usatvline Chapter 20 No shells? Then ram them!
Chapter 20 No shells? Then ram them!
Half an hour later, the place had become a noisy, muddy field repair shop, yet full of some strange vitality.
Having decided to fight, these French tank crews, who had previously been listless and ready to blow up their vehicles and surrender, immediately displayed an exceptionally high level of professionalism. It wasn't that they were afraid to fight; rather, their spirits had been broken by desperate logistics and chaotic command. Now, with Lord Arthur Sterling restoring their spirits and infusing them with a marrow-like drive for "revenge," they transformed back into some of the finest armored troops in Europe.
The rain poured down harder and harder, the cold rainwater mixed with mud, but it couldn't dampen the enthusiasm of the people working here.
"Hold the funnel steady! Don't spill it! This drop of oil is worth more than your blood!"
Under Arthur's command, the soldiers of the Cold Creek Guard and the French tank crews are carrying out an ironic "blood transfusion" operation.
Jerry cans—the standard 20-liter fuel drums that the German Wehrmacht was so proud of—were being roughly poured into the fuel tanks of French tanks. The golden liquid flowed, making a pleasant "gurgling" sound as it passed through the funnel's filter.
For these steel behemoths that have long been thirsting for more energy, this is the ultimate stimulant.
"This is synthetic gasoline refined by IG Farben at their Loyna plant." Arthur stood to the side, toying with an empty fuel can as if admiring a work of art. "It has an octane rating of 87. To adapt to the high compression ratio engines of the German Air Force and armored forces, tetraethyl lead was added. In comparison, the inferior gasoline issued to your French logistics department has an octane rating of just over 60 and is even adulterated with alcohol. It's practically like feeding moldy straw to racehorses."
Captain Durand stared at the golden liquid, his eyes filled with complex emotions: "I've heard of the Germans' synthetic oil technology, but I never expected..."
"Didn't expect I'd use that Renault engine to power your engines?" Arthur sneered. "This Renault six-cylinder water-cooled engine is essentially a down-clocked version of an aircraft engine. It's extremely delicate, but it also has enormous potential. After drinking this fuel, its power will increase by at least 15%, and the carbon buildup problem will be solved."
At the same time, Arthur expressionlessly took off his rain-soaked, heavy German Luftwaffe leather jacket, which felt like a shroud, and tossed it onto the muddy ground.
The cold, damp air instantly penetrated his thin wool sweater, but he seemed completely unaware of it.
As he moved his arm, he instinctively turned his head and glanced at his left shoulder. Through the gap in his torn collar, there should have been a laceration there—the first "souvenir" the Germans had left him since he came into this world. Just a day and a half ago, it had been bleeding.
Normally, it should be red, swollen, inflamed, and even oozing pus at this point.
However, there was no bloodshed as expected.
The wound was covered with a layer of dark red, hard, rust-like scab, and pink granulation tissue had even begun to grow at the edges.
This astonishing rate of tissue regeneration clearly defies common sense in basic human physiology.
Arthur clenched his fist, feeling the almost overflowing grip strength between his knuckles, and a kind of tireless pumping sensation within his body.
Clearly, the cold, hard RTS system wasn't just taking over his tactical vision; it was subtly upgrading the hardware of this fragile "carbon-based vehicle." Like adding armor to a tank, the system was transforming his body into a war machine adapted to this brutal conflict.
"Excellent optimization."
He gave his assessment in his mind, as if he were evaluating a new type of lubricating oil.
Immediately, he grabbed the heavy chrome vanadium steel wrench, feeling the unique coldness of the metal, and without hesitation crawled under the chassis of the "Verdun" that reeked of engine oil and mud.
On his retina, the RTS system interface had switched to [Engineering/Maintenance Mode].
In this dimension visible only to him, the massive B1 bis was no longer a cold piece of steel, but a transparent model composed of countless lines, perspective structures, and data streams. The stress of every screw, the unobstructedness of every pipe, and the wear value of every gear were all suspended in the air with precise data labels.
[Target: Char B1 bis heavy tank (Verdun)]
[Status: Moderately damaged/Limited mobility]
[Fault Point 1: Severe wear on the inner bearing of the left drive wheel (Red Warning - expected to seize up after 5km)]
[Fault Point 2: Radiator grille clogged with mud, resulting in a 40% decrease in heat exchange efficiency (Yellow Warning)]
[Fault Point 3: Naeder hydraulic steering hydrostatic torque converter pressure valve stuck (high risk)]
For a typical mechanic to find these problems, it would require removing the engine hood and conducting several hours of troubleshooting and test drives.
