L.F-Hist.Novelist Chapter 40 The Shadow of Berg
Chapter 40 The Shadow of Berg
With the assistance of the RTS system, the originally messy green dots representing different types of soldiers began to move, absorb, and recombine rapidly.
This is no longer a simple reorganization; it's a "deck building" process.
Although looking at this "allied forces" with its extremely diverse composition, language barriers, and even inconsistent ammunition calibers, Arthur felt his obsessive-compulsive disorder was about to flare up. It was practically a Frankenstein's monster, a Lego set, a Gundam model, and Play-Doh forcibly sculpted together.
"Okay, since this is the hand I'm going to use, let's make it look like it is."
Arthur sighed, his fingers tracing patterns in the air, finalizing the tactical formation:
【I. Core Assault / The Hammer】
Configuration: The core of the tanks is the four B1 bis heavy tanks, including the Verdun, which serve as the main meat shields (MTs), supplemented by the four captured Panzer III Ausf. E tanks with altered markings.
Duties: drawing aggro, making hard breakthroughs, and serving as mobile cover.
Commander: Arthur Sterling (personal commander) / Sergeant McTavish (co-pilot).
[Comment: The good news is that, at least on the issue of 'beverages,' we can now have a unified standard—thanks to the generous Generals Rommel and Guderian, both my French lady (B1) and these few inferior German horses (number three) are now drinking high-octane synthetic gasoline stolen from the Hans. Unfortunately, this delicate Renault engine seems to prefer the enemy's 'blood' to the French's own inferior gasoline.]
Moreover, while Captain Durand's French tank crews were quite skilled, having them drive German tanks behind an Englishman... God help our radio channels not becoming the Tower of Babel. I can only pray that we can still find a few boxes of universal ammunition from the 37mm guns of those four Panzer III tanks.
II. Fire Support / The Eraser
Configuration: 4 Bofors 40mm anti-aircraft guns, mounted on the rear of the half-track vehicle, closely following the assault team.
Duties: Horizontal fire! Horizontal fire! Horizontal fire again! Responsible for "physical removal" of enemy soft targets and clearing out any infantry attempting to approach the tank.
Commanders: Captain Higgins (British Army) / Lieutenant Jeanne (French Army Liaison Officer).
[Review: Lieutenant Jeanne is a good choice. In this swarm of men reeking of sweat and engine oil, a woman's voice can increase the gunners' loading speed by at least 20%. Besides, while Higgins is an expert in artillery, his map reading skills are practically nonexistent; he needs a local Frenchman to tell him which way is north.]
【III. Flank Security / The Dragoons】
Configuration: 8 Sd.Kfz. 251 half-track armored vehicles fully loaded with machine gunners and elite infantry.
Duties: Rapid maneuverability, clearing flanks, and accompanying tanks in charge as "armored cavalry".
Commander: Major Ryder.
[Comment: Although Ryder looks like a nouveau riche visiting a French winery, his arrogant "I'm the best" attitude is exactly what flank cover needs. I only need to worry about one thing: don't let him value those truckloads of loot more than his own life.]
【IV. Demolition / The Janitors】
Configuration: Miller's Royal Engineers detachment, riding in the last two half-track vehicles.
Duties: laying mines, blowing up bridges, breaching obstacles, and leaving the Germans a "parting gift" during the retreat.
Commander: Private Miller, yes, although he looks like a major now, he really is just a private.
[Evaluation: The battlefield's 'violent cleaners.' If tanks are for kicking down doors, then these lunatics exist to blow up the entire building's foundation. The only risk management is—you have to have someone constantly watching him to make sure he doesn't casually plant a couple of mines in our own path. Although he swears it's to guard against the Germans, considering this guy got his ass kicked by the instructor in training camp, I seriously doubt he'd treat 'friendly fire' as a hobby.]
Oh, and look at him now, giving orders like that, wearing an ill-fitting officer's overcoat, even holding a proper-looking baton—this guy has finally become a respectable 'officer,' although essentially he's still that scoundrel who draws a few shillings a week and whose mind is only on explosives and cigarettes.
Looking at the rows of neat, uniform green icons on his retina, with the status bar displaying "Ready," Arthur's anxiety as a "perfectionist gamer" finally found some relief.
"very good."
He gripped his cane tightly, as if he held the power over the entire world:
"Now, this Frankenstein monster has finally come to life."
Joining the Sterling battle group would mean they would no longer be a defeated force.
This is a fully equipped, heavily armed, and highly motivated private army.
This feeling is more intoxicating than any alcohol.
One o'clock in the afternoon.
On the narrow road leading to the south gate of Berger, Arthur's convoy slowly came to a stop.
Because the road ahead is blocked.
