ATPnovel Chapter 64 Leave the noise to the dead
Chapter 64 Leave the noise to the dead
Chapter 64 Leave the noise to the dead
1940年6月4日，01：00伯尔格以南，德军第10装甲师前线指挥部。
"Reporting to the General! Urgent message from the forward listening post!"
The communications officer abruptly pushed open the heavy wooden door of the bunker, his face filled with surprise and uncertainty.
Upon hearing the report, Lieutenant General Schar, commander of the 10th Panzer Division, didn't even turn his head: "The British have surrendered?"
"No, sir. They—started the engine."
Lieutenant General Shar turned abruptly and strode to the observation window.
In the night wind, besides that damned, deafening "March of the Greats," a low, dense rumble of machinery could be faintly heard. It was the sound of heavy engines idling and revving, and reflected off the ancient city walls, it sounded like dozens of tanks were gathering.
"Where is the sound coming from?" Shar asked sharply.
"West of Berg and along the main road. It's very noisy, it sounds like—" The staff officer swallowed hard, "like they're warming up the engines, preparing to launch an attack."
Schar's pupils contracted slightly.
Surrounded and desperate, instead of surrendering, they loudly played military music and assembled tanks. There can only be one explanation—a desperate struggle. The "ghost commander" wanted to use the cover of night to launch a suicidal armored breakout, or perhaps turn the tables on them.
But then, an even more terrifying thought flashed through his mind.
"No—it's not just a desperate struggle." Shar stared into the darkness, his expression turning grave. "That ghost commander," though insane, never fought an unprepared battle.
He turned sharply to look at the map, pointing heavily at the location of Dunkirk Beach.
"What if we're not just facing a remnant army? What if the British are secretly supplying us with provisions and fuel from the beaches? Or even—what if a new, well-equipped armored force has just arrived at Dunkirk from the British mainland and is moving from north to south, attempting to help the defenders of Berg break out?"
The staff officer was stunned: "This—is this even possible? Under our air attack?"
"That's the Royal Navy! Never underestimate their ability to bring strange things ashore!" Schar's voice rose a few decibels, the increasingly loud engine roar outside the window seemingly confirming his guess. "Judging from this noise, there's at least a fully equipped armored battalion! Those B1 tanks are probably already prepared, waiting for us to expose our flanks to them in urban warfare!"
This is a typical reverse tactic of "encircling the enemy's stronghold and attacking their reinforcements"—feigning weakness while actually preparing to strike.
Schall dared not gamble. The war was nearing its end, and he did not want the 10th Armored Division to become a sacrifice in the British counterattack at the last moment.
"Order the vanguard battalion to halt the advance immediately! Shift to a defensive posture across the entire front!" Shal issued a death order. "Move all anti-tank guns up there and block the road! Call in the heavy artillery group; I'm going to conduct a barrage after dawn—but before that, no one is to set foot in that city! Prevent a counter-attack by enemy armored forces!"
1940年6月4日，01：05伯尔格西侧，暗巷集结点。
[Enemy Status: Extremely Vigilant – Misjudged as "Enemy Main Force Reinforcements"]
】
[Enemy Movement: All advances halted, transition to defense]
[Fraud Effect: Perfect]
Arthur glanced at the pleasing green text on his retina and a smile played on his lips.
He then shifted his gaze from the virtual interface to the deathly still shadow before him.
The more cautious the Germans were, and the more they focused all their attention on guarding against the non-existent "armored counterattack," the safer their real rat army became.
If the central square a few hundred meters away is a deafening "concert of the dead" belonging to a Wagnerian grand narrative, then here, in the shadows behind the city, is a pantomime belonging to rats.
In stark and absurd contrast to the deafening "March of the Greats" emanating from the broadcasting tower, was a deathly silent procession.
This is Arthur's "Ghost Army".
What a miserable team this is.
The main body of this force—the French 12th Motorized Infantry Division—was a well-organized and well-equipped mechanized steel formation with 15,000 soldiers when it withdrew from the Belgian defenses just two weeks ago.
Now, after the defeat at the Meuse River, the bloodshed at the Somme River, and the meat grinder in Berg these past two days, those who are already lying forever in the ruins and those who can only stay in the city to wait for death have been eliminated. There are less than 1,300 people left standing here.
Arthur's "Sterling Battle Group" wasn't much better off. That assault group of over three hundred men, who had fought their way out of the monastery and even dared to confront the 1st Armored Division head-on, now only had 162 familiar faces left. The rest were either cold names on a list or piles of corpses used to disguise sentries.
