roccoschili Chapter 25 The Mechanic and the Sledgehammer
Chapter 25 The Mechanic and the Sledgehammer
On the northern section of Highway D916, about 4 kilometers from the Ahe Bridge, on May 31, 1940, the fifth day of Operation Generator (which began on the 26th), at 00:15, the weather was: heavy rain turning cloudy, with extremely poor visibility.
The last day of May arrived in suffocating darkness.
There was no moonlight, no stars, only the damp, cold sea breeze blowing from the English Channel after the damned rain had stopped. This wind carried the smell of salt, gunpowder, and that smell of defeat that only emanates when thousands of desperate souls gather together.
The convoy struggled along the muddy D916 highway.
Four B1 heavy tanks rolled around in the mud like rhinos, their tracks kicking up tons of mud. Behind them, twelve trucks loaded with wounded soldiers and spoils groaned under the strain.
As for the nine extra trucks? They came from the Skeleton Division supply depot, of course.
Arthur sat on the command tower of the Verdun, his goggles fogged up. A cigar that had been extinguished long ago dangled from his mouth, the bitter taste of nicotine melting on his tongue, barely keeping his nerves, which had been taut for two whole days, afloat.
If you really think about it, eighty-four hours have passed since he opened his eyes in this damned time and space—to be precise, three and a half days.
During those eighty-four hours, his life state only switched between two high-load gears: "pulling the trigger" and "stepping on the gas pedal," without any gaps in between called "rest."
Even a Scotsman like McTavish, with nerves as hard as granite, could take turns with Lieutenant Jeanne, huddled in the oil- and blood-smelling carriage, greedily stealing a moment of luxury called "sleep" to the rhythm of the tracks.
But he can't.
As the convoy's sole "all-seeing eye," he had to be like a radar with its switch welded shut, constantly scanning the crimson sea of death on the RTS map. Any moment of distraction could send this team, dancing on the edge of a knife, to their doom. He certainly didn't want to wake up one day in a German POW camp.
If it weren't for the "Commander Module's" built-in body enhancement function, which was like pumping a continuous stream of high-purity military-grade amphetamine into his blood vessels and forcibly locking up his physical energy bar, this carbon-based body, which was already severely overloaded, would probably have completely stopped working two days ago, just like a burnt-out torque converter.
What supports him now is no longer muscles, but a cold bio-current composed of data and will.
The tactical map of the RTS system floats in the lower left corner of the field of view.
The red arrows representing the advance reconnaissance units of Guderian's 19th Panzer Corps looked like a swarm of piranhas that had smelled blood, tearing at the distance several kilometers behind them.
"Four kilometers to go."
Arthur glanced at the mileage on the dial.
Once they cross the Aw River Bridge, they can take advantage of Hitler's "Stop Advancing Order," which will take effect in a few hours, to gain a precious respite behind that political red line.
However, Murphy's Law is the only eternal truth in war:
If anything can go wrong, it will go wrong, and at the worst possible time.
The change happened without any warning.
The ship "Joan of Arc," which was third in the convoy and commanded by Lieutenant Jeanne, suddenly emitted a chilling metallic shriek.
Squeak—Crack—!
The sound was like a soprano being suddenly choked by a rough hand as she sang her highest note.
Immediately afterwards, the 31-ton steel behemoth lost control. It was originally traveling in a straight line, but suddenly, like a drunkard suffering a sudden heart attack, it veered sharply to the left.
The heavy vehicle swept across the road, stirring up a huge black wave of mud half a meter deep, before coming to a stop with a muffled thud, lying firmly across the narrow highway.
The entire convoy was forced to brake suddenly.
The screeching sound of brakes carried far into the night.
"What's going on?!"
Arthur pressed the throat communicator, his voice laced with suppressed rage, "Jeanne? I demand an explanation! This is not the time to stop and admire the scenery!"
A burst of static came through the radio, followed by Lieutenant Jeanne's voice, filled with extreme anxiety, even despair:
"Sir...it's immobilized! The left track is locked! The steering system is completely stuck!"
Arthur's heart sank.
He quickly pulled up the RTS map, where the red countdown was relentlessly ticking. Although the German advance reconnaissance units were slowed by the rainy night and muddy roads, the distance was still closing at a visible rate.
[Contact Warning: German 1st Panzer Division Rapid Reconnaissance Company]
Current distance: 6.5 kilometers
Approach speed: 25 km/h (affected by muddy terrain)
[Estimated contact time: 18 minutes]
Eighteen minutes.