But this wasn't because of traffic congestion; it was because the two French 75mm field guns (Canon de 75 modèle 1897) blocking the middle of the road were now pointing their dark guns directly at Arthur's nose.
"Stop the car! Stop the car immediately! Or we'll open fire!"
Several French soldiers, dressed in khaki coats and wearing Adrian helmets, lay prone behind sandbags, their fingers gripping the triggers of Hotchkiss heavy machine guns. Their eyes were filled with terror and murderous intent, as if they would riddle the strange convoy ahead with bullets at any moment.
You can't blame the French for being overly sensitive.
At this critical moment, any convoy coming from the south—that is, from where Guderian's tracks have rolled—would be enough to send the defenders' adrenaline soaring to off the charts.
Moreover, the design of Arthur's convoy was not only an eyesore, it was as if they had torn up the French army's "Identification Manual for Foes and Foes" and thrown it on the ground to stomp on it.
What kind of rubbish is this?
Following the lead vehicle were four genuine, angular German Panzer III tanks, and eight Sd.Kfz. 251 half-tracks laden with spoils of war, resembling mobile general stores.
Although their armor plates were painted with the striking Allied white stars and Union Jacks, in the murky smoke and dust of the battlefield, the human retina always prioritizes capturing the outlines rather than the paintwork.
To the tense French soldiers, this looked exactly like the legendary "Brandenburg" special forces, disguised as British troops, trying to pull off a "Trojan Horse" operation.
After all, the British expeditionary force that had been shouting slogans with them just over a month ago was now busy fleeing towards the sea in disarray, looking like a pack of stray dogs.
And this convoy in front of us?
Although the models were mixed, the grim, iron-blooded aura and the orderly marching formations made them look exactly like the arrogant German Wehrmacht.
"Sir, it seems our allies aren't very welcoming of us."
McTavish placed his hand on the grip of the azimuth machine gun, his voice tense: "If those two 75mm guns open fire at this distance, we'll lose at least a platoon of men."
"Don't be nervous, Sergeant. Take your finger off the trigger."
Arthur stood on the control tower, not only did he not dodge, but he also opened the hatch and leaned half of his body out.
He straightened his collar, then kicked the armor plate on the side of the turret:
"Jeanne! It's your turn!"
"Tell your fellow countrymen that if they dare scratch my paint, I'll shove their 75mm guns up their asses!"
The next second, a clear and angry female voice rang out over the city gate through the loudspeaker.
Lieutenant Jeanne de Valois—the female officer from the intelligence liaison office of the French 1st Army—was standing up from the half-track serving as a liaison vehicle and, in impeccable Parisian-accented French, launching into a tirade against her compatriots at the city gate:
"Put your guns down! You blind fools! That's the 'Verdun'! It's a Shire B1 heavy tank!"
"Open your eyes and look! What Germans would attack with tanks that symbolize French glory? Those are our tanks! We stole them from those damned Hans!"
That shout was more effective than any pass.
The French soldiers froze. Their gazes passed over the unsettling German half-tracks and finally settled on the massive vehicle at the very front of the convoy.
The towering hull, the iconic 75mm howitzer on the side, and the prominent "VERDUN" lettering on the hull, not yet completely erased by bullet holes.
That's the B1 bis. That's the pride of the French Army. That's their spiritual symbol.
At a time when the French army was suffering a crushing defeat and rumors were spreading that "the defenses had collapsed" and "Paris was about to surrender," seeing a heavy tank belonging to their own country return like a king, even with a British officer standing on it, was enough to bring tears to the eyes of these soldiers who were fighting alone.
"It's a B1! It really is a B1!"
"My God, there are still people fighting! I knew the 1st Armored Division wasn't all wiped out!"
The tense atmosphere instantly dissipated. The roadblocks were removed, and the cannons that had once been filled with hostility lowered their muzzles.
Arthur watched all of this with a cold eye.
On the RTS interface, the yellow dots that originally represented hostile/neutral forces instantly turned into green dots that represented friendly forces.
"It seems that in this world where looks matter, this 30-ton suit of armor is the best pass."
Arthur gave a soft snort and waved his silver cane:
"Go into town."
The convoy rumbled across the centuries-old suspension bridge, through the dark doorway, and into the city of Berg.
If the outside world is the entrance to hell, then this is the first hall of hell.
Berg, once a picturesque medieval city, has now been transformed into a massive field hospital and internment camp.
The ancient stone-paved road was crowded with wounded soldiers wrapped in blood-stained bandages, and swollen horse carcasses floated in the canal. Arthur could only smell iodine, blood, and the stench of backflowing sewers—the smell of death.
But this place is different.
Unlike the bustling, marketplace-like gathering places of defeated Allied soldiers that Arthur had encountered along the way, where everyone was preoccupied with how to get to the other side of the strait, this place was permeated with a solemn and heavy deathly silence.
