activa-t Chapter 67 The Outlaws and the Cold Creek Guard
Chapter 67 The Outlaws and the Cold Creek Guard
Chapter 67 The Outlaws and the Cold Creek Guard (Two Chapters Combined)
"Woo-yi"
A piercing whistle tore through the pre-dawn fog.
That was the final farewell of the Royal Navy destroyer HMS Shikari.
This old warship, severely overloaded and with its waterline almost submerged, swayed and turned around like a drunkard who had eaten too much, its propellers churning up murky foam as it sped toward the deep sea.
It took away the "political gift" Arthur gave to France—Major General Jensen—it took away the more than a thousand wounded remnants of the 12th Division, and it also took away the last glimmer of hope for the civilized world from this hellish place.
Arthur did not turn around.
He was standing next to the turret of the Matilda I tank, watching McTavish fill the tank with the last barrel of diesel fuel he had scavenged from the beach.
Less than five minutes after the destroyer disappeared into the fog.
Whoosh! Boom!
A deafening roar came from behind. The earth trembled violently, and a huge shockwave, carrying wet wood chips, gravel, and seawater, slammed against everyone's backs, as if an invisible giant hand had given them a hard push.
Arthur still did not turn around.
The lighter in his hand had just lit a flame when, in that earth-shaking instant, his fingers holding the lighter didn't even tremble, and he steadily brought it to the cigarette dangling from his lips.
Take a deep breath and exhale a smoke ring.
But only he knew how incredibly dangerous that last moment was.
On his retina, the virtual RTS tactical map had just refreshed with a blinding stream of data:
[WARNING: High-explosive barrage detected]
[Ammunition type identification: 15cmsFH18 heavy howitzer]
[Ballistic calculation: Distance 13,250 meters (maximum range)]
[Landing point coordinates: Middle section of the east breakwater (original negotiation location)]
Arthur narrowed his eyes slightly, looking at the red skull icon that had exploded on the map.
five minutes.
It was only a five-minute time difference.
If he had hesitated even a second longer, if he had wasted even a little more breath arguing with Captain Eubank, or if he had even the slightest thought of lingering on that boardwalk a little longer—
At this moment, he was no longer Arthur Sterling standing there smoking, but a pile of mangled flesh floating on the sea, impossible to piece together.
It was obvious without even looking that it was the work of the German 19th Army's heavy artillery regiment. Although they missed sinking the "Shikari," the shot accurately hit the middle section of the east breakwater. The wooden walkway where countless people had prayed, wept, and waited was instantly reduced to a shower of flying debris.
"It seems the Germans are very thoughtful."
Arthur looked away.
The north gate was completely locked.
"Looks like the Germans don't want us to turn back." Major Ryder poked his head out of a half-track vehicle next to him, spitting out the half-smoked cigar. He looked every bit the desperate man. "Sir, the road is blocked."
"The road is never given to you by others, Ryder."
Arthur kicked the empty oil drum away with a loud bang. He patted the cold, heavy armor plating of the Matilda tank beside him, as if he were patting the neck of a warhorse.
"We made this road ourselves."
Despite the Matilda's reassuring 78mm thick armor, making it feel like stepping into a perfectly safe mobile safe, Arthur didn't even glance at the tempting open hatch.
He turned and walked straight towards the German-made Sd.Kfz.251, which had no roof protection and even a shattered windshield.
Half-track vehicle.
Despite possessing the RTS system on his retina, even if he were to hide inside a completely sealed metal can, he wouldn't actually become blind or deaf; in fact, he could see even more clearly than anyone else.
But Arthur hates that feeling now.
The intense sense of disconnect between the physical body being confined in darkness, seeing only a narrow world through the gaps in the periscope, and the consciousness overlooking the entire battlefield through the system.
That would make him feel like he wasn't a commander with flesh and blood, but a brain in a vat, or a gamer sitting in an air-conditioned room playing video games.