It might sound like there's still some room for maneuver, but on the battlefield, that little bit of time isn't even enough for a new recruit to calm down and finish a cigarette.
In Arthur's mind, a cold, hard game of gains and risks is being settled in milliseconds.
Of course, he could choose the simplest option: immediately destroy the "Joan of Arc" and evacuate with the rest of his men. After all, he still had three other intact B1 heavy tanks. Even if a small group of German mechanized troops caught up, dealing with a few German reconnaissance vehicles equipped only with 20mm autocannons would be a massacre.
But Arthur knew very well that this was a trap.
The real threat is never the lightly armed scouts in front of us, but being "stuck" in their tracks.
Once the firefight begins, the gunfire will be like signal flares in the night, instantly attracting all the surrounding German troops. The convoy will then be like flies stuck on flypaper, endlessly fighting until it runs out of fuel and ammunition, until it is completely swallowed up by the main force of the 1st Panzer Division that arrives later.
Moreover, the current "Joan of Arc" is not just a pile of steel.
It constitutes a quarter of the heavy firepower of this exiled force. In the future defense of the A River line, and even in any potential defensive battle, the difference between holding the line and being completely annihilated could be the difference between doing so and losing the entire army.
In a time of scarcity, would someone deliberately cut off their own arm to survive?
no way.
Of course, this does not mean that he is a gambler who blindly goes all in, nor does it mean that he would buy into cheap moral slogans such as "never give up".
If the tank is still a pile of scrap metal after five minutes, he will not hesitate to press the detonator, without even waiting for everyone to evacuate the safe zone.
He had already put this ruthless logic of "stopping losses" into practice once before, during the battle at the monastery where he blocked the Greater German Regiment.
In Arthur Sterling's art of command, human lives, like steel, are merely chips on a scale. Sacrifice pawns to save the king? As long as the price is right, in order to survive and to achieve victory, he will do it a second and a third time, until he captures Berlin, the Nazis surrender, and the war ends.
But now, the assessment given by RTS is: it's not that time yet.
This steel fortress, equipped with a 47mm anti-tank gun and a 75mm howitzer, remains a high-value asset capable of influencing the future course of the Battle of Ahe. To preserve this 25% of core firepower, it's worth risking those precious eighteen minutes.
Abandon the car?
No.
In a normal battle, he might actually have done so. But these four tanks were more than just weapons; they were his capital to humiliate Guderian in the Battle of Aztec and in future battles.
More importantly, if they abandon the vehicles now, this defeatist sentiment will spread like a plague to the troops that have just built up their confidence.
"Either fix it, or blow it up at the last minute."
Arthur's eyes cleared instantly. In less than five seconds, he completed this series of complex calculations of interests and made the decision based on absolute rationality.
He leaped from the control tower, splashing mud everywhere. His movement was without the slightest hesitation, like a cannonball that had already left the barrel and could not be turned back.
"Quick! Get moving! Death will be here in eighteen minutes!"
Arthur cursed and then strode toward the disabled tank that was blocking the middle of the road.
When Arthur arrived, several French mechanics were gathered around the rear engine cover of the "Joan of Arc," their flashlight beams flickering in the darkness.
A peculiar gas, with a sweet and burnt smell, wafted out of the engine compartment.
That's the smell of castor oil.
In that era, only the French would use this liquid, which was usually used to treat constipation, as a medium for the hydraulic transmission system of tanks.
"How is it going?" Arthur asked.
Captain Durand, who had his head buried in the engine compartment, jerked his head up at the sound. His face was covered in grease, and his eyes were filled with terror and frustration.
"It's over, Major. It's completely over."
Durand's voice was filled with frustration as he pointed to the complex piping system. "It's the Naeder hydrostatic transmission! It's locked up! It's the most delicate part of the whole car, controlling the steering of the dual differentials!"
"Can it be repaired?"
"Here? In this muddy mess?"
Durand stared at Arthur as if he were a madman, almost hysterically shouting, "Sir, this is the crown jewel of Renault's industry! It contains hundreds of precision check valves and hydraulic lines! We need cranes, we need cleanrooms, we need the complete set of blueprints!"
"Take it apart now, it's like performing brain surgery on a fly in a muddy puddle!"
Arthur fell silent.
Although he had only a superficial understanding of the technical details—at least compared to Captain Durand, a former tank crewman—he knew that the B1 tank's unique transmission system was notoriously delicate. It allowed the cumbersome tank to make incredible turns on the spot, but at the cost of—once it broke, it was scrap metal.
