novelAbuy Chapter 91 The Scots Never Surrender
Chapter 91 The Scots Never Surrender
Chapter 91 The Scots Never Surrender (Long Chapter)
June 6, 1940, 09:45, France, T-4 front-line supply transfer station, Saint-Valéry Abbey.
Command sequence of the 999th SS Special Operations Battalion.
When the spire of the Gothic monastery pierced the morning mist and came into view, a sense of oppression that caused physical discomfort instantly enveloped the entire convoy.
This place should have been a sacred place to hear the gospel of God, but now it looks more like Satan's slaughterhouse.
Instead of prayer bells, five stiff corpses hung from the ancient oak tree outside the monastery. Rough hemp ropes around their necks swayed gently in the breeze, and wooden plaques around their chests bore the words in large, bright red German and French: "Ich habe den Engländern geholfen. (I helped the English.)"
Above the corpses, a huge black and white SS flag hung from the monastery's bell tower, obscuring the spot where the crucifix should have been. The chinless skull emblem on the flag stared blankly at the approaching armored column.
There was no smell of incense in the air, but there was a strong smell of roasted meat and a strange, sweet chemical smell.
"This is the Skeleton Master."
Arthur sat in the half-track, coldly staring at the flag through the bulletproof glass.
He glanced at Ryder and sighed, "Ryder, First-Class Assault Captain, control your emotions. Your hands are shaking."
Ryder took a deep breath and forced his fingers to stop spasming on the steering wheel.
"Sorry, Captain. That's—a physiological reaction."
Ryder stared at the hanged civilians, his mind flashing back to the blood-soaked ditches of the Leparadis farm. The soil there smelled the same, and the people there wore the same skull collar insignia.
"Save that reaction for the trigger."
Arthur straightened his collar, adjusted his peaked cap, and displayed his gleaming Iron Cross: "Remember, we are not the British here for revenge. We are from Berlin, superior to them."
"More arrogant and more powerful SS high command."
"We'll walk into their banquet hall laughing, eat all their food, drink all their wine, and then—"
""
Arthur made an elegant throat-slitting gesture: "Send them to hell when they're happiest."
The square at the entrance to the monastery.
The convoy roared in.
The turrets of the twenty-four Panzer IV tanks were not pointed straight ahead as in a normal march, but were all slightly turned to the right, towards the direction of the main buildings of the monastery and the area where people gathered.
This was an extremely dangerous attack wind-up, but in the eyes of the Skeleton Division soldiers stationed here, it became proof that "elite troops are on high alert."
Or rather, this group of people simply lacked the ability to distinguish between vigilance and murderous intent.
Because they were all "high".
This is not some kind of exaggerated rhetoric. When the convoy came to a stop and Ryder looked out the window, he even thought he had wandered into a mental asylum.
Unlike the National Defense Army, the guards at the gate did not set up a dense network of barricades and machine gun posts.
Several Skull Division soldiers in camouflage smocks sat on ammunition boxes. Their uniforms were open, revealing filthy shirts underneath. Their helmets were askew, their eyes unfocused and crazed, as they wildly shook their heads to the deafening Wagnerian opera music emanating from the monastery.
A machine gunner was tirelessly and mechanically wiping the barrel of an MG34 machine gun with a cleaning cloth. Even though the barrel was already shiny, he didn't stop and kept muttering to himself as he worked at an astonishing speed.
"What are they doing?" Ryder frowned. "Is that the army?"
Pervitin.
Arthur coldly uttered a single word: "Methamphetamine. These mad dogs aren't just followers of Ike; they're slaves to drugs. That's why the Skeleton Division soldiers your Norfolk Regiment encountered before weren't afraid of death on the battlefield—because their pain receptors had been numbed by drugs."
Just then, the monastery gates were pushed open.
An officer stumbled out to greet them.
He was wearing a black SS uniform stained with oil and dried blood, and the rank insignia on his collar indicated that he was an SS-Hauptsturmfuhrer (equivalent to an army captain).
The man named Schmidt looked like an overexcited ghost. His eyes were sunken, and his dark circles were so heavy they looked like he had been punched, but his pale blue pupils were dilated to the extreme and emitted a chilling light. He looked more like a wild beast than a human.
He wasn't wearing a military cap, and his blond hair was plastered messily to his scalp. He was also carrying a half-empty bottle of French red wine.
"Hey! Hey! Hey!"
Captain Schmidt didn't salute. Instead, like a drunkard seeing an old friend, he spread his arms wide, laughing loudly as he charged towards Arthur's command vehicle: "I knew it! I knew Berlin wouldn't forget us! Look at this spectacle! Panzer IV tanks! Half-tracks! Hahahaha!"
