novelSusiti Chapter 77 Gu Bushuai's Nightmare
Chapter 77 Gu Bushuai's Nightmare
Chapter 77 Gu Bushuai's Nightmare
14:30, Headquarters of the German 19th Corps, Guderian's forward command post, Popperinge.
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There was none of the exasperated roars of the 1st Armored Division here.
This "Lightning Heinz," who always liked to "take the lead" and wished he could drive his half-track command vehicle to the very front of the tank assault formation, was unusually—or rather, forced—to behave himself this time.
The psychological trauma he suffered that night in Ahe was clearly much deeper than he admitted.
The British officer who nearly stormed into his tent with a group of Scottish lunatics and a revolver gave this armored genius a lesson in "personal safety."
So this time, he didn't act like a fool and set up the headquarters right under the enemy's nose. Instead, he placed it very safely, even somewhat conservatively, in the rear of the offensive front of the 1st, 2nd and 10th armored divisions, within the core protection zone of the guard battalion's heavy machine gun positions.
The general was standing with his hands behind his back in front of the huge situational awareness map.
His crisp, grey-green general's uniform was spotless, and the medals on his collar gleamed occasionally under the light.
"You mean, that idiot Kirchner bombarded an empty city for half an hour?"
Guderian did not turn around, but his calm question sent a chill down the spines of the staff officers standing behind him.
"Yes, sir."
The intelligence chief, head bowed, reported: "The 1st Armored Division reports that Flney has been captured. But before we could enter, the enemy's main force had—completely withdrawn. Moreover, our reconnaissance on the beaches surrounding Dunkirk shows that the British rearguard troops originally stationed there have also vanished. The entire defensive line is as if—evaporated."
Guderian then turned around.
"They all ran away? Impossible."
He walked to the map and traced the coastline with his finger: "The British retreated, they didn't perform magic. Unless someone used an extremely clever tactic in that quagmire, quickly wiped out Zizzewitz's battalion, tore open a gap, and then led everyone through the opening."
"Did the battle report mention any special details?" Guderian asked, "Like—the enemy's equipment?"
"have."
The intelligence chief opened the document: "Based on the analysis of the track imprints sent back from the on-site investigation, the width of its track plates exceeds that of all our active vehicles."
The intelligence chief pointed to the two deep indentations embedded in the soil in the photo, his tone serious and solemn: "This ground pressure and track pattern belong only to heavy breaching tanks. Similar to the French Char B1."
"bis, or the British Matilda 2 infantry tank."
"The 37mm armor-piercing rounds we used, and even the 75mm high-explosive rounds from the Panzer IV tank, all failed to penetrate the front of the target when they hit it."
"Impeccable".
Upon hearing those four words, Guderian's hand holding the pencil suddenly froze in mid-air, and the muscles at the corner of his eye twitched violently involuntarily.
He was a little overwhelmed.
A few days ago, those monsters that charged into his camp like prehistoric behemoths did the same thing—understanding the guards' frenzied fire, crushing the anti-tank guns, and almost crushing him as well.
"There's one more thing, General."
The intelligence chief hesitated for a moment, seemingly considering his words, but ultimately decided to report the facts: "General Kirchner specifically mentioned in his telegram that they found a deliberately left-behind map in the enemy-abandoned command post in Flne. On the back of that map, the enemy left a signature."
"sign?"
The intelligence officer paused, then finally read out the two letters:
"AS"
"Cough! Cough cough cough!!"
The armored general suddenly bent over, bursting into a violent, heart-wrenching cough. His face turned bright red, and the veins on the back of his hand, gripping the edge of the map table, bulged as if he wanted to crush the wood.
"AS————"
Guderian pressed a handkerchief tightly to his mouth, barely managing to calm his breathing. He looked up, his eyes bloodshot: "It was him—that madman."
"Is it that guy's B1?"
"No, General."
The intelligence chief shook his head, dismissing the speculation: "Based on the final analysis of the scene, it was a British Mk.II infantry tank."
Guderian slowly straightened up, crumpling the handkerchief into a ball in his hand. His gaze turned deep and cold as he whispered the name that had nearly driven Rommel to despair during the Battle of Arras: "Matilda."
He hadn't expected that in just a few days, this guy would switch from French equipment to British equipment, but as he looked at the terrain north of Flörn on the map, his brain was already racing.
Since this unit didn't go to Dunkirk—they broke out to the north—where could they have gone?
Heading south? That would be walking into a trap, directly encountering the main force of Army Group B. Heading east? That's the sea.
Guderian's finger moved across the map, eventually stopping at a small seaside town circled in blue.
Nieuwpoort.
"I see."
Guderian suddenly laughed, a cold laugh like a chess player finally seeing through their opponent's intentions: "That commander—whoever that AS is—not only wants to escape himself, but also wants to take the garrison there to Niubert. And then—"
Guderian's finger traced the winding coastline on the map, his fingertip drawing a perfect arc southward along the coastline before suddenly stopping in mid-air.
