bullyxtreme Chapter 27 Oriental Magic on the A River
Chapter 27 Oriental Magic on the A River
I implore all readers to continue reading and vote with your monthly tickets. Please support me during the new book period. Thank you all in advance, and I wish you all good health and prosperity.
On the south bank of the A River, the temporary front-line command post of the German 19th Panzer Corps, June 1, 1940, 10:30 AM, dense fog, sea breeze mixed with drizzle.
June 1st. There is no Children's Day now. On the Flanders coast of France, there are no candy and balloons, only overcast skies and endless mud.
General Gu Bushuai stood beside a command-type Sd.Kfz. 251 half-track vehicle. Dew clung to the collar of his leather overcoat, and his military boots, no longer the original black, were completely covered in yellowish-brown clay.
As the creator of the Third Reich's armored forces, Heinz Guderian had every reason to be arrogant.
Back in the cold winter of 1938, he had already hung the silver insignia of General der Panzertruppe on his collar. When his tracks were crushing the Polish border, Rommel, who would later be a shining star in North Africa and was now leading the 7th Panzer Division in a frenzied race, was just a major general who had just entered the ranks of general officers and had to stand at attention and salute him with utmost respect; even Manstein, who devised the brilliant "Sickle Harvest Plan," was at that time just a lieutenant general commanding an infantry corps that followed him around eating his dust.
If history had turned out as expected, six weeks later, at the grand victory celebration held at Versailles, General Gu would have reached the pinnacle of his military career—Generaloberst.
But that's it.
That marshal's scepter, symbolizing the highest honor for Prussian soldiers, would forever elude him. Because he was too stiff-willed, too ill-tempered, and even more so because he could never learn how to bow his proud head before that Bohemian corporal.
So now, this man, hailed as the "father of Blitzkrieg," doesn't look like a hunting cheetah, but rather like a caged beast pacing anxiously back and forth in a zoo.
"Still no orders?"
Guderian stopped and turned to look at the row of communications soldiers frantically banging on their radio transmitters, his voice low and menacing.
"No, General." Operations Staff Colonel Nelin closed his folder and shook his head helplessly. "The reply from headquarters is still—'Stand by and await the air force to resolve the battle.' The Supreme Command emphasizes that this is to protect the strength of the armored forces in preparation for the upcoming 'Red Plan' in southern France."
"Air Force? Ha!"
Guderian let out a disdainful sneer and pointed to the thick, lead-like clouds overhead.
"In this awful weather? What can Goring's Stuka see besides killing a few unfortunate French cows? We're wasting time! Every minute of pause is giving the British a chance to catch their breath! That's a full two hundred thousand people, no, at least three hundred thousand, in Dunkirk! If it were me, I would have driven them into the sea to feed the fish two days ago!"
He angrily ripped off his gloves and slammed them hard against the armor plating.
For armored commanders who value speed above all else, this artificial stagnation is nothing short of a crime.
"General, you'd better take a look at this."
Soon, a colonel, the regimental commander of the 1st Armored Division, came over with a strange expression. "There's something going on on the other side of the river..."
Guderian frowned, grabbed the Zeiss binoculars hanging around his neck, and strode to an observation post on the riverbank.
The Ahe River isn't wide, but in today's thick fog, visibility is extremely poor. White vapor churns on the river's surface, shrouding everything on the north bank in a mysterious haze.
Through the high-powered lens of his telescope, Guderian tried to see through the fog.
He could vaguely make out several massive black silhouettes lurking on the high ground on the opposite bank.
That's the Char B1 bis. A French land cruiser.
He saw four of them within his field of vision. They still bore that huge yellow number—the insignia of the French 1st Armored Division.
"It seems our opponent hasn't run away."
Guderian muttered to himself, his expression growing serious.
Because of the limited visibility, he couldn't determine how many of these steel monsters were hidden behind the woods and high ground. Perhaps a company? Perhaps a battalion? Or even an elite blocking force specially deployed by the Anglo-French forces to cover their retreat? An armored brigade or an armored division.