"Is this the Valkyrie? Or Lord Himmler's personal guard?"
Schmidt rushed to the car and even tried to bang on the door. His frenzied energy, devoid of any sense of hierarchy, made Ryder, who was inside the car, instinctively put his hand on his holster.
"calm."
Arthur held Ryder's hand, simply smiling. "Open the door. I'll go meet this enthusiastic comrade."
The car door opened.
Arthur Sterling got down.
His spotless black uniform, his boots polished to a shine, and his pristine white deerskin gloves formed a stark contrast to the disheveled, filthy, and intoxicated Schmidt before him.
It was like a noble vampire count walking into a den of ghouls.
"First-Class Assault Company Commander Schmidt."
Arthur's gaze swept over the tactical data labels on the RTS that only he could see, and he coldly announced the name and rank of the person in front of him: "Your defense zone is too lax. If it had been the British 51st Hill Division's commando unit that just passed through the gate, the swastika flag would not have been carrying a French civilian, but your head."
Schmidt exhibited a marked lag response.
The excessive methamphetamine damaged his nerve synapses, blocking the transmission of fear signals. He did not stand at attention, did not salute, and did not even exhibit the Nazi salute that was ingrained in the hierarchical conditioned reflexes of a Nazi officer.
He simply tilted his head, his dilated pupils fixed on Arthur. He seemed to be struggling to search through his chaotic and agitated cerebral cortex to find out who the name "Schmidt" actually belonged to.
After three seconds of deathly silence, the chemicals completely took over his vocal cords.
"Ha ha ha! An Englishman? Sir! You're so funny!"
Schmidt pointed to the rows of imposing Panzer IV tanks, his tone filled with disdain for the British: "The British were driven back to sea long ago! This is the Third Reich's backyard! Who can get here? Churchill's cigars?"
As he spoke, he even tried to put his oil-stained hands on Arthur's shoulders.
Arthur quickly took a half step back with his left foot.
It was an extremely precise evasive maneuver. Schmidt's dirty hand hovered in mid-air, only two centimeters away from Arthur's expensive black gabardine uniform, yet it seemed as if an insurmountable class divide separated them.
Arthur didn't even look at the hand; he simply raised his gloved right hand and lightly flicked away non-existent dust from his shoulder.
Schmidt wasn't embarrassed by being avoided; his nervous system was in a state of high disorientation. His gaze wandered, eventually focusing on the open armored door of the Sd.Kfz.251 half-track command vehicle behind Arthur.
There, the bright white tactical number was painted: SS-999.
This time, Schmidt's brain picked up on the number.
"Don't be so serious, sir! I know why you're here."
Schmidt pointed to the number on the car door, revealing a knowing, yet slightly twitching smile: "It's being said at the front lines—there's a unit with a code name—"
He let out a hiccup, his eyes fixed on the number as if it were a secret he had just remembered: "—A special unit codenamed 999 is carrying out the Führer's top-secret mission—"
Major Ryder's expression tightened, and he subconsciously looked at Arthur, but Arthur's face showed that "one of us" smile.
"Your information network is excellent, Captain Schmidt."
Arthur reached out his spotless hand, grabbed the crooked skull insignia on Schmidt's collar, and forcibly straightened it.
"Since you know it's a top-secret mission, you should know our rules. My tanks are thirsty, my men are hungry. And in your warehouse—"
Arthur sniffed, trying to distinguish the strong smell of oil and brandy in the air: "It seems to have everything."
"Of course! Of course!"
Schmidt patted his chest, his drug-induced arrogance making him look like a generous nouveau riche: "This is T-4! I'm the king here! What do you want? High-octane gasoline? No problem! I have a whole regiment's worth of reserves! Brandy? Chocolate? Or—"
Schmidt lowered his voice and gave a lewd smile: "Still want a few French women? Even though two are dead, there are still a few usable ones left."
Jeanne, standing behind Arthur, gritted her teeth upon hearing this.
"Just supplies."
Arthur interrupted him, his voice still elegant, but if you listened closely, you could hear the gleam of a blade hidden within: "We need to get going. You can keep the women for yourself. Now, turn on your oil pump. I'm taking all the good stuff you have here."
"No problem! I'll do whatever you say!"
Schmidt turned and roared at the still-dazed Skeleton Division soldiers, his voice shrill like a eunuch's: "What are you all standing there for?! Can't you see your commander is here?! Open the oil depot doors! Bring out all that fine wine from Bordeaux!"
