roccoschili Chapter 38 Sterling Battle Group Doesn't Keep Idle People
Chapter 38 Sterling Battle Group Doesn't Keep Idle People
距离伯尔格以南5公里，1940年6月2日，10:30。
In this radio band, choked with more clutter than London’s sewers by the desperate cries of 400,000 people, conflicting orders, and vicious jamming from the Luftwaffe, rumors spread faster than dysentery in a field hospital.
All of this is thanks to the spectacular "final performance" in Sleepy Hollow.
That black and red mushroom cloud that rose into the sky and could be clearly seen even ten kilometers away was like an angry abstract painter who picked up a bucket of bright scarlet paint and splashed it hard onto the gray canvas called "Dunkirk Pocket".
Especially in such a location so close to the beach, in such a narrow corridor where every square kilometer is crammed with soldiers on the verge of going mad because they can't find their officers.
It is a signal.
For the Germans, it was a "vicious curse" written with hundreds of tons of rocks and high-energy explosives—its meaning was simple and brutal: "This road is blocked."
For the British troops who were running around like headless flies on the north bank of the Ark, completely lost in this huge, noisy boiler of radio waves, the cloud of smoke that symbolized destruction was the only clear visual beacon in this chaos.
"Sir, I think we're in trouble."
Sitting in the driver's compartment of the tank "Verdun," McTavish struggled to operate the heavy steering lever while looking through the periscope, his tone becoming strange:
"Or rather... we've become some kind of 'popular celebrity'."
Arthur stood on the control tower, his gaze sweeping across both sides of the road.
The once empty roads are now crowded with people.
Those British stragglers who should have been fleeing in disarray, fighting tooth and nail for a bicycle, were now standing in groups along the roadside. Unlike the stragglers they had encountered elsewhere, who had panicked and fled north, they stopped and gazed at the convoy that had fought its way out from the south—from piles of corpses—with an almost reverent look.
Especially when the massive Verdun B1 bis heavy tank, painted in yellow and green camouflage, rumbled past, there were even sporadic cheers from the crowd. Arthur knew without looking that they must have been Frenchmen mixed in with the fleeing soldiers.
But what truly surprised these routed soldiers was what followed behind the convoy—
Those were four German Panzer III Ausf. E tanks and eight Sd.Kfz. 251 half-track armored vehicles.
Oh God.
That was the main German armored force, capable of chasing them like rabbits across the mountains with its 37mm rapid-fire cannon the moment it showed its face. It was the sharpest fang of the German blitzkrieg, the protagonist of their nightmares.
But at this moment, these German steel monsters were as docile as a pack of trained hunting dogs, obediently following behind their British masters.
The once intimidating black and white Iron Cross on the sides of their vehicles had been crudely painted white with a paintbrush, with crooked white stars representing friendly forces and conspicuous Union Jacks drawn on them.
The tank turrets and machine gun positions on the half-tracks were no longer occupied by expressionless German armored soldiers wearing high-brimmed helmets, but by British soldiers wearing saucer-shaped Brody helmets, cigarettes dangling from their mouths, and looking arrogant.
Especially Major Ryder.
The guy was leaning casually against the turret hatch of a Panzer III tank, just like a tourist on vacation in France. Arthur wondered if the guy had been swaggering around like this when he first landed, except that his ride back then might have been a Matilda.
His officer's peaked cap, which should have been worn properly, was now perched askew on his head, violating at least three of the Army's dress regulations. He wasn't holding a map or binoculars, but rather a half-empty bottle of Rhine white wine.
Major Ryder did not return the standard military salute to the infantry comrades who cast respectful glances his way along the roadside.
He simply raised his hand lazily, using the two fingers holding a cigarette to make an extremely irritating salute to the group of unfortunate souls still running on foot, then patted the cold Krupp armor plate beneath him and shouted:
"Hey guys! The scenery around here is pretty good, isn't it?"
"Although I'd love to give you a ride, the back seat of this German taxi is already crammed full of spoils! Even the suspension systems of these German taxis can't withstand any more strain!"
"But seriously—"
Ryder paused deliberately, took a drag of his cigarette, and then exhaled a perfectly executed smoke ring into the sky, a smug smile—the kind that only appears when you've won all your opponent's chips—on his face.
"...These leather seats made by those Germans are definitely much more comfortable than the marching boots we have to walk in! Hahahaha!"
Although Arthur wanted to punch him for being even more pretentious than himself, this extreme violent aesthetic of publicly parading the enemy's ace force as trophies was indeed more effective at boosting morale than any political commissar's speech.
It silently roared out a fact: the Germans were made of flesh and blood, their Panzer III tanks were made of iron, and—they were now ours.
