roccoschili Chapter 17 The Ghost in the Radio
Chapter 17 The Ghost in the Radio
In northern France, about 15 kilometers from the outer defense line of Dunkirk and five kilometers west of the D916 highway, in an unnamed birch forest, at 14:45 on May 30, 1940, the weather was overcast and cold with low-hanging stratocumulus clouds and moderate visibility, suitable for Stuka dive bombing.
The wheels crushed the dry branches, making a teeth-grinding, crisp sound.
Three Opel Lightning 3-ton trucks struggled along the bumpy dirt road through the forest.
The Iron Cross markings on the vehicle were completely covered in mud, and the tactical number that was originally hanging on the front of the vehicle had been deliberately scratched off.
This convoy looked like a scattered German transport unit, a common sight during the Battle of France. Of course, it could also be a British rout fleeing in captured vehicles—on such a chaotic front, no one would give it a second glance.
But that's exactly the disguise Arthur wanted.
In the passenger seat of the middle truck, Arthur mechanically swayed with the vehicle's movements. The scenery outside the window was a monotonous gray-brown, with dead trees receding like rows of tombstones.
The carriage was deathly silent, save for the deep, steady rumble of the inline six-cylinder gasoline engine—a testament to the pride of German industry, more sophisticated and colder than the British Bedford truck.
Arthur's eyes were bloodshot, and he was clutching something tightly in his hand.
It was a coarse cloth doll, no bigger than the palm of your hand.
Its workmanship was rough, the stitches crooked and uneven, clearly made by a child. The once pink floral dress was now stained with white dust—flour, carrying the distinctive aroma of wheat from the mill, the last trace left by its little owner. One of the doll's plastic button eyes wobbled precariously, its empty reflection mirroring Arthur's expressionless face.
This was two hours earlier, when the convoy had just started its engines to leave, and the little girl named Sophie had stood on tiptoe and shoved it into his hand through the car window.
"Its name is Bobo, and it will protect you, big brother."
That was the last thing she said to him, with an innocent and trusting smile.
It remains intact, even retaining its warmth. However, the little girl who vowed to protect him, along with the stubborn old man, has now become a wisp of soul in the black column of smoke that soars into the sky behind them.
War played a cruel joke on everyone. The warriors with destructive power survived, holding the toys of the weak; while the weak, who should have been protected, turned to ashes.
"Sir..." Sergeant Jack carefully shifted gears in the driver's seat, the Opel truck's transmission making a smooth meshing sound. "We're at the edge of the swamp in about five kilometers ahead. Should we...?"
Arthur ignored him, as if he hadn't heard.
As the convoy sped north, the holographic map in his mind seemed to be washed away by some invisible high-frequency data stream, becoming clearer than ever before. The closer they got to Dunkirk, the more thoroughly the "fog of war" that shrouded the battlefield dissipated due to the increased density of friendly units, revealing the bloodiest cross-section of the entire French campaign nakedly before Arthur's eyes.
From this God's-eye view, which only he can see, the battle lines on the huge map representing northern France are shattered, like a broken emerald scattered in a sea of red blood.
The green dots representing the Anglo-French forces were frantically shrinking towards the narrow coastline of Dunkirk, while the red arrows representing the German army, like viruses surging in arteries, were devouring Europe's last immune system at an alarming rate, frantically squeezing out the last bit of living space.
Looking south, Azheim had turned into a blinding, deathly red.
The green lights there had gone out completely a few hours earlier. Guderian's 19th Panzer Corps, or more precisely, the 10th Panzer Division's tank tracks had crushed the last resistance there, turning this transportation hub into a logistics hub for the Wehrmacht.
But in the Kassel Heights, an extremely unusual data turbulence was observed.
According to the original historical trajectory, that place should have fallen yesterday. But at this moment, the green lights representing the British Gloucester Regiment and the Oxford Buckingham Light Infantry Regiment still stubbornly flicker on that hill. This is the storm caused by Arthur, the "butterfly," flapping his wings—because he disrupted the German deployment in the previous battle, causing the main force of the German 6th Panzer Division to be unexpectedly slowed down.
