novelAbuy Chapter 74 Sterling is with you
Chapter 74 Sterling is with you
Chapter 74 Sterling is with you (Part 2)
June 4, 1940, 9:30 AM, the underground wine cellar of the Church of Saint Nicholas in the central town of Frey.
The leather boots made a dull thud as they stepped on the waterlogged stone steps.
This is the command post of the 1st Battalion of the Cold Creek Guards, and the pre-battle meeting room of the newly appointed commander, Arthur Sterling.
A few kerosene lamps hung on the damp brick wall, their dim light casting swaying shadows on the peeling icons and murals.
Arthur strode to the makeshift tactical table made of three oak barrels. He tossed the still-dripping helmet aside, drew his dried-blood-stained bayonet from his waist, and plunged it into a spot on the map.
The force of that cut was so great that it pierced through the map and embedded itself in the oak barrel lid.
"Come over here, everyone."
Arthur's voice echoed in the low-ceilinged cellar, cold and menacing: "I've already cancelled the London voyage. Now, we only have one way home."
The officers gathered around the table had various expressions.
Standing on the left is Major Ryder of the Norfolk Regiment.
The battalion commander stared intently at Arthur, his eyes filled with a complex mix of emotions: the gratitude and devotion one feels when a condemned prisoner awaiting execution is suddenly handed a loaded pistol. Ryder knew very well that this favor was earned with his life. If it weren't for this young Master Sterling pulling him back from the brink of hell, he would already be an unnamed corpse in an SS roadside ditch, not even worthy of a shroud.
Standing on the right is Lieutenant Jeanne—a former communications officer of the French First Army and a "remnant of all-around talent" from the current Sterling Assault Group. She can fix damned old radios and drive tanks weighing tens of tons like lightning.
At that moment, she was vigorously wiping the black engine oil from between her fingers with a rag dirtier than her hands. Her French military uniform was completely unrecognizable, looking as if she had just rolled around in a coal pile.
Such a serious violation of dress code would have been enough to give his superior a stroke in the Cold Creek Guards under normal circumstances. But in this situation, that thick layer of oil was a more reliable pass than a medal—not only because it allowed them to communicate with friendly forces via radio, but also because it allowed tanks to crush German bones.
Behind Arthur, standing like a statue, was Sergeant Major McTavish of the 2nd Battalion of the Cold Creek Guards. He held a well-maintained Thompson submachine gun and stood behind his young master, ready to drag anyone who questioned his young master out and feed them to the dogs.
"Take a look at this map."
Arthur twirled the hilt of his sword, the blade slicing across the map with a piercing sound, pointing towards the 3rd point north of Flne.
The intersection of Highway 1 and the old course of the Isel River.
"Half an hour ago, a scout reported that an advance force of the German 1st Panzer Division was moving in this direction. It was about a reinforced armored battalion, equipped with Panzer III and Panzer IV tanks."
Upon hearing the words "armored battalion," Major Ryder's Adam's apple bobbed violently.
"Sir, we—we only have one anti-tank gun." Ryder's voice was a little hoarse. "Those Boss anti-tank guns are okay against armored vehicles, but against a Panzer IV, they're a disaster."
"I know."
Arthur looked up, clearly having already devised a plan: "So we won't fight them head-on. We'll set a trap for the Germans."
He drew his bayonet and then drew a huge "L" shape on the map with a pen.
Major Ryder.
"Here!" Ryder instinctively stood at attention.
"Your men will be in charge of this area—the Anvil." Arthur pointed to the ruins ahead of the road. "I want you to take those two thousand defeated soldiers and, using the destroyed dikes and roadside buildings, build a defensive line."
"Listen, this line of defense doesn't need to be too solid, but it has to look like it."
Arthur tapped his finger heavily on the intersection on the map: "I want you to set up all the Bren guns and mortars in conspicuous locations, don't skimp on ammunition, and make a big commotion. Let them think we've deployed a full battalion of our main force here."
He looked up and stared intently at Ryder: "You have only one mission: at this intersection, hold off the German infantry's frontal assault for at least twenty minutes."
