novelAbuy Chapter 12 The Oil Barrels of Troy
Chapter 12 The Oil Barrels of Troy
1940年5月30日，清晨 05:15。法国北部，卡塞尔高地以南3公里，D916公路边缘。
In the final moments before dawn, the sky took on a sickly gray-blue hue.
The air here is heavier than in Azhebrew, as if you could wring water out of it—or rather, wring out blood. In the distance, the outline of the old town of Kassel appears and disappears in the morning mist, like a black tombstone suspended in the sea.
The convoy stopped beside an abandoned hop field. The twelve Opel Lightning trucks, painted in German gray, had their engines off, with only the exhaust pipes emitting a faint popping sound—the contraction of metal as it cooled.
Arthur pushed open the car door, his military boots stepping onto the damp mud.
He wrapped the leather overcoat he had taken from the German company commander tighter, but still felt a chill that seeped into his bones. This was not only because of the low temperature in Flanders that morning, but also because of the image that appeared in his mind.
As the view suddenly opened up, the previously gloomy tactical map in my mind seemed to have been torn open by an invisible hand, revealing the fog of war.
The terrain, coordinates, and enemy and friendly positions were rapidly taking shape—it felt as if his consciousness had connected with a reconnaissance plane hovering at 30,000 feet, coldly overlooking the chessboard beneath his feet from God's perspective.
He closed his eyes, his thoughts diving deep into the cold RTS tactical interface like a diver.
"My God..."
Even though he had prepared himself mentally, the scene before him still made his scalp tingle.
From his God's-eye view, the Kassel Heights ahead—a key stronghold controlling the transportation hub on the southern wing of Dunkirk—were now submerged in a sea of red.
Those were not ordinary red dots.
That's the troop configuration of an entire armored division.
In that red sea, Arthur keenly noticed a detail.
The tactical numbers on those tanks were not the "Y" shape he had seen in Azhebrook—the insignia of the 7th Panzer Division—but two intersecting "X" shapes—the insignia of the German 6th Panzer Division.
His conjecture was subsequently confirmed.
[Enemy Unit Identification: German 6th Panzer Division]
Commander: Major General Werner Kempf
[Status: Pincer Movement/Under Siege]
Arthur's brow twitched suddenly.
Not right.
Based on his limited knowledge of World War II history, at this very moment, the main force of Werner Kempf's 6th Armored Division should still be engaged with the British 2nd Division further south along the canal, or slowly spreading out to the flanks. They shouldn't be appearing outside Kassel at this time, with such a full-scale offensive posture.
"It seems my arrival has not been without cost."
Arthur let out a bitter laugh in his heart.
This is the butterfly effect.
At that moment, Arthur finally realized that he could no longer rely entirely on the historical timelines written in books.
History has become a dynamic sandbox. On this sandbox, not only is he, the time traveler, micromanaging, but top players on the other side, such as Guderian, Rommel, and Kempf, are also adjusting their tactics in real time.
Originally, according to his plan at the supply depot, he intended to take advantage of the gap left by the 7th Panzer Division's rapid advance and pierce Rommel's supply line like a thorn.
But now, with the early arrival of the 6th Armored Division, that so-called "gap" has been filled with steel.
Countless red arrows, like greedy octopus tentacles, had severed all roads leading from Kassel to the rear. On the high ground, the blue dots representing the British defenders remained dense, but the status bars above their heads had turned a despairing deep yellow—indicating [wavering morale] and [lack of supplies].
Those were the famous Gloucestershire Regiment and the Oxford-Buckinghamshire Light Infantry.
In the original history, they would have held out here for three days until the entire army was wiped out, thus buying the most precious 48 hours for the Dunkirk evacuation.
And now, this giant animal trap is slowly closing.
Ten minutes ago, Arthur might have considered using the convoy's camouflage to infiltrate. But now, looking at the impenetrable encirclement on the RTS map, he knew that "infiltrating" was easy, but "infiltrating out" was a pipe dream.
Kassel is no longer a strategic pivot; it has become a massive, one-way meat grinder.
"We have to go in!"
Captain Gordon came closer. He also had binoculars, and although he could only see blurry outlines in the morning mist, it didn't stop him from feeling the call of his allies.
