roccoschili Chapter 100 I Have a French Relative
Chapter 100 I Have a French Relative
Chapter 100 I Have a French Relative
June 6, 1940, 19:15, France, north bank of the Somme River defense line, in front of the Abbeville Bridge.
The setting sun was visibly sinking below the horizon at a rate of 0.5 degrees per minute, turning the sky a dark red, similar to arterial blood. Visibility was changing from "good" to "tactical low light conditions."
Arthur sat inside the Sd.Kfz.251 half-track command vehicle.
He was looking at the picture, the one in his mind.
At the center of the map was his command vehicle. A striking green circle covered an area with a radius of 15 kilometers centered on him; that was the absolute God's-eye view granted to him by the system—the "fog of war clearing zone."
But the port of Le Havre is 40 kilometers away.
This means that 25 kilometers of the journey are shrouded in a dark, unknown fog.
Moreover, as darkness falls, the 15-kilometer distance will be further compressed.
"Sir, all units of the 51st Highland Division have completed preparations."
赖德少校的声音打断了亚瑟的思绪。他递过来一份火力配属表，兴奋得直手抖，因为上面的数据大得惊人：「福琼少将把家底都拿出来了。第77、第78、第79三个皇家野战炮兵团，总计72门QF25磅榴弹炮。还有两个反坦克团共计36门2磅炮。」
"They were just afraid to fire before, not that they didn't have guns."
Arthur glanced at the data and sneered. This was the foundation of a fully-equipped infantry division of the British Empire in 1940. Previously, they had been terrified by the German mobile warfare and regarded these artillery pieces as a burden. Now, these 72 cannons would become the battering rams to open up passages.
"Bring McTavish here."
A moment later, the Cold Creek Guard veteran, who reeked of tobacco and exuded a murderous aura, stood by the vehicle, wiping his bayonet.
"Sergeant."
Arthur pointed to the dark, unknown area on the map, tracing an arc with his finger: "It'll be completely dark soon. Before our convoy's headlights turn on, this darkness might hold hundreds of Rommel's cannons, or it might hold nothing at all."
"I need you to be the eyes of all of us."
Arthur suddenly lowered his voice, like an old charlatan starting to con people: "Take a platoon. Don't use those cumbersome armored vehicles, they'll make too much noise."
"Take only a few captured BMW R75 motorcycles. Turn off the engines and push them across the bridge."
Arthur looked at McTavish with a stern gaze: "I don't want Rommel to hear any internal combustion engine sounds on the bridge."
"After pushing the car two kilometers past the bridgehead, until we rounded the windbreak forest and confirmed that we were out of the hearing range of the German sentries, we started the engine again."
"Then advance at full speed, moving forward to a position 5 to 10 kilometers ahead of the main force."
Sergeant McTavish stopped wiping his knife, a glint of shrewdness flashing in the veteran's eyes: "Sir, if we find the Germans' crotch—I mean, their anti-tank gun positions or machine gun emplacements—should we report the coordinates via radio? Or just blow them up?"
"No need."
Arthur shook his head and began his "wartime rhetoric" in a serious tone: "Radio silence. Don't alert them. As for taking them down—your few guns aren't even enough to fill a single tooth of Rommel's mechanized company."
Arthur took a red and blue pencil out of his map pouch, handed it to McTavish, and pointed to the map bag on his chest: "Mark them on the map."
"Where are the Pak 36 anti-tank guns, where are the searchlights, where are the roadblocks? Circle even a German wolfhound in red."
"As long as your people are there, as long as your eyes see—"
Arthur pointed to the 72 25-pound howitzers behind him, their muzzles already raised, and a meaningful sneer curled at the corner of his mouth: "—My shells have eyes."
This is, of course, a lie. Arthur doesn't need McTavish to draw maps at all. He only needs McTavish's men to enter the fog of war area as "friendly units," and the RTS system will automatically illuminate the surrounding area.
But for McTavish, this was a logical and weighty order. The sergeant took the pencil, tucked it behind his ear, grinned, and then turned to assemble the team: "Pushing two kilometers for forty kilometers of life, this is a good deal. Just you wait and see."
Arthur's voice then rang out behind the veteran: "I don't care how many German infantrymen there are. I just need the locations of the anti-tank guns. Pak36 (37mm), find them, mark the coordinates, and then lie down."
"Leave the rest to the artillery."
"Yes, sir. We'll give you the color of those Germans' underwear."
19:45, Sterling battle group temporary command vehicle—Sd.Kfz.251/3 communications vehicle.
A large-scale military map was spread out on the radio's heat dissipation grille.
Three heads peered at the top of the map: Colonel Arthur Sterling, Major General Victor Fortune, and Major Ryder.
The situation on the map was suffocating. Although they had temporarily steadied themselves on the riverbank, everyone knew this was the calm before the storm.
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"A direct assault is the worst strategy."
Arthur looked at the map and the lonely bridge: "We can't possibly race Rommel across the plains with 16,000 infantry and a few hundred poorly armored trucks. That would be suicide."