"This explains why they dared to be so arrogant last night." Guderian mentally filled in the gaps using "military logic." "Now, relying on the natural barrier of the A River, they have deployed a heavy tank defense line. If we rashly attempt to cross it without air support, we will indeed pay a heavy price."
This discovery brought his blood pressure, which was about to burst the blood vessels in his temples, down slightly.
At least, he wasn't facing a bunch of French rabbits who only knew how to run away, nor were they the kind of routs who would wet their pants at the mere sound of a Stuka. They were a group of desperate men relying on the natural barrier of the A River, heavily armored and brimming with murderous intent.
This allowed the absurd "ceasefire order" issued by the little mustache guy in Berlin, who only knew how to draw postcards, to barely find a foothold in terms of tactical logic—albeit a very small one, and it was on the verge of collapse.
"Perhaps headquarters is worried that crossing the river without air cover would cause unnecessary armored losses..."
Guderian used this reason to numb himself, trying to find a way to save face.
Although deep down he knew it was all self-deception—that the corporal with the mustache had no idea about casualty ratios and was simply trying to manipulate the situation to get back to the negotiating table with the British or French—at this moment, facing this insurmountable political red line, it was the only reason this armored general could console himself and prevent from drawing his gun and shooting the communications soldier on the spot.
But then, as he lowered the telescope's field of view slightly, he saw what was at the end of the bridge.
For a moment, Guderian thought there was something wrong with his retina.
He put down the binoculars, rubbed his eyes, and then raised them again.
That's right. You read that correctly.
Right in the center of the bridgehead on the north bank of the A River, in front of the anti-tank barriers used to block vehicles, stands a huge wooden sign painted in white.
Even across the river, the German writing on it was clearly legible:
【VERKEHRSKONTROLLE】(Traffic Control)
[BRITISCHES HOHEITSGEBIET. EINTRITT VERBOTEN.——AS] (British territory ahead. No entry without permission.——AS)
"..."
Guderian's hand trembled slightly.
The feeling was like a fully armed knight charging into the enemy's castle, ready for an epic duel, only to find a sign hanging at the door that read, "Lunch break, do not disturb."
"absurd."
Guderian had never seen such a shameless person. "What is this? British humor? Or are they making a fool of me?"
"This is a provocation, General."
Colonel Nelin whispered from the side, his tone carrying a hint of politician's speculation, "According to the advance company's report, that commander... that guy who signed AS, he seems to know we received a halt order. By putting this sign up here, he's telling us that he sees through Berlin's hand."
Guderian paused for a moment.
He looked at the sign, his initial rage gradually cooling, then turning into bitterness.
"Yes. The trump card."
Guderian lowered his binoculars, his gaze becoming deep and complex.
"Do you know what this means, Nelson?"
"This means that the Führer was not determined to completely annihilate the British." Guderian sighed, taking a cigarette case from his pocket. "In the eyes of politicians, these 300,000 expeditionary troops are bargaining chips. The Führer is probably still dreaming of signing a non-aggression pact with the British. He doesn't want to push things to the extreme; he hopes that the British will see this halted armored army surrender 'dignifiedly'."
"So this sign isn't for me."
Guderian pointed to the opposite bank.
"This was written to Berlin by that British commander, or rather his commander. He was mocking our indecisiveness."
In Guderian's view, the guy on the other side must have received instructions from above, perhaps from MI6, or perhaps from Lord Gott, the expeditionary commander who was currently in a mess at Dunkirk.
There must have been a higher-ups, through encrypted radio waves, who at this critical moment pressed down on the shoulders of this force, telling them: "Stop, the Germans aren't coming."
Otherwise, how can we explain this chilling tacit understanding? The telegram from Berlin had just brought the 19th Panzer Corps to a halt, and the other side had brazenly erected that damned sign.
As for the intelligence leak?
Guderian sneered.
Do not make jokes.
The Supreme Command in Berlin, or rather the Führer himself, had no intention of keeping it from the British.
He hoped the British would understand the signal and then kneel down with dignity to beg for peace.
Just then, a figure appeared in the telescope's field of view.
