bullyxtreme Chapter 14 Fake Major, Real Captain
Chapter 14 Fake Major, Real Captain
May 30, 1940, 7:45 AM. Northern France, east of Mettel, on Highway D916, German Field Military Police Checkpoint No. 33.
The sunlight finally tore through the thick morning mist over the Flanders plain, like golden scalpels piercing this ravaged land.
Dewdrops clung to the leaves of the poplar trees by the roadside, refracting a crystalline light, but the air was filled not with the fresh scent of grass and trees, but with the lingering smell of dust and the putrid stench of stagnant water fermenting in the roadside ditches.
For most of the routed Allied soldiers, it was a day of despair; but for the German Army Group B, which was advancing across the board, it was yet another victorious morning that would go down in history.
This was the heart of the German-controlled territory. The D916 highway, like a gray artery, continuously transported ammunition, fuel, and follow-up troops to the front lines.
crunch - crunch -
A sickening metallic scraping sound shattered the tranquility of the checkpoint.
This wasn't the dull rumble of a supply truck laden with provisions; it was the sharp, aggressive metallic clanging of pure war machines. It was the groan of hardened steel tracks crushing gravel from the road.
A lean, motorized column sped along the highway from the east, like a gray dagger thrusting westward.
Leading the way were two Sdkfz 251/1 Ausf. B half-track armored vehicles. This vehicle, known as the "Hanomag," was a symbol of the German mechanized infantry (armored grenadiers). The vehicle was painted in the standard German dark gray, with the prominent Großdeutschland Regiment tactical insignia on the side—a white steel helmet outline.
Behind them followed four BMW R75 heavy motorcycles. These horizontally opposed twin-cylinder motorcycles possess excellent off-road capabilities. The MG34 machine gunners on the sidecars, wearing rubber goggles and waterproof jackets, coldly scanned every patch of grass along the roadside. The muzzles of their guns trembled slightly with the bumps of the vehicles, like the sniffing of a wolf for its prey.
This is no ordinary patrol. It's a pack of hunting dogs charging at full speed.
Major Heinrich von Stransky stood in the command position on the first half-track vehicle.
He wore windproof goggles and had a pair of Zeiss 6x30 binoculars hanging around his neck, which he never parted with. Despite a night of forced marching, his well-tailored officer's uniform remained remarkably clean, even the Iron Cross medal on his collar was spotless, reflecting a cold silver light in the morning sun.
For this career officer, born into a Prussian Junker aristocratic family, war was not merely about killing, but also a form of etiquette. Even while hunting prey, the hunter's dignity must be maintained. In his worldview, disheveled attire was a more unforgivable sin than defeat; it was a desecration of military honor.
"parking."
His right hand, gloved in black leather, pressed down casually—like a cold conductor cutting off a passionate movement.
In an instant, a suffocating silence descended.
No radio confirmation was needed; all the vehicles seemed to share the same central nervous system. The drivers slammed on their brakes at the same millisecond, the steel tracks locking instantly with a synchronized screeching sound on the asphalt. With the violent compression and rebound of the hydraulic shock absorbers, the heavy half-tracks overcame their immense inertia, coming to a steady stop in front of the checkpoint, as if nailed to the ground.
The dust then rose like a curtain. This was the Großdeutschland Group, swift as thunder and still as a mountain.
The military policeman stared at the half-track vehicles, which were only half a meter from the railing but remained completely still, and his Adam's apple bobbed. This kind of absolute control was more terrifying than the muzzle of a gun firing.
The military police sergeant major, whom Arthur had "educated" the night before, was leaning against the red and white railing, smoking. He had dark circles under his eyes, his uniform was disheveled, and he looked listless. He was still reeling from the shock of the "big shot's incognito visit" last night; every time he closed his eyes, he could hear the drunken major's roar about sending him to a disciplinary camp to clear mines.
Hearing the engine, he lazily raised his head. Based on experience, at this time of day, it was usually lost logistics troops or liaison officers passing by.
But when his gaze pierced through the dust and he saw the insignia of the elite Großdeutschland Regiment on the side of the vehicle, and especially when he saw the tall, stern-faced major standing at the command post—
The cigarette in his mouth fell to the ground with a "thud," sparks splattering onto his boots, but he was completely unaware.
The sergeant's pupils contracted sharply, as if he had seen a ghost.
But what shocked him was not the face, but the striking white helmet insignia on the side of the vehicle and the "Großdeutschland" (Greater Germany) embroidered in cursive script on the officer's sleeve.
That was no ordinary combat unit. It was the most dazzling diamond in the crown of the Wehrmacht, a model unit specially created by the Junker nobles of the Third Reich Army to counter the ever-expanding SS.
Every German soldier held the armband embroidered with Sütterlin (German calligraphic script) in awe. This was because the Großdeutschland Regiment didn't have the concept of "new recruits"—it was an elite club comprised of the best killing machines in all of Germany.
