ATPnovel Chapter 37 Thunder in the Valley
Chapter 37 Thunder in the Valley
In that narrow canyon, which could easily induce claustrophobia, the air seemed to stand still at that moment.
Only the engine of the Sd.Kfz. 232 eight-wheeled heavy reconnaissance vehicle roared softly, like a hunting dog that had smelled blood but dared not bite.
Major Heinrich von Stransky was squeezed into the passenger seat of the half-track at the rear, his body swaying with the vehicle's bumps.
But his straightened back and the gleaming riding boots polished by his orderly preserved the last vestiges of dignity for this Prussian officer.
"parking."
Strunzsky's voice was amplified through the throat microphone throughout the front row.
The convoy stopped 200 meters from the "S" bend.
Through the high-powered lens of the Zeiss telescope, Strunzsky stared intently at the chaotic scene before him.
It's too messy.
Stransky surveyed the "crime scene" ahead.
The three Opel Lightning trucks lay sprawled on the narrow roadbed, like several gutted dead pigs.
The trampled wool blankets, the corned beef cans scattered everywhere, the Lee-Enfield rifle with its stock broken, and the two British khaki uniforms lying in the mud, soaked with blood and rain.
This appears to be a hysterical rout.
It seems that the opponent named AS did not hesitate to cut off these heavy "fat" in order to make his tracks turn faster.
But Strunzsky's brow did not relax; instead, it furrowed even more.
He felt there was something off about the scene:
Where are those four B1 bis tanks with 60mm thick armor that nearly wiped out his entire force two hours ago? And where are those stolen Panzer III tanks?
If it were an air raid, tanks would usually be the Stuka's primary target. So why were these unprotected pickup trucks left at the scene?
That's not quite right.
But he was certain that this was what AS had thrown down.
He remembered it clearly, and could even recite the white tactical numbers on the mudguards of those trucks he had only met once—without a doubt, these were the supply wagons of the Third Reich that had disappeared with that group of British bandits.
"Sir, it looks like Stuka's masterpiece."
The adjutant beside him lowered his binoculars, his tone relaxed. "Looks like the air force guys weren't exaggerating this time. The British were stunned by the bombing; they didn't even have time to burn this entire convoy of supplies before they ran away."
"Yeah?"
Strunzsky coldly retorted without putting down his binoculars.
His intuition—that instinctive sense of danger honed through countless hunts—was frantically alarming him.
so perfect.
But that's precisely the problem—it's too much like a textbook.
Strunzsky squinted, his fingers unconsciously stroking the focusing wheel of the telescope.
Would that mysterious adversary who left the abbreviation "AS" on the sticky note, that madman who could make the cumbersome and slow B1 tank dance like a waltz and even make the 19th Army run around in circles, really be scared into surrendering like a coward by the shrieking of a few Stukas?
His intuition told him it was unlikely.
A lion may temporarily retreat when facing a powerful enemy, but it will never throw away its lunch like a frightened rabbit.
"Don't let your guard down."
Stransky couldn't think of much for the moment, so he pressed his throat microphone, his voice sounding particularly somber on the channel:
"Get the engineers forward. Take their mine detectors. I want them to inspect every inch of the road."
"Note that it's every inch."
Two German soldiers, dressed in gray-green engineer uniforms, carefully emerged from behind the half-track, holding a long pole that resembled a metal detector.
They were like penguins walking on ice, taking one step at a time.
"Drip... drip... drip..."
The mine detector's headset only emitted a monotonous electrical hum.
No response.
There were no "iron plates" (Tellermine 35 anti-tank mines) buried on the road that could sever tracks, nor were there any of those vicious pressure-activated tripwires.
As the engineers advanced, the atmosphere in the lead convoy began to become subtle.
Human fears often stem from the unknown.
Once it's certain that the ground is safe, another, more primal instinct quickly takes over the brain—greed.
"Kurt, look at that!"
The lead sapper suddenly stopped, nearly dropping his mine detector. He pointed to a crate of goods that had slid out of the overturned truck:
"Oh my god...it's cigarettes! It's Player's Navy Cut! The kind with the sailor design!"
This British Navy shredded tobacco was a hard currency, harder than gold, among the German front-line troops who were facing tobacco shortages. A tin of this tobacco could be exchanged on the Paris black market for a whole week's worth of a French woman's affection, or two bottles of the finest vintage brandy.