If he stayed there for too long, his indifference to death and blood would cause him to develop a morbid daze—he would be unable to distinguish whether those who died were living people or just a string of cold data codes.
He needs the wind.
He needed the sea breeze, carrying the smells of gunpowder, blood, and engine oil, to blow hard on his face; he needed the roar of engines and the shouts of soldiers to pour directly into his ears.
Only this raw sense of reality could allow his nerves, which were constantly teetering between "system data" and "cruel reality," to maintain their last shred of rationality and balance.
Arthur braced himself against the car door with one hand and nimbly jumped into the passenger seat of the lead half-track vehicle, his self-scanning sweeping over the newly assembled "Sterling battle group".
This was truly a "Frankenstein" legion brimming with violent aesthetics: leading the charge were two newly resurrected "Queens of the Battlefield"—Matilda II infantry tanks; closely following were six German-made Sd.Kfz.251 half-tracks loaded with ammunition and Scottish madmen; in the middle were more than twenty Citroën trucks crammed with supplies and French commandos; and bringing up the rear were five general-purpose vehicles equipped with Bren machine guns and Bofors anti-tank rifles.
400 soldiers, all of whom are mechanized.
Thanks to Dunkirk, the most luxurious "weapons graveyard" in all of Europe, the logistical nightmare of "a hodgepodge of weapons from all over the world" that had plagued this ragtag army finally came to an end.
The soldiers didn't hesitate to discard their empty French MAS-36 rifles and the few Mauser 98k rifles they had captured, and instead replaced them with Lee-Enfield short rifles and Bren light machine guns from the mountain of supplies piled up on the beach.
In this place filled with supplies abandoned by the expeditionary force, .303 caliber (7.756mmR) bullets were more plentiful than sand, and completely free.
This is the lifeblood of the British Empire, the echo of the Victorian era.
These old-fashioned rimmed ammunition, which had been in service since 1889, were piled up at this moment, exuding an alluring brass luster and the distinctive pungent, acidic smell of Kodak smokeless propellant, despite their tendency to cause feeding malfunctions in automatic weapons.
The soldiers frantically stuffed rows of MKVII standard rounds into their ammunition pouches.
This 77.47 mm long pointed bullet looks unremarkable, but Arthur knows its insidious nature: the front of the bullet is filled with lightweight aluminum or paper pulp, and the rear is filled with a lead core, resulting in an extremely rearward center of gravity.
Once it hits a human body, this bullet with an initial velocity of 731 meters per second will instantly lose its balance and tumble between muscles and bones like a crazy electric drill, creating a cavity effect powerful enough to turn a strong man's internal organs into a porridge.
Deep within the overturned ammunition boxes, McTavish even unearthed some more dangerous "contraband."
Those are special munitions with red and black heads—the B6 incendiary bomb and the RTS1 explosive bomb.
The former was filled with unstable barium nitrate, which could ignite the fuel tank upon impact; the latter had a copper tube filled with nitroglycerin and yellow phosphorus stuffed into its warhead. These were originally designed to deal with Zeppelin airships or light armored vehicles, but now the soldiers were ruthlessly stuffing them into the magazines of Bren machine guns.
If you're going to hit a brick wall, you have to use the hardest hammer.
Everyone was armed to the teeth, every vehicle's fuel tank was overflowing, and the ammunition pouches that were originally empty were now heavily stuffed with brass gifts paid for by British taxpayers.
On this beach filled with despair and defeat, they were the only wolf pack still sharpening their knives.
"All troops, listen to my command!"
Arthur's voice was transmitted via radio—a radio that Jeanne had just repaired and taken from a British communications vehicle—to the driver's cab of each vehicle.
"Set off."
04:00, intersection of highways on the outskirts of Dunkirk, junction of N39 highway.
The convoy roared forward in the darkness, crushing countless abandoned helmets and gas masks on the road, until it arrived at the crossroads that would determine its fate.
At this moment, the eastern sky was already tinged with an eerie, fish-belly white.