"Twenty minutes —"
Ryder stared at the deadly crossroads on the map, his Adam's apple bobbing violently, and beads of cold sweat forming on his forehead. "Sir, but—without any heavy weapons, facing the charge of an armored battalion, this—"
"It's difficult, even suicidal. But the good thing is that the road isn't very suitable for tanks. They can only fire a couple of shots at you from a distance. What you'll really be facing are the German infantry."
Arthur coldly interrupted him, giving him no room for explanation: "But this is the only way. You are the bait, and also the bone that must be hard enough to break the Germans' teeth."
Arthur shifted his gaze to the other side, his tone softening slightly: "Jeanne."
"Here." Jeanne threw away the rag and braced her hands on the edge of the wine barrel.
"Take the girls here." Arthur's knife slid towards the dark green area on the right side of the road—a dense thicket of bushes with knee-deep mud below.
"The armored assault group acts as the heavy hammer." Using the cover of heavy rain and bushes, they advanced to within 300 meters of the road.
The location of the meter.
"The Germans are arrogant. When they find a tough nut to crack in front of them, and their flanks look like an undefended swamp, what do they do? They try to outflank them."
Arthur's lips curled into a cruel smile: "When their tanks get stuck in the mud and expose their vulnerable side armor—they'll find a group of their own kind in the mud too."
"Then you take those six Desert Queens and two Avengers and charge out. At that distance, I want you to make them vomit their shit."
Jeanne glanced at the map and whistled: "300 meters to the side? At that distance, Matilda's 2..."
The cannon could pierce through those Han Chinese Panzer III tanks like opening a can.
"As for me and McTavish."
Arthur sheathed his bayonet and straightened his collar. "We will lead the 1st Battalion of the Coldstream Guards and the Sterling Assault Group as the scalpel. We will follow Jeanne with the tank assault, responsible for clearing out any German tank crews trying to climb out, or any infantry attempting to approach the tanks with explosives."
Tactical deployment complete.
There was no rousing oath. Arthur looked around at everyone and finally said, "Gentlemen and ladies, the Admiralty's ship is gone. Now, our only way to survive is to step over the corpses of the Germans."
"action."
09:45, 3rd Engineer Company position on the North Flner defense line.
The rain was getting heavier. The icy rainwater streamed down the edge of the helmet and into my neck, taking away my body heat and my courage.
Major Ryder stood behind the half-collapsed wall, looking at the group of soldiers he had gathered from various corners.
They are so pitiful.
This group of men came from various scattered units of the First Army: there were riflemen from the Scottish Highland Regiment, drivers from the logistics corps, and even a few artillerymen who had lost their cannons. They were covered in mud, their eyes vacant, like a herd of livestock waiting to be slaughtered, huddled in the flooded trenches, shivering.
They knew the Germans were coming, and they knew they were going to be taken to fill in the gaps.
The ground tremors became more and more noticeable; it was the sound of tracks crushing the earth.
"Sir, are we going to die here?" A private, clutching a Lee-Enfield rifle, looked up at Ryder, his voice choked with emotion.
Major Ryder opened his mouth.
Based on his past behavior in the Norfolk Regiment, he might say some nonsense like "for the King".
But at times like these, such words are worse than dog shit.
He remembered the look Arthur had given him in the wine cellar earlier.
They had to hold their ground like nails and draw all the Germans' attention to them.
Listen up!
Ryder suddenly jumped onto a broken concrete slab, letting the rain pelt his face. He didn't raise his voice intentionally, but something in his tone made the surrounding soldiers instinctively look up.
"I know what you're thinking. You're wondering why we're still in this godforsaken place? Why are we stuck here feeding mosquitoes when all the generals have run away?"
The soldiers remained silent, but a hint of resentment flashed in their eyes, an affirmation of the soldiers' grievances.
"Just now, about half an hour ago."
Ryder took a deep breath and pointed in the direction behind him: "The Admiralty in London called here. They've sent a special speedboat to pick up our commander—Major Sterling—and bring him back to England."
A commotion arose in the crowd. The soldiers' eyes dimmed even further. Sure enough, the noble lord always left first.
"but!"
Ryder suddenly raised his voice: "He refused!"
The commotion ceased instantly. Thousands of eyes were fixed on Ryder.
"Major Sterling pulled the telephone line and smashed the radio. He told the Admiralty: 'I'm not going anywhere until all my men have tickets!'"
"He's right there in the back. In that church. He's with us."