But Arthur didn't need that. He was the cheater in the war.
Like a nimble otter, it darted through the mud and water under the chassis, climbing directly to the inside of the left drive wheel.
"Get me a hammer! A big one! The pin here is bent!" Arthur's voice came from under the car, echoing with a metallic sound.
Captain Durand immediately handed him a twelve-pound sledgehammer. He bent down and watched as Arthur skillfully used a wrench to catch the extremely concealed pressure valve adjusting nut, and then struck it with remarkable precision with the hammer.
"when!"
A crisp sound, as if some stuck joint had been reset.
"You even know how to fix this? This is Renault's exclusive patent—the Naeder hydrostatic steering system. It's a precision device that uses castor oil as a medium. Even our military technicians sometimes can't handle it, and it often locks up due to overheating." Durand's eyes were full of surprise. This British nobleman seemed to be a bit too omnipotent.
"Machines are all interconnected, Captain. As long as you know how to listen to its voice, where it's crying, where it's angry," Arthur casually made up, while precisely locking the valve's pitch according to the system's prompt of [Pressure Value: Normal].
Ten minutes later, Arthur crawled out from under the car. He was covered in black grease and yellow mud, and his face was smeared with black oil, but this did not diminish the convincing sense of authority he exuded.
"I've already had the radiator cleaned. I added double the amount of grease to the drive pulley bearing. It might not last until the Burmester, but it should last until we finish this job."
Arthur tossed the wrench to McTavish behind him and dusted off his hands.
"Try starting it!"
Durand gave Arthur a deep look, then quickly climbed into the cramped cockpit, switched on the circuit, and pressed the red start button.
The starter motor emitted a sharp whistling sound.
Immediately afterwards—
Boom—Boom—!!!
The long-dormant Renault inline six-cylinder engine let out a deep roar, like an ancient beast awakened. A thick plume of black smoke billowed from the exhaust pipe, a sign that the carbon deposits remaining in the cylinders had been instantly ignited and expelled by the high-octane German fuel.
A few seconds later, the black smoke thinned, and the engine roared steadily and powerfully, producing a rhythmic beat like a heartbeat that could only be produced under optimal conditions.
The entire 31.5-ton vehicle vibrated slightly, and the tracks began to rotate in the opposite direction under the drive of the hydraulic steering gear, producing a crisp clicking sound of metal friction.
"It's alive!" the tank driver shouted excitedly, poking his head out of the hatch of the other tank and pounding on the heavy cast-iron turret. "The old maid is awake! My God, she sounds even more energetic than when she left the factory!"
All four B1 bis heavy tanks restarted. The heavy, earth-shaking roar of their engines combined and echoed in the rain and mist along the Lis River, making even the soft soil beneath their feet tremble slightly.
Looking at the four steel fortresses that had been revitalized, Arthur felt an indescribable sense of satisfaction. This was even more satisfying than opening a chest and drawing an SSR character in a game in his previous life, because this time, these steel fortresses truly belonged to him and would fight for his will.
This is B1 bis.
Although its design concept was still stuck in the trench warfare thinking of World War I—the excessively high hull made it easy to be exposed, the complicated hull and turret dual gun structure led to command confusion, and that damned single-man turret design would make the commander busy with command, loading and aiming.
In this slice of time, on May 30, 1940, on this local battlefield, this French behemoth was at the absolute top of the armored food chain.
The German Panzer I and Panzer II tanks? Compared to this, those things were nothing more than agricultural tractors with a few bulletproof steel plates welded on, or tin toys given to the German Youth for practice.
The laughable 37mm KwK 36 gun on the Panzer III? This famous "stepping stone" of the army, when it hit the 60mm thick cast sloped armor of the B1, had no ballistic significance other than making a sound and scratching a little paint.
Even the early version of the Panzer IV, which the German army is currently proud of, has a short-barreled 75mm "pipe" gun with a caliber of only 24. The probability of its low-velocity shells penetrating the front of the B1 at normal combat distances is mathematically infinitesimally close to zero.
On this map, the only two variables that can threaten this layer of armor are the Stuka's heavy aerial bombs and the famous 88mm anti-aircraft gun.
The former has been forcibly "banned" from a meteorological perspective by this damned rainstorm.
As for the latter?
It was no longer a contest of armor thickness, but a mathematical problem purely about the speed of neural reaction—who could catch whose optical signal first, and who could pull the trigger of death first.
This is a heavy hammer. A heavy hammer, if used properly, powerful enough to shatter the skull of a skeleton master.
"It's not over yet."
