bullyxtreme Chapter 75 The Coronation in the Mud
Chapter 75 The Coronation in the Mud
Chapter 75 The Coronation in the Mud (Long Chapter)
This highly distinctive sound created a brief vacuum in the otherwise noisy battlefield.
Time seemed to freeze for a second.
The roaring engines and the dense gunfire seemed to become background noise.
Everyone's gaze was forcibly drawn to the unseen trajectory of the ballistic missile, instinctively fixated on the lead Panzer IV tank.
At this distance, there is no reason for a 2-pounder armor-piercing shell to miss its mark when firing at a stationary target.
A burst of dazzling sparks erupted from the frontal armor of the struggling Panzer IV.
That's the distinctive flash of a 40mm solid armor-piercing projectile when it penetrates a steel plate.
Immediately afterwards, it felt as if an invisible giant hand was squeezing the inside of the tank.
But this moment of silence lasted only half a second, followed by a physical catastrophe. The punctured fuel tank and the detonated ammunition instantly generated terrifying overpressure. All the hatches were blown open by the blast wave like champagne corks, and a thick plume of dark red smoke, mixed with the distorted screams of the pilot and mechanic, gushed out from the turret ring.
The secondary explosion has occurred!
But this was only the beginning of the disaster.
For the German infantry squad seeking cover behind the tank, the Panzer IV, which was originally intended as a "mobile shield," instantly became a giant fragmentation grenade.
The metal jets and falling rivets from the explosion swept across the area behind them.
Several German soldiers who were closest to the scene didn't even have time to scream before they were torn to shreds by the high-temperature blast and metal fragments. Their blood mixed with the rainwater and instantly stained the dark mud red.
The remaining German infantry, having lost the cover of tanks, were completely exposed.
Major Ryder, his face covered in mud, stared intently at the group of greyish-green figures struggling in the swamp. His mind was filled with Arthur's last command before he left: "Don't be stingy with ammunition. Make a big commotion."
"Mortar crew! Now!"
Ryder swung his arm down abruptly, roaring hysterically, "Empty the ammo boxes! Don't leave a single round! Rapid fire!!"
Behind the defensive line, the QF 3-inch mortars, whose parameters had already been calibrated, emitted a series of muffled gunshots.
"Tong! Tong! Tong!"
The gunners went berserk, not bothering with fine-tuning through the sights, and mechanically shoved high-explosive shells into the barrels one after another. Due to the extremely close distance, the shells flew through the rain in near-vertical arcs, then rained down on the German troops like hailstones.
"Boom! Boom! Boom!"
Black pillars of mud, mixed with human remains and shrapnel, shot into the sky. In the mud, although some of the mortar shells' destructive effects were absorbed by the soft mud, the terrifying shock of them falling from above was enough to break any infantryman.
Next comes the harvest time.
"Da da da da da da!"
A dozen or so Bren light machine guns on the British position roared simultaneously.
This was no longer a burst of fire, but an unrestrained barrage.
Without armored cover, the German infantry were unable to make any tactical maneuvers in the knee-deep mud. They were quickly harvested like wheat swept by a sickle by the fire net woven by mortars and machine guns.
Mud churned, and blood mist filled the air. Those gray uniforms that once symbolized the glory of the Third Reich were torn into tattered, honeycomb-like pieces in an instant.
This was not a skirmish line used to cover a retreating enemy.
This is a meticulously planned slaughterhouse.
Zizzewitz watched with trepidation through the telescope.
As the purest elite of the 1st Armored Division, he had scoffed at the so-called "interception mission" assigned by the division commander just two hours earlier—asking an armored ace like him to be responsible for intercepting a group of fleeing soldiers who only wanted to go home? It was an insult to him and to his uniform.
What he craved was offense, to tear apart the enemy's defenses, not to be a janitor responsible for cleaning up the battlefield.
He even used "mobility" as an excuse to rudely reject the regimental headquarters' suggestion that he wait for the other two battalions to join him.
Because in his arrogant Prussian mind, dealing with these Englishmen whose spines had been broken and who had no will to resist was a sure thing—
There was absolutely no need for tactical coordination. The tracks of his entire battalion were enough to crush them all into mincemeat.
But he was wrong.
That's completely wrong.
These aren't defeated soldiers; they're clearly a steel trap, its blade already sharpened, waiting to sever his throat!
This was a meticulously planned trap.
That damned 2-pounder cannon was like a goalkeeper, firmly blocking the road. And the burning wreckage of the Panzer IV tank now served as the perfect roadblock, completely preventing any further vehicles from advancing along the road.
