BSI Chapter 111 Makes Le Havre Disappear from the Map
Chapter 111 Makes Le Havre Disappear from the Map
Chapter 111 Makes Le Havre Disappear from the Map
June 7, 17:00, Le Havre Port outskirts, D district main road.
Environment: Severe air pressure fluctuations, excessive concentration of suspended particulate matter in the air, and visibility reduced to below 50 meters.
The first law of physics states that an object remains at rest or in uniform motion in a straight line unless acted upon by an external force.
The first law of battlefield survival: When a 500-pound aerial bomb is in free fall, you need to run faster than the shockwave.
In the final three seconds before the bomb's ground fuse was triggered.
Miller sat in the driver's seat of the Panzer IV, his pupils dilated to their physiological limits. His right foot was no longer pressing the accelerator, but trying to push the steel plate into the chassis armor.
"Hold on tight!!!"
Miller let out a howl.
He didn't engage reverse gear; the reverse gear ratio of the Panzer IV was still too low to provide sufficient escape speed. He made a crazy decision. He yanked the left steering lever all the way, while simultaneously pushing the power output of the right track to its peak.
Creak—Bang!
The differential steering mechanism of the Panzer IV emitted a metallic screech.
This steel monster, weighing over 20 tons, didn't drift like the previous half-track vehicle. Instead, it used the left track as the center and made a violent 180-degree turn on the spot.
Centrifugal force slammed Arthur, who had just crawled into the turret, against the bulkhead, but he paid no heed to the pain, because he heard the whistling sound from above turn into a piercing scream that tore at his eardrums.
"Run!!!" Arthur roared into the communicator.
Miller released the steering lever, shifted the gearbox into fourth gear, and floored the accelerator.
The engine emitted a dying roar, and the tachometer instantly spiked to the 3200 rpm redline—a "self-destructing speed" strictly prohibited in the manual. The valve stems trembled, the pistons thrashed wildly in the cylinders, and the fuel injectors poured high-octane fuel into the combustion chamber at maximum flow.
The white Panzer IV tank, like a mad rhinoceros, kicked up two meters of mud with its tracks as it charged toward the British positions.
0.5 seconds later, the judgment began.
Boom! ...
The first 500-pound (227-kilogram) high-explosive aerial bomb hit the ground and exploded 100 meters from the rear of the tank, which was like turning on a short-lived artificial sun on the ground.
High-energy explosives break and recombine chemical bonds within microseconds, releasing enormous amounts of heat and gas.
The air was compressed instantly, forming a high-pressure shock wave that was visible to the naked eye and spread outwards at a speed of 7000 meters per second.
The shockwave arrived before the sound.
The Panzer IV tank, which was speeding along, suddenly jolted.
That wasn't just road bumps; it was a double whammy of ground shockwaves and air overpressure.
Although the distance was still too great to overturn the two 20-ton tanks, the massive blast wave still slammed into the tanks' rear armor. The tanks' rear suspension system was instantly compressed to its limit, the metal torsion bars emitted a groaning sound as they snapped, and the rear of the tank was violently pushed down, causing the front to rise high, like a startled wild horse.
"My God!"
Miller felt the steering wheel suddenly become lighter—a sign that the front wheels had lost traction. The tank, propelled by inertia and the shockwave, was in a semi-uncontrolled "gliding" state. Its original speed of 35 km/h was forcibly increased to nearly 40 km/h in that instant.
Clang!
The front of the car slammed heavily onto the ground. The immense impact caused Arthur to accidentally bite his lip, and the taste of blood filled his mouth.
But this did not stop the tank from speeding away; instead, it was as if it had been injected with an excessive dose of adrenaline.
Then came the second and the third.
This is a relay race against death.
The ultimate goals of level bombers and dive bombers are quite different.
The Stuka, a dive bomber, was like a surgeon, diving at a near 90-degree vertical angle to precisely insert a 250-kilogram bomb into the upper deck of a warship or into the firing port of a bunker.
But the RAF's Blenheim and Wellington were the demolition crews. They would maintain a level flight path of 3,000 feet, then open the bomb bay doors and dump tons of bombs like dumping garbage.
They don't care about any particular bunker or tank. They care about an area.
Their tactical objective is not to "destroy the target," but to "erase the geographical features of the area."
As for the power of the bomb...
The SC250 bomb commonly used by Stukas is a 250-kilogram bomb. Although it is often mistakenly referred to as a 250-pound bomb, it is being compared here to the British Army's 500-pound GP bomb. Its explosive charge is usually around 130 kilograms, focusing on armor-piercing and fragmentation damage. It was originally designed to paralyze a single hard target.
But the 500-pound (227 kg) general-purpose high-explosive bombs dropped by the Royal Air Force were completely different. Although they appeared to be similar in total weight, the British bombs used a thin-shell design and were filled with a higher proportion of Amato high-energy compound explosives—which resulted in a non-linear surge in energy release.
If Stuka's bombs were a sharp dagger that could pierce the heart, then this 500-pound high-explosive bomb was a heavy sledgehammer that could smash a person into a pulp.