Arthur jumped out of the car, walked to the Opel truck, pried open a heavy wooden crate, revealing the 7.5cm Gr.34 high-explosive grenades inside, which he had just urgently guided with the help of the Guards soldiers to complete the "field conversion".
He had just briefed the tank crew on the technical details and risks of barrel explosion regarding "forcing loading using the tolerances of soft copper ammunition belts" and "polishing the primer to accommodate the firing pin."
There's no need for mechanical principles lessons now; what's needed is the courage of a gambler.
Durand looked at the shell in his hand, painted in the gray of the wilderness, his fingers tracing the dangerously sharpened primer ring, his face turning pale.
"This is really like playing Russian roulette, sir." He felt as if he were holding not a shell, but a demon that could awaken at any moment. "680 grams of TNT... If it explodes in the barrel due to a loose seal, we won't even be able to piece together our bodies."
"Then don't let it explode in the cannon barrel."
Arthur stared at him coldly, his eyes unwavering. He was now willing to pay any price for victory.
"Shoot it out. Take the risks yourself and deliver the destruction to the enemy. That is the fate of armored troops."
He patted Durand on the shoulder with such force that it felt like he was transmitting the recoil through the armor plate.
"Load it, Captain. Don't let me down."
Durand gritted his teeth, the instinctive fear of mechanical failure ultimately overwhelmed by his thirst for revenge. He slammed the ammunition box lid shut, grabbed the shells, turned around, and roared:
"Jean-Louis! Move these German 'gifts' into the car! Be careful, don't let your hands shake like a girl's!"
"very good."
Arthur leaped onto the side armor of the Verdun, and at that moment, he was the undisputed soul of this "Ghost" battle group.
"Assign tasks."
His voice pierced through the rain, reaching everyone's ears clearly.
"Take down all the camouflage netting. Strip away all the branches and mud. I want these four tanks to reveal their most ferocious true form."
Arthur's command startled everyone.
"No need for camouflage, sir? The German Luftwaffe..." Sergeant McTavish glanced upwards with some concern. Even though the weather was bad, this blatant display...
"In this kind of weather, Stuka is blind. We don't need to hide from the sky; we need to intimidate the ground."
Arthur pointed to the RTS map in his mind, where there was a red dotted line, which was the route he had just planned for the advance.
"In the RTS...in my strategic view, the German High Command is now focused on the western coastline. They think we're rats, only good for burrowing and running away. But to our east, there's a road they've completely ignored—the lifeline of the Totenkopf Division's logistics."
His finger traced an extremely bold arc in the air, a bizarre trajectory imbued with Eastern military philosophy—a reverse incursion reminiscent of the Four Crossings of the Chishui River.
"Since the bridge is broken and the road to the west is blocked, let's go the other way. Captain Durand, your tank will lead the way. Opel trucks will be in the middle, and the Cold Creek Guards infantry will sit on the tanks to provide visibility. We're going to swagger across like a victorious German armored column."
"What if we encounter German tanks?" Durand asked. Although he had fuel and ammunition, he still had an instinctive worry about the B1's weak anti-tank penetration.
Arthur looked at the short, stubby 75mm howitzer, then at the thick frontal armor, and a ferocious smile, full of industrial violence and aesthetics, appeared on his lips.
"Then ram them. Use these thirty-one tons of steel to crush them."
……
The convoy set off again.
This time, however, the atmosphere was completely different.
No longer stealthy incursions, no longer cautious probing. Four massive Char B1 bis heavy tanks, like four angry bulls, drove in a single file down the road. The heavy tracks relentlessly crushed the gravel and mud on the road, producing a heart-stopping roar.
Instead of sitting in the comfortable truck, Arthur squeezed into the noisy and sweltering cockpit of the Verdun. The B1 tank's unique design allowed the driver to also be the gunner, and Arthur wanted to feel the pulse of this behemoth up close.
The cabin was filled with the smell of volatile high-octane gasoline, burnt lubricating oil, and the stench of men's sweat—a pure, adrenaline-pumping scent of male hormones.
Through the narrow driver's viewpoint, Arthur looked out at the rainy world ahead.
The windshield wipers swung stubbornly, cutting through the layers of gray rain.
On the RTS system map, the status bars of these four tanks are no longer the despairing yellow "morale collapse," but have turned into a bright green representing "combat status," and they have a very high desire to attack.
As the convoy moved eastward, the area that had been shrouded in the fog of war gradually became clear.
"Enemy target spotted two kilometers ahead."
Arthur suddenly spoke, his voice clearly transmitted through the throat microphone into Durand's earpiece.