"Arthur".
Major Ryder walked over. He was holding an MP40, his ear pressed against the wind, his expression extremely stern.
Listen.
In the damp, cold sea breeze, besides the sound of the wind, a low, rumbling sound, like muffled thunder, could be faintly heard.
That was the roar of a Maybach engine.
"The German vanguard is right behind us." Ryder grabbed Arthur's arm, his fingers digging into it. "We don't have time to fix this pile of scrap metal. Abandon the vehicle."
"Abandon the vehicle?" Lieutenant Jeanne rushed over. "This is a B1! We only have four! If we lose it, we'll lose a quarter of our firepower!"
"It's not worth sacrificing over a hundred people here for this pile of iron!"
Ryder turned his head, his eyes cold. "Major, make a decision. Blow it up, push it to the side of the road, and the rest of you squeeze in. We can still make it if we leave now."
This is an extremely rational suggestion.
This is the standard tactical choice any British officer trained at the Royal Military Academy Sandhurst would make: cut off an arm to save their life.
The surrounding soldiers all looked at Arthur.
The rescued wounded British soldiers lay on the truck, their eyes filled with fear. They had just crawled out of hell and didn't want to fall back down just to repair a tank.
Arthur stood in the middle of the road, letting the cold wind whip his cheeks.
"Who said it's scrap metal?"
Arthur suddenly spoke, his voice so calm that it seemed completely out of place amidst the surrounding panic.
"System, activate vehicle diagnostic mode," he silently instructed himself.
[Command confirmed: Commander Module LV.2]
[Tactical Skill Activation: Vehicle X-Ray Diagnosis]
In an instant, Arthur's world changed.
The darkness on his retina was replaced by a layer of eerie green data filter. In his eyes, the massive, mud-covered "Joan of Arc" was no longer a solid lump of steel, but was instantly deconstructed into countless lines and luminous nodes.
This is the God's-eye view of the RTS system.
Arthur's gaze pierced through the thick cast armor and the complex cooling grilles, locking onto the damned Naeder torque converter located deep within the chassis.
Countless tiny parts magnified and rotated before his eyes.
The flow of hydraulic oil was transformed into red arrows. The meshing of gears was replaced by a stream of meshing data.
【System scanning...】
[WARNING: Abnormal hydraulic circuit pressure]
[Fault Location: Main Servo Return Valve]
Arthur's pupils contracted slightly.
Inside that extremely well-hidden valve, encased in layers of metal, a faint reddish light stood out starkly against the green perspective view.
It was a tiny, insignificant piece of metal.
It probably broke off from some old gear; it was only the size of a grain of rice. But this damned little thing, as the hydraulic oil circulated, unfortunately got stuck in the middle of the return valve's valve core, causing the valve to fail to close and the entire hydraulic system to seize up instantly.
This is the irony of the industrial age.
A war machine costing millions of francs, weighing 31 tons, and capable of withstanding 37mm shells, was paralyzed by a single 2-gram piece of metal slag.
"Found it."
Arthur muttered to himself.
He turned off the perspective mode, the green light in his eyes faded, and was replaced by absolute confidence.
"Miller!" Arthur shouted.
"Yes...yes, sir."
Miller, a tall mechanic from Yorkshire, who was in charge of logistics and maintenance, pushed his way through the crowd. He held an adjustable wrench in his hand, looking bewildered, clearly at a loss even with this French high-tech gadget.
"Throw away the wrench."
Arthur pointed to the tank. "Go to that truck and get that twelve-pound sledgehammer we use for road repairs."
"A... a sledgehammer?"
Miller was stunned. Durand and Ryder, who were standing around him, were also stunned.
"Sir, this is a precision hydraulic system..." Durand tried to stop him, "Forceful impact will destroy it!"
"It's a corpse now, Captain Durand," Arthur interrupted him coldly. "Since it's a corpse, I don't mind using some rough CPR."
……
Miller returned, carrying the heavy, long-handled iron hammer, looking bewildered.
Arthur stepped forward.
He didn't look at the blueprints, nor did he open any of the covers. Under everyone's watchful eyes, he walked to the left side armor plate at the rear of the tank.
He mentally confirmed the precise coordinates of the stuck valve in three-dimensional space once again.
Then he reached out and used his gloved fingers to wipe a clod of mud off the surface of the armor.
He took a piece of chalk from his pocket and drew a rather irregular "X" on the cold cast iron armor.
"here."
Arthur pointed to the white cross and turned to look at Miller.
"Aim at this spot. Use all your strength. Smash it down."
