activa-t Chapter 10 Gentlemen and Robbers
Chapter 10 Gentlemen and Robbers
Arthur glanced at the mechanical watch on his wrist; the time indicated 20:45.
The hour-long forced march felt like a silent torture, finally coming to a halt in the shadows outside Armandière. The soldiers' lungs were pumping like bellows, but they dared not even breathe loudly, their eyes glued to the night sky illuminated by the headlights of the German vehicles ahead.
The night, like a rag soaked in oil, heavily covered the plains of Flanders.
The lingering smell of burnt rubber, rotten beetroot, and unburnt gunpowder—it had undergone a subtle change here.
A mouthwatering aroma of meat, mixed with the pungent smell of high-octane gasoline, drifted on the damp evening breeze into the nostrils of every British soldier lying prone in the bushes.
That was the smell of Thuringian sausages frying in oil. For these British men who had been munching on military biscuits that were as hard as bricks for three days, this was nothing short of divine communion.
Arthur lay prone behind a field ridge overgrown with nettles, holding the Zeiss binoculars he had ripped from a German soldier's corpse.
Of course, this was just for show. In his mind, the RTS God's-eye view, though with a reduced radius, was still precise, and it had already scanned the farm two hundred meters ahead with perfect clarity.
It was originally a typical French farmhouse, with red-brick barns and a spacious courtyard. But now, it has been transformed into a bustling German field station.
On Arthur's retina, bright red data tags were jumping above the trucks parked in the yard:
[Target Unit: 59th Motorized Logistics Company (partial) of the German 7th Panzer Division]
[Vehicle: 12 Opel Blitz 3.6-36S 3-ton trucks]
[Supplies: 88mm artillery shells, 200L standard fuel cans, infantry rations, field medical kits]
[Defending forces: Low (second-line supply troops, poor vigilance)]
Seeing these statistics, Arthur couldn't help but want to whistle.
It was a flowing feast.
He knew all too well what this convoy meant.
按照1940年德军装甲师的标準编制，一个满编的装甲师拥有约8-10个重型摩托化运输纵队（Große Kraftwagen-Kolonne）。每一个纵队通常配备30-40辆载重3吨的卡车，负责支撑起整个师的钢铁脊樑。
These 12 trucks, though only a small part of that massive logistics column, roughly a third of a company, are as valuable as gold.
It's important to understand that Rommel's 7th Panzer Division, when fully equipped, was a behemoth with 218 tanks, mostly Czech-made 38ts, and thousands of motorized vehicles. At full speed, this monster consumed 50-80 cubic meters (approximately 40-60 tons) of fuel and lubricating oil for every 100 kilometers advanced.
These 12 Opel "Lightning" trucks each have a nominal load capacity of 3.3 tons. If they were all loaded with fuel, that would be nearly 40 tons of high-octane gasoline.
What does this mean? It means that this unassuming convoy was originally intended to support an entire day's offensive campaign by one of Rommel's armored battalions!
As for defense?
Arthur glanced contemptuously at the German soldiers gathered around the campfire.
Just as he suspected, Rommel ran too fast. The future field marshal turned his armored divisions into a tireless pack of wolves, trying to prove his loyalty and ability, but leaving his stomach—the poor logistics troops—dozens of kilometers behind.
Unlike the heavily armed and Nazi-fanatic armored grenadiers on the front lines, these soldiers, who belong to the logistics support unit (Nachschubdienste), are mostly second-line reservists with oversized waists and receding hairlines.
Unfortunately, despite the deafening roar of the war machine, Germany's war machine hadn't been pushed to its limits. Not only were the Allied forces unprepared for full mobilization, but the Germans were as well.
Moreover, the current calendar year is 1940, not the hellish year of 1945. At this time, the Third Reich did not need to throw elderly people with canes and Hitler Youth members who were not even as tall as rifles under the tracks of the Soviets.
Their Mauser 98k rifles were casually leaning against the truck tires, some even with the safety on. Apart from a few submachine guns possibly hidden in the cab, they didn't even have a decent anti-aircraft machine gun set up.
In the German tactical system, their task was to drive, repair vehicles, and move crates, not to fight. They were convinced that the armored units ahead had cleared all obstacles, which was why they dared to hold bonfire parties so brazenly on enemy territory.