At this moment, the 1,428 soldiers, wounded, and civilian personnel were like a group of gray rats, crawling along the pre-surveyed retreat route, close to the wall.
This was no longer an army; it was more like a group of beggars fleeing from disaster.
They discarded all equipment that could make a sound; helmets were left on the position as bait, bayonet sheaths were thrown into the trash heap, and even canteens were wrapped in thick cotton cloth.
Arthur made an extremely ruthless "subtraction".
In pursuit of speed, the four B1Bis heavy tanks, which could be like mobile fortresses, and the four captured Panzer III tanks painted with the Iron Cross—these "knights" who had once been their lifesavers—were all ruthlessly abandoned in the city. At this moment, they were there, their engines revving wildly, playing the role of the "main reinforcement force" that Lieutenant General Shar had envisioned.
But he clung tightly to one thing—the wheel.
Arthur knew very well that with so many wounded, it was impossible to cross the nine-kilometer death zone and reach the port before dawn on foot.
So, in the center of this silent column was a convoy of vehicles, pushed by soldiers with their shoulders and the engines off, relying on manpower to move quietly: six German-made Sd.Kfz.251 half-tracks that were still running, and more than twenty French-made Citroën trucks salvaged from the wreckage of the 12th Division.
These vehicles were their last Noah's Ark. To muffle the noise, each vehicle's tires were wrapped with thick, tattered blankets, steel wool was stuffed into the exhaust pipes, and even the side panels were removed to reduce weight. To survive, they abandoned armor and chose speed.
All of their military boots were covered with thick rags.
The fabrics came from all sorts of sources: blood-stained scraps of military overcoats ripped from the dead, yellowed bandages used in hospitals, and even velvet curtains scavenged from civilian homes. These fabrics, once expensive or cheap, were now roughly wrapped around mud-covered leather boots and tightly bound with wire and hemp rope.
So when these thousand-plus pairs of feet stepped on the street littered with broken bricks and shards of glass, the crisp cracking sound that should have been produced turned into a dull, thumping sound, like the beating of a heart.
No one spoke. No one coughed. This silence wasn't trained; it was forced out by death.
The mouths of the seriously wounded were forcibly stuffed with a piece of cork or a wad of gauze—to prevent them from uttering even a single, uncontrollable groan amidst the excruciating pain. Several soldiers with only one leg were carried on the backs of their comrades, their jaws clenched tightly around the piece of wood, cold sweat streaming down their foreheads and into their eyes, yet they dared not even breathe.
"Hurry—hurry up—" Jeanne stood in the shadows at the street corner, like a ghostly train conductor checking tickets.
Her oversized men's military uniform was soaked with sweat. She wasn't holding a weapon, but a pocket watch, anxiously calculating the time.
The grand "March of the Great" became the best cover.
The stirring timpani and resounding brass instruments acted like an invisible soundproof wall, perfectly masking the friction of wounded soldiers dragging their broken legs, the soft thud of stretchers hitting the walls, and the inevitable rustling noises of thousands marching together.
Arthur stood at the entrance to the sewer. It had once been a huge storm drain, but the iron fence had been silently sawed through by engineers, revealing a dark, gaping hole that looked like the throat of a monster.
He watched as dark figures passed by him one by one.
Major General Mori walked in the middle of the group.
The stubborn old Frenchman refused the stretcher. His left arm was slinged across his chest, the blood seeping through the bandages turning black. His right hand gripped tightly the MAS-38 submachine gun, which had few bullets left. With each step, his lungs emitted a labored, labored breathing sound.
But he walked very steadily.
As he passed by Arthur, the two exchanged no words, but in the dim moonlight, they exchanged a glance that only professional soldiers could understand.
See you alive.
Jeanne was the last to arrive.
She had just run down from the clock tower and shut off the charging circuit for the high-powered battery.
"Sir," Jeanne's voice was low, almost a whisper, panting from running, "the battery is off. At the current voltage, the phonograph can run for another two hours."
"That's enough."
Arthur nodded, his eyes showing no emotion.
He turned around one last time and looked at the city behind him.
From this angle, he could see the flames shooting into the sky from the direction of the central square.
The city was still brightly lit, and the stirring march that represented the glory of the British Empire still echoed.
Those dead "sentinels" still stand at their posts—those hundreds of corpses still lie on the window frames, still clutching anti-tank mines, still staring with their empty eye sockets in the direction the Germans came from.