"What?" Miller looked at the 40mm thick side armor, then at the hammer in his hand. "Sir, there's a gearbox housing underneath... This hammer blow..."
"Smash it!"
Arthur's roar drowned out the distant thunder, "If you don't want to die here, if you want to go home and drink your mother's beef soup, then smash it!"
[Contact countdown: 8 minutes]
In the distance, the flickering headlights of the German motorcycles could already be faintly seen.
Major Ryder pulled the bolt.
Miller took a deep breath. He didn't understand what a hydrostatic torque converter was, but he knew how to obey. Since the major who had saved them all said to smash it, he'd accept smashing God's head if that was the case.
"Aaaaaah!"
Miller let out a low growl, his muscles tensing, and the twelve-pound hammer drew a black arc through the air.
Bang!
A deafening roar.
Sparks flew everywhere.
The heavy impact made everyone present feel a tingling sensation in their teeth, as if the hammer had struck their own ribs.
Captain Durand instinctively closed his eyes, as if he could already see the horrific sight of the intricate gears shattering into dust.
however--
In Arthur's RTS perspective, however, a completely different scene unfolds.
The violent shockwave generated by that hammer blow penetrated the armor and traveled precisely along the metal shell into the interior.
The metal shard stuck in the valve core jerked violently under the immense vibration and finally came loose.
The previously blocked red hydraulic fluid flow instantly turned into a smooth green flow.
The problem has been resolved.
"Start the engine!" Arthur yelled at the still-dazed driver.
The driver frantically pressed the start button.
Cough cough—rumble rumble—
Accompanied by a violent cough and a plume of black smoke, the previously silent Renault engine miraculously emitted a steady and powerful roar.
The tracks trembled slightly, a rhythmic pulsation of renewed life.
Miller threw down the sledgehammer that had cracked his hand, and leaned against the armor plate, panting heavily. His large hands, stained with oil and blood, were still trembling slightly, but he didn't have time to wipe them. He just grinned, revealing a silly smile that looked more like a grimace.
Captain Durand's jaw nearly dropped to the ground; his theories on fluid dynamics were shattered by a massive sledgehammer.
"There's nothing scientific or unscientific about it."
Arthur didn't even glance at the dirty hands; he simply patted the dust off his leather gloves.
"Sometimes, even a delicate lady needs a good slap to wake her up."
The red arrow on the RTS map has touched the warning line. The sound of German motorcycle engines can already be clearly heard.
There was no time to celebrate, and no time for any thank-you ceremony.
Arthur suddenly waved his hand, transforming back into the cold-blooded commander.
"Don't just stand there! Everyone get on the bus!"
He leaped onto the conning tower of the Verdun in three quick strides, yanked open the hatch, and his voice, carried on the radio throughout the convoy, reeked of an adrenaline-pumping arrogance:
"Now, let Guderian eat shit! Buckle up, guys!"
Rumbling--
This strange convoy of heavy tanks and beat-up trucks once again sped along the D916 highway.
Although the "Joan of Arc" was repaired, it still made an unpleasant metallic scraping sound, but that didn't matter anymore. As long as it could move, it would crawl across the A River, even if it had to crawl.
Five minutes later.
Several BMW R75 motorcycles belonging to the reconnaissance battalion of the German 1st Panzer Division stopped where the convoy had just been.
A German lieutenant wearing goggles jumped off the vehicle, squatted down, touched the still-warm oil stain on the road, and picked up a piece of paint that had been shaken off the tank.
"It's hot."
The lieutenant stood up, looking at the road leading to Ahhe in the darkness ahead, his brow furrowed.
"They're just ahead. Notify the main force that those rats are about to cross the river."
……
Ahead, in the dark rain and mist, the outline of a stone arch bridge finally came into view.
The A River flows right under the bridge.
The river, which was usually unremarkable, appeared exceptionally turbulent now that the water level was high.
Arthur stood atop the Verdun's turret, letting the cold wind blow into his leather jacket. He looked at the bridge, at the blue dotted line on the RTS map that represented the area affected by the "Stop Advance" command.
That's the end. And also the beginning.
"General Guderian."
Arthur took the silver cigarette case out of his pocket, flicked out a cigar, but found that his lighter wouldn't light.
He gave a self-deprecating laugh and put the cigar away.
"Looks like you're going to be late for our date."
Even if it's only five minutes, it's still being late.
The convoy roared onto the approach bridge.
Behind them, countless headlights had merged into a sea of light, a death stare from the German armored formation.