While this doesn't change the overall outcome, the fall of Kassel is still only a matter of time, and the British troops there are destined to be sacrificed. But at least for the next 48 hours, the German army will be unable to cross this hill. For the hundreds of thousands of people on the beach, this two-day delay represents a difference between life and death.
The same applies to Arthur and his group.
The camera zooms out further, revealing a breathtakingly dynamic battlefield:
Heinz Guderian's 19th Panzer Corps, like a red-hot scalpel, cut in from the west, attempting to cut off the Allied forces' last escape route.
Meanwhile, Erwin Rommel's 7th Panzer Division—the "Ghost Division" that struck fear into the hearts of the Allies—was still on a rampage.
The last time Arthur caught sight of this unit designation on the edge of the system's field of vision was two days ago, west of Azhebrew. At that time, the unit's logistics column had fallen behind the main force's advance, which gave Arthur the opportunity to "take over" these Opel "Lightning" trucks.
However, less than 48 hours later, Rommel's main force had completely broken free of logistics, drawing an unbelievable red zigzag line on the map and advancing nearly 300 kilometers at breakneck speed.
They were like a pack of mad dogs devoid of pain, or some kind of sophisticated, tireless mechanical monster, who had forcibly penetrated the outskirts of Lille and were working with the infantry to tightly strangle the French First Army, which was fighting to the death there.
In Arthur's system interface, the sharp arrow representing the vanguard of the 7th Armored Division was pulsating at a heart-stopping frequency—every half hour, the coordinates would advance once.
That was the rapid updating of data, the sound of the defensive line collapsing. Each tick meant another French defensive line was torn apart, another few kilometers of land falling beneath the tracks. Rommel was mocking all the Allied generals still regurgitating outdated tactical manuals with this near-suicidal speed of advance.
On a broader level, General Bock's Army Group B, like a heavy hammer, came crashing down from Belgium, gradually converging with Rundstedt's Army Group A, which was wielding a sickle from the south.
Amidst this devastating attack, only a single green dot offered Arthur a small measure of reassurance.
That was the 3rd Infantry Division led by Major General Bernard Montgomery.
Not only because of historical prestige, Arthur knew that Montgomery would not die or become a prisoner of the Third Reich, at least not at Dunkirk.
Judging from their performance, amidst the chaotic retreat on the RTS map, the 3rd Division's unit movement was like a precisely ticking clock. They were executing textbook-perfect, intricate flank maneuvers, filling the fatal gaps left by the Belgian army's surrender. Montgomery was using his almost rigidly calm rationality to forcefully prop up a crumbling pillar on the collapsing defenses.
But overall, this disastrous battle...
"Full of loopholes, full of despair," Arthur coldly remarked to himself.
His gaze finally returned, fixed firmly on a position five kilometers behind him.
There, the two green neutral units that originally represented the miller and his grandson had long since been extinguished. In their place were dozens of glaring red units—a mechanized infantry company of the "Skeleton Division."
They gathered there, like a pack of hyenas that had smelled blood, wreaking havoc on the ruins.
Beneath those grand strategic arrows representing national will and the torrent of steel, those two extinguished, faint points of light were so insignificant that they didn't even deserve a place in the casualty statistics. On the chessboard of the most brutal war in human history, they weren't even considered "pawns" to be expended; at best, they were just two specks of dust kicked up by iron hooves and pressed down by blood.
However, it is precisely these billions of silently extinguished dust particles that solidify the so-called "history" and "territory." Grand narratives are always keen to glorify the monuments of conquerors, but often deliberately forget—beneath that cold throne, how many such warm ashes were laid?
They are resting.
Arthur could even see through the system's detailed data that several red dots representing vehicles were in a "stationary/engine off" state. They were making coffee, smoking, and mocking the "stupid" French old man they had killed.
The vanguard company of the 3rd Mechanized Infantry Regiment of the "Skull Division" was not wandering aimlessly when it appeared here.
