The Twilight of Empire: Starting from Dunkirk

Chapter 45 The Art of Consultation

Chapter 45 The Art of Consultation (Seeking First Subscription)

Psychotic explosion.

There is no suspense.

Huge, orange fireballs erupted from every crevice of the Panzer IV. Then, the several-ton turret, like a kicked-over soda can, was hurled into the air by the terrifying internal chamber pressure.

It tumbled twice in the air, carrying the still-burning half of its body, before crashing heavily onto the unfortunate Panzer III tank next to it.

With a loud crash, the two German tanks instantly turned into a pile of twisted, burning scrap metal.

"What?!"

The crews of the remaining two Panzer III tanks were completely bewildered, and even forgot to eject the shells.

As armored soldiers of the Third Reich, they had certainly read the manuals and knew that the French 47mm SA35 cannon could theoretically penetrate their frontal armor. But subconsciously, they always felt that it was a low-probability event, after all, the French tanks they had encountered before had been running around like headless flies.

But what they saw shattered their hopes.

Knowing the data is one thing, but witnessing a Panzer IV tank being "decapitated" in a fraction of a second is quite another.

That swift and efficient killing efficiency, that terrifying penetrating power that tore steel apart like cardboard—was this really the work of the legendary "French Scrap Metal" who was slow-witted, had extremely poor vision, and whose commander also doubled as the loader?

This is not an old machine at all; it is a cold-blooded serial killer!

"Don't stop! Next one!"

Arthur didn't pause for a moment. The fully upgraded B1bis, with its health and mana at maximum, demonstrated its true dominance as a land cruiser in urban warfare.

"Driver! Full speed ahead! Run them over!"

The massive Renault engine roared, and the huge vehicle charged toward the remaining two Panzer III tanks with unstoppable momentum.

The German troops only then realized what was happening and opened fire frantically.

Ding! Ding! Ding!

37mm shells rained down on the B1, doing nothing but scratching the paint, knocking off a few rivets, or damaging a few external storage boxes. To the Germans, this desperate pounding sounded like a death knell.

Conversely, when Arthur fires, it means that death is knocking at the door.

A second 47mm armor-piercing shell was fired, accurately penetrating the gun shield of a Panzer III tank that was attempting to turn around on the spot.

After the sound of steel piercing through steel, the tank's gun barrel drooped limply, and the tank went silent instantly—the gunner and the commander had been killed in one fell swoop.

"Retreat! Reverse!"

The last German tank tried to escape, but at this narrow intersection, with burning wreckage in front and collapsed brick walls behind, it was like a rat trapped in a dead end.

"Higgins! Where's your Bofors? Break this rat's legs!"

"Received! Serving you!"

The Bofors anti-aircraft guns that arrived from behind joined the chorus again.

Boom!Boom!Boom!

Although 40mm high-explosive shells are difficult to penetrate tank armor from the front, using them to dismantle parts is simply overkill.

A series of precise bursts of fire severed the left track of the Panzer III tank, followed by the destruction of its driver's observation window and turret optical sights.

The tank instantly became a blind man and a tumor, unable to move or aim.

Just one minute.

The freight station exit fell silent once more. Only the crackling of burning tank wreckage and the occasional popping of bullet primers detonating could be heard.

Burgh, the war room on the second floor of the city hall, 2 p.m.

Major General Mori stood by the window with his hands behind his back, his gaze fixed on the direction of the freight station to the east through the dusty glass.

There had just been a fierce exchange of fire, the dense explosions and clanging of metal clearly audible even several blocks away. But now, that place had fallen silent once more.

"General, should we send scouts to investigate?" Chief of Staff Pierre asked cautiously from behind.

Sen remained silent for a moment, then slowly shook his head.

He didn't actually have much hope.

As the commander of the 12th Motorized Infantry Division, he knew better than anyone what kind of place that freight station was. Just two hours earlier, his two elite infantry companies had tried to retake it, only to be utterly destroyed. According to the survivors who had returned, the Germans had set up an impenetrable network of machine guns there, and as a veteran of World War I, he knew all too well how effective machine guns were in defense.

Arthur Sterling? That arrogant British major?

A lone army deep in German-controlled territory, without infantry cover, is challenging the defensive positions of an elite German infantry company. The chances of survival are extremely slim.

Rangsen was unaware that the Germans had even deployed a tank platoon as reinforcements, as his scouts were already pinned down. In his view, the German infantry and anti-tank rifles alone would be enough to give Arthur's soldiers and those tanks a run for their money.

"I just hope that B1 tank isn't blown to bits."

Rang Sen sighed, muttering to himself in an almost praying tone, "After all, that's one of the few heavy tanks we have left. If it's just a broken track or a broken engine, maybe we can tow it back and repair it—"

As for that Englishman?

Sen coldly crossed that name out of his mind. War is such a cruel business; as a general, sometimes you have to use a pawn to probe the enemy's firing positions, even if that pawn is a major.

