activa-t Chapter 47 A Suffocating Opponent
Chapter 47 A Suffocating Opponent
Chapter 47 A Suffocating Opponent (Third Update)
Berg, War Room, second floor of the City Hall, June 2, 1940, 3:18 PM.
"bell--!!"
The black bakelite telephone rang sharply again.
Normally, this would just be the most ordinary background noise in the command center, but at that moment the entire conference room became eerily quiet, even the sound of breathing slowed down.
All eyes—a dozen or so bloodshot eyes filled with anxiety and doubt—were fixed on the vibrating receiver.
Colonel Pierre's hand hovered in mid-air for a second, a subconscious hesitation. As a senior officer who had devised countless defense plans, his reason told him that the Englishman's prediction was absurd; there was absolutely no possibility of enemy activity in the direction of the cemetery, not even a small group.
But as a soldier yearning for victory, his instincts screamed: Connect it! Connect it now!
He took a deep breath and picked up the receiver with slightly trembling fingers.
"I am Pierre—speak."
On the other end of the phone came the extremely excited, even somewhat incoherent, shouts of the 3rd Anti-Tank Company Commander, accompanied by the lingering echoes of explosions in the background.
Pierre's tightly furrowed brows relaxed instantly, then froze.
His pupils went through a process of confusion, shock, and then complete blankness within a few seconds.
"Received—Received! Understood! Good—Excellent! Do not pursue! Repeat, hold the position, do not pursue!"
"Have the engineers seal the breach immediately! Keep an eye on the remaining armor-piercing rounds; they're your lifeline!"
Pierre hung up the phone.
He slowly turned around.
At this moment, the colonel's face wore a look of bewilderment and horror, as if he had seen a ghost in broad daylight, his worldview forcibly dismantled and rebuilt. His Adam's apple bobbed laboriously as he tried to saliva moisten his dry throat: "General—a call from the 3rd Anti-Tank Company."
Major General Mori leaned forward abruptly, bracing his hands on the edge of the map table.
"What was the result? Did the Germans really come?"
"Not only did they come, but—they ran right into our line of fire."
Pierre's voice was somewhat erratic: "According to the company commander's report, just five minutes ago, ten minutes after Major Sterling drew that circle, a reinforced company of engineers from the German 86th Sniper Regiment blew up the cemetery wall."
"But the German half-tracks ran right into the four 25mm anti-tank guns that we had already positioned."
Pierre swallowed hard. "Four half-tracks were destroyed in ten seconds. Thanks to our advance preparations, the enemy's vanguard suffered more than half its casualties in the first volley, and we also took out the German commander leading the group."
"The company commander's last words on the phone were—"
Pierre looked up, his gaze complex as he looked at the figure sitting in the corner: "He said, sir, if it had been five minutes later, or if the gun emplacement had shifted fifty meters to the left, we wouldn't have been able to hold them off."
After forcing himself to say those words, the entire room fell into a deathly silence for ten seconds.
This deathly silence was even more oppressive than before.
If the previous silence was due to doubt, then the current silence is due to a sense of awe or even fear that comes from the depths of the soul.
All the staff officers, including Major General Jensen, looked at the British major sitting in the folding chair as if he were a monster from a higher dimension.
Arthur remained in that position.
He sat with his legs crossed, holding the empty wine glass in one hand and casually tapping the wooden armrest of his chair with the other. His expression was completely unchanging, showing neither the elation of a great victory nor the smugness of confirmation.
It was as if all that had just happened—the lives and deaths of hundreds of people, the survival of the flank defenses, and the annihilation of the elite German troops—was nothing more than him casually swatting a fly that flew across the table while he was sipping a glass of cheap red wine.
Is this the so-called privilege of being a "famous general"?
No, of course not.
An indescribable chill ran through the French officers present.
Keep in mind that the person sitting in front of them was merely a major.
In the large and hierarchical 12th Motorized Infantry Division command, this rank could be considered a pillar among the commanders, but it was definitely not a high-ranking officer.
If we look at the entire British and French expeditionary force of hundreds of thousands of people, officers of this rank were as cheap as pebbles on the beach of Dunkirk; a single bombing of a German Stuka would kill a whole bunch of them.
As for "Arthur Sterling"?
Yes, that surname does sound impressive. But if you disregard that prestigious surname, who would know who he is?
Before today, he was not listed in that thick directory of European military figures. He was a complete and utter nobody.
Even the greatest generals, no matter how brilliant, need reconnaissance, intelligence, and the sacrifice of countless soldiers to probe the enemy's firing positions.
But this is the kind of nameless person you can't find even with a magnifying glass—
He was thousands of kilometers away, without any reconnaissance reports, watching as the Germans, like puppets on strings, walked step by step into their doom, as if sitting on a cloud.
This ability goes beyond the scope of "tactical literacy".
To these French people, who were deeply influenced by Catholicism, this was almost a miracle—or sorcery.
"This—how is this possible?" Finally, someone couldn't help but ask in a low voice, "How did you know they would go through the cemetery? That's clearly a blind spot in our defenses, and our surveillance network doesn't have it at all—"
"As you said yourself, that's a blind spot."