Based on blurry photos sent back by an air force reconnaissance plane half an hour earlier, the intelligence officer confidently drew a red circle on the map—claiming that a remnant of elite French troops, "attempting to cut off the German flank," was lurking in this area. To remove this thorn in their side, they were fully armed, even at the heavy cost of five elite reconnaissance soldiers killed in action—a "gift" left by Arthur earlier.
Fueled by vengeful fury and a thirst for fierce battle, the heavily armed soldiers charged aggressively toward the coordinates.
However, reality gave these fanatics a resounding slap in the face.
When the half-track crashed through the fence and machine guns were pointed at the gate, they were met not by any regular French troops, not by any cleverly disguised machine gun positions, and not even by a decent trench.
There was only a dilapidated mill swaying precariously in the wind, an old French man holding an old-fashioned double-barreled shotgun with eyes as hard and unpleasant as stone, and a shivering little girl.
This was an extremely unprofitable deal.
The lives of five elite soldiers were exchanged for two worthless civilians. There were no battle merits, no glory, and certainly no Iron Cross. At that moment, the only thing permeating the SS company was the immense humiliation of the intelligence failure, and the brutal anger of punching cotton.
Therefore, in order to justify this fuel consumption, or simply to vent the pent-up brutality accumulated during the rapid advance, they unilaterally labeled the two unarmed civilians as "French resistance fighters."
In their logic, killing someone means eliminating the threat; burning down a house means destroying the stronghold.
At this moment, the murderers sat comfortably on the still-warm hood of the armored vehicle, brewing rich coffee in aluminum lunchboxes and smoking cigarettes they had stolen from the mill. They laughed loudly, mocking the "foolish" old Frenchman who had tried to fight the entire armored infantry company with a double-barreled shotgun, as if they had just accomplished not a despicable murder, but a major offensive worthy of being highlighted in the battle report.
Arthur's fingers unconsciously tightened, and the rag doll deformed slightly in his palm.
Before this, this world might have seemed to him simply as an incredibly realistic hardcore RTS game. Soldiers were resources, civilians were environmental textures, and deaths were the kill ratio. He could calmly calculate the input and output, and could effortlessly employ tactical deception, manipulating these NPCs like a skilled player.
But the not-so-soft rag doll in his hand completely shattered his sense of superiority and alienation as a time traveler.
There are no NPCs here.
Every unit destroyed represents the end of a precious life. Every tactical decision he made drained the lifeblood of innocent victims.
A chill I'd never felt before crept up my spine to the back of my head, then transformed into a scalding, almost molten, killing intent. This killing intent was no longer the impulsive urge of hot-blooded rage, but rather like cooled steel—hard, sharp, and precise.
"Stop the car," Arthur suddenly said.
Jack was startled and instinctively slammed on the brakes. The Opel truck's hydraulic braking system was highly responsive; the heavy vehicle slid half a meter through the mud before coming to a steady stop.
"Sir? It's not safe here. The German advance reconnaissance vehicle is only two kilometers away from our route..."
"I know." Arthur pushed open the car door and jumped out. His military boots sank into the cold mud, but he didn't notice. He carefully stuffed the rag doll into his jacket pocket, close to his heart, then walked to the middle of the convoy and slammed his fist on the metal plate of the second truck.
"Lieutenant Jeanne, take that FuG 5 vehicle radio you got from Rommel's supply convoy, and that briefcase. Get out."
The canvas was lifted, revealing Lieutenant Jeanne's face, stained with soot and tears. She looked at Arthur with vacant eyes, as if her soul remained in the burning mill.
"Execute orders, Lieutenant." Arthur's voice was devoid of warmth. "If you want to cry, wait until we get to London. Now, I need you to kill someone for me."
Upon hearing the word "murder," a glimmer of light suddenly flashed in Jeanne's previously dull eyes. She bit her lip until she tasted blood, then grabbed the heavy black radio box and stumbled out of the car.
Arthur looked around. The grove was situated on a gentle slope, with sparse canopies that offered a clear view of the open sky to the southeast, and further away, the plume of black smoke still rising.