Just then, a deep engine roar broke the tranquility of the street.

It wasn't the sharp sound of a German Maybach engine, but a deeper, more familiar mechanical roar—the vibration unique to Renault engines.

Rang Sen suddenly pressed himself against the window.

The next second, his pupils dilated.

Amidst the rising dust, the B1bis heavy tank named "Verdun" turned the corner with the imposing presence of a lion returning from its hunt.

Behind its wide tracks followed two trucks loaded with supplies and several half-track vehicles.

The soot marks on the tank's armor plating, so glaring in the sunlight, were not the horrific sight of destruction, but the medals of the victors.

Moreover, what surprised Sen the most was that the rear deck of the tank, and even the sides of the turret, were piled with dark green ammunition boxes.

As a professional soldier, he immediately recognized the markings on the boxes—47mm Mle1936 capped armor-piercing rounds.

That was the "conscience of France" that Sen had always dreamed of.

Even though he no longer had powerful weapons like the B1 tank, this batch of ammunition was still priceless.

Because in the 12th Division's defense zone, there were still several Somoa S35 medium tanks that had been turned into "machine gun bunkers" because they had run out of armor-piercing rounds!

Those cavalry tanks, which originally possessed extremely excellent anti-armor capabilities, had been forced to desperately use high-explosive shells to "bathe" the German Panzer III tanks for the past three days due to the disruption of their supply lines.

But now, with this ammunition, those Soma S35s will once again become deadly hunters.

"My God—" Sen's lips trembled slightly, the idea of ​​"recycling scrap metal" had long been forgotten.

He came back alive.

And they returned with a full load.

The convoy stopped in front of the city hall. Arthur pushed open the hatch and jumped out. His elegant trench coat was stained with oil and grime, but he still walked gracefully to the dumbfounded Jeanson, leaning on his cane.

"General."

Arthur removed his gloves and pulled a densely written list from his pocket, which he had McTavish compile during a break in the moving. He casually slapped the list onto the major general's chest: "Freight station cleared. Six machine gun positions, one Panzer IV, and three Panzer IIIs. I must say, the Germans' interior design is truly appalling."

He pointed to the fully loaded trucks behind him: "As a cleanup fee, I took half of the 47mm armor-piercing rounds. The other half, along with the 75mm shells, are on the trucks behind. They're yours."

Arthur smiled slightly, revealing two rows of white teeth that stood out starkly against his gunpowder-stained face: "Now, can we talk about how to make the Germans bleed even more?"

Major General Rangsen looked at the truckloads of shells, then at the British major in front of him, who reeked of blood and gunpowder.

He remained silent for a long time before finally abandoning his arrogant expression. He slowly raised his right hand and saluted Arthur: "Welcome to Hell, Major Sterling. You were right, we're going to give the Hans a good surprise."

As he did so, the other French staff officers and soldiers in the command post also stood at attention and saluted.

At that moment, the suffocating awkwardness and political divide between the British and French armies that had been lingering in the air ever since Arthur stepped into this ancient city finally vanished completely.

Instead, there was a subtle, almost imperceptible sense of awe, but they were not in awe of gods, but of firepower and the commanders who had always led them to victory.

And now, Arthur has taken the first step.

Major General Mori's hand was still suspended in mid-air, maintaining the salute, but his gaze involuntarily went over Arthur's shoulder and was fixed on the trucks unloading cargo outside the window.

The dark green ammunition boxes were carefully carried down by the soldiers as if they were sacred icons. Each box contained 47mm ammunition.

The sound of the Mle1936 armor-piercing shell hitting the ground was more pleasing to Ronsen than Beethoven's symphonies.

That was the blood plasma that sustained the 12th Motorized Infantry Division.

"The ceremony is complete, General."

Faced with a room full of respectful French officers, Arthur merely nodded slightly.

His movements were elegant, restrained, and carried a distinct sense of detachment, as if he were politely declining a poorly dressed dance partner at a dull social dinner.

That arrogance, stemming from the Sterling family, allowed him to maintain a composure as if he were standing in the Palace of Westminster, even in this command post filled with the smells of sweat and gunpowder.

He was not flattered by the salute, nor did he show any desire for these "French roosters".

They were very close and friendly, addressing each other as brothers.

In his view, the two sides were merely engaging in a temporary alliance based on the instinct for survival, and once the crisis was over, he would not hesitate to dust himself off and leave.

Arthur casually tossed the silver-tipped cane, stained with butter and blood, to Private Miller, who looked terrified, and then slowly took out a snow-white handkerchief from his coat pocket and began to wipe the dust off his fingers one by one.

His expression made it seem as if he hadn't just gone to a battlefield and killed a bunch of people, but had simply gotten his gloves dirty by accident.

"Put aside those unnecessary emotions and let General Mori know."