"Then----"
Guderian suddenly shut his mouth, withdrew his hand, and his expression instantly became unfathomable, as if he had just grasped the ultimate mystery of the universe.
The staff officers around him immediately held their breath, straightened their backs, and looked at their commander with eyes full of admiration.
They were certain that this armored genius was currently conducting some kind of grand strategic calculation involving thousands of troops, which was beyond the comprehension of ordinary people.
But in fact, he shut up simply because—he couldn't make up any more stories.
Guderian cursed under his breath.
Damn it, for the British who are eager to jump into the sea and swim home, the long French coastline is a complete buffet!
Especially commanders like AS who are mentally unstable.
If they wanted, they could use any beach, dock, or even a scenic cliff from Neuport to Brittany as an escape point. Predicting the exact whereabouts of these lunatics would be no less difficult than predicting the damned Belgian weather.
Therefore, Guderian wisely chose to remain silent.
After all, in front of subordinates, "deliberate silence" always sounds much more authoritative than "I don't know where these bastards are going."
The chief of staff next to him gasped: "This is insane. It means they might be going to cross our entire rear defense zone."
"It's crazy. But it's precisely because it's crazy that it's possible to succeed."
Guderian turned around abruptly, the admiration in his eyes instantly replaced by a cold killing intent.
As a top strategist, Guderian understood better than anyone what it meant to suddenly have an extra "rook" in this game that could run rampant.
Those few Matilda tanks were not only among the few heavy weapons in the enemy's possession, but they were also a variable factor.
Guderian scanned the map quickly, making calculations. Although he didn't know where the army's ultimate goal was, it didn't stop him from thinking about the consequences: "If they head north, their target is the Niupt sluice gates."
His finger pointed heavily at the blue estuary: "Once they control it and open the sluice gates, letting the North Sea flood in, the entire Iser Delta will become a vast expanse of water. At that point, my 19th Armored Corps will rust in the mud without the British even lifting a finger."
"And if they head south—"
Guderian's finger slid down the coastline and finally stopped at an area surrounded by red arrows—Saint-Valery.
There, Erwin Rommel's 7th Armoured Division was attempting to encircle and annihilate the last elite British forces.
"The 51st Highland Division is there. Those bagpipe-playing, kilt-wearing Scots are a bunch of stubborn lunatics; Rommel couldn't break through them even after three days."
Guderian's gaze turned unusually grave: "If these reckless Scottish infantry were to be equipped with such an invulnerable armored spear..." He didn't need to finish his sentence.
Everyone understood the consequences: it would no longer be a defensive battle, but a campaign targeting Rommel's flank.
A devastating counterattack.
They must be killed here, in this bottle.
"Pass on my orders."
Guderian walked back to the table: "Since conventional armor can't penetrate those turtle shells, let's use unconventional methods."
14:45, German 19th Corps direct air defense command.
The phone rang urgently inside the tent.
A hand wearing a white glove picked up the receiver, the movement steady and without the slightest unnecessary shaking.
"This is Major Wolfgang Kurz, 2nd Battalion, 1st Anti-Aircraft Artillery Regiment."
Unlike the armored soldiers who were covered in oil, with open collars and a wild look, Major Kurz was almost too neat, even seeming out of place on this muddy front line.
He wore a crisp, brand-new field-gray army uniform, with the top button fastened tightly. The two dark red branch-of-service insignia on his collar, representing the artillery, stood out starkly in the dim tent.
He wore a pair of exquisite gold-rimmed glasses, the lenses of which were spotless.
Behind those refined glasses were a pair of eyes that were calm to the point of being indifferent.
If you didn't look at his epaulets, he would look more like a mathematics professor at Heidelberg University or the chief engineer of a precision optical instrument factory than a soldier responsible for reaping lives on the battlefield.
But within the German army, everyone knew that these army artillerymen who operated 88mm guns often knew better than tank crews how to calculate death.
Because what he possesses is currently the most lethal weapon in the German arsenal.
"Yes, General Guderian. I heard you perfectly well."
While listening to the phone call, Kurz made marks on the map on the table with a red and blue pencil.
"Matilda tanks. The quantity is likely 4-10. Understood."
"The frontal armor is too thick. Indeed, for the army's 37mm 'stepping stones,' this is a problem."
Kurz pushed up his glasses: "But that makes no sense in front of my 88mm Flak 36."
"Yes, General. My camp happens to be nearby."
"Yes, to repeat, to the Lombardsijde Bridge. That's the only way to Niupt."
"Please rest assured."
Kurz glanced outside the tent.
On the muddy road after the rain, several half-track tractors were slowly moving, towing heavy artillery pieces with long barrels.
That was an 8.8cm Flak 18/36 anti-aircraft gun.