"Set up the antenna and connect it directly to the Opel truck's battery. I want to transmit at maximum power." Arthur pulled out the blood-stained German codebook from his pocket. It had been taken from the body of the SS lieutenant who had been riddled with bullets, and now it had become Death's roster.
"For the next fifteen minutes, we will no longer be the British Coldstream Guards."
He turned his head and looked at Jeanne, who was skillfully connecting the power cord. A cruel smile appeared on his lips, and his eyes flashed with rational madness.
"We will be the frontline tactical guidance group of the German Air Force's 8th Air Wing."
……
Five minutes later, the makeshift radio station was set up on the hood of the Opel truck.
The vacuum tubes of the FuG 5 vehicle radio emitted a faint red glow, accompanied by a buzzing sound. This sophisticated German-made instrument was currently connected to that chaotic and vast war network.
Arthur squatted in front of the radio, his fingers expertly fine-tuning the frequency knob.
The headsets were filled with a cacophony of German shouts, encrypted Morse code, and various call signs. The airspace over northern France was a chaotic mess of radio waves, like a giant, out-of-control stock exchange. Guderian's armored formations were advancing too fast; coordination between ground forces and the air force had become severely disrupted, with vanguard tanks sometimes even entering the bombing range of Stuka bombers.
This is the opportunity. The fog of war has not only blinded us, but also blocked our ears.
"Found it." Arthur's finger stopped.
A clear but slightly agitated voice came through the headphones, accompanied by the distinct roar of the Yumo 211D liquid-cooled engine in the background:
"...This is Geier Squadron, calling ground control! Damn it, can anyone hear us? We've reached the designated airspace, D-9 is full of smoke, target not found! Repeat, target not found! Where are those damn French heavy tanks? We're low on fuel! Over."
Arthur raised his head and looked up at the sky.
Above the thick clouds, the distinctive low rumble of piston engines could be faintly heard. It was a group of Junkers Ju-87 "Stuka" dive bombers.
That was an aerial reinforcement that the Skeleton Master had called for in advance!
Death hovers overhead, searching for its prey.
Arthur closed his eyes and switched to the RTS interface.
On his system map, six red flying units representing the "Vulture Squadron" hovered above them like headless flies. Meanwhile, the Skull Division's armored grenadier company, which had just finished massacring the mill and was resting, was five kilometers southeast of these Stukas.
The straight-line distance is 5000 meters. This is the perfect distance for "using someone else to do the dirty work".
"Jeanne." Arthur handed her the earpiece, then spread the codebook open on the muddy hood, pointing to a line of red call sign codes. "These Stukas can't find their target and are seething with anger. I need you to show them the way."
Jeanne quickly pressed the microphone to her throat, her fingertips trembling with extreme excitement. It wasn't fear, but the shudder of a hunter cornered and finally gripping his rifle. Her once dull eyes were now burning brightly, enough to rekindle the light in that mill.
She stared intently at Arthur, awaiting the lord's final instructions.
"What... is it?" She took a deep breath, trying to suppress the trembling of her voice.
"Your identity: Lieutenant Schmidt, Senior Liaison Officer, 2nd Air Support Squadron."
Arthur rattled off the name in a very fast voice.
This was not a fabricated name. On the edge of his RTS system interface, on the gray bar representing "confirmed enemy unit kill," the name was clearly written—it was the SS reconnaissance platoon leader whose jaw had been smashed by a burst of bullets before he even had a chance to light a cigarette at the mill gate.
Using the names of the dead to summon the Grim Reaper's bombardment—that's the right way to do it.
"Also, shut up your French accent and lift your chin. I want to hear the most authentic, arrogant, and haughty Prussian Junker accent. Tell those blind men flying in the sky, like you're reprimanding a servant, that you've spotted a French Char B1 heavy tank company attempting to flank our forces."
Having said that, Arthur's gaze swept across the RTS map in his mind. His eyes cut through the fog of war and coldly locked onto the open area east of the mill—those red dots representing German half-track vehicles.
He recited a series of death parameters, accurate to the meter, without any expression:
"Coordinates locked: Sector D-9, reference point 334, gathering point 500 meters due east of the mill ruins."