"My lord, Kassel is just ahead! I see the Gloucester Regiment's flag! If we charge in, we can rejoin the main force! We have twelve truckloads of supplies and heavy machine guns; we can help them hold this place!"
For this traditional British officer, "returning home" was an instinct ingrained in his bones, like a homing pigeon that must fly back to its coop.
In his view, encountering a well-organized main force of friendly troops, even if it was surrounded, was nothing short of a blessing from God on this chaotic, lonely, and potentially deadly morning.
"Go in?"
Arthur looked at the captain in front of him, who was somewhat carried away by his passion. There was no passion in his gray-blue eyes, only a chilling indifference—he wasn't looking at a comrade-in-arms, but at a still-breathing corpse.
His eyes were full of rationality, even mixed with a hint of condescending sarcasm, as if he had seen through the inevitable outcome of life and death.
After all, beneath this expensive shell called "Sterling" lies no heart prepared to be buried with George VI. For a soul from 2025, the glory of the British Empire is nothing but dust in history books, and "living" is the only main quest in this game.
He slowly pulled a cigar from his leather jacket pocket, but didn't light it. He just held it to his nose and smelled the expensive tobacco, as if it were his only oxygen mask in this stinking battlefield.
"Gordon, you're a good man. But good men usually die the fastest on the battlefield."
Arthur stretched out his cane and pointed to the smoking church tower in the distance.
"Look carefully with your own eyes. That's not a refuge, that's an altar. That's a huge stumbling block that the British Empire has erected to buy time."
He turned around.
"If you charge in now with your convoy, the only outcome will be to be treated as unsung heroes and thrown into that bottomless pit. The Germans will be happy to chew us up along with the Gloucester Regiment and then spit us out on the road to the sea."
"Then...what do we do?" Gordon's face was pale. "Are we just going to stand here and watch?"
"Watching? No."
Arthur finally lit the cigar. Pale blue smoke rose in the dawn light, obscuring the dangerous smile on his lips.
"As a gentleman, since I am passing by a friend's funeral, I should at least offer a gift."
His gaze fell on a corner of the RTS map—on the southeast side of the Kassel Heights, at a junction of the German encirclement, a dense cluster of red dots was gathering.
That was a vanguard battalion of the 11th Panzer Regiment of the German 6th Panzer Division.
Data showed that their fuel reserves were almost depleted—a yellow alert. This was normal; in this frantic advance of May, all the German armored divisions were racing against time to reach their fuel tank limits.
This was an old tradition of the German army, which was further developed and popularized in the Ardennes Forest in 1944.
"Jeanne! McTavish!"
Arthur's voice suddenly rose a few decibels.
"Everyone, listen up! Get the cars moving! We're not going to Kassel, we're going over there—"
He pointed to the German troops' assembly point.
"Go and bring warmth to the Germans."
……
05:45, the flank assembly point of the German 6th Panzer Division.
The air was thick with the smell of diesel fuel and a sense of anxiety.
Dozens of Panzer IV Ausf. D tanks and Czech-made 38(t) tanks lay sprawled in the muddy fields, like a pack of hungry and exhausted beasts. Tank crews sat on the tracks smoking, loaders were loading 75mm shells into the tanks, and commanders were cursing loudly around maps.
"Damn logistics! Damn supply lines!"
A German captain angrily kicked an empty oil drum.
"The regimental headquarters said the fuel truck is still 20 kilometers away! It'll take another two hours! Without fuel, am I supposed to push these lumps of metal up the steep slopes of Kassel?"
Just then, the roar of an engine broke the curse of the early morning.
A convoy emerged from the morning mist.
There were twelve brand-new Opel Lightning trucks, painted in standard German military gray. They drove into the heavily guarded assembly area in a neat formation, as if they had always belonged there.
The German sentries didn't even raise their guns, but subconsciously waved the red and green signal flags—because the convoy's paint scheme was too formal, and the officer in the lead car who was standing on the footboard and cursing looked just like one of their own.
The convoy stopped next to the tank group.
The car door opened.
Lieutenant Jeanne jumped down. She was still wearing that ill-fitting German field coat, her M36 soft cap askew, and her face showed the weariness and impatience of a long journey.
"Who is the commander here?!"