The British? Those defeated soldiers should be huddled on the beaches of Dunkirk, crying for their mothers.
And that is indeed the case, if it weren't for Arthur, the outsider.
A bunch of high-octane gasoline on wheels, plus a group of unsuspecting middle-aged drivers.
Arthur put down the binoculars, a playful smirk playing on his lips.
"This isn't a military post; it's clearly a free gas station and supermarket that God has opened up for us."
"Sir."
Sergeant McTavish crept silently to Arthur's side, his eyes fixed on the juicy sausages, his Adam's apple bobbing.
"There were twenty-two Germans in total. Three sentries, two were dozing off, and one was smoking at the door. The rest were having a party in that yard."
The sergeant drew a dagger from his waist, a sharp Fairbairn Sykes fighting knife, the blade flashing a cold light in the dim light.
"This job is easy. Williams and I will sneak over there, slit the sentry's throat first, and then blow the yard up. Those trucks are full of explosives; just one grenade, and 'boom,' will send these Germans back to Berlin."
"It exploded?"
Arthur turned his head and looked at the Scottish tough guy with the eyes of someone looking at a spendthrift.
"Sergeant, that's why you're an excellent sergeant, and I'm an officer."
Arthur gently tapped McTavish's hard skull with his gloved fingers.
"Use your pig brain. Where are we now? We're inside the Germans' guts. If you cause a huge explosion here, German patrols within a ten-kilometer radius will swarm like sharks smelling blood. How are we supposed to escape then? Outrun Guderian's motorcycle on your two legs?"
"Then..." McTavish hesitated, "Should we go around it?"
"Go around it?"
Arthur chuckled and straightened the collar of his mud-stained leather coat, as if he were about to step through the revolving doors of the Ritz Hotel in London, rather than into a hostile German outpost.
"Don't forget why we're here, Sergeant. Do I look like the kind of person who would walk on an empty stomach?"
He pointed to the row of neatly parked Opel trucks, his eyes filled with a mixture of greed and rationality.
"Listen, gentlemen. Tonight we're not vandals, we're robbers. We're 'borrowing' this outpost. I want the trucks, I want the fuel, and I want those damn sausages."
"So put your grenades away. I don't want to see any truck with its windshield shattered or its engine destroyed."
"We're going to carry out a silent 'takeover.' We'll kill people, but we won't destroy the cars."
……
At 20:55, the operation began.
The night wind rustled through the treetops, perfectly masking the scraping sounds of forty-odd British soldiers crawling through the grass.
Corporal Williams lay prone on a hillside with a wide field of vision. His Lee-Enfield rifle did not have a scope, but that was not a problem for the sharpshooter who had grown up in the Welsh mining region.
His breathing became long and slow, as if he had become one with the darkness.
In his sights, there was a German sentry at the gate of the outpost. The unfortunate fellow was leaning against the gatepost, slung a Mauser 98k rifle over his shoulder, with a half-smoked cigarette between his fingers, the flame flickering on and off.
"Wind speed correction, two bars to the left. Distance, 180 yards."
Williams silently recited it in his mind.
In the chain of instructions Arthur conveys through gestures—the countdown is reaching zero.
In the shadows on the other side, Sergeant McTavish, along with Private Miller and "Rat" O'Neill, had already crept up to the farmhouse wall.
"Watch out for that driver who's fixing the car." Arthur's voice still echoed in McTavish's mind; it was the earlier tactical instruction. "He's starting the engine and testing it. Use the noise."
Boom—Boom—
In the yard, the engine of an Opel truck was making a dull roar as the driver pressed the accelerator in the air.
Right now.
Arthur gently waved his hand down.
Snapped!
Williams pulled the trigger.
The crisp sound of the Enfield rifle was perfectly masked by the perfectly timed roar of the engine.
The German sentry at the gate felt as if he had been struck on the back of the head by an invisible hammer; his head snapped back, and his body slumped to the ground. He didn't even have time to exhale the smoke from his lungs.
At the same time, McTavish, who was in the shadows, moved.
He leaped over the wall like a cheetah, landing silently. Just as the German driver, still pressing the accelerator, was about to turn off the engine, the sergeant opened the car door, covered the man's mouth with his left hand, and precisely plunged the dagger in his right hand into the man's ribcage, reaching his heart.
