Chapter 359: Chapter 29 Return Journey_3
However, the smoke also hindered visibility, leaving the people inside the vehicle stack unable to see each other clearly.
Winters sat with Sergei, Vashka, and Pierre next to a warm flame, as old Sergei was setting Gerard’s broken nose.
“Uncle, look at this, he hit way too hard. If it weren’t for Winters, I would have been beaten to death,” Pierre still harbored grudges about the daytime incident, complaining, “I’m still bleeding from my nose!”
While holding Pierre’s head in one hand and his nose in the other, Sergei said indifferently, “Enough with the complaints about your dad. Just bear with it and don’t move at all.”
Pierre nodded slightly.
“I’m going to count to three and then straighten it out,” old Sergei smacked his lips. He only got to “one” when he forcefully pinched Pierre’s nose.
Pierre screamed in pain, falling backward, tears streaming down from the agony.
It took a long while for him to recover, then he complained, “You only counted to one!”
“Isn’t it just fine?” old Sergei inspected it again, then clapped his hands, “There, you’re not disfigured. Don’t rub or touch it for half a month, and you’ll still be a handsome young man.”
Having given his medical advice, Sergei yawned and sat back by the fire. He poured a bit of hot soup from the iron kettle on the fire and sipped it in small mouthfuls.
Pierre gingerly touched his nose a few times and happily said, “It really doesn’t hurt as much as before.”
“Mr. Morozov, you’re quite skilled at this,” Winters had observed the whole process and expressed his rare admiration to old Dusack.
Sergei twirled his silver-grey braid and chuckled, “Nothing much, every old soldier knows how to do it.”
The flickering flames reflected the mood of everyone present.
Pierre, still resentful, said, “Just watch, when I get back I’ll tell my mom, and she’ll definitely take my side!”
“Listen, lad, save your father some worry,” old Dusack said rather displeased to young Dusack, “Your dad used his fists all the way through. If he had pulled his punches with you, could he still command respect? Ask the lieutenant if that’s not true.”
“That’s true,” Winters nodded.
Sergei earnestly said, “Think about it, who are you? You are the son of Mayor Mitchell. What you do, others will follow. If you laze around and sleep on the wagon, would other Dusans feel content? Could they resist copying you? I’ve escorted wagons with your dad so many times and never saw such a thing. As soon as you’re there, Dusans dare to slack off. Don’t you understand what this is about? That’s what made your dad angry.”
Winters nodded in approval at the side.
But Pierre, rendered speechless by the argument, still defended himself stubbornly, “But he did hit too hard.”
“He certainly did hit too hard,” Vashka, who had not spoken until now, said with a bit of schadenfreude.
Vashka had slept in the large wagon behind Pierre’s, so he had luckily avoided a beating.
Sergei’s expression darkened, and he flung the hot soup from his bowl at his son, “You shameless brat, you still dare to talk? Consider yourself lucky I didn’t beat you.”
Vashka yelped as the hot soup scalded him and retorted, “If I’m a brat, then you’re a dog!”
Old Sergei, fuming with anger, grabbed a flaming stick and was about to strike.
Winters quickly restrained old Dusack, “Mr. Morozov, it’s not worth getting upset over a kid.”
Sergei sat cross-legged by the fire, puffing with anger and without any appetite for dinner.
“This is my first time seeing Mr. Mitchell get angry; it gave me quite the scare,” Winters strained to lighten the mood, “Has Mr. Mitchell ever been this angry before?”
Old Dusack snorted and, glaring at Vashka, said, “Nothing strange about that. The leader was just like that when he was younger; he could rage so fiercely it was a matter of life and death. On the contrary, it’s after he married that woman who isn’t a Dusan that his temper changed completely from what it was.”
“Mrs. Mitchell isn’t a Dusan?” Winters asked knowingly, always curious about the mysterious Mrs. Mitchell.
“No,” Sergei stood up, supporting himself with his hands and spat into the fire, “I need to take a piss.”
Before leaving, old Dusack couldn’t resist kicking his son.
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By a fire on the eastern side of the vehicle stack, Gerard sat alone, smoking a sullen cigarette.
“Commander, you sure have a lot of space here, one fire all to yourself,” Sergei said with a smile, squeezing next to his old comrade after returning from relieving himself outside the camp.
“Is that lad okay?” Gerard’s eyes were fixed on the bonfire.
“What could possibly be wrong?” old Sergei wrapped himself in a blanket, the temperature difference on the plateau was extreme at dawn and dusk, “Didn’t we fight much fiercer than them when we were young? The night you broke my two molars with a punch, we still went out to box with the Dusans from the neighboring village.”
Gerard Mitchell sighed, “We have gotten old.”
“Aren’t the young ones growing up too?” Sergei yawned.
“No, it’s not the same, they are not like us,” old Dusack said sorrowfully to the other old Dusack, “These youngsters may have Dusan skins, but they don’t have Dusan bones.”