Ryder looked at those eyes that were gradually brightening, the sparks of hope being rekindled.
He knew that at this moment, here, there was no need for patriotism; all he needed to do was let them know that the boss was still around.
"Brothers, the major has staked his life on this table. He didn't throw us away like trash."
Ryder drew his Webley revolver, clicked the hammer, and pointed it at the fog-shrouded road ahead: "Now, the Germans want to take our lives. But since Major Sterling isn't gone, those Germans won't get past us either!"
"Hold this place for twenty minutes! Just twenty minutes! The major assured me he would come to rescue us with tanks!"
"Tell those German bastards, this is Förne! Not their backyard!!"
"roar!!"
Anyway, those people were already dead and worthless.
Among them were shepherds from the Scottish Highlands, thieves from the slums of East London, and miners from Wales. Since they had nowhere else to go, since the Admiralty's ships had all sailed away, and since there was now someone leading the way—
And since he was a young master from an earl's family who was willing to bet his life on the gambling table, they had no other choice.
The shouts that responded sounded sparse and uneven, completely lacking the uniformity of the Cold Creek Guards' parade, and were even mixed with various strange rural accents.
But that lifeless, despairing feeling, like a lamb to the slaughter, has disappeared quite a bit.
This ragtag group, cobbled together from various defeated troops, gripped their mud-covered weapons once more.
Since I can't be a deserter, I'll be a madman.
Those once empty eyes finally began to show a wolf-like murderous intent.
Temporary tank parking area in the square behind the church.
There were no passionate slogans here, only the pungent smell of diesel fuel, the sparks of welding, and the clanging of metal clashing.
Jeanne was standing in front of the huge "Avenger" tank.
Before her stood 32 makeshift tank crewmen selected from the engineering company. They might have previously been truck drivers or tractor repairmen, but now they were to drive these steel behemoths weighing tens of tons.
"Listen up, everyone. I'm only saying this once."
Jeanne, holding a huge wrench, paced back and forth like a grumpy overseer.
She pointed to the Matilda tanks parked in the rain, painted with an absurd pale yellow camouflage.
"I know what you're thinking. You think this color is stupid, damn it, I think it's stupid too. But in the mud, if it can kill, it's okay to be pink."
"To prevent you from slipping in the mud, our sappers welded two steel bars as anti-slip teeth onto each track plate."
Jeanne walked over to the tracks of a tank and pounded the newly welded steel teeth with a wrench: "These are lifesavers. But they have a problem—if you dare to floor the gas pedal like you're driving a truck, these steel teeth will slice the road like a cake, and you'll get stuck and become a sitting duck for the Germans."
She turned around, her sharp eyes sweeping over each driver: "So, keep it in second gear! Keep the throttle steady! Drive this thing gently, like you're driving your wives!"
"If anyone dares to wear down my gearbox gears, I won't even need the Germans to lift a finger; I'll smash their head in with this wrench!"
Then she looked at the gunners: "And you. We don't have high-explosive shells, only 2-pound armor-piercing shells. So don't even think about blowing up the infantry."
Jeanne patted the heavy cast iron turret, her voice low and filled with absolute trust in the machine: "Remember one thing: you're driving a Matilda. Its frontal armor is 78 millimeters thick."
"At this distance, the German 37mm guns can't touch our Empress. As long as you don't expose your vulnerable backside to being fucked, you're invincible."
"This is the best tortoise shell the major got for you. Don't open it up like a coffin."
"Get in! Start the engine! Let these 'Queens of the Desert' hear the sound of the Flanders rain!"
"Buzz—rumble—"
'
Sixteen AEC diesel engines roared simultaneously. Black smoke billowed into the sky, and the steel behemoths awoke with a tremor, their sheer power enough to silence any skeptic.
09:55AM St. Nicholas Church, Main Hall.
The church was very quiet.
Even though it was pouring rain and engines were roaring outside, the interior of this 300-year-old Gothic building still maintained a solemn atmosphere that was awe-inspiring.
Four hundred soldiers of the Cold Creek Guard stood in neat rows among the benches.
They don't need to be mobilized.
From Naples to Dunkirk, this group had fought their way through, and they no longer needed any words to boost morale. Although their uniforms were worn, every button was fastened tightly; although the stocks of their Lee-Enfield rifles were worn, the bolts were spotless.