If that firing point isn't eliminated and they continue advancing in formation on this narrow embankment, his tank battalion will be like tin ducks in a playground, picked off one by one by the British.
This loss was completely unacceptable to him, and even to General Guderian.
We must avoid it! We must widen the firing line!
Zizzewitz looked at the deadly highway ahead, then glanced at the patch of bushes on his right, which, though muddy, offered at least a clear view.
He had no choice.
"First Company, Second Company, heed my orders!"
He grabbed the throat microphone: "Hard to right! Get off the road! We're going to flank them and knock that damn gun out!"
"That bush over there looks flatter, go around it!"
As soon as the order was given, more than a dozen German tanks began to turn.
They awkwardly twisted their bodies, leaving the relatively hard gravel roadbed and pressing into the seemingly solid muddy ground on the right, which looked overgrown with weeds.
At first, everything went smoothly.
But after advancing only fifty meters, disaster struck.
Beneath that seemingly flat meadow lay a layer of silt that had long been softened by the rain.
This is a trap!
On the surface of that shrubbery grew dense, dark green tall fescue. Based on the experience of these Hans in Berlin and Poland, the extensive root system of this plant usually meant that there was a relatively compact soil structure underneath, sufficient to support the traction of the tracks.
Moreover, compared to the mud on the main road, which had been repeatedly crushed and churned by hundreds of military boots and wheels into a pot of black sesame paste, this grassland, washed clean by the rain and with hardly any standing water, looked like a green, smooth road leading to the flank.
It looks so tempting.
But Zizzewitz overlooked one thing: Förne is a lowland.
Three inches beneath this deceptively layer of vegetation lies not hard rock or permafrost, but a layer of sticky, chocolate mousse-like clay deposited over centuries. During the days the Isère River overflowed, this clay layer had become saturated with water, transforming into a bottomless quicksand pit.
It can support the weight of a person, or even a light truck.
But against a 20-ton German tank, this fragile camouflage was like a wet tissue.
"Damn it! I'm trapped!"
The exclamation of the company commander of the first company came through the earpiece.
Then came the second, the third —
For tanks like the Panzer III and Panzer IV with their narrow tracks that exerted a pressure of nearly 0.8 to 0.9 kilograms per square centimeter, this muddy ground was a swamp.
The heavy vehicle sank instantly. The tracks began to spin wildly, kicking up clouds of black mud, but it couldn't gain any traction. The more the throttle was increased, the deeper the vehicle sank, until the mud submerged the road wheels and almost reached the chassis.
In just two minutes, the once menacing German armored column was reduced to a dozen fixed bunkers with turrets that could only rotate in place.
Zizzewitz's heart clenched as he watched this scene.
A chill ran down his spine.
"wrong----"
He muttered to himself, then abruptly raised his binoculars to look at the dense thicket on the flank: "Why aren't the British defending the flank?"
The next second, his question was answered.
That's the sound of an engine.
It wasn't the sharp, high-pitched whine of a German tank engine, but a deep, resonant roar like the beating of a heart from a diesel engine.
"Boom—Boom—"
The earth was trembling.
Zizzewitz nearly dropped the binoculars into the mud.
He could hardly believe his eyes.
Deep within the bush swamp where his Number Three and Number Four had just sank, behind the gray curtain of rain, a dazzling color suddenly shone.
Six enormous steel monsters, painted in an absurdly pale yellow and slate blue camouflage pattern, smashed through the bushes and charged out with an unstoppable momentum!
Matilda II infantry tank.
Zizzewitz's pupils trembled violently, and his brain went blank for a moment.
This unscientific!
Why?
Why are our 20-ton Panzer IV tanks stuck in the mud, unable to move, while these British monsters, which look to weigh at least 27 tons, can drive smoothly and steadily on the muddy ground?
What he didn't know was that, in order to adapt to this terrain, the Matilda tanks' tracks adopted a large-area low-pressure design, and the suspension systems of these tanks were also equipped with heavy side skirts to prevent mud from getting in.
More importantly, Jeanne and the soldiers of the 3rd Engineer Company welded two steel bars as anti-slip teeth onto each track plate.
At this moment, these "desert queens" put on non-slip shoes and began their charge.
10:52, Armored Assault Group, Command Tower of the USS Avenger.
"300 meters away. The target is completely exposed. There's no need to even aim."
Arthur sat in the turret. On the RTS screen, the dozen or so red dots representing German tanks had all become immobile targets.
