usatvline Chapter 95 Only the devil can bring out the courage of an angel.
Chapter 95 Only the devil can bring out the courage of an angel.
Chapter 95 Only the devil can bring out the courage of an angel.
Major General Fortune suddenly pressed down on the chief of staff's head, and the two of them fell into the mud of the trench.
boom--!
The first 150mm high-explosive shell landed on the air defense position on the south bank.
Rear command post of the German 7th Panzer Division.
Major General Erwin Rommel stood on his Sd.Kfz.250 command half-track, his face ashen.
At his feet was the broken pencil.
The arrogant, provocative voice of the man who called himself "SS-999" still echoed in my headphones, along with the chaotic reports from the front lines about Colonel Rothenburg's uncertain fate.
"An armored company was wiped out in three minutes. The regimental command was paralyzed. The offensive was halted."
Rommel looked at the map. He pointed sharply at the point on the Abbeville Heights.
He didn't fly into a rage. Anger was a superfluous emotion for a commander.
He made the most correct and rational tactical adjustment.
-
Since those 88mm guns have already taken on the shape of the enemy, let's erase them from the map along with that hill.
"Order the 78th Artillery Regiment."
Rommel's voice was flat and even: "All the heavy howitzers of the 1st Battalion. All the light howitzers of the 2nd Battalion."
"No need for shooting practice."
"Target: Air defense high ground on the south bank of Abbeville."
"Five rapid-fire shots. Cover that coordinate."
"If my tanks can't get through, then nothing alive can stay there."
At the same time, he issued a second order: "Order the 7th Motorized Infantry Brigade to dismount and abandon heavy equipment."
"Use the woods on the east and west sides to maneuver around them. Ford the river and attack the flank of the 51st Division."
"Since the front is made of steel, then we'll attack the soft flesh on the sides."
13:41:30, Abbeville South Bank Highlands, Gun Position 1.
The firing stopped.
Because there were no more targets to shoot at in sight, the German tanks behind, having lost more than twenty tanks at once, urgently released smoke grenades and reversed at full speed back behind the wooded line.
Major Ryder, his face covered in soot, excitedly patted the scorching hot shield of the 88mm gun, as if he were patting a racehorse that had just won a race.
"Sir! They've escaped! Those Germans have been routed!"
Ryder turned around and looked at Arthur, who was wiping his hands. The excitement in his eyes practically ignited the entire hilltop: "We haven't had enough yet! There are still fifty armor-piercing rounds in the ammunition boxes! As long as we hold these cannons, not only will an armored regiment be able to cross the bridge, but even Guderian won't be able to get past us!"
This is a typical case of "position dependency syndrome." When infantry have an absolute advantage in heavy firepower, they often develop the illusion that they are invincible and are therefore unwilling to give up their positions.
Just like the French on the Maginot Line.
Arthur did not answer.
He stood on the command platform, his eyes fixed on the empty space in front of his retina.
In his RTS tactical interface, although the tanks in front of his field of vision had retreated, a set of alarming data fluctuations appeared deep in the red fog at the edge of the map, five kilometers behind the German lines.
[WARNING: High-risk signal detected]
[Signal source: German 78th Artillery Regiment position]
[Motion capture: Gun barrel elevation rise]
Quadrant setting: Correction complete.
[Target locked: Current coordinates (Abwer Highlands)]
[Estimated arrival time of the first wave of comments: two minutes]
The red icons representing heavy howitzers are collectively turning towards this point from the edge of the map.
Arthur's gaze swept quickly across the friendly positions on the north bank, trying to find a retreat route.
However, the extremely contradictory data stream that popped up in the RTS interface stunned Arthur.
[Friendly Force Status: British 51st Highland Division]
Basic combat unit (soldier level):
Morale Index: 98% (Extremely High/Fanatic)
Status: Inspired by the heavy firepower of friendly forces, high morale and eager to fight back.
Combat effectiveness: 120% (morale bonus).