This is the meaning of "NulliSecundus" (unparalleled in the world).
Arthur stood before the altar, with a broken stained-glass window behind him.
Sergeant Major McTavish stood beside him, attempting to replace the drum magazine on his Thompson submachine gun. He needed to ensure there wouldn't be any mistakes during the replacement. A crisp, pleasant click rang out.
Arthur didn't speak. He simply looked at the faces silently.
Some people still had bandages wrapped around their faces, and some had turned pale from the cold, but in those four hundred pairs of eyes, there was only one thing—absolute obedience and silence.
Those were the eyes of the Royal Guard, but now they belonged to Arthur.
Ever since Arthur pulled the telephone line in front of these people, the nature of this force has changed. They are no longer just the King's Guard; they are Arthur Sterling's personal guard.
"Check the equipment."
Arthur didn't waste any more words.
"Splash!"
The movements were perfectly synchronized. Four hundred men simultaneously pulled back the bolts, checked the magazines, and then engaged the safety. The precision was as if they were performing the Changing of the Guard at Buckingham Palace.
"very good."
Arthur did not begin his speech immediately, but instead pulled out his Webley revolver, which was the commander's scepter.
He slowly and methodically ejected the bullets from the pistol, wiped them clean, and then pushed them back in one by one. The crisp metallic clanging echoed through the deathly silent church.
Arthur didn't even look up.
"The Expeditionary Force Headquarters has withdrawn."
"The First Army Headquarters has also been evacuated. Even the First Brigade's headquarters is gone."
He slammed the magazine shut and looked up: "But I, Arthur Sterling, am still standing here!"
He took a step forward, his boots clattering heavily on the cobblestones. "I'm not going to talk to you about the Empire." Those fancy words are for the newspaper editors hiding in air-raid shelters on Fleet Street.
"We stayed not for some empty slogan. We stayed because of the eight-pointed star on our cap badges, because we are the Cold Creek Guard."
Arthur's voice turned low and dangerous, like the growling of an enraged lion: "Our army, since the day it was founded in 1650, has never learned to turn its back on the enemy, nor has it learned to slink away like a stray dog, tail between its legs, and run away on someone else's ship."
He raised his hand and pointed to the turbulent world outside the heavy doors of the church: "The German 1st Panzer Division is right outside. They think they've got it all figured out. In their eyes, the British are a bunch of spineless cowards who only know how to drink afternoon tea and will beg for mercy at the slightest kick."
Arthur's gaze swept across each young and resolute face like a blade, finally settling on the one directly in front of him: "Now, we're going to go out and tell these Germans just how wrong they are."
"We're going to follow those tanks into the rain. We'll rip out the guts of every German soldier who tries to get close, and burn every truck with the Iron Cross on it to ashes."
"This could be dirty, tiring, and even kill a lot of people."
Arthur paused, then his signature smile, tinged with aristocratic arrogance and madness, reappeared on his lips: "But listen carefully, gentlemen. Tonight, we're having dinner in Niuport. My treat."
After saying that, he turned around abruptly, the hem of his coat drawing a clean arc in the air.
"McTavish".
"Yes, sir." The Scottish sergeant major with the granite-like beard stood at attention, his murderous aura almost tangible.
"Blow the whistle."
"Beep—!!!"
The sharp, urgent whistle instantly pierced the frozen air inside the church, awakening the sleeping beast of war.
"All troops, fix bayonets!"
"Snap!"
Four hundred gleaming bayonets were drawn from their sheaths in the same second and mounted on the muzzles of guns.
In that instant, it was as if a cold bolt of lightning flashed through the church, its chilling light even more dazzling than the lightning that pierced the gloom outside the church windows.
Arthur raised his pistol and pointed it at the door: "Sterling Assault Team—Advance!"
10:15, 2 km north of Flörné, in the swampy area of Highway 3.
If hell has a form, then for armored soldiers, hell must be made of mud.
Major Friedrich von Zitzewitz was sitting on the edge of the command cupola of his Panzer III tank, his eye behind his monocle filled with undisguised disgust.
As the battalion commander of the 1st Battalion, 2nd Panzer Regiment, 1st Panzer Division of the German Army, this Prussian Junker nobleman should have been sitting in a clean and spacious command post, or directing his steel torrent as he would on the dry and hard Polish plains.