Arthur stopped him.
He did not answer the question directly. He didn't need to explain the existence of the RTS system; he didn't need to, and he disdained to.
In the eyes of these ordinary people whose retinas are completely blinded by the "fog of war," the omniscient and omnipotent perspective granted by the RTS system can be romantically misinterpreted as a once-in-a-century military genius, or a kind of almost beast-like keen sense of the atmosphere of the battlefield.
that's enough.
Arthur didn't care how they interpreted the underlying reasons; he only needed to exploit this misunderstanding to extract the most valuable thing from these shaken officers at this moment—
To have absolute authority and faith in oneself.
"Don't rush to celebrate, gentlemen."
Arthur put down his glass, the bottom of which made a crisp "tap" as it struck the table.
He stood up, slowly straightened his cuffs, and then walked back to the huge map table.
As he moved, the French staff officers who had just been suspicious of him and even wanted to argue with him subconsciously took a half step back, making way for him.
This is an animalistic, instinctive submission. On the battlefield, whoever brings victory is the true Alpha Wolf.
"This is just an appetizer."
"Ferdinand Schar – if I remember correctly, that's the name of the commander on the other side who just bangs his head against the wall like a ram in heat, right? I studied his case at the Tactical Academy before."
A mocking smile played on his lips: "Typical, stubborn Prussian Junker aristocrat. He's suffered such a huge loss at the cemetery; he'll never let it go. For this kind of person, admitting tactical failure is worse than death. So, he'll definitely be furious at this moment."
Of course, that's pure nonsense.
Arthur didn't have the time to study what color underwear each German armored division commander liked to wear, or what personality flaws they had.
The reason he could boast so elegantly and confidently was simply because the data on the RTS map was being refreshed like a waterfall.
The red dots representing the German army are undergoing dramatic changes.
The red arrow pointing towards the cemetery had completely disappeared, turning into a gray that symbolized defeat. But further back, large, dense patches of red were moving rapidly northward. That was a sign of heavy equipment movement.
[System Alert: Enemy's Tactical Intent Has Changed]
[High threat signal detected: 105mm leFH18 light howitzer position 3]
[Deployment Location: Behind the north bank of the canal (reverse slope position)]
[Target Prediction: Berg Canal Locks]
[Tactical Analysis: Water Attack.]
"They're going to blow up the sluice gate."
Arthur made a startling statement: "Since the infantry infiltration has failed, they will revert to the most primal violence. They might blow up the canal locks on the north side, flood our low-lying positions on the north side, force our infantry out of their bunkers, and then mow us down with machine guns like ducks."
"This tactic is old-fashioned and lacks imagination, but it is very effective tactically."
Although Arthur used the word "maybe" this time, at this moment, no one dared to question his judgment.
Even the most stubborn Major General Sen was now staring intently at the baton in Arthur's hand, like a primary school student.
Arthur's wrist jerked violently, and his baton slammed heavily onto an inconspicuous small embankment two kilometers upstream of the canal lock: "General Jensen, if you don't want your men to be soaked to the bone, listen up."
"Order the 2nd Battalion to immediately withdraw from the low-lying area to the north, take all heavy machine guns, and retreat to the monastery on that high ground. It has a wide field of vision and is an excellent firing position."
"At the same time, have your engineers—if you still have any left—bring TNT and get to this position within five minutes."
Arthur drew a bright red X on the map: "Blow up this little dam upstream before the Germans fire."
"Bomb—bomb here?" Sen was stunned for a moment, then his eyes widened suddenly, and he gasped. "If the dam breaks there, the water will rush directly towards—"
"Charge directly towards the German artillery positions where they are assembling."
Arthur's lips curled into a mischievous smile, a smile that sent chills down the spines of everyone present: "Since the Germans want to play in the water, we'll give them a hand. It's called using water to control water. Let those tons of floodwater, carrying silt, give their 105mm howitzers a good bath."
Let Sen look at Arthur.
At that moment, he finally understood why the British had been able to act as a troublemaker in Europe for hundreds of years. This insidious, ruthless, and efficient tactical thinking was practically an instinct etched into the Anglo-Saxon genes.
But at this moment, he absolutely loved this kind of insidious cunning.
The once arrogant French general, now filled with burning desire for Arthur, suddenly brought his legs together, the heels of his boots clicking sharply. He nodded solemnly to the Englishman, a mere major: "As you wish, sir."
"Pierre! Execute immediately! Tell the sappers, even if they have to gnaw, they must break through that dam in five minutes!"
Three kilometers west of Berg, the front-line command post of the German 10th Panzer Division.
"Snap!"
A crisp sound of wood snapping rang out inside the tent.
Lieutenant General Ferdinand Schar, the supreme commander of the 10th Panzer Division, angrily snapped the red and blue pencil in his hand in two.
Sharp splinters pierced his fingers, but he seemed oblivious. His chest heaved violently, and his crisp, grey-green general's uniform now felt like some kind of suffocating restraint.
"This is impossible! This is absolutely impossible!"
Schar paced back and forth in front of the map table like a furious lion trapped in a cage.
