Canteen System Assistance Notes

"I suggest that we invite Prince Morimasa Ashimoto to preside over a ceremony at every shrine in the country to quickly curse the violent Chinese!" Okay! Find someone to curse the violent Chinese communist army to death!

Furthermore, we must rectify the national spirit and unify the people's will! During the Russo-Japanese War, fishermen who spotted Russian warships rowed their boats for over ten hours to alert the Imperial Army and secure victory. The people today have truly lost this spirit!"

Yes! We must correct our spirits!

Soon, this proposal was unanimously agreed upon by everyone, and a plan was quickly formed:

Next, Japan will paint American, British, and Chinese Communist Party government flags on many crossroads in the country and let thousands of people trample on them;

Once again, the Imperial State will gather the portraits of Zhu and Mao on wanted posters, along with those of enemy leaders like Roosevelt, Churchill, and Chiang Kai-shek, and make them into straw figures, which will be placed at street corners and schools. Bamboo spears will be placed next to them, and anyone passing by will be required to pick up the bamboo spear, shout, and stab the enemy.

Finally, numerous shrines will choose an auspicious day to perform a curse ritual, determined to transform the nation's loyalty and righteousness into a supreme sword, forcing the rebellious forces to face a mountain of swords and a sea of ​​fire, never to rise again!

Chapter 574: You Have to Eat (1) Spaghetti in Porto Braga

Oases dot the vast expanse of North Africa's desert, and rutted roads serve as links between these coastal oases, towns, and terrain—this is a common pattern on the North African battlefield. One day in January 1942, somewhere east of Port Brega, a cloud of dust rolled in from west to east, adding a touch of variety to the monotonous desert landscape.

"Hey Freund, guten Morgen!" (Hey friends, good morning!)

"Ciao amico!" (Hello, man!)

Looking at the parked tanks and the gray figures jumping out of them, Chef Garofalo waved at them and said half-jokingly and half-complainingly: "You guys made quite a noise! ​​Not only did you bring five mouths to feed, but you also added fresh sand to my meat sauce."

"I hope your teeth don't fall out!"

This was an Axis supply point, run by Italians. A small group of about two dozen men—20 soldiers, three cooks, and a couple of lazy repair engineers—staffed a pile of wooden crates, two oil tanks, and several erected anti-aircraft machine guns. Their "guests" were a strange-looking Panzer III G tank and its five German crew members.

Perhaps it was attracted by the camp where there were more cooks than repairmen, or perhaps it was early in the morning for dinner, in any case, the lonely Type 3 tank moving on the road stopped here.

"We are the 110th Crew of the 8th Armored Regiment of the 10th Armored Division of Germany, and we are on our way back to the front... So, please cheer up my lovely wife first, and then feed our lovely bellies." "The documents are fine. But why does your car look so weird? Why are there so many garden fences outside?"

"Based on my experience on the Eastern Front, this is what happened. These little gadgets can save your life at critical moments..."

The tank commander, Kilian, who had prominent brow bones, spoke briefly in German with the person in charge of the supply station and presented several documents and passes.

After confirming that everything was correct, the driver jumped back into the car and drove the No. 3 car aside.

I went to the bottom of the slope to refuel.

"Lovely wife? That's such an ambiguous name. I hope your wife won't get jealous."

"She won't be jealous. I just spent time with her in France." Kilian turned around with a little surprise and looked at the cook Garofalo who was opening a can. "Hey, man, your German is really good." "After all, I have cooked for so many people, Italians, French, and you Germans."

Garofalo said proudly. He aligned the can opener's clips, locked them in place, and turned the knob, neatly slicing the tinplate can open, revealing its ambiguous, suspiciously colored contents. "If you're not in a rush, you can stay for breakfast."

"Wait a minute, buddy, I want to ask, what is this can you opened?"

Even the most skilled cooks on the battlefield often couldn't cook delicious meals. Even the incredibly skilled chef A Bie couldn't create a large, white steamed bun with meat if he lacked the necessary ingredients. Even Italy, a nation that boasts the world's premier cuisine, must adhere to the objective laws of physics: a skilled cook cannot cook without rice.

"Did you know? Did you know? Just a few days ago, a rumbling force, more than a dozen tanks, probably an armored company? They passed right by us." Garofalo clenched his fingers, his expression exaggerated. "Not only did they basically drain the oil depot, they also devoured most of our supplies. And now you're here again."

"I heard they sent us two batches of supply trucks, but only one-fifth arrived. I heard that of the remaining four-fifths, one-fifth was destroyed by British planes, one-fifth was misplaced, and the remaining one-fifth was reassigned to tow the other one-fifth of broken-down trucks."

“What about the other fifth?”

"Who knows? Maybe he was eaten by a shark lying in ambush on the roadside and completed his mission ahead of time. In short..."