When a 500-pound bomb hits the ground, it doesn't create the limited kill radius of a Stuka. It creates overpressure. The air in the blast's epicenter expands instantaneously, generating hundreds of pounds of static pressure per square inch. This pressure wave, like a hydraulic press, directly crushes all soft targets within a hundred meters—including human lungs, capillaries, and eardrums. Soil, gravel, and concrete blocks are hurled tens of meters into the air by the blast wave, forming a black wall of earth that then pelts the Panzer IV's armor like hail, producing a series of clanging sounds.
When the bomber navigator presses the bomb release button, relays release the bombs from the racks sequentially at preset time intervals—usually 0.2 seconds. This makes the death appear as a linear progression to observers on the ground.
Each explosion causes a liquefaction-like ripple on the ground. If you slow down the footage, you'll see the hard permafrost exhibit non-Newtonian fluid characteristics for a fleeting moment. The immense energy injected into the earth instantly eliminates friction between soil particles, causing ripples to spread across the surface like water—except these ripples are composed of thousands of tons of soil and rock.
Above the crest of the wave was the vulnerable logistics column of the German 7th Panzer Division.
There is no surface-hardened steel armor, tens of millimeters thick, like that of the Panzer III or Panzer IV tanks.
There is only canvas, planks and thin sheet metal here.
An Opel Specialized 3-ton truck, fully loaded with fuel canisters and spare track pads, was unfortunately located at the absolute lethal radius of a 500-pound bomb. There was no cinematic slow motion. There was no flames engulfing the vehicle. In a mere microsecond, the truck vanished.
The immense overpressure reduced it to its original state as a broken piece. The engine block was propelled two hundred meters like a cannonball, and the chassis twisted into a pretzel shape. As for the two Bavarian drivers in the cab, they didn't even have time to feel pain before they were completely vaporized by the impact of thousands of degrees of heat and hundreds of atmospheres of pressure.
Behind the truck was a group of grenadiers resting by the roadside.
They made a fatal mistake: they thought they could survive by moving slightly away from the blast point. But this was a 500-pound high-explosive bomb, not Stuka's "pressure point."
The shockwave swept across the battlefield, spreading at supersonic speed close to the ground.
It doesn't need shrapnel. The air itself is enough to kill.
Further away, a half-track troop carrier was overturned by the blast wave, tumbling three times in the air before crashing heavily against a wall. Soldiers inside, who hadn't yet had time to jump out, were flung around like dice in a dice cup, the sound of their necks snapping barely audible amidst the explosion.
Then there were the artillery pieces and tanks placed to the side.
A 500-pound bomb landed in the middle of a 105mm IeFH18 howitzer battery. This precision killing machine, manufactured by Rheinmetall, was designed with recoil and ballistic coefficients in mind, but not with regard to how to deal with the instantaneous lateral impact of several hundred atmospheres of pressure.
At the moment of the explosion, the two cannons in the core area vanished. They were reduced to basic metal fragments by the high temperature and overpressure generated by the blast.
For artillery beyond a radius of thirty meters, the damage is structural.
The massive blast wave, like a giant hand, gripped the cannon barrel and twisted it violently. The piston rod of the hydraulic recoil mechanism bent instantly, the seal ruptured, and hydraulic oil gushed out and ignited immediately.
The sturdy gun carriage frame was twisted like a pretzel.
The most devastating damage was to the sophisticated Carl Zeiss artillery sights and optical aiming devices. These glass products, representing the highest level of German optical industry, were instantly pulverized into white powder the moment the shockwave struck.
Without a sight, a cannon is just a stick for burning.
As for those tanks...
The 7th Panzer Division's proud Panzer III and Panzer IV tanks.
From a distance of several dozen meters, they appeared to have survived. The surface-hardened steel armor had withstood the shrapnel, the hull remained intact, and the turret was still standing.
But at the microscopic level, they are already dead.
When the shockwave hits the tank's surface, the high-frequency vibrations travel along the armor plates and spread throughout the entire tank instantly. All external observation equipment—the driver's bulletproof window, the commander's periscope, and the gunner's panoramic sight—shatters within a millisecond.
They are blind.
Even more deadly was the interior. Although the shockwave did not penetrate the armor, it turned the entire vehicle into a giant, struck bell.
Although the crew members inside the tank did not suffer external injuries, their bodies experienced devastating sonic resonance.
A German loader sitting inside a Panzer IV tank experienced a sudden rupture of his eardrums, with thick fluid gushing from both ears. Next came his lungs. The alveoli burst like balloons due to the drastic pressure change, resulting in irreversible pneumothorax and internal bleeding.
Some unfortunate souls didn't even have time to scream before suffering a severe concussion inside their skull, instantly severing their consciousness.
A few seconds later. The tanks, intact on the outside, stood still. The engines were still idling, black smoke billowing from the exhaust pipes. But there were no survivors inside. All the crew members were slumped in their seats, bleeding from their orifices, their internal organs a jumbled mess.