There were no panicked screams, nor any cursing as people fought over the vehicles.
Because the soldiers here did not run away.
The most incredible thing is that they were French soldiers.
In this summer when "the collapse of France" has become the front page headline of The Times, and when everyone is rushing north like headless flies, seeing a group of French soldiers who haven't turned their backs to the enemy is rarer than seeing ice in the Sahara Desert, and even rarer...
Rare and precious.
French soldiers of the 12th Motorized Infantry Division (12e DIM) silently set up Hotchkiss machine guns behind every window and piled up sandbags at every street corner. Their eyes were empty and weary, but there was no fear in them, only a numbness and determination of "since we can't escape, we'll die here."
They looked at Arthur's well-equipped British convoy, which was "attacking" northward, their eyes filled with complex emotions—jealousy, contempt, and a hint of envy hidden in their eyes.
"Is this the French army that was denounced as 'surrenderists'?"
Major Ryder, sitting in the back half-track, watched a group of French soldiers silently carrying stretchers walk by the roadside. His earlier nonchalant expression vanished, and he said in a low voice:
"I think they have much more guts than those Tommys (a nickname for British soldiers) crying and calling for their mothers on the beach."
Arthur did not speak.
He could see it more clearly on the RTS map.
Around this isolated city, red arrows representing the German army were coiling around it like pythons. Inside the city, this lone blue-clad army was like a nail, firmly driven into the crossroads, using their flesh and blood to create a lifeline for the hundreds of thousands of Allied troops behind them.
This is a cruel human sieve.
Lucky "impurities" like Arthur will be filtered out by this sieve and flow towards the gate of life called "Dunkirk"; while the German wolves that try to pursue will be firmly blocked outside the city walls by this sieve.
Until the net was completely torn apart, until they ran out of ammunition and food, and all of them were killed in battle.
This is the last vestige of French dignity in the north, following the collapse of defenses in Azhebrook and Kassel.
Now, this ancient city is the front line.
"parking."
A French officer with a stubble and the rank of colonel on his shoulders stopped the tank. He looked at Arthur, who was standing on the turret, and said curtly:
"I am the Chief of Staff of the 12th Division. General Jensen wants to see you, Englishman."
Berg City Hall.
This Baroque-style building, which has hosted countless balls and city council meetings, is now the temporary headquarters of the 12th Division.
The crystal chandelier in the hall was half shattered and hung precariously from the ceiling. A huge portrait of Napoleon on the wall had half its head sliced off by shrapnel.
Arthur, leaning on his cane, strode inside.
In the center of the hall, in front of a huge oak table covered with maps, stood a thin old man with a slightly hunched back.
He was wearing an old-fashioned military uniform, faded but still crisp, with the collar buttoned up. He wasn't holding a baton, but rather a long-extinguished pipe.
Major General Louis Jeanson.
Hearing footsteps, the commander of the 12th Division turned around. It was a typical Alsatian face, with high cheekbones, deep-set eyes, and bloodshot eyes that revealed a hard and stubborn look like granite.
He looked Arthur up and down—from his well-tailored British uniform to his somewhat affected cane.
"Look, yet another British gentleman in a hurry to sunbathe on the Dunkirk beach."
Let Mori's voice carried undisguised contempt:
"And you're driving our tanks, with German vehicles in tow. Your ability to loot is certainly far greater than your ability to hold the line."
The disheveled French staff officers around him let out a low snicker.
That laughter was filled with resentment and malice.
For these fallen soldiers, the term "British Expeditionary Force" was now almost synonymous with "betraying their comrades." Whenever the German Stukas began to scream, Tommy's (British) flanks would collapse faster than sour biscuits, leaving the French stranded to face Guderian's iron torrent.
Everyone knows perfectly well that the ship of France is already half-sunken.
At this time, no one was willing to shed their blood on a land destined to fall—except for a small number of native French people who had nowhere to retreat, and the group of madmen in the Foreign Legion (LégionÉtrangère) who had no homeland and fought only for their beliefs.
"If you've come seeking asylum, Major."
Sen turned around, pointed with his pipe to a small door at the back of the hall, his tone as cold as if he were dismissing a beggar:
"The back door is over there. That's the road to the beach. You can take your British soldiers and roll back to England down that road; nobody will stop you."
At this point, his tone suddenly shifted, and the pipe that had been pointing towards the back door abruptly turned around, striking the massive vehicle parked in the square through the window with a fierce look in his eyes:
"But the tanks must remain."
"Especially those B1 tanks. They are French property, born to spit out shells on the battlefield, not to carry a few deserters for a ride on the beach."
Let Sen stare at Arthur like a stern father looking at a spendthrift son:
"Hand over the keys, leave those German tanks behind, and get out of here with your men. Don't let them block my line of fire—they're far more useful than you."
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