And now, there are dozens of boxes here.
It's not just cigarettes.
As their line of sight extended further, the German soldiers saw even more things that made their throats dry:
Those boxes of unopened corned beef cans (although the British cooking skills are terrible, their beef portions are indeed generous), those German chocolates carefully wrapped in oil paper, and those wooden crates that look like whiskey.
"Damn...the British have practically brought half of London's grocery stores here."
The sapper, who had been cautiously searching for landmines, subconsciously swallowed. He glanced back at the command vehicle behind him, then secretly stuck out his foot, trying to kick a can of beef that had rolled to the side of the road into the ditch—a typical act of "spying."
In that instant, the so-called discipline and tactical skills showed cracks in the face of the lure of material resources.
Strunzsky sat in the car, watching the scene with a furrowed brow.
Although he wanted to execute the sapper for this violation of discipline, he had to admit that even he himself was tempted.
This was not his well-trained Großdeutschland Regiment Panzer Reconnaissance Battalion—the unfortunate company he brought had been sent to hell or was wailing on the roadside by that British madman two hours earlier—this was just a temporary reinforcement that Heinz Guderian had given him.
These young men from the advance reconnaissance company of the 1st Armored Division, despite being energetic and well-equipped, showed no difference in their greedy attitude towards "spoils of war" compared to those seasoned veterans.
After all, even the Führer's elite troops were eating tasteless rye bread and margarine.
In contrast, he has even less control over this fresh blood.
Moreover, they faced a serious problem: whether it was Stransky's Großdeutschland Regiment, Guderian's 1st Panzer Division, or Rommel's 7th Panzer Division, their supplies were cut off.
Since breaking through Sedan, in order to maintain that damned "blitzkrieg speed," the logistics trucks had long been left dozens of kilometers behind. Although the soldiers who had just joined his command had not yet experienced the exhaustion he felt yesterday when he chased the enemy for a day and a night, crossed the A River, and ran ahead of them, they had also not eaten breakfast and their stomachs were already empty.
And these things before us—real beef, real tobacco, and warming alcohol—are undoubtedly a more valuable reward than any medal.
"Let them take it."
Stransky scoffed inwardly.
As a shrewd commander, he knew how to manage this hastily assembled group of men. Since long-term loyalty couldn't be used to bind them, he would use immediate benefits to buy them off.
If you give them a taste of sweetness, these German Shepherds will tear at their prey, named "AS," even more frantically for the next bone.
"Push those trucks blocking the road to the side first."
Sstránsky eventually compromised, but he maintained his last vestige of professional vigilance:
"Hurry up! Aside from the necessary supplies, don't waste too much time in these garbage dumps! Get the 3rd Company up here as soon as possible and prepare for traction."
However, at that moment, the commander of the eight-wheeled armored vehicle, who had been at the forefront of the column conducting reconnaissance, let out a startled cry over the radio:
"Major! You'd better take a look at this!"
"We found...that thing behind the convoy."
When Stransky rounded the bend and saw the Sd.Kfz. 251/6 command vehicle parked quietly in the middle of the road, his pupils instantly contracted to the size of pinpoints.
He didn't need to check the unique tactical numbers on the vehicles like he would with the three trucks.
In fact, the entire 19th Panzer Corps, and even every Prussian soldier of the Third Reich who wasn't blind, knew this steel monster in his eyes like the back of his hand.
Thanks to Dr. Joseph Goebbels's pervasive propaganda machine, this half-track, equipped with an additional FuG 11 radio and painted with a huge white "G" logo, has been featured more often than actresses from the Berlin-based Ufa Film Company in the past few months.
It appeared countless times on the front page of the Volksshofer newspaper, against the backdrop of burning Polish villages or collapsing French defenses.
It is the mobile throne of "Rapid Heinz," the steel pulpit from which the godfather of Blitzkrieg preached the aesthetics of violence to the world.
And now, the symbol of this empire is abandoned here like a cheap roadside stall.
That vehicle not only represented the supreme command of the 19th Panzer Corps, but also the face of the entire German armored forces.