"What? I didn't see anything." Sitting in the towering single-person turret, Durand frantically turned the periscope, but all he could see were rain and fog, and the blurry shadows of poplar trees by the roadside.
"Two Sd.Kfz. 222 armored reconnaissance vehicles, and an Opel 'Lightning' troop transport truck fully loaded with infantry." Arthur looked at the red dots on the RTS map as if reading a pre-written script. "They're taking shelter from the rain in an abandoned barn by the roadside. They haven't turned off the engine to keep warm."
"How did you know?" Durand's voice was tinged with fear; such long-range reconnaissance capabilities were unheard of.
"Intuition. A hunter's intuition," Arthur said coldly. He didn't need to explain; he only needed to obey. "That direction, 11 o'clock, 1800 meters away. That's a vanguard reconnaissance team from the Skeleton Division. Looks like they're enjoying afternoon tea."
"It's the Skeleton Masters again..." Durand gritted his teeth, his voice filled with hatred. "These bastards killed many of my brothers in Alas, and even shot prisoners."
"Then send them to hell, along with their afternoon tea."
Arthur patted Jean-Louis, the driver and gunner in front of the vehicle, on the shoulder. The young French corporal was sweating profusely with nervousness.
"Louis, load that 75mm gun with that German-made high-explosive shell. I don't want to see that barn still standing."
"Yes...yes, sir!"
The massive breechblock clicked as it locked. The 75mm ABS 1929 howitzer, mounted on the front right side of the vehicle and capable only of pitching up and down but not rotating left and right, had greedily swallowed a golden shell from the enemy.
Although this cannon has an extremely narrow firing arc and requires the vehicle to be rotated to aim, at this direct-fire range, it is the most violent building-demolition weapon.
Two minutes later.
The barn came into view at the edge of the horizon.
As Arthur said, two sloped armored Sd.Kfz. 222 reconnaissance vehicles were parked under the wide eaves, several soldiers in SS camouflage were smoking with their necks hunched over, and several others were distributing food around the trucks.
They heard the sound of tracks.
But they didn't pay much attention. The deep, heavy engine sound of the B1 tank, masked by the rain, didn't sound much different from the German StuG III or Panzer IV. Besides, from this position, facing east, how could it possibly be French?
Until that enormous steel monster, painted in yellow, green and brown camouflage and covered in chains, broke through the rain and mist, appearing like a moving mountain only three hundred meters away from them.
At that moment, time seemed to stand still.
A German scout dropped his cigarette, the red embers going out in the mud. He stared in horror at the approaching behemoth, like a moving wall, his eyes wide with disbelief.
Didn't the intelligence report say that the French armored forces in this area had just been bombed by Stukas?
Where did this thing come from?
Hell?
"Fire!"
Arthur gave the skeleton minions no time to think, decisively giving the order; he now craved explosions and burning.
Jean-Louis, the driver and gunner of the vehicle, had cold sweat on his palms. He suddenly grabbed the greasy, thick hemp rope and instinctively pulled it back.
Click.
It didn't move.
The German Gr.34 shell, forcibly shoved into the breech, seemed to resist being fired by this French gun. A chilling, stiff resistance emanated from the modified primer firing pin mechanism, like two incompatible metal skeletons stuck together.
A deathly silence lingered for a long 0.5 seconds in the gasoline-smelling car cabin.
Fear gripped Jean-Louis's heart instantly—this damned official! Was it jammed? Or was it about to explode and turn him into a pile of minced meat on the inner wall?
"Don't hesitate! Pull! Use your body weight to pull!"
Arthur's roar was more penetrating than the engine noise.
Jean-Louis gritted his teeth, his resolve hardening. To hell with the explosion! He was going to die anyway!
He closed his eyes, wrapped the fuse tightly around his wrist like a prisoner trying to strangle himself, and then used all his strength to lean back sharply.
boom--!!!
The heavy hull of the Verdun jolted violently, as if it had been given a hard shove.
The 75mm howitzer spewed out a burst of orange-red flames, instantly tearing through the gray rain curtain.
At a distance of 300 meters, this artillery piece, originally designed to support infantry assaults in trench warfare during World War I, did not require precise aiming at all.
The German-made high-explosive bomb, with a longing to return home, accurately entered the open door of the barn and then exploded instantly in the extremely confined space inside.
There was no slow motion like in the movies.
The entire barn disintegrated instantly, like a balloon bursting from the inside by an invisible giant hand. Tiles, planks, bricks, and the remains of the unfortunate Opel troop carrier, along with the limbs of a dozen SS soldiers, were all blasted into the sky by the violent shockwave.