She shouted in fluent German with an Alsatian accent, in a tone like a truck driver who had delivered a package to the wrong address and was seething with anger.
"We're looking for the 7th Panzer Division! Damn it, is this the 7th Panzer Division?"
The German captain paused for a moment, then quickly walked over.
"This is the 6th Armored Division! You've come to the wrong place! The 7th Armored Division is on our right flank, about ten kilometers away!"
"Ten kilometers?!"
Jeanne dramatically slammed the forged car log onto the hood, making a loud bang.
"That madman! He changes his command post every hour! Even if I flew a plane, I couldn't catch him! Our 59th Logistics Company has been on the road all night!"
She's complaining. She's angry. She's acting.
In the passenger seat of the lead car, Lord Arthur Sterling had his feet propped up on the dial, his face hidden by his hat brim, and was snoring softly—the classic pose he had used to successfully fool the military police the day before.
He didn't need to speak. He just needed to grip the loaded MP40 tightly under his leather coat, while keeping a close eye on the movements of every German unit on the RTS map.
As soon as one German becomes suspicious, as soon as one gun is raised, he must detonate the first truck at that distance—it would be a suicide attack that would kill everyone involved.
It's a big gamble.
The stakes were everyone's lives, and the odds of winning were the arrogance and greed of the Germans.
"The logistics company of the 7th Armored Division?"
The German captain's eyes suddenly lit up as he looked at the truckloads of supplies. He took a step closer and smelled the volatile odor wafting from the gaps in the canvas.
That's gasoline.
High-octane fuel was exactly the lifeblood his stranded tanks desperately needed.
"Wait, Sergeant." The captain's tone suddenly became amiable. "Since you've gone the wrong way, and there are British guerrillas all around here... it's very dangerous to wander around with so much fuel."
Jeanne took a wary step back, protecting the truck: "What do you think you're doing? This is General Rommel's oil!"
"Don't be so tense." The captain rubbed his hands together, revealing a wolf-like smile. "Since it's all for the Führer, for this great battle... why not 'lend' us a little? General Rommel isn't short of oil anyway, and we... we're about to attack Kassel."
The fish has taken the bait.
Arthur's lips curled slightly upward under the brim of his hat.
This was exactly what he wanted. He exploited the internal competition among German units for credit and supplies—a long-standing tradition in the German army.
Jeanne pretended to hesitate for a long time, and finally nodded reluctantly after the captain promised to issue an "official receipt" and send a case of champagne stolen from a French winery as a "return gift".
"Alright. But I can only give you half! Otherwise, the general will send us to a military court!"
"No problem! Half of it is enough for us to get to that damn high ground! If he makes things difficult for you later, tell him to go find our Division Commander Werner."
The captain was overjoyed and immediately called his tank crew to come and move the oil drums.
Dozens of German soldiers rushed forward excitedly and began unloading heavy oil drums from the Opel trucks. They even helped these "friendly troops" push the trucks, fearing they might change their minds.
Sergeant McTavish and Private Miller mingled among the porters, their movements swift and efficient, but a closer look revealed a suppressed excitement in their eyes.
Only they knew that this batch of oil had undergone "special treatment".
Half an hour earlier, Arthur had given a crazy order by the roadside: open all the oil drums and fill them with fuel.
Not just simple sand—that would be too easily detected by the filter.
It's white sugar.
Those were two whole bags of military-grade white sugar that they had looted from the previous outpost.
Inside the high-temperature, high-pressure cylinders of an internal combustion engine, sugar melts rapidly and then carbonizes into a viscous, hard, gelatinous substance. This substance can clog piston rings, seal fuel injectors, and turn a sophisticated German Maybach engine into a useless piece of scrap metal.
In addition to white sugar, they also added water and fine river sand to the other buckets.
This is a "Troy cocktail" specially prepared for the German armored forces.
"Be careful! This is good stuff!"
McTavish shouted in heavily accented German—the only phrase he'd learned that day—as he helped the German soldiers pour the "most heavily loaded" can of gasoline into the fuel tank of a Panzer IV tank.
Watching the golden liquid gushing into the oil filler, the sergeant almost couldn't help but burst out laughing.
"This is really good stuff, Hans. It's sickeningly sweet," he cursed inwardly.