At this moment, it is like a lost child, or more accurately, like a hostage who has been kidnapped and abandoned, standing alone in this cold and gloomy canyon.
On the hood of that car, the deep red bottle of Bordeaux wine stood out so conspicuously.
Strunzsky pushed aside the adjutant who tried to stop him and strode forward. His boots made a crisp sound on the gravel.
He saw the note under the bottle.
He reached out, but instead of taking the bottle of wine, he pulled out the note.
To General Heinz Wilhelm Guderian:
Your Stuka's aim is a bit off, but the wine should taste good. — British Expeditionary Force, AS, a ghost that should have been blown up.
Looking at the elegant and flowing cursive German script, and at the sarcastic signature, Sstránsky felt a surge of heat rush to his head.
This is an insult.
This is like defecating on the necks of the Prussian officer corps!
This Englishman not only stole the general's car and drank the general's wine, but also deliberately parked the car here, leaving the bottle of wine as if feeding a dog, to mock the incompetence of the entire 1st Panzer Division and the Großdeutschland Regiment!
"asshole……"
Strunzsky's hands were trembling. He crumpled the note into a ball and threw it hard on the ground.
That Junker aristocratic composure, that hunter's patience, was utterly shattered in that instant. In its place came a furious rage born of being toyed with.
"Tow that car away!"
Sstránsky turned around and roared at the soldiers behind him, his face flushed red and the veins on his neck bulging:
"Push all this garbage out of the way! Full speed ahead! I'm going to catch that bastard! I'm going to hang him on a tank cannon barrel and let him dry!"
With the commander's emotions released, the final shackles were broken.
Two half-track vehicles and an engineering repair vehicle converted from a Panzer III chassis rumbled up behind them. Dozens of German infantrymen jumped off and began to shove and push the Opel trucks blocking the intersection.
They didn't even bother to check under the car.
Because the officer was angry. And everyone wanted to get those trucks loaded with good stuff to the side of the road as quickly as possible so they could steal some during the march.
A burly German sergeant skillfully jumped into the cab of an Opel truck and attempted to release the handbrake.
His boots accidentally kicked a black wooden box under the driver's seat.
Behind that wooden box, a thin copper wire was connected to the 808 plastic explosive that Miller had attached to the drive shaft.
collapse.
It was an extremely faint metallic crack, like the sound of a taut violin string finally snapping under its strain.
Standing atop a cliff two hundred meters away, upwind, according to the physical laws of acoustic propagation, Arthur's mortal ears, even with enhancements, could not possibly pick up this whisper from the Grim Reaper.
But he doesn't need to hear it.
He simply lay prone in the bushes, his binoculars clearly showing Hans opening the car door and getting in.
He also saw the repair truck pushing against the rear bumper of the Opel truck, trying to push it aside. He saw dozens of German soldiers crowding around the trucks like flies swarming around carrion.
Finally, he saw Strunzsky standing next to the command vehicle, angrily waving his arms.
"Tsk, look at this Major Stransky."
Arthur, standing two hundred meters away, looked down at the figure who was furiously waving his arms in the ruins with the same gaze one would give a stray dog that was relieving itself in a park.
"Is this what they call the Junker spirit?"
He gave a dismissive snort, with an innate sense of superiority:
"It seems that even the strictest doctrines of the Prussian Military Academy couldn't wash away the restless spirit of the Black Forest boars in their bones. Once stripped of that rigid uniform called 'discipline,' these Germans roared no differently than drunken farmers in a Bavarian beer hall."
Arthur gently shook his head, his fingers gracefully stroking the pure silver lion-head staff, a hint of regret in his voice:
"What a bummer. It feels like a great Gwent game that your opponent throws the table in a jerk just because you lost a trick."
Although everyone present—from the veteran McTavish to the French lieutenant—exchanged bewildered glances, completely baffled as to whether this mysterious gambling game, which sounded like some kind of Polish dialect, was the latest pastime of London's high society or some kind of military code only a madman could understand.
But that didn't stop them from understanding the sarcasm that followed from their superior.
"Remember this scene, gentlemen. This is why we rule the seas, while they can only grow potatoes in the ground."
A reserved yet arrogant smile curved Arthur's lips:
"After all, when it comes to how to maintain table manners while committing murder, we English gentlemen know better."