The driver twitched twice and then stopped moving.
"Enter."
At Arthur's command, the British soldiers, who had been lying in wait, surged into the courtyard from all directions like a swarm of gray ghosts.
Those German supply soldiers who were still singing and eating sausages around the campfire never dreamed that death would come so quickly.
"Don't move! Hands up!"
This classic line did not appear.
Because Arthur had given the order to eliminate them. For these infiltrators deep behind enemy lines, prisoners were a deadly burden.
puff!puff!puff!
That was the sound of a Thompson submachine gun and an Enfield rifle firing at close range, fitted with makeshift silencers—the muzzles of which were covered with tarpaulins.
The German soldiers, who were drinking, didn't even have time to reach for their guns before they were riddled with bullets. Blood splattered onto the charred sausages, making a nauseating sizzling sound.
The battle ended within thirty seconds.
This was a textbook example of special operations—although the executors were a group of regular infantrymen in tattered uniforms, under Arthur's overpowered RTS command, their teamwork was as seamless as that of a well-trained SAS (Special Air Service).
"Ceasefire!"
Arthur strode into the courtyard, not even raising his cane. He frowned as he looked at the corpses scattered on the ground.
"Jenkins, pull that bayonet out of that German's stomach. Don't make a bloody mess; that's the car we're going to ride in."
He walked up to an Opel truck, tapped the intact windshield with his cane, and nodded in satisfaction.
"Very good. The engine is still warm. That's the efficiency of German manufacturing."
……
21:10, it's time to distribute the loot.
The farmhouse courtyard, which was originally filled with the atmosphere of killing, has now been transformed into a flea market filled with laughter and joy.
The starving British soldiers were like a bunch of rats that had fallen into a rice bin, frantically rummaging through every box on the truck.
"My God! Look at this!"
"Rat" O'Neal dragged a wooden crate from under the passenger seat of a truck and pried it open with a bayonet.
"Dark bread! And canned goods! This is...butter? Real butter!"
For these soldiers who had been eating moldy biscuits for days, this box of German military rations was more precious than gold.
"Stop eating!" Sergeant McTavish, though his mouth was stuffed with half a sausage, didn't forget his duty. "Unload all those damn 88mm shells! We don't need those lumps of metal; we need to make room for people! We just need fuel and food!"
In another corner of the yard, Arthur was standing next to a command jeep that was clearly used by officers.
He pulled a bottle of wine from the leather briefcase in the back seat. By the light of the campfire, he could make out the French label on it.
Hennessy XO, 1928
"How ironic."
Arthur pulled out the cork, brought it to his nose, and inhaled the rich aroma of oak barrels, a slight smile playing on his lips.
"Look at these German robbers. They wear the finest tailored Field grey uniforms, drive precision-engineered Opel trucks, and drink cognac they stole from the French."
"Although their tanks haven't yet rolled onto the Champs-Élysées, it seems that hasn't stopped their palates from having a pre-arrival ceremony in the cellars there."
"The so-called Third Reich taste? Ha, that's nothing but parasites built on the French wine cellars—and a bunch of impatient parasites who start dividing the inheritance before the master is even fully dead."
He tilted his head back and took a gulp. The spicy liquid slid down his throat, dispelling the chill that had accumulated in his body for two days and the nauseating smell of blood.
"It tastes good."
He turned and tossed the bottle to Lieutenant Jeanne, who was standing to the side with a complicated expression.
"Take a sip, Lieutenant. This is a specialty of your country, and now it's returned to its rightful owner."
Jeanne took the bottle and looked at the Englishman, whose hands were covered in blood but who still maintained a tasting posture in front of his spoils, a hint of helplessness flashing in her eyes.
"Is this your plan?" Jeanne pointed to the corpses scattered on the ground and the soldiers celebrating. "Kill them all, steal their cars, and then what? We're still in the encirclement."
"And it will make our commotion bigger."
"This is just the first step."
Arthur wiped his mouth, a sly glint in his grey-blue eyes.
"Next, we're going to put on a play."
He clapped his hands, raising his voice several octaves to drown out the soldiers' commotion.
"Everyone! Listen up! Take off those musty-smelling British overcoats you're wearing!"
"Go look in the trucks! There are German rubber raincoats and raincoats in those boxes. One for each person, put them over your uniforms!"