But now?
He felt like he was commanding a herd of rhinos rolling around in a cesspool.
"Forward! Keep formation! Don't stop!"
Zizzewitz roared, but all that answered him was the painful scream of the engine and the ear-piercing screeching of the tracks spinning idly.
Those damn British.
Zizzewitz had to admit that although the retreating British looked disheveled, they were ruthless when they got down to business.
Looking at the overflowing Isel River on the map, he knew very well that the current mud was just an "appetizer".
British sappers blew up the river embankment near Flörn, causing the river to overflow. However, this was still within manageable limits, merely turning the plain into a swamp.
What Zizzewicz truly feared was Niupt, further north—where the sluice gates guarding the Isser River's estuary to the North Sea were located. What if those lunatics had also stuffed a few tons of TNT there and blown up the main sluice gates?
Then it's not just a matter of mud.
That's a real influx of Atlantic Ocean water. Millions of tons of raging seawater will instantly engulf the entire lowlands. At that time, not to mention his few pitiful tanks, even the entire artillery of the 1st Armored Division will be swept directly into the English Channel like being flushed down a toilet to feed the fish.
He prayed in his heart that the 2nd Armored Division would take over the area quickly.
But even just the river overflowing and the torrential rains of the past few days have been enough to be deadly.
This once flat and open plain, ideal for armored assaults, has now become a graveyard for armored soldiers.
The speed that General Guderian was so proud of?
Screw speed.
Watching those steel behemoths spinning their tracks in the mud, emitting deathly screams, Zizzewitz thought in despair: the 1st Panzer Division, the elite mechanized force of the Third Reich, could not even march as fast as the infantry phalanx of the Napoleonic era.
Zizzewitz stared at the Panzer IV tank struggling in the mud ahead. The 20-ton steel behemoth, due to its narrow tracks and excessive pressure, paid a heavy price for every meter it advanced. Its engine, from prolonged low-gear, high-load operation, was spewing thick black smoke, and the coolant temperature gauge was probably already at the red line.
The entire armored column resembled a severed snake, writhing painfully in the gray-black mud, leaving behind deep, despair-inducing ruts.
"Sir, I think they want to turn this place into a second Verdun."
The adjutant's voice came through, tinged with helplessness: "These damned islanders, they know they can't beat us in mobile warfare, so they want to drag us into the mud and make the soldiers fight each other with bayonets and entrenching tools. What a bunch of barbarians."
Zizzewitz snorted, adjusted his monocle, and turned his gaze to the ruins that were faintly visible in the heavy rain ahead.
"Then let them have their way."
He said coldly, "Barbarians deserve to die in the mud. Order the whole battalion to battle formation! The scouts report there's only a bunch of beggars with rifles ahead. Crush them. Tonight we'll be drinking champagne at the Forne town hall."
10:30, Major Ryder's defensive line, the "Anvil" position.
The battle broke out without warning.
When the first 75mm high-explosive shell fired by the German army landed on the sandbag fortifications by the roadside, Major Ryder felt as if his internal organs had shifted with the sound of the explosion.
"Hide! Hide!"
He lay prone in the flooded trench, shouting at the top of his lungs.
Even with their movements slowed by the mud, the German armored forces still displayed a suffocating oppressive force.
Germans are not stupid.
Zizzewitz knew very well that setting up a wide frontal attack in this hellish place where even boots could get stuck was tantamount to suicide—the seemingly flat muddy ground on both sides of the highway would instantly devour any heavy vehicles attempting to maneuver off-road.
His so-called attack formation was not the usual wide, wedge-shaped impact array with overwhelming momentum.
Instead, the dozen or so Panzer III and Panzer IV tanks he had driven off formed a long, single-file line, like a cautious, gray steel python, clinging tightly to the only main road with a relatively solid roadbed, winding its way forward.
Despite their crowded formation, this did not reduce their lethality in the slightest.
The Panzer IV, acting as the lead vehicle, advanced slowly while rotating its turret. Its coaxial MG34 machine gun and hull machine gun simultaneously spewed fire, relentlessly reaping any living creature exposed outside its cover.
Their objective was clear: to use this vulnerable road as a mobile steel shield to escort their vulnerable infantry to the nearest point to the British lines.