Arthur casually tossed his soiled handkerchief onto the corner of the map table, his tone calm and indifferent: "I'm not here to receive thanks, and I have no interest in hearing any 'Long live France' slogans. As I said, I'm a complete realist."

He raised his head, his gaze sweeping over everyone present before finally settling on Jensen's face: "Since fate has forced us to open a casino in this muddy swamp of Dunkirk, and we're determined to finish this last hand, then as the unlucky guy tied to the same chair, I at least have to make sure my tablemate still has some chips."

"After all," Arthur's lips curled into a mocking smile, "if you lose everything, I'll have to pay with my life, won't I?"

Hearing Arthur's undisguised sarcasm, Sen sighed, then lowered his salute. The French arrogance that seemed to be inherited from the Napoleonic era and was only used in military parades vanished completely.

Instead, it reveals the raw hunger and pragmatism of a professional gambler driven to desperation as he sees new chips on the table.

The logic of reality is actually quite simple: Dunkirk's escape route was cut off, and Berlin did not leave them a place at the negotiating table.

Since everyone is trapped in this iron cage called the "12th Division Defense Zone", and since this British madman not only didn't run away but also handed a loaded gun into the cage, then at this moment, nationality, military rank, and political stance have all become worthless.

They were all soldiers, and soldiers are only responsible for fighting. As for negotiations and how to please the Germans? That's something political opportunists need to consider.

Now, the only common ground between the two sides is how to make more and faster Germans outside die.

"Anyway, Major. You saved my flank and brought us what we desperately need." Sen turned to the side, gesturing for us to come in—a gesture unthinkable just half an hour ago. "Please come in. As you said, since we're all stuck here, let's discuss—how to make the Germans bleed."

The operations room was filled with smoke.

A dozen or so staff officers were gathered around a huge map table. The telephones rang incessantly, and the clatter of the telegraph machine pounded on everyone's nerves like a machine gun. The crumpled papers scattered on the floor, the overturned coffee cups, and the stale smell of sweat and anxiety in the air created a standard "map of the defeat of France."

When Arthur entered the room, the noise level instantly dropped by eight octaves.

All eyes were on the stranger who was dressed in a British military uniform but was being respectfully invited in by his own division commander.

"Throw those damn ammunition ration tables and defensive line contraction plans into the trash!"

His gaze swept over every exhausted officer present, his voice firm: "From this moment on, the 12th Division will no longer calculate how many minutes of ammunition it will have left, nor will it discuss when to abandon Berg and retreat to the beach."

He pointed to Arthur behind him: "These British have given us an edge. Now the only task is to turn this place into a German meat grinder until the last shell is fired!"

"This is Major Stirling of the British Army. Did you all hear the commotion at the East Gate freight station? That was him. He not only helped us recapture the flank, but he also brought us back two whole truckloads of anti-tank ammunition."

"Two trucks—" The French lieutenant colonel in charge of logistics for the 12th Division took off his glasses, wiped his eyes, and said, "God bless us, that's enough for us to collect tolls at every intersection."

A subdued murmur of discussion arose among the staff officers. At this critical juncture, when they were about to abandon the outer positions due to "having cannons but no ammunition," the two tanks of armor-piercing shells meant that they had regained the right to speak with their heads held high.

If distributed equally, each surviving Soma S35 tank (using the same 47mm SA35 gun as the B1), or the dozens of 25mm Hotchkiss SA34 anti-tank guns scattered in various infantry platoons, might only receive ten or so rounds, or even a single digit.

But this is merely a lack of quantity. On a tactical level, however, it represents a qualitative leap.

Prior to this, facing the tanks of the German 10th Panzer Division, French gunners could only watch in despair as those gray steel monsters rolled over them. Their limited high-explosive shells hitting the tank armor were like fireworks, offering no benefit other than revealing their positions and inviting death. That feeling of being "unable to penetrate" was more demoralizing to a unit than the German bombardment itself.

But now, things have changed.

Even just ten armor-piercing shells mean that this gun is no longer just for show, but a deadly deterrent firing point.

This doesn't require destroying all the German tanks. In combat, especially in urban warfare, you only need to destroy the lead tank, turning it into a burning wreck that blocks the road, and the entire German armored column will have to stop, even if they are followed by a hundred tanks.

This is the difference between "0" and "1".

With this batch of ammunition, the French anti-tank guns were transformed from harmless scarecrows back into steel nails that could give Guderian's armored troops a real headache.

"Major, please."

Sen personally pulled out a military chair, which was placed right next to the core area of ​​the map table.

Arthur didn't stand on ceremony; he sat down, his posture relaxed. He glanced at the 1:50000 military map on the table, covered with blue dotted lines (representing planned retreat routes), and a sneer curled at the corner of his mouth.

"Give me a glass of red wine, if there's any left here."

Arthur put the handkerchief in his pocket, and in his deep eyes, data began to flow silently: "Then, erase all those blue dotted lines on this map. They're an eyesore."

>