Arthur glanced at the few lines of flashing notifications on his retina.
Your reputation in this region has reached "Exalted".
[Passive effect triggered: All neutral/friendly units gain +15% morale and a 200% increased chance to flank you.]
Ha, what a generous reward!
Arthur sneered inwardly, realizing he had seen through the trick.
He suddenly realized that this so-called "system passive effect" was nothing but a pointless and futile statement.
Recalling the time he ran over that SS officer, Arthur did indeed briefly experience a cheap sense of vanity because of that "deterrence boost."
He even fantasized that he might actually be like the overpowered protagonist in those third-rate chivalric novels, able to unleash some indescribable aura simply by shaking his body or shouting a few Shakespearean lines at the Gestapo, causing those ruthless Nazi thugs to be so terrified at the mere mention of Sterling's banner that they would wet themselves and suffer a mental breakdown on the spot.
Just thinking about that scene is incredibly exciting.
But now, looking at this real battlefield before him, filled with the smells of engine oil and the stench of corpses...
Arthur shook his head with a cold laugh.
This is utter nonsense.
In 1940 Europe, in an objective world governed by the laws of physics, what truly made those brainwashed Aryan supermen tremble with fear was never some vague personal charisma or the volume of their voices.
Fear has only one material form.
That's the crisp sound of the B1 bis tank's thirty-ton steel tracks crushing bones, the whistling sound of a 47mm armor-piercing round penetrating armor, and the cold touch of shoving a gun barrel directly into an enemy's mouth.
Aside from the tracks and caliber, everything else is nonsense.
Perhaps one day in the future, when the name "Sterling" is mentioned, it will indeed make the SS and Gestapo at the Berlin headquarters feel terrified, and even cause physiological stomach cramps.
But this is definitely not because of any "domineering aura" bestowed by the system or the "fear aura" in RTS games.
That must be because he used treadmills, explosives, and executions to carve a deep, cruel Pavlovian groove into the cerebral cortex of these so-called "superior races."
As for the data on those retina now.
This is neither magic that appeared out of thin air, nor is it a system modifying the physical parameters of the real world.
This is simply taking the complex deductive processes of "social psychology" and "group dynamics," and using a crude, gamified data approach, pasting it on his forehead in black and white.
The so-called "morale +15%" wasn't a numerical stimulant called "courage" injected into the soldiers by the system. It was the dopamine and adrenaline that the brains of these desperate, routed soldiers frantically released to reward this visual stimulation when they saw German corpses burning and once-invincible German tanks turned into scrap metal.
The "200% increase in the chance of approaching" is not due to the system forcibly controlling the soldiers' cerebral cortex. It is simply the "herd effect" engraved in human genes, which can even be traced back to the time of paramecia—when a blizzard is about to come, a lone wild sheep will instinctively and recklessly crowd towards the strongest and hardest-horned leader, even if it is just to bask in a little bit of the remaining warmth for survival.
"Heh, rather than calling it a special passive ability bestowed upon me..."
Arthur ignored the flashing notification box:
"...Or rather, this is a clumsy attempt by the system to criticize me."
Arthur withdrew his gaze, no longer paying attention to the fancy data. He had more faith in the solid cane in his hand and the dark, menacing tank cannon overhead.
After all, in this cruel world, violence is the only hard currency, and victory is the only glue that holds things together.
Rumors always spread from person to person.
Among the still-shaken soldiers, the perpetrator of the explosion had been hailed as some kind of raging war god from Norse mythology. Although no one knew the commander's name or which division or regiment the strange mixed convoy belonged to, that didn't stop them from watching with the utmost reverence.
"Those guys! Look! It's that French heavy tank painted in yellow and green camouflage!"
Someone in the crowd pointed at the rumbling Verdun, their voice filled with excitement:
"I swear it was them! I have brothers who saw it on the hills behind. Those lunatics blew up half a mountain in Dead End Valley, turning an entire pursuing German armored corps and their vehicles into mincemeat!"
"My God, look at that radio antenna... what's that hanging on it?"
Another soldier stared wide-eyed at the dark gray objects on the tank antenna that jingled and rattled with the movement of the tank.
"That's a German M35 helmet! That's the mark of a true headhunter!"
A sergeant with a stubble-covered face and a Bren light machine gun slung over his shoulder mustered his courage and stood in front of the tank, giving a somewhat perfunctory salute:
"Sir! We are remnants of the 48th Infantry Division! We have a platoon of brothers, and we still have weapons! Please allow us to join your convoy! We just want to fight our way out with you!"
Arthur knocked on the hatch, signaling McTavish to stop the car.