Those B1 tanks, now out of fuel, still proudly pointed their guns at the intersection, as if ready to unleash their fury at any moment.
They are the best actors.
They used their deaths to buy the living this final moment.
Goodbye, brothers.
Arthur gave a standard British military salute to the corpses left on the battlefield and to the city that was about to become a graveyard.
01:20, one kilometer outside Berg, a secluded spot on the D916 highway.
The convoy was pushed here. This place was out of the Germans' direct line of fire, and the surrounding area was a dark, open field.
They did not encounter any German soldiers along the way. This was not a blessing from God, but a tactical reward for the three days and two nights of bloody slaughter.
Because the French 12th Division, like a rusty steel nail, firmly anchored itself in the crucial third of the city west of Berg, the main force of the German 10th Panzer Division was firmly pinned down on the city's front and southern sides. In the densely networked, muddy terrain of the Flanders Lowlands, as long as Berg, this transportation hub, did not fall completely, the German mechanized forces could not complete their tactical withdrawal, let alone outflank them to cut off their retreat.
At this moment, the road to Dunkirk was empty, with no roadblocks or German ambush posts.
This survival passage was forcibly opened up using those thousands of corpses.
"Now," Arthur commanded.
"Everyone, take off the soundproofing cloths and start the engines!"
That's his tactic—using the engine to cover up the engine!
Since the Germans had already heard the roar of the fake tanks in the city, the sound of dozens more engines would only mean to them that the "attacking force" was a little larger.
"Boom boom—!!"
More than twenty Citroën trucks and half-tracks were awakened almost simultaneously. The mechanical beasts, suppressed for so long, roared.
In the stillness of the night, such noise would have been enough to draw the fire of an entire armored division. But at this moment, under the cover of the grand background music and the roar of decoys within the city, the engine sounds of this convoy blended perfectly into the night's symphony of noise.
"Forward! Destination: Dunkirk! Full speed ahead!"
Arthur slammed his fist on the metal cockpit and roared.
The wheels rolled over the gravel road, kicking up clouds of dust. The convoy no longer tried to hide or proceed with caution, but instead charged onto the highway leading to the coast with a frenzied speed.
The wind howled as it rushed into the carriage, dispersing the smell of blood from the wounded soldiers.
Major General Rangsen sat in the bumpy back of the truck, watching the burning city of Berg grow ever more distant, and watching the tracer rounds representing the German army fire wildly at the deserted ruins of the city.
He suddenly laughed, and as he laughed, tears began to stream down his face.
"We lied to them—" the old general muttered to himself, gripping the railing tightly beside him, "Arthur—we really lied to them."
01:45, Dunkirk's outer defensive line.
When the convoy, riddled with bullet holes and with tattered rags still clinging to its tires, sped past the outer checkpoint, the military police on guard could hardly believe their eyes.
They saw a ghost convoy returning from hell.
The car stopped.
Arthur jumped out of the car, his legs trembling slightly from the long stretch of tension. The sea breeze blew in, carrying the smells of salt, oil, and freedom.
He glanced behind him. The nine-kilometer road to death was now left behind.
[Hint: The breakout from Berg has been completed]
Number of survivors: 1428
[Achievement: Master of Deception (Successfully completed a mechanized withdrawal right under the enemy's nose by exploiting psychological blind spots and sound effects)]
Arthur pulled the last cigarette from his pocket—he was out of cigars—and then struck a match.
The flames flickered, illuminating his face, which was covered in soot and weary. He took a deep breath, feeling the pungent nicotine fill his lungs.
Arthur flicked away his cigarette ash, and facing the burning city, facing the "brothers" who had held their ground for them, he said softly, "The curtain falls, gentlemen."
Just then.
The radio tower in the distance, already riddled with holes from the bombing, seemed to have finally given way, or perhaps a large-caliber grenade had hit its base directly.
When—sizzle—
The rousing music abruptly stopped.
Like a rooster whose neck has been suddenly snapped, the world fell into a deathly silence.
The sudden silence was even more deafening than the sound of cannon fire.
A few seconds later.
The angry roars of German soldiers, the roar of tank engines, and the faint sound of dense machine gun fire could be heard as the German attack began.
Perhaps at dawn, Lieutenant General Shar will find that they bombed a pile of corpses, a few empty tanks, and a phonograph for half the night, and were stuck for a full three hours because of it.
The anger of being humiliated was probably even stronger than that of being defeated.
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