Moreover, they all exposed their vulnerable sides—their side armor being only 30 millimeters or even thinner—to his gun muzzle without reservation.
"Attention all train crews."
"Freedom to fire."
"Let's teach these German gentlemen a lesson."
"Boom! Boom! Boom!"
Eight 40mm (2-pounder) QF tank guns roared out almost simultaneously.
At this distance, there is absolutely no possibility of the shot going astray.
For Matilda's 2-pounder gun, with its extremely high muzzle velocity and penetration depth sufficient to pierce 40mm of steel plate at 500 meters, the German tank exposed on the side at this moment was like a thin layer of tin foil.
"Thump!"
A Panzer III tank that was desperately reversing in an attempt to escape its predicament was hit by a bullet.
A solid armor-piercing round tore through its thin side armor without any resistance and entered the fighting compartment full of ammunition and fuel.
One second later.
"Boom!"
A massive explosion resounded through the sky. The tank's turret was hurled into the air by the exploding ammunition, tumbling and crashing into the muddy crater in a huge fireball.
Then came the second, the third —
This is a one-sided massacre.
This is the execution moment for the "Queen of the Desert".
"Fire! Counterattack! God, counterattack now!"
Major Zizzewicz roared madly in the command tower. His vehicle hadn't been hit yet, but the wingmen around him were already piles of burning scrap metal.
The German tank crews did not immediately flee upon seeing the British tanks charging out from the flank; after all, they were elite troops. After the initial shock, those tanks whose turrets could still be turned began to fight back desperately.
A dozen or so 37mm and 75mm short-barreled cannons turned their muzzles and concentrated fire on the approaching yellow monsters.
Suddenly, a series of dense metallic clanging sounds rang out on the battlefield.
"Clang! Bang! Crash!"
It's like a crazy blacksmith shop.
Zizzewitz witnessed a 37mm armor-piercing round, trailing a red tracer, accurately strike the front of the lead Matilda tank, numbered T-1089.
"I've won!" he thought with elation.
But the next second, that joy turned into a bone-chilling cold.
The shell struck Matilda's 78mm thick cast armor, sending up only a weak burst of sparks before being deflected into the air by the rounded, curved armor, disappearing into the distance.
The yellow tank didn't even stop for a second.
It only shuddered slightly, and then, as if mocking the Germans' incompetence, slowly rotated its turret, coldly pointing its seemingly small but deadly slender gun barrel at Ziezewitz's vehicle.
The German radio channels completely crashed.
"It can't be penetrated! It's simply impossible to penetrate!"
"My shell was deflected!"
"We need 88mm guns! We need Stukas!"
"Back up! Back up now—damn it! My tracks broke! Help!"
Hundreds of meters away, however, Arthur heard a series of cold and efficient killing commands in his earpiece.
"Armor-piercing rounds loaded."
"Target at 11 o'clock, Panzer IV, attack its engine compartment."
"put!"
"Bang!"
Zizzewitz watched helplessly as a burst of flame erupted from the rear of the Panzer IV tank to his left, the engine cover was blown off, and the engine inside instantly caught fire.
This is despair.
A kind of despair built on the generational gap in absolute physical parameters.
When your mobility is crippled by mud, when your firepower cannot penetrate the enemy's armor, and the enemy can pick you off like a target, any tactical skill becomes a joke.
11:10, center of the swamp.
The battle was drawing to a close, or rather, it was entering the harvest phase.
With Arthur's whistle, McTavish led the infantry of the Cold Creek Guards out from behind the Matilda tank.
"For Sterling! Charge!!"
This combined arms attack was devastating for the already demoralized German army.
The tanks were immobilized, the machine gun turrets were destroyed by Matilda's precise targeting, and the infantry moved directly to the scene.
The engineers skillfully climbed onto the still-flaming German tanks, opened the hatches, stuffed grenades inside, or simply fired assault rifles into them.
Major Zizzewitz attempted to abandon the vehicle and flee.
His command vehicle's tracks were broken by a 2-pound shell, and its external storage compartments were ignited by an incendiary bomb.
He pushed open the hatch and jumped off the turret in a disheveled state.
But his gleaming black boots, a symbol of Junker aristocratic dignity, sank deep into the sticky mud the moment he landed.
He tried to run away, but the mud seemed alive, clinging tightly to his ankles.
He struggled for a moment, lost his balance, and fell awkwardly into the mud mixed with engine oil, blood, and horse manure. His neat uniform instantly turned grayish-black, and his monocle fell into the mud.
As he struggled to climb out of the mud pit, a huge shadow loomed over him.
