembered the last time he saw Ivan before he left Argesukov to block the enemy forces at Orachi two years ago.

Ivan’s face in his memory was becoming blurred, but his words were still clear.

“Take care of Olga.”

Was that taking care of Olga?

Wang Zhong asked himself.

It should count—keeping her crown safe, preventing her from becoming a prisoner.

The question was about the future.

After the war, if Olga abdicated, as her brother, he would protect her, bring her to his estate, where she could tend to flowers, engage in some artistic pursuits, or become a memoirist recalling the life of the last Tsarina.

If Olga did not abdicate—then he would persuade her to, and then settle her at the estate where she could still enjoy flowers, artwork, or write about the last Tsarina.

In doing so, he would have fulfilled his old friend’s last request.

Wang Zhong stopped looking at the tank and walked around the marble pedestal to the spacious cemetery behind.

The entire cemetery had only two gravestones; the larger was carved with the double-headed eagle symbol of the Ante royal family, which must be Ivan’s grave.

Wang Zhong approached the gravestone, on which was written in Prosen and Ante script: Crown Prince Ivan Nikolayevich Antonov fell in battle here; though an enemy, his courage still compels our respect.

Sergeant Grigori whispered into Wang Zhong’s ear, “I’ll arrange for someone to remove the Prosen’s words—”

Wang Zhong raised his hand and gestured, “No, it’s fine this way. There’s nothing that can showcase Ivan’s bravery better than the enemy’s acknowledgment. We have to protect this monument and the tank behind it.”

Vasily stepped forward, “But, wouldn’t it be improper not to leave some mark of your own? After all, he was your close friend.”

Wang Zhong did not speak, instead, he paced to the second tombstone.

The epitaph written by the Prosens read: “The loyal old Duke, dressed in the uniform of an era gone by, sacrificed for a country soon to be history.”

Grigori said, “Shouldn’t this be changed?”

Wang Zhong shook his head, “No need, the Prosens didn’t specify which country was about to become history.”

Vasily added, “I’ve noted this down; it will definitely make the front page headlines in all the Yeburg newspapers tomorrow.”

Wang Zhong did not reply but stared at the tombstone.

In fact, compared to his good brother Ivan, the impression left by his “father” in this spacetime was far lighter, Wang Zhong couldn’t even remember the last words the old Duke had said to him.

But he vaguely remembered, just before leaving, the old Duke had invited him for a drink. By then, the old Duke must have realized, to some extent, that his “son” was no longer the original one.

Yet the old man had still embraced him like a father.

Now, Wang Zhong gazed at the tombstone, trying to remember the feeling of that embrace, the scent of tobacco he had smelled then.

Then Vasily’s voice broke his reverie.

“General? You’ve been silent for ten minutes now,” Vasily said.

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Wang Zhong replied, “I’m fine, just had a lot of thoughts all at once.”

Vasily said, “General, you came back in just two years, definitely fulfilling their expectations.”

Wang Zhong said, “I know.”

At that moment, footsteps approached, and Nelly, carrying flowers, walked past the tank memorial and into the cemetery.

Nelly said, “The flowers are gathered, this bunch is more dignified and majestic—”

Wang Zhong didn’t let her finish and took the bouquet, placing it in front of the old Duke’s tombstone.

Nelly said, “The other bunch, I made with Prosen medals collected from the battlefield and asterisks, it’s a bit more flashy.”

Wang Zhong took the “bouquet,” which made a “jingling” sound as he slightly shook it.

“He would like this.”

Saying so, Wang Zhong placed this odd “bouquet” in front of Ivan’s tombstone.

This scene reminded Wang Zhong of a Yugoslav movie he had loved as a child, “The Bridge,” whose theme song “Ah, My Friend, Goodbye” was adapted from the Italian guerrilla war song “Bella Ciao.”

He had learned to sing this song when he was very young.

Now he started humming it subconsciously.

Vasily raised an eyebrow, “Isn’t that the song the Commandos often sing? It seems they sing it in remembrance of fallen comrades and civilians sacrificed to cover them during their sabotage missions in the Apennines.”

Wang Zhong said, “Yes. The lyrics go something like this: ‘Guerrilla~ oh, take me away, I can no longer bear it.’”

Vasily pulled out a harmonica and started playing.

To the tune of the harmonica, Wang Zhong stepped forward and gently touched Ivan’s tombstone.

In his mind, a voice, echoing with the sound of the harmonica, sang, “If I fall in battle, you must bury me—”

The melody of the harmonica neared its end, and Wang Zhong, in a voice only he could hear, recited a line from the movie:

“Good luck, Ivan. Don’t be afraid, Ivan.”

As the harmonica’s melody came to a stop, Vasily asked, “Should I start from the beginning again?”

Wang Zhong shook his head, “No, no need. Where did that old gentleman go just now?”

“Here! General!” the old man stepped forward, “Any orders?”

Wang Zhong said, “I appoint you as the manager of the cemetery, and when the local Church is re-established, funds will be allocated to you to hire people to plant flowers all around, controlling the blooming periods to ensure flowers bloom all year round.”

“Alright, General, I might not be familiar with flowers, but I can let my grandson learn—I mean, if he can come back.”

Wang Zhong patted the old man’s shoulder, “I’ll leave it to you.”

The old man asked, “But, General, is that enough? Shouldn’t you also erect a monument or write something?”

Wang Zhong replied, “No need, they are all in my mind, as long as I live, I will remember them. I want you to plant flowers so that after the war, whenever people pass by, they’ll remark how beautiful the flowers are.”

With that, he strode away from the cemetery.

The flowers he left behind bloomed under the early summer sun.