roccoschili Chapter 86 Hi! Sterling!
Chapter 86 Hi! Sterling!
Chapter 86 Hi! Sterling! (Long Chapter)
June 5, 1940, 22:35, southeast corner of Saint-Roque railway marshalling yard, northwest of Amiens, France.
Two German sentries were huddled in rubber ponchos, smoking against a pile of sleepers soaked in Creosu oil, muttering complaints about the damned weather and the interrupted railway ahead.
"I heard the advance at the front is going very well; General Clyde's tanks are almost at the Seine." One of the sentries threw his burnt-out cigarette butt into a puddle at his feet, making a soft "sizzle" sound.
"Yeah, but we still have to stay here guarding this pile of metal, and we can't even get a hot coffee—"
The other sentry's words were cut short.
There were no gunshots.
There was only a very faint "slicing" sound, like a sharp blade cutting through flesh, and a muffled thud as a person fell into the muddy water.
In the darkness, several dark figures emerged like ghosts from the rain.
Sergeant McTavish slowly straightened up from behind the convulsing German sentry. His rough, large hands were surprisingly steady. He didn't even glance at the corpse at his feet, but simply wiped the blood from the broad-bladed fighting knife in his hand on the dead German's raincoat.
That was the technique he used to bleed stags in the Scottish Highlands; cutting the trachea and carotid artery took only 0.5 seconds.
He raised his head, his face, blackened by charred cork and gun oil, expressionless except for the whites of his eyes, which coldly stared at the German positions in the rainy night.
He raised his left hand towards the darkness behind him, his fingers together, and made an extremely short slashing motion forward.
"Forward. Silence and Purification."
This is the fighting style of the Cold Creek Guards assault team led by McTavish.
There were no Hollywood-style gunfights, no heroic shouts, only cold, efficient, and silent killings.
For the next twenty minutes, it was a silent nightmare for the more than one hundred German soldiers stationed at the marshalling yard.
At the same time, one kilometer outside the marshalling yard, inside the Sd.Kfz.251 command vehicle.
The carriage was pitch black, with only the eerie glow of the low-light red lamp on the tactical platform. The air was filled with the acrid smell of burning vacuum tubes and a faint scent of tobacco.
Arthur sat at the communications station, wearing German-made binoculars, his arms crossed over his chest, his grey-blue eyes fixed on a single point in the void in front of him.
To outsiders—such as Major Ryder and Captain Henry sitting next to him—Arthur simply closed his eyes to rest or listened to the noise on the radio.
But on Arthur's retina, the deep blue RTS holographic interface was displaying every detail of the battlefield with godlike clarity.
The darkness brought by the rainy night was stripped away from his vision, replaced by clear terrain outlines and points of light representing enemy and friendly units.
Although the heavy rain and darkness greatly reduced the coverage of RTS, compressing the original 15-kilometer "God's-eye view" to less than 2 kilometers.
In areas without a line of sight, the system cannot automatically mark enemies.
But Arthur wasn't worried. Because he had the best human radar.
In that gray fog, thirty exceptionally bright blue dots were spreading out in a fan shape—that was the 1st Assault Platoon, personally led by Sergeant McTavish.
These thirty elite veterans from Scotland were, at this moment, Arthur's extended visual nerves.
As they silently advanced through the mud, the fog on the RTS interface was dispelled in real time.
Like a dark room swept by searchlights, the red dots (German troops) that were originally hidden in the blind spots of the barracks, the entrance to the warehouse, and the shadows of the signal tower were exposed one by one on the holographic map as the blue dots approached.
Each flashing red dot represents a Scottish scout locking onto a target with their eyes.
One hundred and twenty red dots, nowhere to hide.
This is the ultimate form of asymmetric warfare—not simply firepower suppression, but one-way, transparent information crushing.
Arthur didn't need a map, because the battlefield was already in his mind. He didn't need to guess where the enemy was, because the enemy was right under his nose.
"Henry, switch to the 1st Assault Team channel." Arthur's voice was calm and indifferent, without any fluctuation.
"Yes, sir."
Arthur pressed the microphone to his throat, and his voice, transmitted via encrypted radio waves, pierced through the rain and reached the ears of the frontline commander.
"McTavish, stop advancing."
front.
McTavish, who was about to lead his men toward the warehouse door, suddenly stopped. His mud-covered military boot hung in mid-air, just inches away from the open space that was completely exposed.
With just one gesture, the row of Scottish soldiers behind him instantly froze in the shadows like statues.
McTavish remained in that comical one-legged pose, looking up at the dark night sky with a bewildered expression.
It's a ghost story.