He was an officer wearing a German black leather overcoat and a British peaked cap. He was leaning on a cane and standing on the high ground at the bridgehead, with the B1 tank numbered "Verdun" parked beside him.
He seemed to sense Guderian's gaze.
The British officer turned around and, across the river and the thick fog, looked precisely in the direction where Guderian was.
Then, he made a move that surprised all the German soldiers.
He did not raise a gun, nor did he give the middle finger.
He gracefully raised his hand, removed his filthy peaked hat, bowed slightly, and performed a flawless, old-fashioned hat-tipping salute towards the south bank.
There was no fear in that action, only a superior composure.
It was as if it were saying: Thank you for your cooperation, General.
"..."
Guderian stared at the figure in silence for a long time. Finally, instead of flying into a rage, the Prussian general revealed a wry smile.
"interesting."
He put down his binoculars and repeatedly chewed on the abbreviation written at the bottom of the wooden sign.
"That 'AS'...who is he?"
"There is no definite news yet, General."
Colonel Nelin shook his head helplessly, his face full of confusion. "Our listening posts did intercept several communications from that direction last night, but the other side used very strange slang and tactical codes. We can't find any tough characters in the British Army's existing list of regimental commanders and above operating in this area who correspond to the abbreviation 'AS'."
"Maybe it's an alias? Or just some arrogant, low-ranking officer?" Nellie added.
"Unknown? No, Nelson, this kind of arrogance ingrained in one's bones and keen sense of the times cannot be faked."
Guderian took a deep look at the blurry figure on the opposite bank, a hint of hunter's curiosity flashing in his eyes when he discovered a new prey.
"AS...it doesn't matter if he's Arthur, Arnold, or whatever the hell."
Guderian closed the lens cap of the telescope with a crisp click.
"Write this down. He's not just a madman, he's a smart madman. He's got me right in the gut, he knows that unless he pulls the trigger, we'll be like a bunch of frozen fools, nailed here by this damn political order."
"Pass down the order."
Guderian turned around, his back to Ahe, no longer looking at the sign that was raising his blood pressure, and regained the calm and composure of an armored general.
"The entire army shall rest in place. Since the Führer wants us to rest, then we shall rest."
"Have the kitchen slaughter a few pigs, and take out all the red wine seized from the French cellars and distribute it to the soldiers."
He paused for a moment, a cold smile playing on his lips:
"We'll sit here, sipping red wine, and watch how that mysterious Mr. AS plans to finish this one-man show."
……
The north bank of the A River.
Arthur put his military cap back on and turned his gaze away from the RTS map.
[System Notification: High-value target (Heinz Guderian) has had its focus removed]
[Achieve the "Aspect of a Legend" achievement]
Then, the cursor continued to jump around, and the system's hidden message arrived:
[System Additional Note]: "Dear Commander, although being seen across the river by the 'Father of Blitzkrieg' is a tactical honor, it will at most add a couple of insignificant lines to your post-war memoirs."
"Please remain vigilant: at this moment, in Guderian's eyes, 'AS' is nothing more than a slightly interesting nameless rat."
"but--"
"History can be violently rewritten."
"In the far East across the ocean, a great Red strategist used the art of crossing the river four times to turn the guerrilla tactic of 'the enemy advances while we retreat' into a unique chapter in the history of warfare, and toyed with pursuers who outnumbered him by dozens of times."
"And tonight, Arthur Sterling could very well recreate this artistic 'devil's dance' on the River Aal in France."
"If you can make him flee in his pajamas tonight, forcing him to awkwardly hop on a motorcycle, and even watch helplessly as you drive away in his beloved half-track command vehicle, smoking his secret stash of Cuban cigars..."
"Then, 'AS' is no longer a humble abbreviation."
"It will forever remain on the pillar of shame in the history of the Third Reich's armored forces, becoming a legend worthy of being listed alongside those great names."
[An epic tactical opportunity detected: Eastern Magic]
Want to go all in?
As Arthur looked at the flashing message "Want to play big?", the smile on his lips gradually widened, eventually turning into a sinister grin that was a mixture of ambition and madness.
"System, you're a devil."
He replied silently in his mind.
"However, I really like your suggestion."