Only the most outstanding veterans in their respective divisions, those who have earned medals, are eligible to be selected to serve here. They receive double pay, enjoy priority in supplies, and represent the sharpest fangs in this massive war machine.
Logically speaking, these killing machines should be in Sedan or on their way to Dunkirk. How did they end up at this godforsaken rear checkpoint?
"Kettenhunde."
Strunzsky glanced at the military police rushing towards him in a panic and snorted coldly to himself.
He had absolutely no liking for these field military police officers with metal breastplates who were always causing trouble for their own soldiers in the rear. In the eyes of a Prussian career officer like him, only men like Guderian, who stood atop tank turrets eating dust, deserved to be called soldiers; these guys were nothing more than traffic police in uniform.
"Stop! Routine check!"
The military police sergeant ran to the half-track vehicle. Although he was panting, he still tried to straighten his back, and three meters away, he brought his feet together, slammed his heels together, and stiffly raised his right arm in a standard Nazi salute.
"Heil Hitler! Sir! The 33rd Field Military Police Outpost salutes you!"
Faced with this etiquette brimming with fervent political undertones, Strunzsky remained seated in his command post, not even lifting an eyelid. He casually raised his right hand, fingers together, the fingertips lightly touching the brim of his cap—a traditional Wehrmacht salute, languid, perfunctory, and exuding an arrogant "leave me alone" attitude.
He was in a hurry to chase his prey and didn't have time to waste words with the watchdog.
"Grossdeutschland Infantry Regiment, special mission." Strunzsky's voice was indifferent as he pulled the black Soldbuch (soldier's/officer's ID) from his jacket pocket and tossed it to the military police like a bone. "Hurry up, I'm in a rush."
The military police hurriedly took the identification and turned to the first page.
The major in the photo has a straight gaze, and the steel stamp is clearly visible.
[Name: Heinrich von Stransky] [Rank: Army Major] [Affiliation: Großdeutschland Infantry Regiment]
"Von Stransky..."
The military policeman muttered the name, his hand, which was about to stamp and release the vehicle, suddenly froze in mid-air. A look of confusion and turbidity flashed in his bloodshot eyes, which were filled with the marks of staying up all night.
"What?" Strunzsky tapped the armor plate impatiently, making a sharp sound. "Is there a problem with my name, Sergeant Major?"
"No...no, Major."
The military policeman looked up, his expression turning somewhat strange, as if he were trying to recall something.
"But... your surname is quite rare. And just a few hours ago, around two in the morning, an officer named Strunzsky also passed by here. Was he your brother?"
Stransky's fingers, which were tapping the armor plate, stopped abruptly.
He slowly turned his head, and for the first time, his icy blue eyes looked directly at the lowly military policeman, as if he were looking at a dead man.
"Brother?" he countered. "You mean, there's an officer with the same surname as me?"
"Yes, sir," the military policeman quickly added, trying to curry favor with the important figure. "But that's a captain. He's from the logistics company of the 7th Armored Division, leading a convoy of twelve Opel trucks. Although his rank is one level below yours, his temper..."
The military policeman gave a wry smile and pointed to his face:
"That way of sleeping with your feet up on the dial, swearing while holding a bottle of liquor—it's exactly the same aura as you… uh, I mean, as a great man like you. Are all aristocratic officers this individualistic these days?"
boom!
It was as if an invisible, heavy bomb had exploded in Stransky's mind.
7th Armored Division. Logistics Company. Captain. And that damn surname.
In an instant, all the clues, like scattered puzzle pieces, automatically pieced together in his mind, forming a picture that made him feel physically nauseous.
There was no such person as "Captain Stransky." He was the only one in his generation in the family to have served in the military.
Someone—an extremely bold and cunning bastard—not only stole his name but also, to cover his tracks or simply for fun, demoted himself by one rank and then swaggered through the German army's tightest blockade.
"Bring me the vehicle logbook."
Strunzsky's voice suddenly became very soft, so soft it was chilling.
The military police were startled by the major's expression and, not daring to be negligent, quickly ran back to the post and retrieved the register.
Strunzsky snatched the notebook and flipped directly to the page about the early morning hours.
The paper seemed to still smell of English tobacco left by that bastard.
[Time of Passage: 01:50] [Unit: 59th Logistics Company, 7th Armored Division] [Commanding Officer: Captain H. von Stransky]
The handwriting was so neat it looked like it came from the hand of a staff officer. But what irritated Strunzsky the most, and even burned his eyes, was the signature section at the back.
There were no full names signed there. There wasn't even an attempt to imitate German cursive script.
There was an extremely hasty, unrestrained abbreviation drawn there, exuding a kind of British flamboyance:
—— AS
Strunzsky stared at the two letters, his icy blue pupils slightly contracting.
"AS..."
He silently repeated the two syllables on the tip of his tongue, trying to savor the name behind them.
Arthur? Andrew? Or Alfred?
He didn't know. He had never met this Englishman before, nor did he know anything about his family background.
But the signature itself is a malicious signal.