Command and control node (Major General Victor Fortune):
Command Willpower: 15% (On the verge of collapse)
Status: Fear. Overestimating the enemy's flank threat, encountering a blitzkrieg, and being terrified.
Current decision-making tendency: Surrender/Raise the white flag.
This is an absurd logical paradox.
His body was brimming with power, wanting to deliver a powerful punch; but his brain was paralyzed by fear, issuing the command to kneel down.
Damn it.
Arthur cursed. He realized that if he didn't rush over and intervene immediately, the troops he had just saved would be sent to a prisoner-of-war camp by that spineless commander in the next second.
"retreat."
Arthur's voice was icy, instantly extinguishing Ryder's enthusiasm.
"What?" Ryder was stunned, even thinking he had misheard. "Retreat? Why retreat? We have the high ground, we have 88mm guns, we—"
"Because Rommel understands 'stop-loss' better than you do, Ryder."
Arthur grabbed Ryder by the oil-stained collar, the force of which yanked Ryder off balance. Arthur, however, was already sprinting towards the half-track armored vehicle parked on the reverse slope: "All personnel, listen up! Abandon the position! Let's go!"
Ryder staggered to catch up, still trying to argue, but Arthur's barrage of words silenced him: "You want to hold out against these guns like a nail house? Rommel knows this better than you or I do. This is the place he used to blockade the 51st Division. He understands that as long as these six pipes are still standing here, the 51st Division can't break out, and of course, his armored regiment can't get in either."
"So, he has given up on taking this place."
Arthur glanced at the red number rapidly counting down on his retina: "He's planning to use the big one."
"In less than 30 seconds, the German heavy artillery will turn this layer of chalk upside down."
Arthur abruptly loosened Ryder's collar, pointing at the scorching 88mm cannons: "Do you want to leave a complete corpse as a hero, or do you want to become a pile of minced meat in the cracks of that pile of scrap metal?"
Ryder's pupils contracted sharply.
The adrenaline rush was instantly extinguished by the icy water called "survival." He understood what "150mm heavy artillery" meant—it was a physical erasure that couldn't even be found in DNA.
"Got it!"
Ryder whirled around, veins bulging on his neck. Without Arthur even needing to intervene, he quickened his pace, unleashing a bloodcurdling roar at the soldiers still behind him: "Retreat!! Get on the trucks!! Ditch all the unnecessary equipment!!"
"Higgins! Stop picking at that damn Zeiss lens! Unless you want to take it to hell with you!!"
The soldiers realized the danger at their officer's roar. Their survival instincts drove them to drop everything they had and rush frantically toward the half-track vehicle parked behind the reverse slope.
"Sappers!"
The moment Arthur jumped off the command platform, he gave his final order: "I don't want the Germans to be able to pick them up and fix them. Blow them up."
Three engineers from the Cold Creek Guard Regiment who had been on standby immediately rushed toward the six 88mm guns that were still emitting high temperatures.
They did not use conventional explosives. Because explosives could only sever the gun barrel, and for the German army, which had a strong logistical repair capability, replacing a gun barrel only took two hours.
They used the No. 76 special incendiary grenade (thermolytic).
The pull ring is pulled open. The cylindrical grenade is directly inserted into the sophisticated semi-automatic breech mechanism.
The engineer turned and ran without even looking back.
Three seconds later.
A blinding white light burst forth from the gap in the cannon door, accompanied by a loud hissing sound.
The 3000-degree Celsius temperature generated by the combustion of the thermite instantly melted the hard Krupp gun steel into orange-red molten iron. The precise locking mechanism, firing pin, and extractor hook fused together in an instant.
The base of the cannon barrel softened due to the high temperature and could not withstand its own weight. It slowly bent downwards like a smoldering candle and finally drooped dejectedly towards the ground.
These industrial masterpieces have been completely and irreparably reduced to scrap metal.
"Let's go! Let's go! Let's go!"
Arthur jumped onto the command vehicle, codenamed "SS-999," and pounded on the roof of the driver's cab.
The convoy roared down the slope toward the bridge on the north bank.