"Although Rommel's 7th Panzer Division took a groin kick from me on the south bank, he still had a better hand than us. He had more than 100 tanks of various types, as well as two regiments of motorized infantry."
Arthur tapped the dotted line on the western side of the map with his pen: "If I were him, I would let your vanguard go and then launch a surprise attack halfway. He only needs two armored companies to cut our five-kilometer-long convoy into sections and then devour them one by one."
Major General Fortune's face was very grim.
As a seasoned, old-school soldier, he could see the accuracy of Arthur's deductions and was convinced that the guy was at least not a mediocre talent.
"Then what do we do?" the major general asked Arthur. "Hold on? By daybreak, the Stuka will have blown us to pieces."
"Movement is necessary. But before moving your right hand—"
Arthur looked up: "We need to wave our left hand first."
"Mobilize him. Make him believe that the British do not want to retreat to the coast, but are trying to break out to the east and join up with the French 10th Army in the direction of Amiens."
Arthur turned around, his gaze fixed on Major Ryder standing to the side: "Ryder, is the decoy convoy ready?"
Major Ryder's body visibly stiffened for a moment.
He glanced at the map.
On RTS, that area is a black zone representing a troop vacuum—the most fatal weakness on the 7th Armored Division's flank.
The defense density there is almost zero.
But this was by no means an oversight by Rommel; on the contrary, it was based on the absolute rationality of a genius commander.
He was convinced that Le Havre was the only place for the 51st Heights Division, whether to secure supplies from the British Isles or to seek a sea evacuation. Although the garrison there couldn't even muster a battalion, it still flew the British flag.
As for why he didn't send people to occupy that place?
Arthur guessed that in his timeline, occupying territory was a menial task for the infantry divisions that followed behind, not worth wasting precious fuel on.
Rommel had a big appetite; his primary goal was to completely crush the remnants of the Allied forces, led by the 51st Hill Division, here, so that his Führer could rack up a impressive number of enemy casualties.
Then, as the empire's star, he would lead the first armored force to storm Paris, rolling the tracks onto the Champs-Élysées.
But this greed for glory is his fatal flaw.
But precisely because of this—if at this moment a convoy were to madly plunge headlong into the East, into a direction he could never have imagined.
It would instantly transform into a massive, high-powered magnet. Driven by an instinctive fear of flank security and a greedy desire to annihilate the 51st Hill Division, it would draw Rommel's attention—and all the tanks in his possession.
Even if it doesn't, it can still greatly distract Rommel and throw the enemy's formation into disarray.
That's when the opportunity came for the 51st Highland Division.
This requires bait, or to use a more brutal military term: a disposable item.
Ryder's face appeared ashen under the dim light, a physiological reaction that humans have when facing death.
But he did not hesitate at all.
"Ready, sir."
Ryder's voice didn't tremble at all, but it was lower and more serious than usual. There was no nonsense, no cynicism: "15 empty Bedford trucks, 5 half-tracks. All drivers are in position."
"They were all surviving veterans from the Norfolk Regiment. These guys had tied tree branches, brooms, and rags soaked in engine oil to the back of the truck."
At this point, Ryder took a deep breath, as if to expel the pent-up blood in his chest: "Sir, I'll lead this mission."
Arthur raised an eyebrow: "Have you thought this through? This looks like a one-way ticket."
"I'm not stupid, sir. I know this is suicide."
Ryder looked up, his fear replaced by an almost frantic determination: "But this is better than dying like headless flies in the mud. In Calais, in Kassel, we were herded around like livestock by the Germans. In Leparadis, those bastards from the Skeleton Division drove us into the barn and machine-gunned us—"
Ryder's fingers gripped the gun strap tightly, his voice growing increasingly agitated: "You saved the lives of these dozens of men. If someone had to feed Rommel, that wolf, the main force could have escaped—"
"Then count me in."
"At least this time, I died knowing why. I died a glorious death as bait, not slaughtered like a pig."
A brief silence fell over the carriage. Major General Fortune removed his hat, looking at the young major with a complex expression. This was what a British Imperial officer should look like, not some good-for-nothing who only knew how to ask for afternoon tea.
"die?"
Arthur smiled, but it wasn't a sarcastic smile.
He reached out and patted Ryder's stiff shoulder, then used the pencil to draw an extremely strange zigzag line on the eastern side of the map.
"Who told you to die, Ryder?"
Arthur's tone suddenly became serious, and Ryder instinctively perked up his ears: "Listen, Ryder. Get rid of those 'heroic sacrifice' thoughts in your head. I want you back alive."
"I not only want you to create a stir, I also want you to take these twenty vehicles and take Rommel's tank group for a spin."
Arthur's finger traced the zigzag line as he spoke rapidly: "After breaking through the lines, drive east along Highway D925 at full speed for 4.5 kilometers. Remember, 4.5 kilometers, not a meter more. Otherwise, I'll only see you when we exchange prisoners of war with the Germans."
"There you'll see an abandoned windmill. To the right of the mill, there's a gravel path hidden by bushes."
Ryder was stunned.
"That's a trail used by loggers; it's not marked on the map. But vehicles can drive on it."