Although he had long known that his "young master" possessed a kind of beast-like battlefield instinct—he had witnessed it firsthand during the breakout in Azhebrook, when he blindly fired a shot that killed Hans upstairs.
But the situation is completely different now.
He knew that Arthur was sitting in an armored vehicle a kilometer away, separated by torrential rain and a building weighing hundreds of tons. How could he possibly know that Arthur was about to step inside?
It was as if an invisible pair of eyes were pressed against his forehead, able to even count the number of water droplets on his eyelashes. This feeling of being watched from all angles made him feel both absurd and chilled to the bone.
Before he could finish his internal monologue, Arthur's infuriatingly calm voice came through his earphones again.
The sound came through the heavy WirelessSet No. 18, a personal radio that was more precious than gold in the British Expeditionary Force at that moment, carried on McTavysh's back.
This recently deployed portable radio weighs nearly 30 pounds (about 13.61 kg) and is equipped with an advanced throat microphone and binaural earpieces.
In standard organization, this is usually a high-end item that only company-level or even battalion-level command posts can afford; it's used to communicate with artillery in the rear.
But now, Arthur has hung this "luxury item" on the back of a sergeant covered in mud, just so he can whisper in his ear whether to go left or right.
Accompanied by the crackling of electricity, the voice pierced the rain: "To your left, at eleven o'clock, behind that coal pile. Two sentries. They're in your blind spot."
McTavish instinctively pressed the microphone around his neck, squinted, and stared intently in that direction through the rain.
It was pitch black there, with only a pile of rubble and coal dust. A normal reconnaissance mission would never have discovered anyone hiding there.
There wasn't even a trace of smoke in the air.
Is it true? Did the young master get drunk with that bastard Ryder in the command vehicle?
Although McTavish had his doubts, his trust in Arthur transcended logic—it was a conditioned reflex earned at the cost of his life.
He didn't speak, but instead gave a series of hand signals to Corporal Ross behind him: Two targets. Eleven o'clock. Flank behind. Sneak in.
Ross nodded, and like a cat, he led the two men away into the darkness.
Thirty seconds of deathly silence.
Suddenly, two very faint muffled thuds came from behind the pile of coal slag, like heavy sacks falling into the mud.
Immediately afterwards, Ross peeked out from the darkness, gave McTavish a strange look, and waved to indicate that it was safe.
McTavish crouched down and reached over.
When he saw the location of the two German corpses, a chill instantly shot from his tailbone to the top of his head, making the hairs on his body stand on end.
The two Germans were lying under a dented tarpaulin, which explained why they couldn't be seen.
But the most deadly thing was that a loaded MG34 machine gun was mounted in front of them.
The gun was pointed directly at the warehouse door—the very spot where McTavish had just been about to step inside. The muzzle was at waist height.
If it weren't for Arthur's timely shout to stop—
McTavish wiped his face, unable to tell if his hands were wet with rain or cold sweat.
If that were the case, he would now be a shattered piece of Scottish haggis.
"This is fucking...this is a ghost!"
McTavish looked at the night sky, swallowed hard, and the last bit of doubt in his heart completely vanished, replaced by a kind of awe tinged with superstition.
At that moment, Arthur's voice came through the earpiece again, still in that calm tone, as if he were merely reminding him to polish his shoes: "Clear confirmation. Proceed, Sergeant. Next time, remember to knock before entering."
"Understood, young master."
McTavish took a deep breath and gripped the dagger in his hand.
"Target: Cell tower."
22: 45.
This is not just a battle, it is a delicate surgical operation.
Arthur sat in the command vehicle, like a master puppeteer, manipulating every single thread.
The RTS interface shows a five-man German patrol, armed with flashlights, patrolling westward along the railway tracks, about to collide with Jeanne's group, which is responsible for flanking the enemy.
Jeanne led French scouts from the 12th Division, whose close-combat skills were inferior to those of the Scots, and who were armed with several heavy Thompson submachine guns.
These expensive American goods were rare items during the Great Escape, but their disadvantages were just as obvious as their advantages—
Known as the "Chicago Typewriter," once it opened fire, the ferocious gunshots were enough to wake up half of France.
"Jeanne," Arthur switched channels, "if you keep walking in a straight line, in ten seconds you'll be face-to-face with a German patrol."
A very faint breathing sound came from the other end of the radio.
"Take your men to the right and enter the maintenance workshop numbered B-4. Let the Germans pass." Arthur's order was concise and precise. "Hand over that patrol to Team Three."
"Received, Lighthouse."
At the same time, Arthur's fingers swept across the air, locking onto the Coldstream Guard veterans who were lying in ambush on the other side.