Just as the taillights of the last truck disappeared around the corner of the ramp.
The air was suddenly torn apart.
Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom!
A barrage of bullets from twelve 150mm heavy guns and twelve 105mm light guns arrived simultaneously.
It wasn't a single shot, it was a carpet bombing.
Several tons of TNT explosives released chemical energy simultaneously on that small hilltop.
The entire highland was instantly engulfed by orange-red fireballs and black smoke. The chalky soil was churned up, and the rocks were pulverized.
The wreckage of those several decommissioned 88mm guns was torn into twisted metal fragments by the violent shockwave, and was thrown dozens of meters into the air along with sandbags and bunkers.
This was a barrage of firepower capable of erasing all signs of life on the earth's surface.
If they had left half a minute later, Sterling Battle Group would already be a list of casualties.
13:50, North Bank, British 51st Highland Division defensive line.
Major General Fortune lay prone in the trench, feeling the earth tremble violently.
Each explosion felt like a heavy hammer blow to his chest.
When he looked up again and gazed at the south bank.
There were no more high grounds there. Only scorched earth shrouded in black smoke remained.
"It's over————"
Major General Fortune's binoculars slipped from his hands and fell into the mud, the lenses covered in dust.
"It's all over."
"That commando team—was completely wiped out."
No one could survive that density of heavy artillery fire. That was the effective fire of almost half a German artillery regiment.
Despair, like a black tide, engulfed the command post.
But even more devastating news followed.
"General! Report from the flank! A large number of German infantry are wading across the river!"
"153rd Brigade reporting! German infiltration troops spotted in the woods on the left flank! They've set up machine guns!"
"152nd Brigade Report! Right flank under mortar fire! Casualties surge!"
Major General Fortune looked around.
His face was filled with deep fear and confusion.
To the south were German heavy artillery and armored regiments. On both flanks were infantry flanking them. Their only hope, the "King Arthur" commando unit, had just been blown to smithereens before their very eyes.
Moreover, behind them were not only Rommel's 7th Panzer Division, but also Guderian's entire 19th Corps and the entire Army Group A.
They were isolated and helpless.
This is a dead end.
Continue to resist? That would mean letting these 13,000 Scottish soldiers become meaningless corpses under the German heavy artillery and siege.
As commander, he had a responsibility to protect the lives of these young people.
That's enough.
Major General Fortune's voice sounded so aged, as if he had crossed twenty years in an instant.
He leaned against the trench wall and stood up shakily.
He looked at the flagpole standing next to the command post. A British flag had once flown there.
"For the lives of these children—"
Fortune closed her eyes, and two streams of tears flowed down her cheeks, washing over her gunpowder-stained skin.
"Raise the flag."
The chief of staff was stunned: "General? What flag are you raising?"
Major General Fortune uttered the word that brought shame to the Scots through gritted teeth: "White flag."
The bagpipe music stopped abruptly.
The entire position fell into a deathly silence.
An advisor who had been prepared beforehand took out a white sheet that was originally intended to be used to cover the dining table from the supply box and tied it to the flag rope.
Under the gaze of thousands of bloodshot, desperate, and angry eyes, this glaring white figure slowly rose, standing out starkly against the smoke-filled battlefield.
Some soldiers angrily slammed their Lee-Enfield rifles to the ground, breaking the stock. Others knelt in the mud, burying their heads in their hands and weeping bitterly.
Just as the white flag reached the top and was about to be unfurled.
Om-!
A roar of engines suddenly burst forth from the thick smoke over the bridge.
The sound was rough and wild, completely different from the muffled breathing of British military vehicles; it was the roar of a Maybach HL42 engine at its maximum RPM.
"Don't shoot! It's them! They're on our side!"
"It's those lunatics who drove Rommel's tanks away! They're charging out!"
On the previously lifeless battlefield, someone shouted something first. Immediately afterwards, cheers erupted like a contagious disease throughout the entire 51st Division.
Everyone looked up, waving their helmets and rifles.