"This is a special mission for the Führer! Anyone who slacks off will be stuffed into an oil drum!"
The inner square of the monastery.
An extremely absurd and darkly humorous "transfer extravaganza" has begun.
Arthur's planned "armed robbery" turned into a joyous celebration reminiscent of the close bond between the military and the people.
More than a hundred Skull Division soldiers, who were in a state of drug-induced euphoria, not only showed no hostility towards this suddenly arriving force, but also displayed astonishing enthusiasm.
They volunteered to roll huge oil drums to help the Scottish soldiers refuel their tanks; they carried boxes of expensive Hennessy brandy and Swiss chocolate into the rear compartments of half-tracks; and some machine gunners from the Totenkopf Division even pulled aside the Cold Creek Guards soldiers on guard duty and boasted about how they had used machine guns to mow down British prisoners of war who had raised their hands to surrender.
"Hey bro, look at this."
A soldier from the Skeleton Division pulled a gold watch from his pocket, flashed it in front of McTavish, and said with a smug grin, "This belongs to a British officer. The guy begged me to send a letter to his wife before he died. I told him: 'I'll send your wife down with you.' Hahahaha!"
McTavish stared blankly at the watch, then at the laughing German.
His hand had already reached for the assault knife at his lower back.
The urge to immediately slit the throat of the bastard in front of him made the muscles in his arms twitch.
But he held back. Because Arthur hadn't given the signal yet.
"Keep your watch safe," McTavish said coldly in broken German. "It'll soon have a new owner."
"What?" The soldier didn't hear clearly, still grinning foolishly. "You mean you want a piece too? No problem! Next time we catch a Brit—"
The inner room of the monastery, formerly a prayer room.
While supplies were being moved outside, a more private "hospitality" was taking place inside.
This once sacred prayer room has now been converted into Schmidt's private office. Empty wine bottles are piled on the altar, and the image of the Virgin Mary on the wall has been splattered with red paint and turned into a clown.
"Come! For the Third Reich! For the glory of the SS!"
Schmidt raised his glass and downed most of the red wine in one gulp. The purplish-red liquid dripped down his chin and onto his stained uniform.
Arthur sat on the leather sofa opposite him, which Schmidt had stolen from a French noble castle, holding a glass of wine in his hand, but only taking a small sip.
Ryder stood behind Arthur like a statue, his hand never leaving the holster at his waist.
"Um—Captain."
Schmidt seemed to notice Ryder's coldness. He hiccuped, pulled a small metal tube from his pocket, and leaned closer mysteriously. "I've noticed you've been wearing a long face. Are you too tired? Is the pressure at the front high?"
Schmidt unscrewed the cap, poured out a few small orange pills, placed them in his dirty palm, and handed them to Ryder: "Want two? These are good stuff. Perfitin! We call them armored chocolates!"
Schmidt's eyes were glazed, and his fingers trembled—a side effect of long-term medication: "After taking it, you'll feel like a god! No fear, no fatigue! I once took this and didn't sleep for three days and three nights straight, nailing those French partisans one by one to trees! That feeling—tsk tsk!"
Ryder lowered his head.
He looked at the hand stained with the blood of innocent people, and at the few orange pills.
A strong, physiological nausea rushed to my head.
He recalled his previous battles with these Skull Division soldiers in Kassel, and the German corpses he had seen—some of them, even in death, had their eyes wide open and pupils dilated, a sign of drug overdose.
Is this the truth about these so-called "Super Aryan Warriors"?
A group of drug addicts who rely on drugs to maintain their courage?
A bunch of cowards who can only feel like human beings in their hallucinations?
"Take it away."
Ryder spoke coldly, his voice filled with undisguised disgust and loathing: "I don't need this kind of pig swill to maintain my courage."
Schmidt froze. His hand hung in mid-air, his smile frozen on his face.
Normally, this statement would have been enough to ignite a gunfight. But now, the drugs had dulled his comprehension of insults, and the imposing presence of Arthur in his high-ranking captain's uniform remained.
"Uh... Haha! Hahahaha!"
Schmidt awkwardly withdrew his hand, shoved the pills into his mouth, chewed them dry, and swallowed them: "That's the style of those old fogies in the Wehrmacht! They don't know how to enjoy life! This is science! This is the power bestowed upon us by the Führer!"
Arthur put down his glass, watched Schmidt swallow the pill, and his smile deepened.
"Squadron Leader Schmidt."