Red tracer rounds crisscrossed the rain, forming a dense web of fire that sent brick and stone fragments flying everywhere.
However, when the German troops advanced to within 400 meters of the defensive line, the pace of the attack was suddenly interrupted.
The lead tank, a Panzer IV painted in dark gray, jolted violently. Its engine roared with a heart-wrenching sound, and the black smoke billowing from its rear almost obscured the rain. However, in addition to kicking up clouds of black mud, the tank sank at a visible speed.
"Damn it! Stop! All of you stop!"
The tank commander's terrified shouts rang out on the German communications channel.
This is no longer a road, but quicksand that devours steel.
As the lead tank became stuck in the mud, the tanks behind were forced to brake suddenly. The commander quickly realized that if they went any further, all the tanks would become spoils of war in this muddy mess.
"Armored troops halt! Provide suppressive fire from where you are!"
"Infantry! Advance! Dig those British out of their rat holes!"
With the order given, the German infantrymen who had been hiding behind the massive tanks were forced to leave the protection of steel.
A large number of German infantrymen wearing gray-green rubber raincoats poured out. They bent over, their boots wading through knee-deep mud. Although they had lost the cover of the moving tanks, their movements were still so precise that Ryder felt a chill.
The tanks behind them transformed into fixed machine gun bunkers, the dense hail of bullets pinning down the British troops. Meanwhile, the infantry skillfully used the lulls in the fire to advance, their Mauser 98k rifles and MP40 submachine guns firing precisely at any British soldier who dared to peek out, as if calling roll.
Major Ryder's carefully constructed defenses were on the verge of collapse the very first minute of contact.
They are so pitiful.
These 2000 routed soldiers had almost no heavy weapons. Their only anti-tank tactic was for a few brave sappers to carry cluster grenades and try to climb close to the tanks amidst a hail of bullets.
But most of them were torn apart by machine guns halfway there.
"Sir! We can't hold on! The entire platoon on the left flank is wiped out!" A messenger covered in blood rolled into the trench and shouted.
He instinctively wanted to ask Arthur what to do, but before he could finish speaking, he realized that young Master Sterling was no longer by his side.
Major Ryder's hand, gripping the Webley revolver, trembled violently. He looked at the soldiers screaming in the mud around him, and at the approaching steel behemoths.
The idea of retreating grew wildly in his mind.
But he remembered the look in Arthur's eyes when he left.
There was no threat in his eyes, only trust—as if he was certain that this "anvil" would be able to break the German's teeth.
"Don't leave!"
Major Ryder jumped to his feet, kicked over a soldier trying to crawl backward, and roared with bloodshot eyes, "Just hold on for twenty minutes! Major Sterling said, just twenty minutes! And we'll win!"
"Throw all the grenades out! Even if you have to bite them, hold these Germans down with your teeth!"
'
"Go and bring that cannon up here, quick!"
10:45, the German attacking front.
Major Zizzewitz watched the battle unfold from his command tower, sneering dismissively.
They really are a bunch of rabble.
Although the British resisted fiercely, he saw it as nothing more than a death throes. They didn't even have a decent anti-tank gun and could only throw fire at the tanks with those ridiculous glass bottles.
"They are just stalling for time to cover the main force's retreat."
Zizzewitz made his judgment.
No sooner had he finished speaking than, while the lead Panzer IV tank was stuck in the mud and trying to reverse out, Zizzewitz saw a dozen British soldiers covered in mud suddenly rush out of the rubble by the roadside.
If it were just soldiers, it wouldn't be a problem; Zizzewitz wouldn't even give them a second glance.
Unfortunately, they were pushing a cannon with a shield against the wind.
Ordnance QF2—pounder—2-pounder rapid-fire anti-tank gun!
Zizzowitz's pupils contracted sharply.
"Damn it! It's an anti-tank gun! It's a British anti-tank gun!"
Zizzewitz felt his blood run cold, and the veins on the back of his hand holding the binoculars bulged.
Before he could even shout "Take cover!", the muzzle brake of the cannon emitted a cloud of white smoke.
"Bang!"
That wasn't the dull roar of a grenade explosion, but the deathly whistle unique to high-velocity armor-piercing projectiles, like a whip lashing the air.
There will be another update tonight.