ATPnovel Chapter 34 Steel Waltz
Chapter 34 Steel Waltz
North bank of the Ark River, Highway D916, 15 minutes later.
The battle ended faster than expected.
Or to be more precise, it wasn't a battle at all, but a one-sided artillery barrage.
As three Panzer IV tanks were reduced to burning scrap metal 800 meters away, and as engineers were systematically eliminated from the drainage ditches like pests, the gunfire on Highway D916 completely ceased.
Roar—Boom!
The aging Renault engine of the Verdun roared in victory. Arthur didn't rush to clean up the battlefield like a typical victor, because his RTS map was flashing warnings—the huge red blob was rapidly approaching from behind.
"Everyone, get on the bus!"
Arthur urged over the channel, "Take the trucks we stole, keep formation, we have to get out of here."
"Sir, the road is blocked."
Captain Durand's voice came through.
He pointed ahead through the periscope—to the huge old French oak tree that Stransky had his engineers blown down.
This tree stands across the road, its thick trunk over a meter in diameter, like a silent giant blocking the only way forward.
If it isn't cleared away, the massive convoy simply won't be able to get through.
"That tree..." Major Ryder peered out from the back of the Joan of Arc, "looks quite old. It'll take our engineers at least twenty minutes to clear it."
Arthur peered through the slit at the giant tree covered in moss.
This is a tree that has witnessed history. Perhaps it watched the Prussian army march along this road to Paris during the Franco-Prussian War in 1870; perhaps it watched French soldiers dig trenches under the tree in 1914.
And now, history has turned again. Under the tree are still the same group of panicked Frenchmen, but this time, there's also a group of Englishmen who also don't want to die in a foreign land.
But regardless, for now, it is merely a roadblock set up by the Germans, a symbol of Stransky's arrogance.
"Twenty minutes? We don't have twenty minutes."
Arthur said coldly, a hint of violence flashing in his eyes.
Why clean it?
"Durant, shift to first gear."
"Let that German show him what the laws of physics are."
The massive 32-ton Verdun shuddered violently, spewing out a thick plume of black smoke from its exhaust pipe.
It didn't detour or slow down; instead, like an armored rhinoceros, it charged straight at the century-old tree blocking the road.
Snap! Snap!
A tooth-grinding bang drowned out the roar of the engine.
Faced with absolute quality, the sedimentation of time becomes utterly insignificant.
That sturdy tree trunk, strong enough to stop a truck and a light tank, was as brittle as a matchstick in front of the B1 tank's thick cast lower glacis armor.
Wood chips flew everywhere, and the bark cracked.
The 32-ton steel behemoth crushed the tree trunk with a cracking sound, like bones being shattered. The massive tracks embedded themselves deep into the wood fibers, turning the "latch" originally intended to trap Arthur's convoy into a pile of rubble.
The road is open.
Not only was it opened, but it was forcibly opened in the most humiliating way.
Immediately afterwards, this strange yet martial-spirited mixed convoy passed by in single file.
Leading the way were still those four arrogant Char B1 bis tanks that had crushed tree trunks.
Following closely behind were three Opel Lightning trucks fully loaded with supplies, which were protected in the very center of the convoy.
Around the truck were six Sd.Kfz. 251 half-track armored vehicles, with Scottish soldiers vigilantly setting up machine guns on board.
Finally, the rearguard consisted of four Panzer III Ausf. E tanks with their guns turned upside down and painted with red, white, and blue markings.
As the convoy passed the ravaged ambush site, Arthur could even vaguely see Sstránsky lying in the mud...
The German nobleman, his face covered in mud, was furiously staring into the walkie-talkie.
Arthur picked up the communicator one last time.
Instead of immediately cutting off the connection, he adjusted the power to the maximum of the public channel.
His voice was steady and elegant, with a baritone quality reminiscent of the Berlin Opera, and then it appeared in Stransky's noisy headphones:
"Major Stransky."
In the distance, in the mud pit, Strunzsky suddenly raised his head, his bloodshot eyes fixed on the departing tank.
"Thank you for your welcoming lineup. Your tactical setup is interesting, very...classical."
"But unfortunately, modern warfare doesn't care about aesthetics; it only cares about efficiency."