Arthur slowly stood up and straightened his gloves. "Thank you for your hospitality. You have plenty of oil, and the wine is excellent."
"Huh? Are we leaving already?" Schmidt was somewhat surprised; the drug was starting to take effect, making him even more excited.
Sit a little longer! I still have some good stuff I haven't taken out yet—"
"No need."
Arthur walked to the window and looked at the trucks that had been loaded onto the plaza outside, as well as the Skeleton Division soldiers who were caught off guard and gathered together smoking and chatting.
"The banquet should end now."
Arthur turned around and looked at Schmidt, his eyes changing in that instant.
That pretense of being "one of us" crumbled and fell away like a mask.
"Schmidt, do you know?"
Arthur said softly, "A true god doesn't need medicine. Only the devil needs such things to numb himself and forget the beastly things he's done."
Schmidt froze, his brain, damaged by the drugs, finally sensing something was wrong: "Sir—what are you saying?"
Arthur did not answer.
He picked up the empty crystal goblet on the table and gracefully loosened his fingers.
"Smack."
The sharp sound of shattering glass was particularly jarring in the quiet prayer room.
This is the signal.
10:45, Monastery Square.
That was the sound of death descending.
The atmosphere in the square changed drastically the moment the glass shattered.
The Scottish soldiers standing behind each Skeleton Division soldier, who appeared to be chatting idly, all moved at that moment.
They didn't raise their guns. Firing would be too noisy and would alert the main force of the 7th Armored Division, several kilometers away.
They used knives.
That was the melee combat technique that the Coldstream Guards and the Norfolk Regiment were most skilled in.
A skeleton division machine gunner, who was boasting about his killing experiences, suddenly felt a strong hand cover his mouth from behind and forcefully pull his head back.
Immediately afterwards, a sharp Fairbairn-Sykes assault knife pierced his left kidney area with perfect precision.
"Ugh—!"
The excruciating pain made him want to scream, but the sound was stuck in his throat, and he could only let out a muffled whimper.
Before he could even struggle, the dagger was already pulled out and drew a fatal arc across his carotid artery.
Blood gushed out, but the Scotsman held him firmly and slowly laid him down on the ground, as if he were helping a drunken comrade.
The same scene was playing out simultaneously in every corner of the square.
There were no intense gunfights, no earth-shattering explosions.
The only sounds were the dull thud of a blade piercing flesh, the desperate struggle of someone being covered in a gag, and the thud of a body falling onto the muddy ground.
This was a silent harvest.
More than a hundred Skeleton Division soldiers, who had just been on drugs, bragging, and thinking they had met "their own people," fell in droves within a dozen seconds, like wheat being harvested.
Their pupils were dilated by the drugs, and only in the moment before their death did that hallucinatory excitement turn into fear before they were swallowed by eternal darkness.
The prayer room.
Captain Schmidt hadn't yet realized what was happening.
Looking out the window, he saw his people falling one by one, and the visual impact caused his brain to shut down instantly.
"You—you all—"
He retreated in terror, frantically trying to draw the pistol from his waist.
"Bang!"
Arthur kicked him in the knee.
The hard toe of the military boot directly crushed his patella.
"Ahhhhh!"
Schmidt let out a pig-like scream, fell to his knees, and his pistol slipped to the side.
Arthur did not draw his gun, but took a step back and turned to Ryder behind him, gesturing for him to proceed.
Ryder walked up with a blank expression.
He wasn't holding an MP40, but rather a Kar98k rifle with a bayonet fixed—which he had just found in the corner.
Seeing Ryder's bloodshot eyes, Schmidt finally realized what was happening. The false courage instilled by the drugs crumbled instantly. Like a dog with a broken spine, he knelt on the ground, desperately kowtowing: "Don't kill me! I'm an SS First Assault Company Commander! I'm German! I have money! I have gold in a Swiss bank! I'll give you everything!"
"Please! We're all doing this for the Third Reich—"
"Shut up."
Ryder interrupted him coldly.
Looking at this cowardly man weeping uncontrollably, he thought of his Norfolk brethren who had been machine-gunned. Those men hadn't begged for mercy; they had died supporting each other.
"Did you accept the surrender in Leparadis?" Ryder asked in English.
Schmidt was stunned. He didn't understand English, but he understood the place name.
Fear contorted his face instantly: "No—it's a misunderstanding! It was an order! I—"
"No Quarter Given."
Ryder uttered the word in German.
Then, he suddenly lunged forward.
"Pfft!"
The sharp bayonet, propelled by the momentum of the charge, pierced Schmidt's chest, pinning him firmly to the wooden cross base behind him.