Arthur continued, his gaze fixed on a point in the void, as if he could see every pothole on the road there: "Turn in. Turn off the headlights. Drive southeast for 12 minutes. You'll pass through a birch forest."
"After passing through the woods, there was a dry riverbed. It was the only hard surface in the area, capable of supporting the weight of a half-track vehicle without raising dust."
"The German tanks will definitely chase you along the main road. But you'll have already disappeared at 4.5 kilometers."
"If you go north along the riverbed in a big circle, you'll end up behind the German lines. Then, at coordinates E-17, there's a dilapidated stone bridge that can only accommodate trucks, not tanks."
"Cross the bridge, then head west. We'll meet at the entrance to the port of Le Havre."
After Arthur finished speaking, he threw the red and blue pencils on the table with a soft "thud".
Ryder was stunned.
He stared wide-eyed at the escape route on the map, drawn out of thin air by Arthur, which seemed like a thread through a needle.
This is way too detailed. It's so detailed it doesn't sound like a tactical simulation; it sounds more like a local tour guide showing off their backyard.
"4.5 kilometers — Windmill — Dry Riverbed —"
Ryder muttered to himself. He looked at Arthur, unsure of what to say.
This is France, a foreign land, and it's nighttime.
How could Arthur possibly know there was a logging road that half-track vehicles could travel on? How could he possibly know that the riverbed was dry?
His first reaction was that Arthur was lying to him, a fabricated lie to appease him about going to his death.
But he immediately dismissed the idea. There was no need. Arthur could simply give the order directly, or use grand principles like "for the king" to pressure him. He didn't need to fabricate such easily exposed details.
Moreover—his past experience told him that no matter how outrageous what this man said was, it was often right in the end.
"Sir... sir?"
Ryder swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing, and finally couldn't help but ask the question he wanted to ask: "How—how did you know? That's a road that's not even on the map."
Arthur straightened the collar of his black SS leather overcoat, and seeing Ryder's horrified expression, a mysterious smile crept onto his lips.
He certainly couldn't say that this was the result of the RTS system's full-view map plus terrain analysis.
"Oh, that one."
Arthur shrugged and said half-jokingly, "I have a distant relative who's French. When I was a kid, I used to come around here a lot during summer vacation to catch frogs."
"You know, our French relatives always live in these godforsaken places."
That reason is utterly ridiculous.
But in such a tense, almost explosive moment, who cares?
Ryder paused for a few seconds, then shook his head with a wry smile. He knew it was nonsense, but he chose to believe the promise behind it.
"Understood, sir."
Ryder gave Arthur a crisp military salute, the death wish gone from his eyes: "The path to catch frogs. I'll remember every turn."
"Go."
Arthur waved his hand: "Don't be late. I won't wait for you."
At 19:55, the operation began.
Ryder rushed out of the command vehicle.
A few minutes later, his confirmation signal came over the radio.
Arthur immediately picked up the microphone leading to the 77th Royal Field Artillery Regiment.
If we're going to put on a show, we need to make it convincing. We need to make Rommel believe that the British have gone to great lengths to break through.
"I am Colonel Sterling."
Arthur's voice was icy, transmitted through the electrical current to every gun position: "Target: Due East, coordinates sector C-12 to D-15. Amiens Highway Junction."
"Precise aim isn't necessary. What I need is momentum. I want the Germans to think there's at least one reinforced regiment attacking there."
"77th Regiment, five rounds of rapid fire."
"Use all the smoke grenades and high-explosive grenades."
"Fire!"
As soon as the command was given, the earth trembled instantly.
Boom—Boom—Boom—
The night sky along the Bétine River was instantly ignited.
Twenty-four QF 25-pound howitzers roared simultaneously. Muzzle brakes spewed out meters-long orange-red flames, and the powerful recoil caused the heavy gun barrels to bounce violently back into the mud.
The shrieking sound of shells tearing through the air blended together, like a horde of death screaming.
Seconds later, on the Eastern Highway several kilometers away, the explosions connected to form a fiery dragon.
The high-explosive bomb shattered the asphalt on the road, and the white phosphorus smoke released by the smoke bomb spread rapidly in the night, forming a white smoke wall tens of meters high.
If you don't look closely, anyone would think that this is the main force of the British army preparing for full-scale firepower, trying to break through the defenses.
"Now! Let's go!"
Major Ryder sat in the lead half-track vehicle and stepped on the gas.
Om-!
The engines of 15 trucks and 5 half-tracks roared at the same time.
The branches, brooms, and oil-soaked rags trailing behind the vehicle rubbed wildly against the dry dirt road.
A huge cloud of dust instantly rose into the air.
Against the backdrop of darkness and artillery fire, the billowing smoke looked as if hundreds of tanks were charging at full speed.
"For Norfolk!"
Ryder roared and led the suicide squad in the direction that was destined to surprise Rommel.
Behind them, the main force of the retreat, under Arthur's command, silently turned off their headlights and headed towards the desolate coastal highway to the west.
Immediately afterwards, the decoy convoy roared to life, kicking up clouds of dust, and charged madly toward Amiens—the direction of the French defense line.
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