A Sd.Kfz.251 half-track command vehicle, riddled with bullet holes, blackened, and even belching black smoke, emerged from the deathly smoke like a stubborn bull.
It didn't slow down at all.
"Quick! Move the roadblocks! Don't block their way!"
The royal engineers guarding the bridge didn't need any orders from their superiors. They charged like madmen toward the makeshift roadblock made of chevaux-de-frise, barbed wire, and sandbags, as if welcoming a triumphant king.
Without any hesitation.
Four burly Scottish engineers, chanting slogans, lifted the heavy barricades and threw them into the roadside ditch. The others frantically pushed down and leveled the sandbag wall, forcibly clearing a path large enough for a half-track vehicle to pass through in seconds.
"Pass! Pass! Pass!"
The engineers waved their arms, their faces beaming with excitement, signaling the convoy to pass.
The lead Sd.Kfz.251 half-track command vehicle roared through the breach that the engineers had just opened.
It didn't slow down, kicking up dust that lashed at the faces of the engineers, but the Scotsmen didn't care, even whistling at the conspicuous SS skull insignia on the vehicle.
With a screeching sound of tracks rubbing and brakes screeching, the vehicle made an extremely violent drift on the muddy ground, coming to a stop less than five meters in front of the 51st Division headquarters.
Behind it, twenty-four Panzer IV tanks and dozens of trucks filed out.
They did not stop, but quickly drove into the gaps in the British defenses, turned their guns around, and aimed their still-warm 75mm tank guns at the German infantry crossing the river, thus rebuilding an ironclad defense.
"Bang!"
The rear hatch of the half-track was kicked open.
A tall figure jumped down.
He wore a black SS armored jacket, the collar open to reveal a British Army standard khaki shirt underneath. His blond hair was disheveled in the wind, and his face was covered in black engine oil and gunpowder residue.
Only those grey-blue eyes gleamed with a chilling light.
The cheers subsided slightly at this moment, as everyone felt the murderous aura emanating from the commander.
Major General Victor Fortune was stunned.
He looked at the man who had emerged from the inferno, at the man's body reeking of gunpowder, and then at the glaring white flag that had just been raised above his own head. A tremendous sense of shame instantly shattered his pride.
"Colonel Sterling—"
Fortune instinctively straightened his disheveled uniform, forcing a look that was worse than crying onto his face, and said in a dry voice, "Thank God—you survived—I thought you were already—"
boom!
A sharp gunshot interrupted him.
A wisp of smoke rose from the muzzle of the Luger P08 pistol in Arthur Sterling's hand.
The shot did not hit anyone.
The 9mm Parabellum bullet accurately severed the cable on the flagpole.
The white flag that had just been raised, a symbol of shame, lost its support and fell down like a tattered rag.
It tumbled helplessly in the wind, eventually covering Major General Fortune's gleaming riding boots, which were now covered in mud.
The entire room fell silent.
Tens of thousands of Scottish soldiers and hundreds of officers stared in disbelief at the scene.
Arthur put away his gun and strode up to Major General Fortune.
He was a head taller than the major general and was looking down at him. His aura was even more oppressive than the heavy artillery bombardment they had just experienced.
"Accept surrender?"
Arthur gave a cold laugh.
He angrily ripped off his white gloves, which were stained with congealed blood and engine oil, and threw them on the ground.
Then, without any warning.
Snapped!
A resounding slap that chilled the heart.
Arthur swung his arm and slapped the British major general hard across the left cheek.
The force was so great that it sent Major General Fortune's peaked cap flying, spinning twice in the air before landing. Five clear, blood-red finger marks instantly appeared on the major general's face.
"you----"
Fortune covered her face, staggering back two steps as she was slapped, her eyes wide with disbelief that she had been slapped by a colonel.
Before he could react, Arthur stepped forward, grabbed his well-made general's uniform collar, and twisted him up.
Arthur brought his face close to Fortune's, their noses almost touching. Fortune could even smell the strong stench of gunpowder and blood emanating from Arthur.
"Listen, Victor."