He spread his hands and exaggeratedly used a large spoon to crush the canned meat on the chopping board into a paste. "Man, this is all I can use to make meat sauce." "But don't complain, things have been much better recently. Look, there's something in the pot at least."

The large, deep cooking pot showed an unusual gray-red color. The driver, Killian, fanned it with his hand and sniffed the air, only to detect the scent of onions and tomatoes. He turned to look at the Italians who were helping, either packing cans of "delicious red tomatoes" or chopping onions with tears in their eyes.

What the head chef, Mr. Garofalo, held in his hand was a can of corned beef, the military ration issued to Italian soldiers—"Mussolini's butt."

Today's Italian breakfast," he pointed to a bunch of armor-piercing bullets standing in a large basket nearby, "is toasted baguettes with tomato-flavored Mussolini—be careful with your teeth, but don't be disgusted."

Forehead.....

As they spoke, the G-Type 3, which had been driven away, had finished refueling and was rumbling towards them. The driver turned off the car and parked it to the side.

"Garofalo? Garofalo, right? Buddy, I have a suggestion. Do you have any water?"

The tank commander, Kilian, heard the unpleasantness in the other's words. He blinked, and without waiting for a reply, he walked towards his own vehicle. He skillfully grasped the grille armor, climbed aboard, and pulled a cloth bag from the storage box on the turret.

"Here, brother, I'll use this to pay for today's entertainment."

"What's this?" Chef Garofalo took the cloth bag, a bit puzzled by the sheer size. Then, after carelessly opening it, he was stunned by the cardboard box inside. It featured a adorable panda wearing classic farmer's overalls, cradling a sheaf of wheat. The rest of the box was labeled with information about the contents, net weight, and the British Royal emblem.

"Pasta!"

The chef exclaimed in surprise, then opened it to examine it. With the discerning eye of an Italian regarding pasta, he rubbed his fingers together, his face dancing with joy, as if he were performing a stage play.

The noodles were long, straight, and not damp, but a little too orange. Oh, my goodness, they must have dried the pasta in an oven to speed things up, rather than letting it air dry naturally—the British have a way of making good things weird—and, to be more precise, these were 'Spaghetti,' long pasta!"

"But it's nice to see some lovely pasta here... Dear friend, did you bring this from Europe?" he asked happily. "Thank you, Garofalo, for your generosity!"

"It was taken from the British."

Tank Commander Kilian pointed to the six white rings on his tank's gun barrel and said, "Before returning to France for vacation, we retreated all the way. Our commander wasn't willing to let us go that way, so one night he turned around and attacked the British. We caught them completely off guard! In that battle, my tank destroyed two of their Crusaders and one Bren tank, putting the British down in one fell swoop."

"We found these when we were dealing with that British squad. They were cooking over a fire! We ate everything before the pot even started boiling." "Caspita! It was a wonderful night, but why do the British eat this?"

"Maybe they want a change of pace? I've seen a similar panda logo on their cans before. The Panda Factory might be one of their contractors, specializing in food production," Kilian thought nostalgically. "But no matter how delicious canned food is, it can't compare to fresh, hot food... Let me tell you, when we were on vacation in France, we all had a great meal. There were fresh fish, shrimp, and snails at the port! Delicious!"

"That's because you haven't been to Italy, or you haven't met me before!"

Garofalo was a little dismissive of the praise for French cuisine, and he also boasted: "A few months ago, when we were still attacking, we found a British supply warehouse in Egypt! Mamma mia, we opened the warehouse door and it was full of things! There were all kinds of canned goods and vegetables, and beef in wooden barrels - this one was not tasty at all - we even found a refrigerator filled with ice-cold beer! Wow, drinking a bottle of beer on a hot day..."

"Great! Isn't it? Speaking of wine... I brought two bottles of champagne from France..."

"Oh, oh! This is wonderful. I will immediately go find those two lazy guys and ask them to take good care of 'your wife'..."

Chef Garofalo's face lit up, revealing the unique enthusiasm of a drunkard. He called in the kitchen staff, fetched some water, and cooked noodles. Then, happily wiping his hands, he approached the supply point manager and spoke to him. The manager's eyes lit up, and his gaze towards the five Germans gradually grew friendlier...

However, at this moment, a shrill whistle sounded from the sentry post east of the supply point. "East! East! There's an armored vehicle! Pink!

"Oh no! Ah! That's... that's the British Rolls-Royce! Coming towards us!

"Shit! How come they're so close... They're firing!"

Ten minutes later, the small logistics point was engulfed in flames.

The sandbagged anti-aircraft machine gun lay tilted to one side. The oil tanks on the platform billowed black smoke and flames. The hatch of the "Beautiful Wife" M3 tank was open, with flames blazing out. On the ground, a group of Italians, several Germans, a British man, and a New Zealander lay sprawled.