As one of Guderian's favorite generals, he was accustomed to slicing through enemy lines like butter. In Poland, in Sedan, and in every battle before, the French army's response had always been sluggish, chaotic, and full of flaws.
But today—
He felt an unprecedented sense of suffocation in the face of this damned town of Burgh.
Starting at 3 p.m., the situation became strange.
Every tactical maneuver, every troop deployment, and even every seemingly hidden killing move he made seemed to have been scripted in advance.
He feigned an attack on the south gate, attempting to draw out the enemy's reserves, but the enemy didn't budge, even leisurely sipping coffee and watching him put on his act.
He launched a surprise attack on the cemetery by taking advantage of a blind spot, thinking it was a stroke of genius. But the enemy had already set up their cannons, like a hunter patiently waiting for a rabbit to run into a tree. They not only wiped out his commando team but also insulted his intelligence.
What broke him the most was what just happened.
He was just about to order the artillery to bombard the sluice gates and launch a water attack when the frontline artillery regimental commander called in tears, saying that the French had inexplicably bombed an abandoned dam upstream!
Without any warning, the floodwaters changed course and rushed directly into the artillery positions he had just deployed.
That's three whole companies of 105mm leFH18 howitzers!
Before those expensive cannons could even fire a single shell, they were submerged by waist-deep mud and floodwaters. The gunners had to flee in a sorry state, soaked to the bone. The cannon's aiming mechanisms were all flooded, and two cannons even slid directly into the river because of the soft ground!
Shal felt a wave of dizziness.
As the absolute backbone of the artillery regiment of the German 10th Panzer Division, these highly mobile light howitzers are currently the only heavy assault weapons in his hands that can keep up with the speed of the tanks' advance.
In pursuit of that damned "lightning speed," and to prevent the armored spearhead from stalling while waiting for fire support, Schar even gritted his teeth and made the difficult decision to abandon his cumbersome and slow heavy howitzer battalion (equipped with 12 150mm sFH guns).
18), left far away on the logistics road, which was already blocked like a parking lot, twenty kilometers away.
He placed all his bets on these flexible 105mm guns, hoping they could deploy quickly and break through the French armored forces' stronghold.
But now?
As the damned floodwaters breached the dikes, carrying mud and sand into the low-lying artillery positions, the only long-range firepower he had, which he had originally intended to use to blow Berg into the sky, instantly evaporated.
This is not just a matter of losing a few steel gates.
This is tantamount to his proud armored division having one-third of its fangs sawed off at the most critical moment of the battle.
Before the heavy artillery battalion catches up, his tanks will be in a fatal predicament of having no "can opener" when facing the French concrete fortifications.
This is more than just a setback.
This is a blatant insult to intelligence.
It was as if the person sitting opposite him was not the French 12th Division, which had been utterly defeated and demoralized, but a crystal ball wizard with an all-knowing eye, or even—God himself.
"Who on the other side is giving the command?!"
Schar abruptly stopped, slamming his hands heavily on the map, his eyes filled with malice: "That idiot Jensen has absolutely no brains! His performance in the Battle of Jenblo was like that of a frightened pig, all he did was bury his head in his bunker and scream!"
"This is absolutely not the French command style! It has none of that outdated dogmatism!"
"Intelligence indicates that a small British unit entered Berg six hours ago," the chief of staff reported cautiously in a low voice, afraid of angering the general who was on the verge of exploding. "Perhaps—the British have taken over command?"
"British?"
Schar sneered, a deep disdain playing on his lips: "Those British bastards who only know how to drink afternoon tea and, at the first sound of gunfire, think about how to betray their allies and escape by ship?"
But his smile quickly faded.
Because the harsh reality was right before his eyes: his 10th Panzer Division, a steel torrent that could charge even against hundreds of thousands of French troops, had its head smashed and bled for the first time in front of a small town like Berg, which could normally be taken in just two hours.
Regardless of who was sitting opposite him, that guy was peeling away the German army's tactical options layer by layer, like peeling an onion, in an extremely ruthless, precise, and efficient manner, gradually wearing down their patience and health.
Schar even had a vague feeling that the other person was mocking him.
This feeling of powerlessness at being completely seen through instilled a deep fear in the Prussian general.
"Order the troops to halt the offensive."
Shal took a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down. Reason told him that continuing to blindly charge forward was pointless. Until he figured out who that damned "prophet" was, any tactical maneuver would only be suicide.
"Since I can't outmaneuver you on a tactical level—"
Shal looked up at the breathtakingly blue sky outside the window. A cruel and crazed glint flashed in his eyes, the resolute determination of a gambler who had lost everything and was about to overturn the table: "Then I'll overturn the whole chessboard."
"Since I can't see you, I'll raze the entire Berg to the ground. I refuse to believe your prediction can withstand hundreds of tons of high explosives."
He turned and grabbed the phone, his voice icy and chilling: "Connect me to the 8th Air Force (VIll. Fliegerkorps). Get me General Wolfram von Richthofen."
""
"Tell him I need Stukas. I want all of them!"
"Send all those damn dive bombers over here! Blow Berger to ashes! Let's see how you predict my moves after you're reduced to ash!"