Arthur roared in the other man's ear in impeccable London English, his voice filled with rage: "I just blew up half of Rommel's armored battalion."
"I destroyed six of his 88mm guns."
"I led my brothers through a barrage of 150mm heavy artillery fire, and even my eyebrows were singed."
"Did I do all this just to see you hanging this damn diaper here?!"
"6
Arthur shoved Fortune away abruptly.
The major general stumbled and fell into the mud, landing right on the dirty white flag.
Arthur turned around, pointing to the still-standing bridge behind him, and to the burning wreckage of German tanks on the south bank, his voice rising to its absolute limit: "Open your dog eyes and look!"
"I've destroyed the tanks that were blocking your way! I've cleared that hill!"
"The bridge is open! The road is paved!"
"The German infantry are still crossing the river, and their heavy artillery is cooling down! This is the perfect window of opportunity!"
Arthur jumped onto the hood of the command vehicle, facing the tens of thousands of bewildered British soldiers around him.
He took off his peaked cap with the SS eagle insignia, threw it at his feet with utter disgust, and stomped on it hard, revealing his blond hair that was disheveled in the wind.
"I am Colonel Arthur Sterling!"
His voice, amplified by the loudspeaker, resounded throughout the entire position, drowning out the distant gunfire: "I've come to take you home!"
"We're not sending you to prisoner-of-war camps to eat moldy sauerkraut or to build railways for the Germans!"
Arthur's gaze swept across the soldiers' faces. There was fear, there was shame, but even more so, there was a burning desire.
"I know you're scared. I know you're tired. I also know you want to live to see your mothers and wives."
"But that German Rommel who wanted you to surrender is in more pain than you are! Because I just kicked his ass pretty hard!"
Arthur drew the dagger from his waist—the tip now pointed directly at the western coastline: "Now, there are only two choices!"
"First, keep kneeling here, pick up this diaper, and wait for the Germans to herd you into cages like pigs."
"Second, pick up your guns, fix your bayonets, follow my tank, and fight your way to the sea!"
silence.
A few seconds of deathly silence.
The only sound was the chirping of the wind blowing through the telegraph lines.
Then, a voice broke the silence.
"Click."
He was a young sergeant from the Black Guard. He silently picked up the Lee-Enfield rifle from the ground, pulled the bolt, and chambered a round.
His eyes no longer held confusion, but only a wild, ferocious look.
Then comes the second tone.
"Click."
Third tone.
"Click."
Countless sounds of bolts being pulled back converged into a metallic wave.
Major General Victor Fortune sat in the mud, covering his swollen cheek.
He looked at the soldiers around him whose eyes had become fierce again, at Arthur standing on the roof like a demon, and then looked down at the dirty white flag under his backside.
A profound sense of shame seared his soul like a red-hot iron. But what followed was the last vestige of his spirit as a Scottish Highlander.
With trembling hands, he picked up the hat that had been knocked off, dusted it off, and put it back on.
He stood up with the help of the orderly.
Instead of picking up the sword, he drew his Webley revolver from his waist.
He turned around and looked at the bagpiper who was standing there, unsure whether he should play or not.
Major General Fortune took a deep breath and roared at the bagpiper, "If you don't want that madman's second slap—then play!"
"Blow 'Highland Laddie'!"
"That's the tune we use to charge into battle!"
"51st Division, listen to my command—break out!"
Arthur sat back in the command vehicle, looking at the mobilizing soldiers of the 51st Highland Division in the rearview mirror, and at Major General Fortune, who had just been preparing to surrender but was now mobilizing his soldiers like mad dogs.
He pulled the last Lucky Strike cigarette from the pocket of his blood-stained SS jacket.
Bow your head and light it.
I took a deep breath, letting the nicotine soothe the burning sensation in my lungs.
He turned his head, blew a smoke ring at Major Ryder beside him, and gave him that signature smile that was a mixture of weariness and sarcasm: "See, Ryder?"
"Just like I said."
Sometimes, only the devil can bring out the courage of an angel.
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