"Smith! What are you doing?" The LRDG captain, who was pouring gasoline on the wooden boxes of supplies and preparing to set them on fire with incendiary bombs, noticed that his soldiers had "unauthorized" left their posts and ran towards the corner of the station.

The young man put the AR1 submachine gun back on his back and ran while pulling two German helmets that he had found in the supply box.

"Captain Bond! Coming right up!"

"Follow orders, Smith! The gasoline smoke column can be seen ten kilometers away. The enemy troops will be surrounding us soon. Move! Move!"

"I understand, I understand!" The young man Smith stopped suddenly, looked at the bubbling meat sauce in the bucket and the noodles tumbling in the boiling water, and thought for two seconds. He quickly threw away his helmet and poured the meat sauce into the pot of noodles. He also took two champagne bottles that looked like cannonballs from the table and inserted them into the empty grenade bag one on the left and one on the right.

Then, he wrapped his hands with his scarf, picked up the cauldron filled with the mysterious mixture, and ran back like a duck. "Captain Bond! I drove all night and didn't even have a bite of bread!

"I must take this pot of noodles away!"

Chapter 575: You Have to Eat (2) Rostov's Chef

Noodles, derived from wheat, are an important staple food in the world. They are high in energy, durable in storage, and have high yields. They can be made into a variety of pasta to feed humans, the "hairless apes."

Therefore, in the civil war where naked apes attack and kill each other, pasta plays an important role. Italians eat pasta, Germans eat bread, Chinese eat steamed buns and noodles, and Russians also eat bread - if the situation allows, it is best to have some "Gourmet"

"Lahi," sour cream, pickled lard, and if there were a cup of hot tea from the samovar, ah, that would be communism.

Although this condition is often not met on the battlefield, as a cook, Comrade Alexander Viktorov is determined to provide the best meals for his comrades and do his best to make everyone eat better.

After all, what does the saying go: Good food is worth half a political commissar!

Like the beginning of many Soviet stories, the 296th Infantry Division of the Ninth Army where Alexander Viktorov was stationed had neither the title of Guards nor any famous unit.

Like the "Brigade", it was just a newly mobilized unit that was very common in the Soviet Union at that time, and was only slightly better than the unit that would be called the "Filling Line Division".

As a cook sergeant, after arriving in Rostov on the Black Sea, Comrade Alexander did not need to go to the front line. As a standard rear unit, all he needed to do was to continuously output in the safe camp.

Buckwheat rice, pickled vegetables, and beef stew provided energy for the soldiers who were fighting the German minced meat on the front line.

Of course, if the logistics are sufficient.

Otherwise, Comrade Alexander would have had to cook potatoes boiled in salt water.

Fortunately, the Germans' movements on the southern front had recently slowed down—I heard their main forces had been transferred further north, so supplies were still plentiful. After the unit settled in, he, now a cook, set out the pots, pans, and tea cart, chopped wood, started a fire, and boiled water, and began the busy work of preparing meals—and it wasn't even time for dinner yet.

If someone is not familiar with him, they may wonder why he would light a fire and cook before mealtime. But if a soldier eats under his rice spoon, he will definitely say

"Oh, this must be Comrade Alexander preparing his magic sauce!"

Every cook worth his salt has a few secrets of his own, and Comrade Alexander Viktorov has one too.

He had supported Xinjiang Province in China and had come into contact with a master from Liaoning Province who had come to Xinjiang Province after traveling around the border areas. The master, who was also a cook, was a few years younger than him.

, but he is a good cook and is a genius who can make poor ingredients taste good.

In just a few months, Alexander Viktorov did not put on airs and often went to see that person with gifts. He had learned some tricks that seemed strange but were indeed useful.

"Pasha, Maxim, pull your carts over to the regimental headquarters. They're baking bread. Line up there, and when it's ready, bring all the bread for the entire battalion."

It was getting dark, and making a fire to cook at this time, as long as the flames weren't too obvious, wouldn't attract artillery fire. Alexander built the fire in the strange Rostov wind, and while he boiled water, he grabbed the axe for chopping wood. He turned the axe head, pounded it on a chopping board, and practiced again.

"Here, Dad—let's go!"

After several months of working together, the young men had become quite familiar with his instructions. Seeing this, Maxim, who was pulling a two-wheeled cart, handed them a package from the various seasonings unloaded from the cart, then pulled the two-wheeled cart unhooked from his horse out of the camp.

The regiment headquarters isn't far from here, and they'll probably be back soon, Alexander thought. He took a piece of the seasoning from the package—polycrystalline rock sugar—wrapped it tightly in a cloth, and then smashed it into pieces with the blunt end of an axe.