But he did not respond to the poor wretch's request immediately.
He narrowed his right eye slightly. In that instant, his thoughts soared from the dusty intersection before him to tens of thousands of feet in the air, overlooking the entire Dunkirk battlefield.
[Searching for unit information: British Army 48th (South Midlands) Infantry Division]
[Status: Fragmented/Extremely Chaotic/In Rout]
Arthur's gaze swept over the horrific red area on the western side of the map.
"The 48th Division... those unlucky bastards from Birmingham and Coventry."
Arthur sighed silently to himself.
According to system records, this division had been putting up a fierce resistance on the line from Borghelle to Kassel just days before. But with the surrender of the Belgian troops and the complete exposure of their flanks, they were crushed like a rolling pin by the German armored formations.
It's quite a pity.
Arthur's original plan was even more outrageous—he had considered giving the "father of Blitzkrieg" a truly generous gift when the main force of Guderian's 1st Panzer Division passed through that "Sleepy Hollow".
But clearly, reality isn't fiction. Guderian wasn't the kind of elephant who would stop chasing a biting ant.
On the RTS map, the massive red torrent representing the German 19th Panzer Corps, after crossing the Ahn River, only spun off a small force—that unfortunate Strunzsky—to deal with Arthur, the "thorn in the side of the road." Meanwhile, its main force—the 1st, 2nd, and 10th Panzer Divisions—flowed like an unstoppable mudslide, bypassing the mountains and rushing toward the more tempting target.
That was Guderian's true objective as a top strategist—the main force of the coalition, 400,000 men stranded on the beach.
"Greedy Germans."
Arthur stared at the alarming arrows on the map:
To the east, Bock's Army Group B was hammering at the gaps in the Belgian defenses.
To the south, Rundstedt's Army Group A is tightening its grip.
Meanwhile, in the direction of Berg, the SS "Leibstandarte SS Adolf Hitler" was trying to cut off the last canal bridge like mad dogs.
Although the advance of the German ground armored forces was slowed down by the inexplicable "stop order" from the Supreme Command, giving the Allied forces a brief respite.
But this does not mean it is safe.
Instead, death arrived in a different way.
buzzing-
A muffled buzzing sound came from the sky, clearly audible even through the thick tank armor.
Arthur looked up.
Above the clouds, countless black dots were swirling. Those were Hermann Göring's Luftwaffe.
Moreover, it wasn't just those 12 Ju-87 Stukas that had been eyeing Arthur like vultures.
To be blunt and hurtful, the name "Arthur Sterling" wasn't even on the original mission list of those shrieking aerial reapers.
They were merely temporary workers "conscripted" from the main attack direction by the enraged Guderian, who used his command authority over the armored group.
In Hermann Göring’s wildly ambitious, almost insane, operational blueprints, these dive bombers adorned with the Iron Cross insignia had a far greater appetite than these tanks or convoys.
Their target is the entire Dunkirk.
They hunt anything that can still breathe, turn, and float within this enormous beach trap.
From the infantry phalanxes crowding the breakwater in despair, to the Matilda tanks attempting a last stand, and even the Royal Navy destroyers flying the St. George's flag on the sea.
On this enormous death list, everything that could move was a sacrifice that Göring had promised to offer to the Führer.
现在的天空属于整个第2和第3航空队。亨克尔He-111轰炸机、多尼尔Do-17「飞行铅笔」，以及无处不在的梅塞施密特Bf-109战斗机，正在把每一寸还在抵抗的阵地变成火海。
Now that the tanks had stopped, Göring decided to prove to the Führer that his air force was capable of eliminating the 400,000 men through "air executions."
Of course, the coalition forces haven't been completely idle these past few days.
Whether it was the rigid Lord Gott or the French generals who couldn't even understand English—they were using these god-given few dozen hours to frantically adjust their deployments.
The leader is micromanaging, and so are they.
The Kassel Heights, which were originally a strategic stronghold in the southwest, have been completely lost two days ago.
The defenders there ran out of bullets; an entire brigade, two regiments, were wiped off the roster. The loss of that high point overlooking the entire Flanders plain meant the complete collapse of the previously broad defensive front.
The current defensive line is a "stopgap" that has been forced to contract.
On this enormous map, a defensive perimeter is taking shape, with Bergues, Veurne, and Nieuwpoort as its nodes.
This is the last line of defense, built upon the Lower Basse Colme Canal and a network of drainage ditches.
Behind this defensive line:
The French 12th Motorized Infantry Division (12th DIM) is setting up machine guns on the ancient city walls of Berg, ready to prove with blood that they are not just about surrendering as rumored.