"Also, take off those damn Tony helmets (British flat helmets) and put on German boat caps or M35 steel helmets. If they don't fit, don't wear a hat!"
The soldiers looked at each other, but immediately understood their commander's intention.
This is a disguise.
On this pitch-black night, as long as the interior lights are not turned on, and the person is wearing the indistinguishable rubber motorcycle raincoat of the German army and riding in a German truck, who could tell whether it was Hans or Johann in the truck?
"But what about the language barrier?" Captain Gordon asked worriedly. "What if we encounter a checkpoint..."
"That's when our Lieutenant Jeanne needs to step in."
Arthur turned around and looked at Jeanne with a smile.
"Lieutenant, if I remember correctly, you told me you're from Strasbourg? Then you must speak German, right?"
"You can speak, and you speak better than I can."
Jeanne didn't answer immediately, but instead frowned and retorted. She remembered clearly how this man had terrified the elite of the Greater German Regiment with his fluent, standard, and even authoritative Prussian accent in the smoke of the monastery.
"Why did you make me come? If it's just to get through the checkpoint, wouldn't your Bavarian accent be more convincing?"
"Quite the opposite, dear Lieutenant."
Arthur shrugged, his tone carrying a Versailles-like helplessness, as if complaining that his suit was too well-tailored for manual labor.
"My German is too 'aristocratic.' I learned it while studying in Berlin, and it has a kind of stale, Junker manor and General Staff flavor. If I speak, those sentries will think that there is a general or Gestapo officer traveling incognito in the car. That would be too conspicuous and would only attract unnecessary scrutiny."
He pointed to the dilapidated convoy, laden with oil drums and sausages.
"Look at us now. This is just a second-line convoy belonging to the logistics company. The drivers are all people like Uncle Hans. What we need is a more 'down-to-earth,' more rude, and even slightly edgy accent."
Arthur stared into Jeanne's eyes like a director choosing a mask.
"We need an accent that will make those arrogant Prussian sentries feel superior and won't bother to look at us again."
Jeanne paused for a moment, then understood Arthur's scheme. She nodded, her expression somewhat complicated.
"I do have an Alsatian accent."
She said in a low voice, her fingers unconsciously stroking the bottle of Hennessy she had stolen.
Those are the historical traces of the Franco-German border changing hands repeatedly over the centuries. It is also their mother tongue, but it is neither entirely German nor entirely French. To a pure German, it sounds like uncultured country bumpkins; to a Frenchman, it sounds like traitors.
But Arthur had no interest in these love-hate relationships.
"Perfect."
He snapped his fingers, his eyes sparkling as if he had discovered a treasure.
"This is the camouflage we need. A grumpy logistics officer speaking the Alsace dialect, rushing to deliver supplies to the front lines—it's more useful than a pass."
He put the captured German peaked cap on his head, pulled the brim down, and covered half of his face.
"So, if anyone stops the car later, you're in charge of sticking your head out and yelling at them. Use your most authentic dialect to yell at them for blocking the way and for being inconsiderate. As for me..."
Arthur leaned back in the leather passenger seat, striking an arrogant yet weary pose.
"...I'll play the role of the Prussian officer who drank too much French red wine last night and is now sleeping. Anyone who wakes him up will be shot."
"Remember, the German army has a strict hierarchy. A hot-tempered logistics officer is often more useful than a pass."
……
At 21:30, the roar of the convoy's engines broke the deathly silence outside Armandière.
Twelve Opel Lightning trucks were lined up in a long, straight line. The truck beds were filled with "fake Germans" dressed in German military rubber motorcycle raincoats and carrying Thompson submachine guns and MP40s. The heavy artillery shells that were originally loaded had been unloaded by the roadside and replaced with full drums of oil and food.
The atmosphere in the driver's cab of the lead vehicle was somewhat subtle and tense.
Arthur sat in the passenger seat. In the dimly lit carriage, by the faint green light of the instrument panel, he really looked like a dejected Prussian officer catching up on sleep after a hangover from the previous night, full of complaints.
Lieutenant Jeanne was holding the steering wheel.
She was wearing a German field gray overcoat that was too big for her, with the sleeves rolled up twice to reveal her hands. Under the German soft cap, a few strands of hair hung down in disarray, obscuring her originally delicate features and making her look like a handsome but short-tempered young sergeant.