He put down his binoculars, elegantly adjusted his cuffs with his left hand, and silently began the countdown.
"...Three, two, one."
collapse.
The kicked Mk.1 pull-fire igniter had finally completed its mission. The firing pin struck the primer, igniting the two-inch-long black fuse.
Here we must mention that the copper wire that was kicked was connected to a mechanical pull fuse, which is usually connected to a standard safety fuse.
In 1940, these mechanical fuses typically had a delay of 3 to 5 seconds, which was designed to protect the mine-layer during evacuation or as a delay mechanism for grenade fuses.
But in Arthur's eyes, those few seconds were the last time God left for the Germans to repent, or time for them to show their stupidity.
Through the binoculars, Arthur saw that the sapper who had tripped over the line seemed to have realized something as well. The more greedy he had been when he climbed onto the vehicle to grab the spoils, the more pathetic he looked when he rolled down.
The poor fellow scrambled and tumbled onto the muddy ground, not even bothering to pick up his fallen helmet. He frantically waved his arms at his bewildered companions around him, who were still clutching cigarettes, his face filled with despair.
That expression was as if he had seen a crack in hell.
"Take cover! Use a booby trap!!"
Stransky, however, reacted extremely quickly. Almost as soon as he heard the warning, he suddenly fell to the ground and rolled towards the drainage ditch on the outside of the roadbed.
Not all German soldiers were greedy.
Those German veterans who still retained a shred of rationality displayed astonishing tactical proficiency at this moment.
Almost at the same time as hearing the warning, the group of guys were slammed into the mud like wheat being swept away by an invisible combine harvester.
The action was without hesitation, without any thought; it was a Pavlovian survival instinct honed countless times under the whips and roars of Prussian sergeants, etched into the very marrow of his being.
boom!
The first explosion rang out.
The three Opel trucks blocking the road were blown upside down by the 808 explosives under their chassis.
The powerful shockwave shattered the windshield and tore the truck's hood open like a tin can. The cast iron cylinder block was pulverized by the high-energy explosives, turning into hundreds of high-speed shrapnel fragments that swept away a ring of German infantrymen.
Thick black smoke billowed into the air, and flames began to lick at the car body.
But... that's all.
Although the explosions of that magnitude looked terrifying, in the open field, even with Arthur's added fuel, the kill radius was quite limited. Apart from the unfortunate sapper who was blown to pieces and a few others who were too close and riddled with holes by metal objects, most of the German soldiers—including Sstránsky who took refuge in the drainage ditch—survived.
A few seconds later, the smoke dissipated slightly.
Stransky emerged from the drain, covered in dirt and grime. He touched himself; apart from his ringing ears and being covered in mud, he was all right.
"Damn Englishmen..."
Strunzsky spat out a mouthful of muddy saliva and stood up.
He stared at the Opel trucks that were burning and crackling. The initial shock from the roadside explosion quickly faded, replaced by extreme contempt at being mocked, and then by a furious rage as if he had been insulted.
Is this the trap that 'AS' painstakingly set up?
He kicked away a piece of sheet metal that flew to his feet with his toe and sneered:
"A few pieces of plastic explosives stuck to the chassis? A few sounds like firecrackers being set off during an Eastern festival?"
To an elite like him who had seen it all, the explosion was nothing short of a joke. It hadn't even managed to create a proper crater in the road; it had merely ripped off the truck's superstructure.
What is this?
AS went to great lengths to design this whole thing just to humiliate himself?
Do not!
In Stransky's view, this was a classic example of the "empty city ploy".
His mind quickly pieced together the situation: the cunning Englishman was cornered. He didn't have enough speed to escape, nor did he have anti-tank guns to ambush him. So, he could only bluff.
That bastard wanted to take advantage of the Germans' cautious nature, using fear to keep them there and buy himself time to escape.
This level of booby trap is more like a low-level trick played by Polish partisans or those Scottish militia in kilts; it's not the work of a regular armored force at all!
Strunzsky felt his intelligence had been insulted.
He, a dignified Junker aristocrat, rolled into a ditch like a frightened groundhog because of an explosion that couldn't even scratch the paint on a half-track.
The shame made his cheeks burn.
Strunzsky whirled around and roared at the soldiers around him who were still hesitating whether to continue lying down:
"Stand up, all of you! You cowards! He's playing us!"