"Sergeant Douglas. The prey is moving towards you. Five men. Forty meters away. Don't use your gun. Use your bowstring or bayonet."
"At this distance, I don't want to hear any sound exceeding 60 decibels."
Sergeant Douglas was lying prone under the chassis of a flatbed wagon, rain dripping from the brim of his helmet. Upon hearing the order, he silently drew his bayonet and pointed to the several pairs of German leather boots that were about to pass by, gesturing to the three soldiers beside him.
The instant the German patrolmen passed by the carriage, several pairs of black hands suddenly reached out from under the carriage and grabbed their ankles.
There was no chance to struggle.
They were violently dragged under the car. Then came a chilling sound of bones cracking and short, suffocating gasps.
On the RTS interface, the five red dots went out instantly.
Major Ryder, sitting next to Arthur, felt as if he were in the midst of a psychic ritual, where Arthur was invoking God, and God was responding to his call.
The dim red tactical lights inside the carriage cast shadows on Arthur's expressionless profile, making him look like a cold marble statue.
Ryder couldn't see the front lines. He could only hear the monotonous sound of raindrops hitting the roof of the car and the eerie loop of conversation in his earpiece: Arthur pointing out targets he couldn't see at all, and a few seconds later, Captain Henry reporting that the targets had been cleared.
Every command was accurate to the meter, and every warning was accurate to the second.
Cold sweat trickled down Ryder's spine, soaking his rancid officer's uniform. He stared intently at the young nobleman before him, afraid of missing a single detail.
"My God—"
Ryder muttered to himself, his fingers unconsciously tightening their grip on the map bag on his knee: "This isn't infantry command at all. Is this guy—reading lines from a script? Does he have X-ray vision?"
He felt a physical fear.
This young British nobleman looked more fearsome than the legendary Gestapo.
22:55, St. Roch marshalling yard, core area, German barracks.
This was a temporary encampment converted from the station waiting room. About eighty German soldiers were sleeping inside. The two MG34 machine guns at the entrance were still mounted, but the gunners were long gone, lying motionless on the sandbags.
McTavish, with three thousand Scottish soldiers soaking wet and covered in mud, silently surrounded the building.
-
Arthur's order, transmitted via radio, directly sealed the fate of these German soldiers: "No prisoners needed."
"We have no food to feed these hundred mouths, and no trucks to transport them. If we let one go, Stuka will find us tomorrow morning."
"Let's do it."
McTavish nodded. He wasn't bloodthirsty, but that's war. Either these eighty Germans died, or Sterling's four thousand men died.
No matter how you calculate it, there is only one solution to this problem.
He waved.
Scottish soldiers, armed with daggers and heavy entrenching tools, surged into the waiting room like a black tide.
The next five minutes were hell for those inside and suffocating silence for those outside.
There were no gunshots.
Only dull thuds echoed, like a butcher chopping meat on a chopping board. Occasionally, a short, sharp scream would escape, but it was quickly swallowed back down. Chaotic, swaying figures were reflected in the window, but silence soon returned.
When McTavish walked out the door again, his entrenching tool was still dripping with a sticky liquid.
"The Lighthouse, this is the Butcher."
McTavish's voice carried an unusual weariness and a hint of emptiness after venting: "The area has been cleared. The marshalling yard is now ours."
"very good."
Arthur took off his headphones and let out a long breath. On the RTS interface, all the red dots had disappeared.
Major Ryder.
Arthur turned to look at his dazed adjutant: "Notify the entire convoy. Turn off the lights and drive. Pull over to the station immediately."
"Tell the soldiers who are still complaining about how difficult the road is that their Christmas presents have arrived early."
23:15, freight platform at Saint-Roque station.
Dozens of flashlights and emergency lights were carefully turned on, their beams crisscrossing in the rainy night, illuminating the massive train that sat quietly on the tracks.
These are three standard German military heavy-haul trains, each pulled by two BR-52 steam locomotives. Dozens of flatbed carriages and boxcars stretch out in an endless line, like a sleeping steel dragon.
When the soldiers responsible for inspecting the supplies cut open the thick waterproof tarpaulins covering the flatbed wagons, a collective gasp rippled through the crowd.
"My God—"
A tank crewman from the 1st Army Armored Regiment reached out with trembling hands and touched the cold, steel behemoth in front of him.
It was a brand new Panzer IV D model.
Although that short, stubby 75mm KwK37L/24 gun looked like a severed chimney—
Or perhaps some kind of comical "cigar head"—but for those accustomed to driving Matildas and only having that "2" in their hands...