That bastard didn't even bother to play the part properly. He filled in "Stransky" in the officer's section to fool the military police, but left his real initials in the signature section. This wasn't even to cover it up, because the fancy English cursive was completely out of place with the German army's meticulous Kulent handwriting.
It's like a taunting card left at the crime scene by a clever thief, or a white glove thrown away by a knight before a duel.
He was telling Strunzsky: I'm a fake, but I've swaggered away. I know you're the real one, but you can only eat my ass behind my back.
"Sir?" The military policeman cautiously observed Strunzsky's expression; the murderous aura emanating from him made his legs weak. "This... Commander AS, is there a problem?"
"No problem. Perfect."
Strunzsky slammed the register shut with such force that it made a loud "crack," as if the Englishman's neck had been broken.
"But that 'captain' is an imposter."
"What?!" The military policeman's face turned deathly pale, and he nearly collapsed to the ground. "An imposter? But he was carrying twelve truckloads of supplies! And his German..."
Just then, the high-frequency radio on the half-track suddenly crackled to life.
That was an emergency full-frequency broadcast from the army group headquarters. The radio operator's voice was distorted with extreme anger and shock, even drowning out the static from the electrical circuits:
"Achtung! Achtung! (Attention! Attention!)"
"The vanguard battalion of the 6th Armored Division suffered a severe mechanical failure on the Kassel Heights! All tank engines involved in the attack were rendered unusable! The cause has been determined: someone adulterated a large amount of sugar into the refueling supplies! Again! This is an extremely malicious act of sabotage! The saboteur is posing as a logistics captain from the 7th Armored Division and possesses a convoy of twelve trucks!"
The air freezes.
The military police at the checkpoint gaped, and the black-backed wolfhound that had been kicked in the middle of the night whimpered, its tail between its legs. A thought flashed through the military police's mind—sugar? That "captain" who had shed blood for the Führer in Poland, who had wiped out an entire armored battalion's tanks with a pile of sugar?
Strunzsky stood on the vehicle, one hand gripping the shield of the MG34 machine gun. He listened to the roar coming from the radio, his hands, gloved with deerskin, pounding against the vehicle.
Then, he finally couldn't hold back and burst into laughter.
"Ha...hahahaha!"
The laughter was dry and shrill, carrying a kind of madness born from extreme humiliation, echoing on the highway in the early morning.
"White sugar! He actually used white sugar!"
He held onto the armor plate, laughing so hard tears were almost streaming down his face.
He finally understood. The British ghost codenamed "AS" wasn't running for its life at all.
He was also hunting. He was treating the entire Army Group B as his playground. He was using German trucks, carrying German oil and French sugar, to destroy German tanks. And to accomplish all this, he even used his own name, Stransky, as a pass.
This was not merely a tactical victory; it was an intellectual humiliation. It was a complete dismantling of Germany's proud "rigor" and "order," and of the "aristocratic dignity" that Stransky valued most.
"AS..."
Strunzsky repeated the abbreviation.
"Whether your name is Arthur or Anthony, whether you're some bastard from London..."
Strunzsky's gaze gradually focused, and the composure of a professional soldier returned to his face, but this time, there was an added chilling killing intent.
This time, it was no longer for the flank security of the Großdeutschland Regiment, nor was it to report to Colonel Stockhausen.
This is a personal enmity.
"Is this your return gift? Very nice. Very creative."
He took off his gloves and tossed them into the roadside ditch—the gloves were dirty from touching the notebook with "AS" written on them. Then, he slowly pulled a new pair of snow-white deerskin gloves from his pocket and put them on.
This is a ritual. A ritual to enter the dueling arena.
"Notify all units to disengage from the main force command chain. We are entering 'Free Hunting' mode."
He pointed to the road to the west that led to the flank of Kassel, his eyes burning with intensity.
"He thought he was a clever ghost. But he forgot one thing."
"Even a ghost will leave footprints if it walks on muddy ground."
"Chase after him. I'm going to capture him alive. I'm going to skin that British swindler alive and make my new coat out of his skin."
"Set off!"
Rumbling--
The Maybach engine of the half-track roared angrily, its tracks kicking up dust. This steel hound, burning with vengeful fury, followed the tire tracks left by the twelve Opel trucks and plunged into the vast fog of the battlefield.
At that checkpoint, the military police sergeant held the vehicle logbook in his hand, watching the departing convoy with a blank expression. He felt that everything that had happened today was too absurd.
"Two Sstránskys... one a major, the other a captain..."
He scratched his head, looked at the hastily written "AS" signature, and suddenly shivered.
"In this world, even nobles sell counterfeit and substandard products?"
He shook his head, threw the register into the drawer, and decided not to think about the trivial matters of these important people.
"Who cares? It's like gods fighting, we nobodies should stay away."
He lit another cigarette, watching the black smoke rising from the Kassel hills in the distance—the burning tanks destroyed by the sugar.
"However," he muttered, "that fake guy's drinking manners were actually quite good; at least he didn't smash the bottle over my head."