A road sign at the intersection had fallen askew into the roadside ditch, riddled with bullet holes.
To the left is the direction to Calais, which has long since fallen to the west. Although it is also a dead end, you might be able to find some stragglers there.
Turn right, and you'll find Highway N39, which leads to Freni.
On all the maps, the right side was marked in red. That was the encirclement of the German Army Group B, a synonym for death.
The convoy stopped.
All the engines were idling, emitting a low roar.
All eyes were focused on the lead half-track vehicle.
Arthur sat in the passenger seat and opened the RTS map.
[RTS tactical map has been updated]
[Current Area: Outskirts of Dunkirk]
[WARNING: High-risk area ahead]
On that virtual blue map, the city of Flüne on the right was surrounded by a blinding sea of red. And in the center of that sea of red, a stubborn, faint green dot was flickering.
1st Army Main Force/Lengxi Guard Regiment
Looking at that name, Arthur's eyes burned with intense desire.
Rather than saying he went to rescue people, it would be more accurate to say he went to recruit this elite force.
He wanted to turn this "Royal Guard," which held supreme political power in the British army, into his personal army, Arthur Sterling's.
"Some fools think this is just a suicidal rescue," Arthur sneered inwardly, "but for politicians, it's a merger that has to be done."
Although in London's social circles, he was still habitually referred to as "the second son of the Sterlings," a term that carried a hint of disdain for the playboy, those in the circle knew that the title was long outdated.
Since three years ago, when his perfect older brother, who had been groomed from childhood to be a future earl, gentle and refined, and with a promising future in the House of Commons, broke his neck in a horse-riding accident without warning, Arthur Sterling was no longer the "backup plan" he could act on at will.
He was the only son of the Earl of Stirling, and the sole heir to this vast political family.
In the British Empire in 1940, the title "Earl of Stirling" held a level of prestige that was unimaginable to most people.
In the power structure of the British Empire, some titles were meant to be heard, while others were meant to be obeyed.
In London today, filled with declining nobles and nouveau riche, although dukes and marquesses seem to be of higher rank, they are mostly just ceremonial titles—like some royal members who have the title but no real power.
The Sterling family, on the other hand, is a true behemoth, possessing both ancient lineage and modern capital.
They control a quarter of Scotland's coastline, and their family trust has veto power in the British Empire's shipbuilding, steel, and coal industries.
It's fair to say that without the Sterling family's approval, the Royal Navy's warships wouldn't even have had their keels laid.
This terrifying hard power constituted an absolute class barrier. So much so that even the arrogant Winston Churchill, who now lived at 10 Downing Street, or the stubborn and proud Chamberlain who had just stepped down, had to bow and perform a junior's salute, a sign of absolute respect, when they met Arthur's elderly father in private.
Because they know in their hearts that the prime minister can be replaced and the cabinet can fall, but families like the Sterlings are the true masters of this country as long as the British Empire exists.
But this does not mean it is safe.
On the contrary, this enviable power made Arthur a target of public criticism.
Arthur knew all too well how many eyes were watching his elderly father and his young, impetuous self in the dark corridors of Westminster Palace.
Those political enemies of the family, those distant relatives who coveted the Stirling family's vast territories in Scotland, and those old fogies in the War Office who had long disliked the "arrogant Earl of Stirling"—they were like a flock of patient vultures, circling over the Stirling family's head, waiting for the lion to show signs of fatigue, or waiting for the only cub to die on the battlefield, so that they could pounce and devour this enormous political legacy.
They are all waiting.
Let's wait and see this "second-generation rich kid who only knows how to play with women and race horses" get scared out of his wits on the battlefield, or better yet, die in some mud pit in France, so that they can all pounce on him and devour the Sterling family's political legacy.
Arthur tapped his fingers heavily on the map of Ferné.
If he could hold the Coldstream Guard firmly in his grasp, not only saving their lives but also becoming their absolute spiritual leader, then when he returned to London, he would be able to stand tall in front of those arrogant old men in Parliament who controlled the War Department.
