roccoschili Chapter 43 Complete Form
Chapter 43 Complete Form
"My God..."
McTavish, emerging from the turret, stared wide-eyed at the warehouse full of ammunition: "Just how much have the French stockpiled here? If they fired all these shells, the Germans would have been home in Belgium by now."
"This is the tragedy of France, Sergeant, and of course, our tragedy as well."
Arthur jumped off the tank and used his cane to pry open a long, narrow wooden crate.
As the wooden planks were lifted, neatly arranged shells reeking of gun oil were revealed. The shells were painted dark green, with sharp, capped armor-piercing projectiles, and the brass cartridge cases gleamed in the sunlight streaming through the skylight.
There's absolutely no need for the RTS on the retina to tell him what it is.
As a seasoned player, he could tell the weight of this thing even with his eyes closed.
The distinctive dark green projectile, the blunt-nosed cap (APC) structure designed to prevent ricochets, and the clearly stamped steel markings on the brass cartridge base...
Obus de rupture Mle1936.
"47mm Mle1936 capped armor-piercing projectile."
Arthur's fingers gently traced the cold, smooth bullet, a rare tenderness in his eyes, as if he were holding not a deadly weapon, but a bottle of 1787 Château Lafite Rothschild.
This thing weighs 1.726 kg and has an initial velocity of 855 m/s. At a distance of 500 meters, it still has a theoretical penetration depth of 40 mm when facing armor at a 30-degree angle.
He looked up at the captured German Panzer III tank, a cold smile playing on his lips.
He knew better than anyone what this meant.
At this distance, neither the Germans' prized main force—the Panzer III Ausf. E (30mm)—nor the seemingly massive but actually weak Panzer IV tank, nor their 30mm thick vertical steel plate on the front of the hull, was as fragile as a damp newspaper in the face of this high-velocity capped armor-piercing projectile.
French generals may be a bunch of champagne-drinking idiots, but the technicians at the Schneider Arms Factory were not lying.
Arthur shoved the cannonball heavily into McTavish's arms:
"This is the last vestige of conscience of the Gallic rooster."
In previous battles, he did indeed drive the Verdun and destroy two Panzer III tanks of Guderian's 1st Panzer Division, and even blasted three of Stransky's Panzer IV tanks.
But Arthur knew very well how inefficient that was.
The short-barreled 75mm SA35 howitzer mounted under the hull is essentially a "battering ram" used to demolish bunkers. Its trajectory is as erratic as an old man urinating, its accuracy is abysmal, and it has no horizontal field of fire, so aiming depends entirely on rotating the hull.
The time you destroyed Stransky? That was purely by shoving a 75mm high-explosive shell right in the face.
As for the 47mm gun on the turret, which was supposed to be responsible for anti-tank missions? It's been gathering dust and watching from the sidelines.
"But now, the rules have changed."
Arthur picked up a heavy 47mm armor-piercing round, feeling its cold touch as if he were holding Thor's hammer.
From that moment on, he no longer needed to drive a tank around like a drunkard. He was now a surgeon with a scalpel, capable of gracefully cutting open the heart of a German from 500 meters away.
"Hurry! Move quickly!"
Arthur, disregarding even aristocratic decorum, took off his trench coat and joined the hauling effort himself. He and McTavish, like two starving ghosts, frantically stuffed shells into the tank.
"Dump those damn German 75mm shells! They're garbage! Throw them away!"
"Fill our ammunition racks! Fill every single compartment! I'm going to give the Verdun a good meal!"
Captain Durand had long since abandoned the reserve of a regular French officer and had taken the initiative to diligently assume the role of a loader.
As the original commander of this B1, being an assistant to a British major might normally be a demotion, but at this moment, his trembling hands showed that he was even more excited than Arthur.
As the heavy, original French-made armor-piercing shell, stained with butter, was pushed into the breech, the semi-automatic vertical wedge breechblock snapped shut by the recoil spring, producing a crisp, cold, and industrially resonant "click"—
Durand felt a chill run down his spine.
That was the sound of a soul returning to its rightful place.
This steel behemoth named "Verdun" was no longer a mobile iron coffin that could only be beaten down. It no longer had to sit in the best-protected turret in all of Europe, but because it lacked armor-piercing shells, it had to watch the British rampage like a castrated spectator, filled with despair and embarrassment.
Now, these four B1 tanks are no longer just meat shields that can only be beaten, but top-notch killers in Europe.
"Sir! Something's happened!"
Jeanne, who had been keeping watch outside the vehicle, suddenly shouted, pointing to the intersection to the east: "I hear an engine! Tracks! It's very heavy!"
Arthur instantly returned to the command position and pulled down the hatch.
Three red markers are rapidly approaching in the field of vision.
This group of Germans had clearly received a request for reinforcements from the 69th Infantry Regiment, intending to flank the arrogant French squad that dared to attack from behind.
Unfortunately, they were not only late, but they also ran into the BOSS who had just changed into "divine gear".
[10th Armored Division / 7th Armored Regiment / 1st Battalion / 4th Company (Armored Platoon)]
[Unit: Pz.Kpfw. III Ausf. E (Panzer III Ausf. E) x3]
[Unit: Pz.Kpfw. IV Ausf. A (Panzer IV Ausf. A, short barrel 75mm) x1]
[Status: Combat formation deployed/Searching for targets]
"It seems the owner has returned and discovered that a thief broke into the house and that the house has been destroyed."
Arthur's voice held no trace of panic, but rather the excitement of a hunter seeing his prey fall into his trap. He patted the inner wall of the turret; the fully loaded ammunition racks gave him boundless confidence.