Sugar, what a precious thing... He put the rock sugar into the water to melt it, not even leaving out the residue on the cloth, and finally licked his fingers. As the water in the pot boiled, Alexander first poured the hot water into the teapot to brew tea, and then poured the water with melted rock sugar and a little oil added into the empty pot.

He used a damp cloth to keep the water warm, then began stirring the syrup in the pot, occasionally removing it from the heat, deftly controlling the temperature. Soon, the white syrup in the pot began to bubble and emit a sweet aroma.

The flames flickered in the lantern's light, and the aroma was like warm snowflakes in early spring, swirling and dancing, landing on the back of the tongue and causing the mouth to unconsciously secrete a large amount of saliva. Then, the bubbles gradually disappeared, and the syrup began to change color under the action of the heat, evolving into a beautiful amber color - it smelled like dry red pine crackling in a fireplace.

Finally, Alexander ignored the whistling wind around him, chose the right moment to add the previously prepared boiling water into the pot and heated it for a while: Ding Dong! A pot of high-quality, bright red sugar color was successfully formed in Alexander's hands.

Ah, this thing is really hard to make every time.

However, this magical "Chinese syrup" can be used for at least one month after it is made. It can be used to color stews, make braised dishes, and stew meats. It can even be poured directly on multi-grain rice and used as a dip for bread. This is also an important reason why many of his dishes are so popular.

Alexander poured the hot sugar coloring into a glass jar and sealed it. Elsewhere, the long-cooked scallion and potato stew, Tusanka, and the unheated pickled cucumbers were already ready. Once the two boys brought the bread back, dinner would be ready, and the comrades who had been out on reconnaissance missions would be able to enjoy a hot meal when they returned.

He wiped his hands with a cloth, tasted the two dishes, and after confirming that no more seasoning was needed, he switched the stove from being blazing to simmering.

Alexander held down his hat and walked in the wind of Rostov.

He took a step and ran to the toilet in the camp.

Oh, I can’t leave because of the sugar color, but everyone has to be quick!

But within five minutes of this back-and-forth, Comrade Alexander Viktorov discovered something that infuriated him. Three unruly, unruly individuals had sneaked into the camp, where he was the only one left. They had actually opened the warming pot of stew and were scooping food from it with spoons!

"Hey! Hey, hey! You little brat! Dinner isn't served yet!"

Alexander was furious. Which squad was this reckless guy from? Why was he eating directly from the pot? And even stealing food from it?

?But, the next second, as he roared, one of the three raised his head, and was illuminated by the light of the lantern - a logo M35 helmet, a typical defense gray military collar, and a red, drunk face with a confused expression.

"what?"

"Ah? Ah!"

Germans? Germans!

Damn! How did they get here? There are two barbed wire fences and a minefield in front of me, as well as a circle of visible and invisible sentries and visible and invisible firing points!

These rapidly exploding thoughts only lasted less than half a second in Alexander Viktorov's brain. He wanted to question, to reprimand, but his body, witnessing this scene, sprang into action even before his thoughts—the German, the only one who looked up at him, was drawing his pistol!

"BLYAT!"

Alexander felt a surge of electricity through his body, his senses sharp as if they were piercing his skull. He ducked sideways and snatched up an axe from the ground, the kind used for chopping wood and cracking rock candy. Feeling the secure grip of the wooden handle, Alexander leaned forward, raised his head, and, like a shot, hurled the axe at the Nazi.

"ALA..….

The German didn't raise his pistol and hadn't finished shouting when the nearly two-kilogram chopping axe came spinning towards him with unstoppable force. With a click, it sounded like a bone-chopping knife hitting his ribs. He immediately vomited blood and fell to the ground. With twitching fingers, he pulled the trigger and fired a shot into the sky.

boom!

“Roar, ah, ah—!”

Alexander took off running, snatching up a candy-colored glass bottle from the stovetop and hurling it at another helmeted Nazi. Even though it had been boiled in hot water, the candy still at 80 or 90 degrees Celsius exploded along with the glass bottle on the man's helmet, knocking him to the ground like a fragmentation grenade.

The German soldier covered his face and screamed in agony. Alexander, with his nearly 90-kilogram body like a brown bear, pounced on the last German who was still munching on a pickle. The German wasn't wearing a helmet and wasn't nearly as muscular, so Alexander pounced on him, knocking him to the ground. Then, with his fist, the size of a chef's casserole pot, he struck the German's head hard, knocking the cucumber out of his mouth.

In close combat, the one with the heavier weight wins!

Alexander Viktorov roared, and single-handedly subdued the more formally dressed German soldier. The other soldier's resistance was mild, but Alexander pressed down on him like a horse, pulling hard at his belt with his hands, intending to tie him up.