The ammunition piled up inside was also ignited, and black and red fireballs rolled in the rain—the color of death.
Two Sd.Kfz. 222 reconnaissance vehicles parked outside attempted to escape. The SS soldiers reacted swiftly, but in the face of such overwhelming power, reaction speed was meaningless.
The blast wave overturned the nearest reconnaissance vehicle, which rolled twice in the mud like a toy before lying on its side by the roadside, its four wheels still spinning in vain.
Another Sd.Kfz. 222 reconnaissance vehicle had just put into reverse and was trying to turn around and escape through the mud.
Captain Durand instinctively stepped on the turret swivel pedal, aimed the slender 47mm SA 35 cannon at the target's engine cover, and pulled the trigger hard.
Click.
A crisp yet despairing sound of the firing pin missing its target.
Damn it! The adrenaline made him forget the most crucial fact—this cannon had long since run out of ammunition. Among the German "trophies" Arthur had acquired were only 75mm high-explosive shells that could barely fit into the vehicle's cannon; there were none of the French-specific 47mm armor-piercing shells.
"Out of ammunition!" Durand slammed his fist on the breech in anger, just as the nimble German reconnaissance vehicle was about to slip into the rain and fog.
"Who gave you permission to fire?"
Arthur's voice boomed in the headphones, carrying a primal ferocity.
He even instantly rejected the driver's tactical attempt to brake and turn, and to lock onto the target with the 75mm gun—that damned hull gun had almost no horizontal field of fire, and aiming at a scurrying rat meant having to stop, which was a desecration of kinetic energy.
"Don't slow down! Don't waste time adjusting the vehicle's aim! That modified shell is worth more than this piece of junk's life!"
Arthur roared, simplifying complex battlefield decisions into the purest physical formula:
"You're sitting on 31 tons of steel! Crush it into a photograph!"
"Hold on tight!"
The driver, Jean-Louis, also let out a distorted roar.
The 300-meter distance passed in the blink of an eye. The Verdun did not slow down at all; instead, its Renault engine, fueled by high-octane gasoline, roared near the redline. This massive behemoth, like an icebreaker charging at full speed, forcefully cut through the mud and caught up with the German reconnaissance vehicle that was slipping on the ground.
boom--!
There was no sound of cannon fire, but the impact was more devastating than any cannon shot.
The B1 tank's towering, sharp frontal armor directly collided with the vulnerable side of the 222 reconnaissance vehicle.
Then came a series of chilling metallic squeaking and cracking sounds.
Under the overwhelming weight of 31 tons against 4.8 tons, the laws of physics revealed their most brutal side. The German reconnaissance vehicle was like a soda can being trampled by an elephant, instantly deforming, breaking, and collapsing.
The German driver, who hadn't even had a chance to climb out, was crushed along with his cockpit before he could even scream.
The Verdun's wide tracks relentlessly rolled over the rubble, leaving a nauseatingly sticky residue as it drove directly over the flat, blood- and fuel-splattered scrap metal.
The car lurched violently for a moment, then returned to a steady state.
Behind him, the once exquisite German armored vehicle had become a two-dimensional "photograph" embedded in the soil.
The convoy sped past.
Three more B1 tanks followed closely behind, with Cold Creek Guards soldiers sitting in the back of the tanks, their Thompson submachine guns relentlessly firing at the wreckage and any remaining enemies along the roadside.
Da da da da—
There was no stopping, no checking of the bodies, no prisoners; only cold-blooded crushing and destruction.
This is the majesty of heavy armored forces. This is the absolute dominance of large tonnage over small tonnage in this steel age.
Sitting in the swaying carriage, feeling the tremors brought by this absolute power, Arthur finally felt a release of the pent-up resentment within him. He could feel every vibration from the armor plates beneath his feet, the bones and steel of the enemy breaking.
He reached into his pocket and took out the rag doll, glancing at it. The doll's single eye remained fixed on him, as if scrutinizing the man who was turning into a demon.
"Did you see that clearly, Sophie?"
He muttered to himself, a cruel smile curving his lips, which looked particularly chilling in the flickering light of the dial.
"This is what revenge should be like. Not using tears to soften hearts, but using steel to crush the enemy."
On the RTS map, the green arrow representing this "Ghost" battle group has become thicker and sharper. It is no longer a fleeing remnant, but a barbed steel nail that has been deeply driven into the heart of the German army.
Thirty kilometers ahead of them, at a key point on the D916 highway, a flashing supply icon was beckoning to them.
That was a logistics hub for the Skeleton Army.
"Next."
Arthur closed his eyes and coldly marked the location of the supply depot on the map with a bright red cross.