"Clang—clang—" The massive Matilda tank, painted in a ridiculous yellow camouflage, showed no sign of slowing down, its two AEC diesel engines emitting a dull roar.
Zizzewitz stared in horror as the wide treads, stained with black mud and bits of flesh, rapidly magnified in his vision. He instinctively reached for his Luger pistol at his waist, letting out a desperate scream: "No—!!"
puff.
The sound stopped abruptly.
It's like stepping on a rotten tomato filled with jam.
The 27-ton steel body didn't pause at all, only wobbling slightly as it rolled over the obstacle before crushing it completely into the bottomless mud, turning the medal of honor and the exquisite monocle into an indistinguishable pool of red and black.
Arthur stood on the turret, not even glancing down at the bottom of the vehicle.
He merely gripped the edge of the hood slightly due to the vehicle's jolting, then brushed the rain off his trench coat and coldly ordered into the vehicle, "Don't stop. Keep going."
The rain gradually subsided.
For the German grenadiers who had lost tank cover, the battle had turned from an "offensive" into a simple "execution."
When they turned back in terror, they no longer saw an impregnable armored shield, but rows of burning torches. The dozen or so Panzer III and IV tanks that had brought them to this muddy field and given them a sense of security were now crackling and exploding in flames, billowing thick smoke, and completely blocking the only surviving escape route.
They tried to run, but the muddy ground gripped their ankles tightly. Every step they took required half their strength.
Ahead of them, the "Anvil" defensive line, commanded by Major Ryder, erupted in even more intense flames, especially when they saw the German tanks being set ablaze like lit cigarettes. The Bren machine guns, which had been suppressed for so long, were now unleashing their fury in a frenzy.
Meanwhile, on the flank, McTavish and his Cold Creek Guard veterans were following behind the Matilda tanks, using bayonets and Thompson submachine guns to finish off the remaining enemy.
This is no longer a battle.
This is the process of stuffing meat into a meat grinder.
Just ten minutes later, the last shot of a Mauser rifle fell silent in the mud. An entire mixed battalion of the 1st Panzer Division was reduced to ashes and corpses scattered everywhere; there was no one left alive.
11: 30.
A crack appeared in the originally gray sky, and a pale but clear beam of sunlight shone on this devastated battlefield.
The air smelled nauseating: the smell of burnt rubber, roasted meat, and the pervasive stench of mud.
In the center of the still-smoking ruins, the eight Matilda I tanks stood like eight silent monuments, quietly resting among the piles of corpses. Their engines were still idling, emitting a deep, powerful roar.
Upon closer inspection, one can see that these "desert queens" are badly damaged—their thick cast armor is covered with dozens of white dents. These are impact marks left by German 37mm and 75mm armor-piercing shells, some of which are even deeply embedded in the armor, yet they have never been able to penetrate the last inch of steel.
Before the war, that light yellow and slate blue "counter camouflage" looked so ridiculous and out of place, like a clown who hadn't taken off his makeup.
But at this moment.
Against the backdrop of the gray-black German wreckage scattered across the ground, this still-bright yellow camouflage uniform appeared both incredibly sacred and ferocious.
"Click".
Arthur pushed open the turret hatch and jumped out of the steel canister filled with the smell of gunpowder.
His leather boots made a soft, squelching sound as they stepped on the soft, blood-stained mud.
He walked straight to the pile of mud that was no longer recognizable as human—the place where Major Zizzewitz had made his last struggle.
Arthur bent down, his hands, gloved in white deerskin, showing no disgust at the filth on the ground. From the pile of red and black mixture, he picked up half of a monocle, its frame still gleaming with gold.
He casually wiped his coat on the hem and tossed it behind him.
"then."
McTavish, standing behind him, caught the trophy steadily.
"Wipe it clean and keep it as a souvenir."
"This is a symbol of the Prussian Junker aristocracy, a rare find in this muddy swamp."
After saying that, he never looked at the loser again.
Arthur was always reluctant to give extra attention to the dead, especially those he had defeated.
He turned around and looked around.
The British soldiers—whether they were the routs under Ryder, the elite of the Cold Creek Guards, or Jeanne's engineer crews—all crawled out of their bunkers.
They were covered in mud, some were injured, some were still bleeding, and their faces were covered in soot from gunpowder.
"We won! We won!!!"
It's unclear who started it, but the shouts shattered the silence.
Immediately following was a massive, enthusiastic celebration.
Jeanne crawled out of the Avenger's turret.