For British tank crewmen who were 40mm thick, this was a godsend.
This meant they finally had the high-explosive shells they had always dreamed of, and no longer needed to be idiots and use solid armor-piercing shells to poke German infantry foxholes.
But what truly drove them mad with envy was the interior of the turret:
The Carl Zeiss precision optical sight is so clear it's as if glass doesn't exist, and the most crucial element—the FuG5 vehicle radio.
It's not just for command vehicles; it's standard equipment on every vehicle.
This represents a completely different concept of warfare: while the British were still trying to direct their tanks across the battlefield with hand flags and shouts, the Germans had already linked every tank into a deadly unit using radio waves.
Although during the previous breakout battle, Arthur had ordered portable radios to be forcibly crammed into the narrow turrets of the B1 heavy tank and Matilda.
But that's not a long-term solution.
Those exposed wires like spider webs and the receivers secured with tape looked like a brick forcibly stuffed into a sophisticated machine, giving off a cheap vibe.
And what about what's right in front of us?
Do you even understand the value of a first wife, kid?
With its dedicated shock-absorbing frame, integrated internal communication system, and perfectly shielded wiring, the FuG5 radio is not an artificially implanted "prosthetic," but rather the hearing organ that this war machine was born with.
You see, back in Alaska, the Germans drooled with envy at Matilda's thick skin that seemed impenetrable; but now, the British were caressing the Panzer IV's cannon and radio, their eyes filled with jealousy.
"A total of twenty-four cars—" Major Ryder counted the cars, his voice trembling, "and they're all brand new."
They didn't even wipe off the factory-applied rust-preventing oil.
On the rear carriages were six oddly shaped, low-slung, turretless vehicles—StuG III A assault guns.
Type (StuGIllAusf.A).
They were like steel beetles lying on the ground, with the same 75mm short-barreled gun protruding from the low front of the vehicle, exuding a deadly sense of oppression.
Looking at the low-profile StuG III assault guns that seemed to be crawling on the ground and lacked even turrets, McTavish felt a sense of disorientation.
This was the second time he had seen this "neckless" steel freak.
The last time he saw them was at the manor in Azheimbrook—but back then, he and young Master Sterling were almost crushed by these things, and this time, he was the owner of the key.
In the carriages further back were a total of eighty Opel Lightning 3-ton trucks and twenty Sd.K. trucks.
FZ.251 half-track armored vehicle.
For this unit, which had been struggling in the mud for three days, it was not just about equipment, it was about legs, it was about life.
Arthur jumped down from the command vehicle, his riding boots landing on the cinder-strewn platform. He walked to a Panzer IV tank and patted its gray armor plating.
"This is why Rommel and Guderian have been relentlessly pursuing us."
24辆中型坦克。6辆突击炮。20辆装甲运兵车。80辆重型卡车。以及足够这支机械化部队在大半个法国跑个来回的800桶燃油。
If you include the several thousand infantrymen he already had, this was no longer a "temporary mixed brigade".
This is a heavily armored battle group (K) with excessive firepower, maximum mobility, and disguised as an SS force.
ampfgruppe).
Arthur turned around and looked at the officers around him, their eyes gleaming: "Now, this capital belongs to Sterling."
"Get the tank crews to test drive them immediately! Even if they have to learn on the spot, they need to get these guys off the ground within an hour! I know German tanks are driven differently than ours, but they don't require you to operate the clutch like a sewing machine. Tell those drivers that if anyone breaks a German's gearbox, I'll shove him up in the gun barrel and fire him!"
The entire platform instantly became busy.
The soldiers were no longer tired; greed drove them to climb onto the train, pry open the oil drums, and carry away boxes of military rations and ammunition labeled in German.
Arthur did not linger long near the noisy tanks.
After confirming that the vehicle was in good condition, he walked straight across the platform piled with supplies, like a warehouse manager with a delivery order, and headed towards the inconspicuous, fully enclosed boxcar at the rear of the train.
On the holographic map of RTS, this carriage is flashing a dazzling golden highlight – in the game, that is often the unique glow of a "key mission item".
"Sir?"
Lieutenant Jeanne looked at Arthur with some confusion as he stopped in front of the door, which was sealed with red lead and SS seals.
The seal was printed with the words "GeheimeKommandosache" (Top Secret Military Supplies) in black Gothic script.
"Let the engineers pry it open, Jeanne."
Arthur tapped the menacing sign lightly with his riding crop: "Tanks and cannons are just tools; what's inside is our passport to leave France."
"
With a screeching sound from the crowbar in the sappers' hands, the heavy lead seal was cut, and the pulley door slid slowly to both sides with a roar on the rusty track.