"That's just a bluff! Full speed ahead! Don't let that charlatan from England get away!"
"Get up! Get up, all of you! Stop lying on the ground pretending to be dead!"
Stransky brushed the dust off his clothes and gave orders to his still-shaken subordinates:
"Just a few shoddy homemade bombs! Medic, go take care of the wounded! Everyone else, clear the wreckage! Get the engineering vehicle up! We'll continue..."
On the cliff two hundred meters away.
Arthur watched as the Germans, just as he had expected, stood up from behind their bunkers, brushing the dust off their backsides and wearing expressions of surprise and uncertainty, and laughed with pleasure.
"Look, Miller. This is the weakness of human nature."
Arthur pointed to the team regrouping below and commented:
"When people survive the first blow, their brains release dopamine, creating the illusion that 'the worst is over.' Their muscles relax, their alertness drops to zero, and they may even start to laugh at their opponent's incompetence."
He turned his head and looked at Miller, who was gripping the detonator tightly in his hand:
"Like that gambler who thought the game was over and wanted to leave the table. Now, tell them..."
Arthur's gaze suddenly turned cold, a look that blended the cruelty of a thug with the hypocrisy of a gentleman.
"...We also hid a shotgun under the table."
"Detonate."
Miller grinned and slammed down on the red T-shaped handle.
Sizzle—!
This time, there was no 4.5 seconds of mercy.
The current traveled at 30 kilometers per second along the shallowly buried conductor, instantly activating the electric detonators hidden deep within the cargo and encased in rubble and scrap metal.
This is the real killer move.
The first round of explosions was just to blow open the truck bed and expose the "dirty bombs"—dozens of 88mm high-explosive shells with the safety removed, boxes of 37mm shells, and hundreds of kilograms of rusty nails, knives, and broken glass that Arthur had specifically ordered to be stuffed in—to the air.
Now, they have all exploded simultaneously.
boom--------!!!
If the previous explosion was like firecrackers, then this time it was like someone detonating a volcano in a narrow valley.
The enormous fireball instantly engulfed the entire corner of the canyon.
That wasn't fire; it was a storm of metal.
Propelled by tons of explosives, the carefully packed nails and gravel were sprayed outwards at an initial velocity of 800 meters per second, covering all 360 degrees without any blind spots.
Strunzsky had just straightened up and hadn't even had time to utter the rest of his command when an irresistible force struck him again.
But this time it wasn't an air blast, it was a sound.
In the enclosed canyon terrain, the immense sound pressure ruptured the eardrums of everyone present. Immediately afterwards, the Sd.Kfz. 232 eight-wheeled reconnaissance vehicle, located not far away, was utterly destroyed.
Its thin side armor was like a punctured wet tissue when subjected to the close-range impact of an 88mm shell exploding.
Countless shrapnel and metal debris pierced the vehicle's body in an instant. This pinnacle of German industrial precision was riddled with holes in a second. The occupants inside didn't even have time to scream before being torn into a mangled mess of flesh and blood by the metal jets.
The two half-track vehicles fared even worse.
Their open fighting compartments were like funnels for shrapnel. The infantrymen on them were instantly sliced to pieces by the rain of metal.
Even more terrifyingly, the explosives Miller had buried at the base of the rock walls on both sides also detonated at the same time.
Karara—Boom!
The already crumbling black granite cliffs on both sides lost their support and collapsed with a sickening cracking sound.
Hundreds and thousands of tons of boulders crashed into the valley with destructive force.
The engineering repair vehicle, converted from a Panzer III tank, attempted to reverse, but a boulder the size of a house slammed into its roof. With a chilling metallic creak, the steel behemoth, weighing over ten tons, was crushed into a flat disc less than half a meter thick.
The dust has settled.
The entire Deadhead Valley has become a true Deadhead Valley.
……
One minute later.
Strunzsky lay in a crevice in a boulder, breathing heavily.
He was so proud of his riding boots, but only one was left. His face was covered in blood and grime, and his once-crisp Grossdeutsche Zeitung uniform had been torn to shreds.
He stared at everything before him, his mind blank.
He swayed unsteadily.