The female communications officer pounded on the tank's bullet-riddled armor plates, ignoring how hot they were to the touch, and yelled at her makeshift crew, "See that?! Not a single bullet penetrated! Not a single one! I told you this turtle shell would hold up!!"
On the defensive line used as "bait," Major Ryder slumped in a muddy trench. He stared at the pile of German tanks that had been burned to scrap metal in the distance, his body feeling weak from the loss of adrenaline, and then he let out a near-manic laugh.
He grabbed the shoulder of a private next to him, laughing until tears streamed down his face: "We're alive! Ha! Did you see that German blown to bits? We did it! We, the bunch of defeated soldiers, did it!"
Meanwhile, in the Cold Creek Guards' ranks, McTavish maintained his granite-like stance.
But his usually half-closed, murderous eyes were now fully open, and a smile appeared on his lips.
As expected of the young master, he keeps his word.
All the light eventually converged at that one place.
When their gazes met Arthur's, an unprecedented excitement burned in those three thousand-plus eyes. It was no longer the gaze one would give a superior; it was the gaze of someone witnessing a miracle.
"Arthur!"
At first, there were only sporadic shouts, then it grew to dozens, then hundreds, and finally it coalesced into a huge sound wave that could drown out the burning and exploding sound of the tank wreckage.
"Arthur!!"
"Arthur!!!"
The men, rolling in the mud, waved their rifles, helmets, and even the dirty rags used to wipe away engine oil. Their faces were flushed, veins bulging on their necks, and they shouted the name at the top of their lungs, like the Roman legions welcoming Caesar's return.
The sound pierced through the post-rain mist and soared into the sky.
However, Arthur did not join the soldiers in their cheers.
He stood atop the turret of the Matilda tank, which was still radiating heat, his retina displaying lines of pale blue fluorescent text visible only to him.
【hint】
[Settlement: Brilliant]
Destroyed enemy armored units: 24 (Panzer III/IV tanks and coaxial command vehicles)
[Battle damage: 0 (Both Matilda tanks had damaged track edges, repairable)]
[Gained new title: TankBuster]
[Evaluation]: You taught Blitzkrieg a lesson using the most primitive mud and the hardest tortoise shell.
"One lesson?"
Arthur casually waved away those meaningless words.
The lesson was indeed expensive; the annihilation of an entire battalion was enough to make Guderian feel the pinch for a while.
But this does not mean it is safe.
On the contrary, this was like stabbing a hornet's nest in the back.
He quickly expanded the RTS tactical map in his mind.
The large red arrows representing the German 1st Panzer Division have not disappeared.
North of Flörn, the once impenetrable encirclement was breached by the collapse of this battalion—a fleeting vacuum less than three kilometers in diameter.
But the red arrow is wriggling.
The main German forces were attempting to bypass the quagmire and regroup from both flanks. Once they had deployed—
Then those Matildas would become real scrap metal.
"Stop celebrating!"
Arthur whirled around, his roar instantly extinguishing the heated atmosphere that had just begun: "You think the war is over?!"
He jumped off the tank, grabbed Major Ryder who was about to pull out a cigarette to celebrate, and pointed at the map: "Look here! The German reinforcements will fill this gap in thirty minutes at most! If we haven't gotten through by then, everyone's dead!"
Major Ryder was taken aback by the shout, dropping his cigarette into the muddy water. He instinctively asked, "Sir, where do we go now?"
Arthur didn't answer immediately. He stepped over a German corpse and walked to the relatively intact German command half-track. Although a corner of the FuG-5 radio on it was damaged, the power indicator light was still on.
He picked up the blood-stained microphone and skillfully turned the frequency knob.
He didn't try to contact the Admiralty in London, which was far away and probably in complete chaos at the moment; he couldn't reach them anyway, as the distance was too great.
But there's no need for that now.
Everything that's happening here, all this steel wreckage, is the best reply to London.
My fingertip stopped at [42.5MHz]—a frequency that had long been marked on the RTS strategic map.
That's the frequency band of the garrison in the north, Niupt.
"Sizzle—Sizzle—"
After the static stopped, Arthur pressed the call button.
"This is Arthur Sterling."
"The trash in Flne has been cleaned up."
Arthur raised his head, his gaze passing over the burning battlefield to the northern sky still shrouded in dark clouds, as if he could see through the clouds the lonely city surrounded by the sea: "Brothers of Niupot, hold on a little longer."
He released the call button, tossed the receiver back into the car, and turned to wave at the group of soldiers sharpening their knives behind him: "We're coming right now—to take you home."
"All troops, prepare for battle! Target—Niubert!"
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