Arthur paused, looking at the wreckage of the Panzer IV tank still burning fiercely and billowing black smoke in the rearview mirror:
"As a return gift, consider those burning Panzer IV tanks as my tip to you."
"Even nobles have to buy tickets to see a play, right?"
After saying that, Arthur cut off the communication.
Behind him, Stransky frantically drew his Luger P08 pistol from his waist and fired several shots at the receding steel figure.
boom! boom! boom!
A 9mm bullet is useless at a distance of a few hundred meters.
This was not merely a tactical defeat, but a public execution of Stranski. His aristocratic dignity, along with the crushed old oak tree, was trampled into the mud on the north bank of the Arleigh River by Arthur.
The convoy drove out of that deadly bend and sped back up the highway.
Despite having just gone through a battle, the atmosphere in the convoy was unusually high.
"God help us! It seems that's all the Germans are capable of!"
Inside the spacious and well-damped Sd.Kfz. 251 half-track, Sergeant Major McTavish was enthusiastically presiding over a small "spoils-dividing" meeting, much like a generous pirate captain. The vintage French cognac, originally reserved for German officers and adorned with gold leaf labels, was now being passed around like cheap beer among the Scottish soldiers' oil-stained and gunpowder-smeared hands.
Accompanied by the roar of engines, someone in the corner even whistled a melodious, slightly off-key Scottish Highland bagpipe tune.
The near-perfect counter-ambush just now has restored the confidence of these defeated soldiers, who should have had their backs broken at Dunkirk, to their former glory as warriors.
Or rather, a long-lost, simple joy—the pleasure of beating up Germans.
In their eyes, the young officer sitting on the Verdun was practically a god of war sent by God.
"Ha! Stand up straight! You bunch of immature brats!"
Inside the rickety half-track, Sergeant Major McTavish took a big gulp of the French cognac he had just stolen, his stubble-covered face flushed red, whether from alcohol or excitement, it was hard to tell.
With one foot on the rack the Germans used to store ammunition boxes, and waving an expensive bottle of liquor in the other hand, he began his "bitter memories and sweet sentiments" with spittle flying:
"Back in 1916! I spent three whole weeks crawling through that damned mud pit in the Somme! It was hell, a real hell! How many of us had to die to wrest even fifty yards of mud from that helmeted German? A whole platoon! And we had to put up with trench feet, rats, and that damned mustard fumes!"
The old sergeant squinted, as if he could smell that nauseating stench of rotting corpses from years ago.
But then, he suddenly slapped the comfortable leather seat of the half-track he was sitting on and burst into wild laughter, the sound of which drowned out the engine:
"But today? Ha! Look at today!"
"We rode in German cars, ate German sausages, drank German liquor, and then blew those arrogant Prussian bastards into the air from 800 meters away! We didn't even get a scratch on our feet!"
"This is what war is! This is what fucking war is all about!"
The soldiers around him, their faces smeared with grease, listened with shining eyes and cheered, raising the cans of beef they had snatched.
Emotions are contagious. Under the influence of optimism, they have clearly selectively forgotten the fact that they are currently fleeing and retreating—instead, it is as if they have already kicked open the gate of the Siegfried Line and are preparing to go to Berlin for a military parade.
McTavish wiped the alcohol stains from his beard and said in a low voice:
"The officers who came out of military academy before only knew how to blow whistles and send us running into machine gun muzzles, filling in lines, and dying. But this Major Sterling... he's different."
He let out a loud burp, grinned, and revealed a set of teeth stained yellow by tobacco:
"He's not leading us to our deaths... he's leading us on a hunt."
However, Arthur, the "God of War" himself, had a face even more somber than the thick fog outside.
He sat in the command tower and did not participate in his subordinates' celebration.
His entire attention was focused on the RTS interface.
The reason he retreated immediately after showing off wasn't because he was merciful, but because he saw that thing that made his scalp tingle again at the edge of the map.
It was near the bridge he blew up.
This time it's not the south bank, it's the north bank.
What were originally scattered red dots have now converged into a sea of red.