The remnants of the British 1st Corps, and of course, the main force of the Coldstream Guards, whose name made Arthur pause for a moment.
Although the 2nd Battalion, which Arthur personally commanded, had been wiped out in the previous disastrous retreat and turned into a series of cold numbers on the list of the dead, he, as the battalion commander, had become a veritable commander without troops.
But as a member of this royal guard, renowned for its red tassels and bearskin hats and hailed as "first-rate," Arthur felt a mix of emotions as he watched his remaining brethren—the 1st and 3rd Battalions—kneeling in the foul-smelling mud of the Lower Colm Canal, frantically digging foxholes like construction laborers.
These imperial elites, who once polished their boots to a shine, are now covered in mud and can only try to stop Guderian's overwhelming steel torrent with their few Lee-Enfield rifles, because Guderian has focused his main attack there.
Their numbers were even fewer than the German tanks.
But on the RTS map, the blue shield icon representing this unit remains like a stubborn reef, firmly nailed to the canal defense line, even though it is surrounded by layers of red German waves.
They were no longer fighting for victory. They were trading space for time, and lives for tickets.
"This can be considered the last act of defiance by the Lengxi family."
Arthur stared intently at the shrinking blue semicircle on the map.
"The ground is shrinking, the sky is burning. That's the situation now."
This is the "Dunkirk Pocket," or more accurately, a coffin whose lid hasn't been closed yet.
Arthur muttered something to himself, then looked away.
Further to the eastern flank, at the gaping hole created by the sudden surrender of the Belgian army, Arthur once again saw a blue icon that brought him immense comfort.
That was Major General Bernard Law Montgomery and his 3rd Infantry Division.
In an RTS game where the screen is filled with negative states representing "chaos" and "low morale," Montgomery's defense zone looks as if it were drawn with a ruler and compass, so neat that it's almost like a military parade.
This Scotsman, who will be known in the future for being "cautious" and "protective of his reputation," and whose personality is as eccentric as an ascetic, is currently staging a "nighttime micromanagement" that could be included in West Point's military academy textbooks.
Just last night, while other British troops were fleeing aimlessly like ducks, Montgomery commanded his 3rd Division to complete a highly difficult lateral flank maneuver right under the noses of the German 6th Army.
He single-handedly moved his entire force of 15,000 men twenty miles sideways, like moving a chess piece, effectively plugging the loophole left by the Belgians that could have wiped out the entire expeditionary force.
This is what a professional gamer is like.
Looking at the 3rd Division's solid defensive line on the map, Arthur couldn't help but give it a mental thumbs up:
On that defensive line, the 3rd Division's Bren gun emplacements were perfectly constructed, with mortar fire covering every blind spot. They were like a cold, iron gate, keeping Bock's menacing Army Group B at bay, like blocking a tidal wave.
It was thanks to Montgomery's crucial role on the eastern flank and the French army's fierce fighting on the western flank that the fragile "Dunkirk pocket" was not breached by the Germans immediately.
Arthur pulled his wandering thoughts back and refocused his gaze on the lowly sergeant before him.
He looked down at the group of ragged soldiers whose eyes were full of hope.
If it were Arthur Sterling, who was still writing poetry at Sandhurst Military Academy, he might have been moved by this camaraderie because of the so-called aristocratic spirit.
But in the eyes of Arthur, the "player" with the RTS system, these people are no longer flesh and blood, people with families and stories.
That sergeant wasn't John or Tom; he was just a veteran infantry squad member.
Those soldiers weren't living, breathing people, but rather strings of green data representing "human resources."
As a decisive commander, he doesn't need emotions; all he needs is flesh to fill the trenches and a finger to pull the trigger.
How many people are in your platoon?
"Sir! There were originally 35 men, now there are 22 left! They can all fight!" The sergeant straightened his back.
How many people lost their rifles?
The sergeant paused for a moment, glanced back, and replied somewhat awkwardly, "There were... there were seven or eight of them, they were crossing the river..."
"don't want."
Arthur coldly interrupted him, pointing to a few soldiers in the platoon still carrying rifles and machine gun ammunition boxes:
"I only need men with weapons, and your machine gun crew. As for those useless cowards who can't even feed themselves..."
Arthur pulled the silver cigarette case from his pocket, casually flicked out a cigarette, and spoke without a trace of pity:
"...Dunkirk's beaches are vast; let them collect seashells themselves. My convoy doesn't support idlers."
The sergeant's expression changed. It was cruel, but it was fair.
In this world where order has collapsed, strength is the only passport.
"Yes, sir!"
The sergeant gritted his teeth, turned around, and roared at his brothers:
"Did you hear that? Those with guns, stand on the left!"
"For those without guns... good luck!"
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