"Relax, Sergeant."
Arthur, with his eyes closed and an unlit cigar dangling from his mouth, mumbled something indistinctly.
"Remember our division of labor. You're in charge of driving, and when you see someone, hurl your Alsatian swear words at their entire family. I'm in charge of sleeping. And if anyone dares to try and check my documents..."
He patted the loaded MP40 in his pocket, which he had hidden under his leather coat.
"...I'll make sure he shuts up forever."
Just then, there was a knock on the car window.
Sergeant McTavish stood below the vehicle, driving the second truck. The Scottish tough guy glanced at Jeanne in the driver's seat, then at Arthur, who was "pretending to be asleep," and couldn't help but grin.
"Sir."
The sergeant looked through the car window at the long string of lights in the rearview mirror and sighed.
"To be honest, I've spent half my life in the Glasgow underworld and I've never pulled off a heist this big. In London, this would be called theft, and you'd go to jail."
Arthur didn't open his eyes, but simply took out the silver lighter from his leather coat pocket and lit the cigar with a "ding".
He took a deep breath, and the pungent smoke filled the cramped driver's cab.
"No, Sergeant. Your awareness is too low."
Arthur exhaled a perfect smoke ring, his voice coming through the smoke, deep and clear.
"In peacetime, this is called theft. But in wartime, it's called 'tactical requisition'."
He reached out and patted the sergeant on the shoulder through the window.
"Get back in your car. Stick close to Jeanne. If her swearing doesn't work, floor the gas and ram her."
"Yes, sir! We're going to teach the Germans a lesson in traffic rules!"
McTavish gave an awkward military salute, then turned and ran toward the second truck.
"Drive, Jeanne."
Arthur shrunk back into his seat and adjusted to a comfortable position.
"Target: Kassel. Let's race through the veins of the Germans."
Jeanne took a deep breath; the tremor she had felt while holding the gun vanished, replaced by a resolute air. She glanced at the madman beside her, sighed, then expertly shifted gears, released the clutch, and floored the accelerator.
"Hold on tight, Lord."
The heavy Opel truck roared, like a steel monster awakened, and suddenly shot onto the road.
The convoy turned on its headlights.
Twelve bright beams of light pierced the night sky, like a fearless fire dragon, swaggering into the main road of the German-controlled area.
Behind them, in the direction of Azhebrook, lay a distant horizon more than ten miles away.
The night was pitch black, and at this distance, no light could be detected by the naked eye.
But the sound cannot be hidden.
Buzz—Buzz—
The ground trembled slightly. The low-frequency, muffled rumble, like a belated summer thunderclap, rolled in along the horizon, penetrating the noise of the truck engine and reaching into the cargo compartment.
Those are heavy artillery pieces.
Moreover, it was the 150mm sFH 18 howitzers of the German divisional heavy artillery regiment that were conducting saturation firing.
Arthur closed his eyes, feeling the faint vibrations coming from the back of the seat.
In his mind, the image was crystal clear: tons of high-explosive grenades were repeatedly razing the already deserted Saint-Elois Abbey. The ancient stone walls and shattered stained glass were now reduced to dust in the orange-red inferno.
That was Major Stransky's rage.
It was a furious, venting bombing run carried out after a whole day of searching the ruins but not finding even a single fresh British soldier's body.
"It seems someone is very angry."
Arthur didn't open his eyes, but simply flicked the long ash from his cigarette at his fingertips, a sarcastic smile playing on his lips.
"Unfortunately, even the German cannons couldn't blow away the tail end of time."
He chuckled softly.
"His anger was a full day late. And that one day was enough for us to get out of his range, even beyond his imagination."
"Turn on the radio, Jeanne. See if there's any good music. Since we're the 'winners' now, we should listen to some victor's music."
Jeanne reached out and turned on the car radio on the dashboard.
After a burst of static, a stirring, grand melody, filled with a Germanic sense of oppression, burst forth from the speakers.
It's Wagner's "Ride of the Valkyries".
Amidst this exhilarating symphony, this bizarre convoy, composed of gentlemen, bandits, pickpockets, and French intelligence officers, is speeding along the main artery of the German army, heading into deeper darkness and towards the only path to survival.