Only now did Arthur finally understand the good intentions of the cunning Earl Sterling.
Why did the old count insist on using family connections to squeeze that good-for-nothing original into the Cold Creek Guard? And why did he go to such lengths to help him secure a powerful position as a major battalion commander?
Of course, it wasn't to send him to war and die.
That was a political venture. His father wanted this experience serving in the "Royal Guard" to become his most dazzling and prestigious resume when he entered the House of Commons, and incidentally extend the family's reach from the Navy and Air Force into the Army and Parliament.
However, man proposes, God disposes.
The carefully planned "peaceful gilded journey" was shattered by Guderian's armored formations. The war deteriorated so quickly that even the count hadn't had time to withdraw his bargaining chips.
However, for some in London who are eagerly preparing to pop the champagne, there's bad news:
He is still alive.
Even in this dire situation, even after rolling around in hell three times, he still couldn't fulfill those people's wishes and obediently become a pile of minced meat under the tracks of German Panzer III and Panzer IV tanks.
If he could return alive, bringing those "desperate soldiers" back with him, what he would bring to his father would no longer be a mere death notice, nor a weightless tin-plated medal obtained through nepotism.
What he brings back will be the backbone of the British Army.
When thousands of elite veterans, loyal to the name "Sterling" and whom he had personally trained in dire straits, stood behind him, even the most scathing and insidious political enemies in Westminster Palace felt a chill run down their spines before they could even open their mouths to attack him, and weighed the thousands of blood-stained bayonets before they could even speak.
Therefore, the nature of the game changes when it reaches this point.
This is no longer a military rescue operation.
This was a coronation ceremony held to establish the new king's status, a ceremony accompanied by smoke and blood.
"Turn right."
Arthur coldly uttered three words.
McTavish paused for a moment. Although he already knew he was going there, when he actually reached the intersection, the fear that went against his survival instincts still made him subconsciously grip the steering wheel tightly.
"Sir, the right side is full of Germans."
"I know."
Arthur lit a cigarette, the flame illuminating his oil-stained face, which wore a gentlemanly smile.
"That's why we have to go there. Because the Germans would never have imagined that someone would dare to run right into their arms at this time."
He stretched out his hand and made a decisive slashing motion in the air: "Right turn! Target: Flner!"
"Let's go kick Guderian's ass!"
As the order was given, two Matilda tanks were the first to turn their heavy tracks. With a piercing metallic screech, these two mobile fortresses, spewing black smoke, resolutely smashed through the roadblock at the right-hand intersection.
Immediately afterwards, the entire convoy, like a giant steel python, completed a historic "reverse journey" at this pre-dawn crossroads.
04:10, Provisional headquarters of German Army Group B (Heeresgruppe B) in Bruges, Belgium.
Here you'll find expensive French champagne, Cuban cigars, and the overwhelming sense of impending victory.
At a long oak table covered with a huge map, several staff officers were using levers to move red markers representing divisional units. In their eyes, Dunkirk was no longer a battlefield, but a junkyard about to be cleaned up.
"Is that old stubborn Heinz (Guderian) still pushing his way forward?"
General oberst Fedor von Bock, commander-in-chief of Army Group B, is standing in front of a map.
This thin, brooding Prussian soldier, who always held his neck ramrod straight, swirled a half-empty glass of red wine in his hand, his gaze fixed intently on the Flne area south of Dunkirk.
Even Bock, when referring to that "gasoline-smelling brute," couldn't help but let a hint of sourness creep into his reserved Prussian tone.
That was the complex emotion of the old-fashioned aristocracy with swords looking down on the nouveau riche of the new era who wielded heavy hammers—a mixture of disdain and envy, after all, the spotlight was now on that tank repairman.
Standing behind him was Lieutenant General Hans von Zalmut, the Chief of Staff.