"However, these Germans may not have figured out the situation yet—who exactly is the prey now."
"All crew in position! Armor-piercing rounds loaded! Ready to pick up passengers!"
At the exit of the freight station, four gray tanks painted with the Iron Cross blocked the road.
The commander of the lead Panzer IV tank had just poked half his body out when his pupils suddenly contracted, clearly having spotted the massive French tanks.
"Char B1! Scheiße! (B1 tank! Damn it!)"
Cold sweat instantly soaked his back. As a veteran of armored vehicles, he knew all too well what this monster meant. On the French battlefields of 1940, the B1 heavy tank was synonymous with "mobile steel bunker."
To make matters worse, his mission was to deal with the French infantry, which consisted of at most a few trucks, but no one told him that he would be facing the French heavy tanks!
He glanced at the short, stubby 75mm KwK 37 L/24 gun on his vehicle—it was indeed incredibly powerful when firing high-explosive shells, but in terms of armor-piercing capability, this "cigar butt" was even inferior to the slender 37mm gun of the Panzer III tank next to him.
Using it to penetrate the 60mm frontal armor of a B1 tank? Are you kidding me?
"Scatter! Scatter now! Don't engage in direct confrontation!"
Fear sent his adrenaline soaring, and he immediately screamed through the throat microphone, his voice filled with terror and distortion:
"Vehicle number three! Suppress its observation windows with your 37mm guns! Damn it, aim for its turret ring!"
"The rest of you, spread out! Flank it to the flanks! Attack its side cooling vents! Don't engage it in a direct gunfight! Don't engage it in a direct gunfight!!"
Despite his roaring and issuing tactical orders, the fingers gripping the throat microphone were twitching uncontrollably—a physiological rejection of apex predators driven by biological instinct.
From a God's-eye view, this sense of despair is imbued with a dark fatalism—
This was like a rehearsal for Normandy in 1944, the chilling feeling that American cowboys in Shermans experienced when they first encountered a Tiger tank in the fog.
He could only force himself to be confident, or more accurately, he was engaging in a desperate tactical self-hypnosis:
"Even with its thickest armor, it's just a slow-moving rhinoceros. We have the Panzer III's proud mobility, and we have the crew-wide radio coordination... According to the manual, as long as the four vehicles coordinate properly, this is a sure-fire hunt."
But this theory, which has worked repeatedly in Poland, overlooks one crucial premise—
Your numerical advantage must be at least an overwhelming three to four times.
And now?
The poor German tank commander clearly hadn't figured out all the variables in this arithmetic problem.
On this narrow battlefield, the situation was not the "four against one" he had imagined, but rather four against four—not even counting the four Panzer III tanks in Arthur's possession that had already defected.
Moreover, in this cruel physical world, there is an even more despairing axiom:
When the prey's hide is so thick that even the largest caliber shotgun in your hand cannot penetrate it, the so-called "wolf pack tactics" are nothing more than a group of people trying to kill an elephant with toothpicks.
Quantity is meaningless in the face of absolute quality barriers.
If you can't break through it, sending a hundred vehicles will only result in their deaths.
But they did not intend to sit idly by and wait for their doom.
when--!
A Panzer III tank on the flank opened fire first.
A 37mm PzGr.39 armor-piercing round roared out and accurately hit the upper frontal armor of the B1 tank.
Sparks flew everywhere.
But when the smoke cleared, it was no surprise.
There was no penetration, no collapse. The armor-piercing shell, carrying the hopes of the German army, left only a shallow white mark on the 60mm thick, steeply angled cast armor, not even creating a dent, before being ricocheted away with a mournful cry to who knows where.
"Is this all you've got?"
Inside the turret of the B1 tank, Arthur coldly observed everything through the scope.
On his retina, the RTS tactical system projected a pale green crosshair and a string of cold data:
[Target: Pz.Kpfw. IV Ausf. A (Panzer IV Ausf. A)]
[Distance: 280 meters]
Frontal armor: 30mm (vertically welded steel plate)
[Current ammunition: 47mm Mle1936 APC (armor-piercing capped round)]
Theoretical penetration depth: 55mm
[Penetration probability: 99.9%]
[Weakness Hint: Pilot's Observation Window / Lower Front Ammunition Rack]
This was no longer a duel between evenly matched knights.
"Durand, don't keep them waiting." Arthur's voice was flat. "Let him see what a French greeting is like."
"Yes, sir!"
Durand personally operated the 47mm SA35 gun on the turret. The hydraulic rotating mechanism emitted a deep, smooth hum, and the muzzle was slightly adjusted, locking onto the front of the Panzer IV tank that was trying to reverse, like the index finger of death.
Through the scope, Durand could even see the German driver's terrified eyes.
"Great surprise, Hans."
He slammed his right foot down on the firing pedal.
boom!
A bright, short burst of flame shot from the muzzle of the B1 tank's gun.
At this distance, the 47mm armor-piercing round, with an initial velocity of 855 m/s, showed almost no trajectory drop. It transformed into a streak of light invisible to the naked eye, like a red-hot knife cutting into solidified butter, penetrating the 30mm thick vertical armor plate of the Panzer IV tank without any obstruction—not even ricocheting.
Sizzle—click!
That was the tooth-grinding shriek of metal being forcibly torn apart.
The shell penetrated the vehicle's hull, carrying a jet of metal at thousands of degrees Celsius. Like a spark thrown into a powder keg, it directly detonated dozens of 75mm high-explosive shells stored on the right side of the Panzer IV's chassis.