Even with the dense fog obscuring the view, the system still produced despairing data labels:
[Enemy main force is assembling]
1st Armored Division
At the very front of that red ocean, a striking cluster of golden stars was moving rapidly and had already crossed the River A. Although it wasn't explicitly stated on the map, Arthur guessed they might have used a pontoon bridge or a shallow area.
Heinz Wilhelm Guderian.
The father of Blitzkrieg, the man who crushed the entire European army, crossed the river himself.
They did not follow the orders of the Supreme Command and that man.
"The new player protection period has ended."
Arthur muttered to himself, his fingers unconsciously tapping the edge of the map.
Strunzsky was just an appetizer, a slightly challenging elite enemy. Now, the real boss has arrived.
"Sir, where are we going?" Durand asked. "The road ahead looks good, should we speed up?"
Just as Arthur was about to answer, the radar in the upper right corner of the RTS interface suddenly emitted a piercing beep.
[WARNING! High-speed aerial unit detected approaching!]
[Direction: Southeast / Altitude: 1500 meters / Speed: 380 km/h]
[Identification: 12 Ju-87 B-2 "Stuka" dive bombers]
In that instant, every hair on Arthur's body stood on end.
It is the "Horn of Jericho".
That was the roar of the engine, a heart-wrenching shriek from the wind warning system mounted on the landing gear struts of the Ju-87 dive bomber during a high-speed dive.
Death is catching up.
Clearly, the thick fog that blanketed the Arle River and the rest of northern France did not deter Göring's flock of vultures from resting in their nests. Whether it was Guderian, Sstránsky, Kleist, or any other German general, some German had somehow invoked some authority to invoke the sword of Damocles hanging over the Allied forces.
Perhaps these black Grim Reapers were originally on their way to Dunkirk Beach to "bathe" the Royal Navy, or perhaps they were just passing by looking for other unlucky victims.
But at this moment, on this completely exposed highway, anyone who hears this sound will experience a bone-deep sense of fear—
They came specifically for us.
Arthur's convoy was traveling on an open highway, flanked by sparse birch forests, with absolutely no air-raid shelters. If spotted by the Stuka, the four cumbersome B1 tanks and the three trucks loaded with explosives would be perfect sitting ducks.
"parking!!!"
Arthur abruptly pressed the all-channel broadcast button, the volume of which was frighteningly loud:
"Everyone! Stop the car immediately! Abandon the vehicle!!"
"Get everyone off the bus! Now!!"
The Scottish soldiers, who were celebrating with brandy in their half-track vehicle, were stunned by the sudden order.
"What? Why do we need to stop?"
"There's not a soul around here..."
"Shut up! Follow orders!" Arthur practically roared. "Get off the road! Run into the woods! Lie down! Don't look up!"
Despite their suspicions, the soldiers, trusting their remarkable commander implicitly, jumped off the truck and disappeared into the roadside bushes within seconds.
Ten seconds.
Twenty seconds.
The world was deathly silent, with only the occasional bird call coming from afar.
"Arthur...is there some mistake?" Major Ryder was lying next to Arthur, just about to lift his head.
"Shhh."
Arthur pressed his head down hard, burying it in the dirt. "Listen."
At that very moment.
A soul-chilling sound came from the depths of the clouds.
At first it sounded like the buzzing of mosquitoes, then it quickly turned into a muffled rumble of thunder, and finally evolved into a sharp, terrifying howl, like the scream of a banshee.
The Jericho Horn.
Ughh ...
The thick fog was torn apart.
Twelve black Reaper planes with inverted seagull wings, though unable to spot the convoy hidden by the roadside due to the heavy fog, still carried out a blanket bombardment of a highway intersection ahead, following their predetermined coordinates.
Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom!
The earth was trembling.
Hundreds of meters away, that section of highway was instantly engulfed in flames. Dozens of tons of soil were hurled into the air, and shockwaves mixed with heat swept through the forest, making Arthur and the others' helmets rattle loudly.
The terrifying power of the explosion turned everyone lying on the ground pale as death.
If they had continued for even a minute longer, they would be ashes in that fire pit by now.
Even after the group of black death reapers pulled up their noses and roared away into the clouds, the soldiers remained lying on the ground, not daring to even breathe, because they were afraid that if they turned around, they would see that shadow diving towards them.