Salmuth nodded with a wry smile, his finger still pointing towards Furnes in the direction of the dense red arrows on the south side of the map: "Yes, Commander. Although the Supreme Command has sent three urgent telegrams, and the Führer has even personally ordered the armored units to immediately cease wear and tear, rest in place, and conserve every drop of gasoline for the upcoming 'Red Plan,' but Sir Heinz—you know the General's temper."
Chief of Staff Lieutenant General Zalmut wiped the cold sweat from his brow: "The 19th Panzer Corps not only didn't stop, but it also sent the 1st and 2nd Panzer Divisions up with it. If Berlin finds out about this—"
Why let Berlin know?
Bock suddenly interrupted him.
The commander of Army Group B turned around, gently swirling the wine in his glass. His face showed no panic or anger as the chief of staff had expected. Instead, he appeared calm and composed. Compared to a pure general like Guderian, who only knew how to fight and charge, he understood politics better.
"Zharmut, as chief of staff, you need to learn how to interpret frontline reports 'accurately'."
Bock walked to the map, extended his white-gloved finger, and lightly touched the red arrow representing Guderian's disobedience. His tone was calm: "Our General Heinz is not attacking. He is merely conducting a necessary, defensive forward reconnaissance mission, precisely to prevent a desperate British counterattack that could threaten our security in the Flne direction. Do you understand?"
Zharmut paused for a moment, then suddenly realized what was happening and straightened his back immediately: "Yes! I'll revise the wording of the telegram to the Supreme Command right away!"
Watching the chief of staff hurriedly leave, Bock let out a barely audible snort.
At a time when the entire nation revered the Führer at his peak and no one dared to utter a single word of dissent, only Guderian, that "armor fanatic," dared to openly defy the Führer's "ceasefire order" for the sake of tactical victory.
But what Guderian didn't understand was that sharp teeth alone weren't enough; someone also needed to know how to soothe the beast.
This is why Fedor von Bock was able to secure his position as commander of an army group and was even close to obtaining the scepter of field marshal; while the brilliant Guderian was destined to be nothing more than a spearhead in the charge.
Bock was not merely protecting his subordinates; he was engaging in a sophisticated political maneuver. He needed to construct an extremely fragile yet crucial buffer between the Führer's absolute authority and Guderian's tactical genius.
This is the battlefield art that belongs to the army group commander.
Having dealt with the potential fury from Berlin, Bock turned around, his smooth smile vanishing instantly, replaced by the stern and imposing demeanor of an army group commander.
"So, what exactly is going on with our troublemaker, Heinz?"
Lieutenant General Zalmut spread his hands helplessly, looking at the 19th Armoured Corps on the map, which seemed out of place with the massive front of Army Group B: "The general insists that there is still a well-organized elite British force lurking in the Furney direction. He called it a thorn in the side that must be removed in his telegram."
The chief of staff's tone turned somewhat strange: "So, he decided to commit all the remaining 1st Armored Division he had. He wanted to crush this thorn in his side with his tracks."
Bock walked to the table, picked up the expensive glass of red wine, and downed it in one gulp. The alcohol made him squint slightly: "For a mere Furney, for a few British beggars hiding in the ruins, he actually dared to openly defy the Führer's order to halt the advance? And he's even using an entire armored division for some kind of reconnaissance mission?"
"More than just an armored division, Your Excellency."
Zharmut sighed, tracing a large arc on the map with his finger, pointing out the chain reaction caused by this "disobedience": "Because of General Guderian's unauthorized advance, the entire flank of General Rundstedt's Army Group A has been pulled apart. To prevent Guderian's forces from advancing too far and causing the battle lines to break apart, we must also have General Reichenau's 6th Army advance from the north to support him—"
Looking at the dense array of red arrows on the map, their course shifting due to the will of one man, Zalmut couldn't help but exclaim, "The current situation is that a million troops on the entire Western Front, along with dozens of infantry and armored divisions, are forced to provide cover for Guderian's tanks. This is a spectacle—my God, it's even bigger than when His Majesty Emperor Wilhelm personally led the campaign."