This terrifying weapon, originally designed to shred bombers at 20,000 feet, was unexpectedly discovered to be the most powerful anti-tank weapon of its time due to its extremely high muzzle velocity and immense kinetic energy. No Allied tank's armor could withstand its muzzle for even a second.
"I'll smash all those yellow turtle shells."
Kurz hung up the phone, picked up the military cap on the table, and carefully put it on.
He stepped out of the tent and blew a short whistle at the artillerymen who were resting.
"All assemble."
His voice wasn't loud, but it sent chills down your spine: "Don't look at the sky. Today's prey is on the ground."
"Hook up the tow truck. Get all the armor-piercing rounds (Pzgr.39) out."
He glanced at the gloomy northern sky, a cold smile playing on his lips: "We're going to Lombard Bridge to set up a tollbooth for the British."
15:00, N34 coastal highway, 15 kilometers from the Lombats Bridge, 1 kilometer from the city of Niupot.
8 kilometers.
Arthur is unaware that someone is lying in wait for him on the Lombard Bridge, 15 kilometers away.
But his nerves had already begun to instinctively send dangerous stinging sensations to his brain.
The convoy is speeding along the highway.
The current "First Army," though a remnant, is no longer a defeated force. Of course, it is still far from the iron torrent that Arthur envisioned.
The roads were muddy and impassable after the rain. Bedford trucks, loaded with wounded soldiers, struggled through the mud pits. The heavy roar of Leyland engines echoed across the empty fields, mixed with the black smoke of unburned diesel fuel, giving this cold coastline a rough, industrial-era feel.
Arthur sat in the command cupola of the lead vehicle—the Matilda I tank known as the "Avenger".
The damp, cold sea breeze made his overcoat flutter like a black flag. Unlike the other surviving soldiers around him, he was not immersed in the joy of the glorious victory he had just witnessed.
Instead, his body rose and fell rhythmically with the violent jolting of the tank, but his eyes were not idle, vigilantly watching every high ground and bush on both sides of the road that might hide danger.
Berger's experience taught him that RTS is by no means an omniscient and omnipotent deity; there are some units that even God cannot accurately locate—such as those German snipers cloaked in camouflage nets.
He didn't want to be leisurely enjoying nicotine one second, only to have his skull blown off by some "Hans" hiding in the shadows the next.
He glanced at the tactical map on his knee.
The blue dot representing their location was moving slowly. Fifteen kilometers ahead lay a fatal bottleneck—the Lombard Bridge. It was the only passage across the Iser River and into the Niupt defense perimeter.
Only after crossing that bridge and advancing another three kilometers could they truly reach the city of Niupot and see the trapped garrison.
But those fifteen kilometers were probably longer than any of the previous stretches of road, which made Arthur think of the phrase "the distant bridge".
It's so quiet. Besides the engine, the only other sound is the wind.
"Sir."
The voice came from the turret basket below. Jeanne's voice, betraying her undisguised exhaustion, said, "The water temperature gauge is almost at the red line. This muddy terrain is torture for the transmission; the girls' fuel consumption is thirty percent higher than usual. But—"
The female mechanic paused, then her tone became tinged with a wild excitement: "That battle just now was fucking awesome, wasn't it? Seeing those German tanks being blown apart like cans, my radiator was about to boil over."
""
Arthur did not answer immediately; he was thinking.
He pulled out a pure silver cigarette case from the pocket of his trench coat, which he had just seized from the body of an unknown German soldier.
The exquisite Prussian family crest on it still gleamed, but he didn't light the cigarette inside. Instead, he brought the tobacco to his nose and took a deep sniff of the dry, slightly aged whiskey aroma.
That was the smell of spoils of war. And also the smell of death.
"Was it good?"
He muttered to himself, twirling the cigarette between his long fingers, and gazed at the distant eastern horizon.
There, several lead-gray cumulonimbus clouds were slowly gathering, looking just like a sharp sword.
"That's from our perspective."
Arthur put the cigarette back in the pack, a crisp "click" as his fingers began tapping the cold armor plate beneath it—the plate that could stop German bullets and most artillery shells: "For the Germans, that was a slap in the face. And that General Guderian—"
Arthur's lips curled into a cold, hard smile: "He was never a good Christian who would offer you the other half of his face to be hit."
For someone of that caliber, being bitten by an ant would never be as simple as just stepping on it.
He will bring in a road roller.
Arthur abruptly pressed down on his throat microphone, his icy voice instantly silencing the noisy cheers on the channel: "Attention all troops. All vehicle crews maintain a 50-meter anti-aircraft tactical distance."
"Air defense posts, take your eyes off the spoils and keep them glued to the sky and the high ground ahead!"
"This is not a parade, repeat, this is not a triumphant parade."
He looked up, his gaze seemingly piercing through the rain and mist to see the bridge hidden in the fog: "I have a feeling our troubles might be coming."
The convoy crushed the mud beneath its feet, its tracks kicking up black silt, and sped toward the isolated city of Niupt.
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