"Well----·----"
A large amount of blood and orange medicine residue gushed from Schmidt's mouth. His limbs were still twitching, but soon stopped moving.
Ryder did not draw his knife immediately. He gripped the butt of the gun with both hands, stared intently into Schmidt's eyes, and twisted the handle of the knife forcefully.
"This is for the Norfolk mission."
Ryder's voice was deep and menacing, like a demon returned from hell: "It's also to give this damn pill back to you."
Only when the light in Schmidt's eyes completely disappeared, and he became a real corpse, did Ryder release his grip, letting the body hang on the gun, like a victim nailed to the base of the cross.
He turned around and looked at Arthur.
"Sir, the cleanup is complete."
Arthur looked at him, nodded, and showed approval in his eyes.
He turned his head, glanced at the statue of the Virgin Mary that had been graffitied into a clown by the Nazis in red paint, and then at Schmidt, who was nailed to the cross and had finally stopped convulsing: "Well done, Ryder. Don't be so serious, at least you avenged your men, at least partly."
Arthur adjusted his gloves. "God is clearly unhappy with these tenants who turned the church into a drug den, but he's too busy, so here we are."
Arthur pointed to the still corpse, his tone erratic yet filled with compassion: "Forgiving them is God's business, and I'm responsible for sending them to meet God."
"Now, let's get out of this hellhole. Before Rommel discovers his frontline oil depot has become a morgue."
At 11:00, the convoy left the monastery.
They did not set fire to the area, because the smoke would attract German reconnaissance planes.
The ghostly convoy silently slipped out of the monastery gates and merged into the traffic on the D928 highway.
Apart from a strong smell of blood in the air, the monastery looked exactly the same as when they arrived.
Only by walking through that gate would one discover the 150 corpses with their throats slit, and the SS company commander nailed to a cross.
This was a perfect, silent massacre.
The front-line command post of the German 7th Panzer Division.
"Damn it! Still can't get in touch?!"
Major General Erwin Rommel slammed his pencil down on the map table, his arrogant face now filled with anxiety.
His armored divisions had advanced to the south of the Somme, like a dagger thrust into the heart of France.
But now, this dagger is almost out of fuel, and this is not the first time. The last time, it was said, was when it encountered French guerrillas, which caused it to lose the fuel of an entire battalion.
"Reporting, General!" The adjutant rushed in, drenched in sweat. "The logistics corps reports they've encountered severe road conditions," they said, still stuck in muddy terrain twenty kilometers away—and no one's answering the phone at the T-4 supply depot!"
"Damn it! Damn it! Damn it!"
"I knew it! I knew that entrusting the frontline transit station to Ike's bunch of drug-addled political soldiers was completely unreliable! Those lunatics, besides burning their own brains with chemicals, couldn't even guard a warehouse door!"
The hot-tempered commander of the 7th Armored Division paced back and forth in the cramped command tent, his tall leather boots slamming against the wooden floorboards, each step an expression of his anger at the terrible logistics system.
He stopped abruptly in front of the communications officer, his finger almost poking the man's nose: "Send another message! This time in plaintext!"
"Tell those idiots in the logistics department! Whether they're pushing carts through mud or dying on the way, if I don't see tanker trucks in my defense zone by sunset today—"
Rommel threatened, "I will personally issue arrest warrants and send them all to a military court! The charge—dereliction of duty during World War I!"
He turned and slammed his fist on the Somme River defense line marked on the map: "My tanks are for assaults! Without fuel, they're just a bunch of iron coffins parked on the riverbank, serving as targets for the French artillery!"
For the first time, this future "Desert Fox" felt a chill run down his spine.
11:30, Abbeyville outskirts. British 51st Highland Division headquarters.
Major General Victor Fortune stood in his bunker, observing the distant German positions through the artillery scope.
He didn't know the current location of Sterling's battle group, but he knew they were surrounded.
The 51st Hill Division, a unit that Churchill left in France as a political gesture, has been driven to the brink of despair.
"General, we're running low on ammunition." The chief of staff's voice was tinged with despair. "The German encirclement is tightening. Should we consider—"
"What are you considering? Surrender?"
Major General Fortune turned around, straightened his iconic Scottish beret, and said with a gaze as resolute as granite: "The Scots never surrender."
He pointed to the direction of St. Valerie on the map: "Pass down the order. At dawn, the 51st Highland Division will launch a full-scale counterattack. We either break out, or we shed the last drop of Scottish blood here."
"At the very least, we must let the Germans know that the people of the Highlands have backbone."
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