A brief silence fell over the headquarters.
"Then let him do what he wants."
Bock slammed the empty wine glass heavily on the table, then turned and walked to the huge floor-to-ceiling window.
Outside the window, the eastern sky was already tinged with the pale light of dawn. In his eyes, the blue encirclement squeezed along the Dunkirk coast was no longer a battlefield full of uncertainties, but a garbage dump about to be completely cleaned up.
The main force of the British expeditionary force had almost escaped like rats; what remained were merely sacrificial pawns used to cover the rear.
"The British are already trapped. What can they do besides surrender? Are they going to grow wings and fly across the English Channel?"
The supreme commander of Army Group B straightened his impeccably tailored collar, flashed a victorious smile at his reflection in the glass, and said with utter arrogance, “Tell the front lines to hurry up with Heinz. We’re off to the Champs-Élysées in Paris for coffee. I don’t have time to spend on that stinking beach with a bunch of British beggars playing in the mud.”
04:15, German Army Group B, 19th Panzer Corps, 1st Panzer Division forward reconnaissance post.
Corporal Hans thought he might be too tired, or he might be hallucinating because he drank a bottle of captured French red wine the night before.
He was perched atop an abandoned mill less than 300 meters from the highway, idly monitoring the road leading to Dunkirk with his Zeiss binoculars.
Logically, this road should now be crowded with defeated British and French troops, who have abandoned their armor and weapons and are waving white flags.
But the scene that appeared on the camera almost made him throw the binoculars down.
A convoy.
A sizable, fully mechanized fleet.
This was strange in itself, but what was even stranger was the direction they were traveling in.
"Damn it—Lieutenant! Come quick!" Corporal Hans rubbed his eyes, his voice filled with confusion. "There's an unidentified convoy on the highway! And it's going incredibly fast!"
The German lieutenant, who had been dozing nearby, got up impatiently: "Which group of fleeing remnants is it now? Tell the mortar platoon to give them two shots—"
"No, sir. They're not running."
Corporal Hans handed the binoculars to the lieutenant, his tone as strange as if he had seen a ghost: "They—they're rushing this way."
The lieutenant raised his binoculars.
In the footage, two massive, oddly shaped tanks are rampaging across a highway in the early morning mist, their tracks kicking up clouds of dust. Behind them follows a long line of half-track vehicles and trucks.
Moreover, this convoy made no attempt to conceal themselves. They even had their headlights on and their engines roaring deafeningly, displaying an arrogant "we're here" attitude.
"That's—the British Matilda?" The lieutenant's face changed. "Damn it, didn't the intelligence say they'd thrown away all their armored units?"
"Are they lost?" Corporal Hans asked. "Perhaps they think that's the beach?"
"Lost? Look at the direction that turret is turning! It's turning towards us, you bastard!"
The lieutenant abruptly threw down his binoculars, grabbed the telephone, and frantically shook it: "Emergency call to regimental headquarters! Emergency call! Enemy armored column spotted on D940! Repeat, armored column! They're attacking south! Towards Flörn!"
"My God, these lunatics—they don't look like they're fleeing for their lives, they look like they're going to attack Berlin!"
04:30, N39 highway, 5 kilometers from Frey.
"Sir, we've spotted German roadblocks ahead! And anti-tank gun positions too!"
The radio crackled with shouts from the lookout post in the lead vehicle.
Sitting in the half-track, Arthur could see the sandbag fortifications at the distant intersection and the two German 37mm Pak36 anti-tank guns frantically trying to turn their barrels through the windshield.
This is the outer blockade line set up by the German army to besiege Förne.
Normally, such a blockade would be enough to stop any infantry attempting to break out. But unfortunately, today they encountered "rebels."
"No need to slow down."
Arthur's voice was calm and cruel.
"Go, Matilda, just run them over."
That's why he went to great lengths to repair those two tanks; on the battlefield in 1940, the Matilda I was a bug, a cheat code.