By the beam of the flashlight, a strong smell of camphor balls mixed with new cotton cloth instantly filled the air.
The wooden crates inside the carriage were neatly stacked all the way to the roof. Jeanne and Miller pried open the nearest few crates together.
Inside were sets of neatly folded fabrics printed with strange spots.
Arthur showed no surprise. He calmly reached out, as if he had known they would be there, and accurately grabbed a camouflage smock.
"M38 Platanenmuster camouflage".
Arthur murmured the name, his fingers tracing the rough texture of the cotton fabric, a smile playing on his lips: "All sizes are available. German logistics are always so reliable."
1
In the box next to it were brand-new M35 steel helmets and matching camouflage helmet covers; next to that were bundles of black collar insignia, with the two chilling silver lightning bolts embroidered on the left – Sigrunen. There were also military police metal badges (Gorget), finely crafted leather belts, and those SS officer peaked caps with extremely high brims.
This is a whole train carload of supplies for the "Guards of the Banner" to change their uniforms. It seems that the head of state is very distressed about the sacrifices made by his followers.
Without a word, Arthur tossed a camouflage blouse into Jeanne's arms, then casually grabbed a high-brimmed SS officer's peaked cap with silver piping.
His thumb gently traced the menacing silver skull emblem in the very center of the hat band.
Here is a common misconception: many people think that only infamous "skull masters" are entitled to wear skulls.
In fact, as a continuation of the Prussian hussars' tradition of "loyalty to the death," the skull and crossbones insignia was a standard feature on all SS peaked caps, whether they were concentration camp guards or elite front-line soldiers, all of whom wore a dead man's head on their foreheads.
What truly distinguishes lineage are the bundles of black collar insignia in the box next to it.
If it were a skeleton mage, their collar insignia would be embroidered with skulls; but these collar insignia in front of us are embroidered with two sharp silver lightning bolts—Sigrunen (Victory Rune).
This means they belong to the earliest and purest-blooded SS "Imperial Guard": the Leibstandarte SS Adolf Hitler (LSSAH). As for the famous "key" insignia—representing Division Commander Zepp Dietrich—it was usually only painted as a tactical symbol on the fenders of tanks and trucks, and would never appear on officers' uniforms.
Having confirmed this, Arthur somewhat rudely put the wide-brimmed hat, which represented his extremely high status, on his head, and slightly adjusted the angle of the hat towards the car window, lowering the brim to cover his overly calm eyes.
In an instant, the young colonel in the British Army jacket disappeared.
Instead, there was an SS chief who exuded a cold aura and had an arrogant look in his eyes.
He turned around, opened his arms to the astonished Jeanne and the arriving Major Ryder, displaying his attire: "This is the real ticket."
Arthur's voice rose several octaves, echoing through the empty cargo yard, carrying an undeniable fervor: "Notify the entire brigade! Everyone, change clothes immediately!"
"Wear this floral outfit over your clothes, put on a German helmet, and hang an MP40 submachine gun around your neck!"
""
"From this moment forward, throw away all those tattered rags that represent the British Empire! I want to see this army transformed before dawn!"
Major Ryder looked at the young nobleman in front of him, who was wearing an SS peaked cap with a silver skull emblem and exuded a cultish aura. His expression gradually changed from initial astonishment to a resolute attitude of "what's the use of trying?"
He knew they could never go back. Since they were on this pirate ship, they had no choice but to be the most ruthless crew members.
Ryder took a deep breath, straightened his back abruptly, and, imitating the Germans, forcefully brought his heels together, making a crisp "snap" sound.
Then, under the stunned gaze of the surrounding soldiers, this upright English gentleman from Eton College suddenly raised his right arm and gave a perfectly executed Nazi salute:
"Heil, Sterling!"
Even Arthur was taken aback, then a playful smirk curled at the corner of his lips. He didn't correct the form of address, but instead slightly raised his riding crop, touched the brim of his hat, and returned an arrogant German officer's salute: "Very spirited, Major Ryder. Or—Ryder, First-Class Assault Battalion Commander (Sturmbannfuhrer)."
Arthur glanced around, his gaze sweeping over everyone present before finally settling on Ryder and Jeanne. His smile vanished, and he spoke coldly in fluent German, almost as if tinged with the metallic hues of Berlin: "But before that, remember this new rule."
"From this second onward, until we see our friendly forces, we are not allowed to speak English."
"Either speak German, or shut your mouth. Understand?!"
Ryder roared again, this time in broken but loud German:
"Jawohl, mein Führer!" (Yes, my Führer!)
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