The expensive eight-wheeled reconnaissance vehicle was reduced to a smoking pile of scrap metal, and the half-track was buried under a pile of rubble, with only half of its twisted tracks visible. His replacements, the engineers, were nowhere to be found, not even their bodies.
Only he and a few lucky people who hid in a blind spot survived.
Just then, a piercing crackling sound of electricity broke the silence.
It was coming from the wreckage of the command vehicle that had been blown up—the same half-track he had been riding in. Although the vehicle was destroyed, the sturdy FuG 11 radio seemed to be barely hanging on, emitting a crackling noise.
Immediately afterwards, a familiar, elegant, and clear German voice pierced through the smoke of battle, echoing through the empty valley:
"Feed? Feed? This is 'Ghost' Radio Station."
Stransky abruptly raised his head and stared intently at the still-smoking horn.
"Major Stransky, or whoever you are, the lucky one who hasn't been stoned to death yet."
On the other end of the radio, Arthur's voice sounded so relaxed and comfortable, and in the background, you could even hear the roar of a tank engine restarting.
"Were you satisfied with the encore performance just now?"
"That was a fireworks show we specially prepared for you. After all, as the host, it would be quite impolite to remove the plates before the guests have finished eating."
Strangsky crawled shakily toward the radio, grabbed the blood-stained microphone, and tried to roar and curse, but he found his throat was blocked and he couldn't make a sound.
Arthur seemed to see his disheveled state through the radio, his tone filled with condescending mockery:
"The road conditions here seem a bit poor; I think General Guderian's tanks might need to find another route. I suggest you camp there; the scenery... is quite unique."
Like a mad dog trapped in a snare, Strunzsky roared into his handheld microphone while frantically scanning the smoke-shrouded cliff tops on both sides with his bloodshot eyes.
He was looking for that observation post.
As a rigorously trained Prussian officer, his logic told him that the "AS" must be hiding behind some rock, spying on his disgraceful state through binoculars.
"Come out! I know you're watching me! You coward! Come out!!"
But he saw nothing.
Apart from the lingering smoke among the shattered gray granite and a few startled vultures taking flight, there was no one there. It felt as if he were fighting an unseen ghost.
However, a few kilometers away, inside the tank "Verdun".
Arthur, of course, did not waste time painstakingly searching for the ant-sized target with his binoculars.
He was even leaning leisurely against the edge of the control tower, his eyes half-closed.
RTS is enough.
On that top-down map, the red dots representing the "German vanguard" had completely disappeared. The only thing that could pique his interest was the conspicuous, frantically flashing Hero Unit icon—
Heinrich von Stransky (Major)
[Status: Extreme panic/Suppression/On the verge of collapse]
HP: (Minor Injury)
Arthur watched as the little red dot representing Stransky wandered aimlessly through the ruins on the map, and could even see his "field of vision" futilely scanning the empty mountaintop.
"It's pathetic. He's trying to use the logic of three-dimensional space to find an observer in a four-dimensional perspective."
Arthur chuckled softly and pressed the microphone button:
"Don't waste your energy, Baron."
"Stop looking. Your naked eyes can't see God—or rather, the giant who's looking down on you, this ant."
That condescending mockery, that precise and chilling description, completely shattered Sstránsky's last psychological defenses:
"Take your bloodshot eyes off the cliff. Look to the left, yes, that black rock that looks like a tombstone... You look like a field mouse trying to find a hiding place under an eagle's talons."
"Finally, about that bottle of 1928 Margaux."
Arthur paused, his voice half serious, half sarcastic:
"Remember to use a decanter next time. Drinking straight from the bottle is barbaric."
Goodbye, Baron.
Nourishes—
Communication is interrupted.
Strunzsky knelt amidst the ruins, clutching the broken microphone tightly in his hand. He looked up at the still overcast sky above and let out a wild, desperate roar.
But a few kilometers away.
On the command cupola of the tank "Verdun".
Arthur took off his headphones and casually tossed them to Jeanne below.
He didn't look back at the column of smoke behind him again. To him, the man named Strunzsky was already dead—biologically alive, but strategically dead.
"Set off."
Arthur tapped the hatch with his cane, pointing to the faintly visible coastline to the north:
"Target: Dunkirk."
"Let's go see if those Royal Navy tickets are really as hard to get as the rumors say."