The lead Matilda—with the word "Avenger" hastily painted in white on its side—blown out a plume of black smoke, and its engine roared in a deep rumble.
It did not fire.
Faced with the two panicked German "door knockers," this 27-ton steel monster chose the most primitive and violent method of attack—ramming.
Clang! Clang!
Two 37mm armor-piercing rounds struck Matilda's thick frontal armor, creating two insignificant sparks before being mercilessly deflected.
next second.
The massive vehicle crashed directly into the sandbag fortifications.
Faced with such absolute superiority, the German's makeshift barricades were as fragile as children's building blocks. With the sounds of metal twisting and wood cracking, Matilda ran directly over the anti-tank gun.
The gun barrel was bent, the gun carriage was crushed, and several German gunners who didn't have time to run away screamed as they were dragged under the tracks.
"Fire! Free fire!"
At Arthur's command, 400 guns on the half-tracks and trucks behind him opened fire simultaneously.
The German blockade soldiers, completely stunned, never expected such an armored unit to emerge from behind them—from the direction of Dunkirk. Caught off guard, they were mowed down like wheat by a dense hail of bullets.
The convoy sped past without stopping for a moment.
All that remained were a scene of carnage, with corpses strewn about and roadblocks still burning.
"If hell is the only way."
Arthur glanced at the fleeting flash of light in the rearview mirror, took out the red-covered officer's ID from his pocket, and gently patted off the dust.
"Then let's turn hell into a highway."
Ahead, the outline of Flörn was already clearly visible.
Above the small town shrouded in artillery fire, countless tracer rounds were weaving together. Despite being heavily surrounded, the gunfire there remained dense and tenacious, exuding an indomitable spirit.
That's the Cold Creek Guard.
That was the last vestige of dignity for the British Empire.
Arthur turned on the full-band broadcast, a channel that he had Jeanne specially tuned out—the Cold Creek Guards' regimental command channel.
He cleared his throat and pressed the call button.
At that moment, amidst the radio noise filled with despair and death, a languid, haughty, yet crystal-clear London aristocratic voice rang out: "Calling Cold Creek Guards. Calling Cold Creek Guards."
"I'm Major Sterling. I know you might be a bit busy right now and don't have time for morning tea."
Although the RTS tactical map on his retina had already marked this area with a deep yellow warning indicating "severely difficult terrain," when Arthur actually rode the half-track vehicle to this point, he realized that the cold data could not describe the terrible situation before him.
This is no longer the N39 highway; it's practically a man-made black swamp.
The entire road surface was covered with silt, and the air was filled with the smell of rotting aquatic plants and the fishy stench of stagnant water.
This was clearly not due to the torrential rain three days ago, but rather the work of the Cold Creek Guards—those lunatics blew up the nearby canal embankment, causing the water to overflow and turning the area into a muddy mess where even treads couldn't stay afloat.
The Matilda tank ahead emitted a heavy rumble. Even its wide tracks, known for their grip, began to slip in the thick layer of greasy mud, and the tank swayed from side to side as if it were drunk.
"Well done," Arthur thought to himself.
At least Guderian's armored divisions were kept out; this terrain was a nightmare for the Germans. Now, it's also a nightmare for Arthur's team.
The convoy had to slow down, crawling along the only relatively solid roadbed like a snail.
Arthur stared at the sturdy roadblock made of sandbags, abandoned trucks, and barbed wire that stretched across the end of the muddy road, pressed the call button, and said with a tone full of helplessness, "But if you don't mind, could you please move that damn roadblock a little?"
"Your young master has come to take you home."
"9
[Current Battlefield: Crimson Forner]
[Team-wide Buff: Last Stand - All members' morale is locked at its maximum value, and Pain is reduced by 20%]
[Special Aura: Sterling's Ambition - In this scenario, everyone you rescue will become a cornerstone of your future power.]
This is a two-in-one update. I'm posting the first chapter, and there will be another update tonight. Thank you to all the readers for your monthly tickets, rewards, and subscriptions.