This is the logic of the 500-pound universal bomb: if you can't cut the can, then shake the person inside into mincemeat.
Soil, gravel, human remains, truck parts, burning rubber tires—these things were swept dozens of meters into the air by the blast wave, forming a black and red curtain of death, before falling densely like hailstones.
The clanging and clattering sounds coming from the armor plating of the Panzer IV tank Arthur was in weren't just from rubble. There were also German soldiers' belt buckles, helmet fragments, and charred bones.
Clang! Clang! Boom!
A piece of asphalt the size of a washbasin struck the side of the turret, sending sparks flying. Arthur huddled inside the command tower, gripping the periscope handles tightly, feeling his internal organs shifting with the high-frequency vibrations. The world he saw through the bulletproof glass was inverted and chaotic, filled only with gray smoke and red flashes.
"Faster! Miller! Faster!"
"Sir! The water temperature gauge exploded! The engine is overheating!" Miller yelled. "It's going to blow up!"
"Let it explode! Just don't let it explode now!"
The tank moved through the ruins. It smashed through a low wall and ran over the wreckage of a burning jeep. The exhaust pipe of the Maybach engine no longer spewed exhaust fumes, but thick black smoke and unburnt sparks.
Two hundred meters ahead, the British 51st Highland Division's anti-tank defense line.
Several 2-pounder anti-tank guns were pointed in this direction. In such a low-visibility and extremely tense situation, any armored target rushing from the German direction would be assumed to be a suicide attack by the enemy.
Through the scope, a Scottish gunner spotted the tank looming in and out of the smoke. The white paint was mottled by the black smoke, but the silhouette was unmistakably a German Panzer IV.
"Target directly ahead! 400 yards away!" the gunner roared. "Armor-piercing rounds! Prepare!"
The loader pushes a 40mm armor-piercing round into the breech. The locking block clicks shut.
"Aim at the tracks! Prepare to fire!"
Just as the gunner's finger was about to pull the trigger, the tank's radio antenna suddenly shook violently, and the turret hatch, marked with a red "AS" symbol, was kicked open.
A figure in a black leather coat leaned out, not waving a white flag, but holding a megaphone: "Don't fire!!!"
"I am Sterling!!"
"It's inside that white tank belching black smoke!"
"That's my vehicle! Raise your gun barrels!!"
The voice was accompanied by severe electrical interference, but its unique, arrogant tone was impossible to imitate.
The Scottish gunner paused for a moment. He released the firing mechanism.
"Cease fire!" The gunner raised his hand. "That's the officer!"
The roadblocks ahead—several barricades and piles of sandbags—were quickly removed. A stubble-faced Scottish sergeant major stood by the trench, calmly directing his men: "Hurry! Clear the way!"
"Judging from the sound of that engine, it's like a broken-down tractor. No one but our officer who drives a tank like a car could have ruined German machinery like that. Let it pass!"
Creak—rumble.
Tank No. 4, covered in smoke and mud, charged into the British lines.
Just as they crossed the trench line, a loud cracking sound of metal breaking came from the rear of the vehicle. The long-suffering main drive shaft finally succumbed to the brutal driving and fractured due to fatigue.
The tracks locked instantly. The tank slid forward for more than ten meters due to inertia, finally crashing heavily into a mound of earth and coming to a complete stop. Thick white smoke billowed from under the engine hood; it was a mixture of evaporating coolant and burning engine oil.
The hatch opened.
Arthur coughed as he climbed out of the turret.
His face was covered in grease, and his SS overcoat was torn in several places, making him look like a homeless man who had just crawled out of a coal mine.
He jumped out of the vehicle, almost unsteady on his feet. He patted the scorching armor plate, listening to the hissing of the metal cooling as it contracted, and said to Miller, who had crawled out of the cockpit, completely exhausted, "Excellent German craftsmanship." Arthur pulled a half-deformed cigarette from his pocket: "Too bad we ruined it."
The German army, on the other hand, was in dire straits.
The bombing lasted a full fifteen minutes. Now, Death has temporarily sheathed his scythe, leaving only his creation.
The smoke and dust began to dissipate slowly.
That intersection has completely disappeared.
This is no longer the Earth's surface; it's more like a crater area on the Moon.
The ground was completely turned upside down. The asphalt road surface was transformed into countless enormous funnel-shaped craters, each over ten meters in diameter. The surrounding buildings—those French-style houses that were originally only two or three stories high—all collapsed, turning into piles of meaningless rubble on the ground.
At the edge of this enormous radius of destruction, in a crater filled with water.
General Heinz Guderian felt as if he were surfacing from the deep sea.
The world was first deathly silent.
That's the auditory nerve shutting down as a self-protective mechanism after being subjected to an extremely high decibel impact.
Immediately following was a sharp, high-frequency tinnitus.
Sizzle sizzle—
The sound penetrated his brain, causing him to feel a violent dizziness and nausea.
Finally, the voices of the real world flooded in like a tidal wave.
The screams of the wounded in the distance, the crackling of burning materials, and the inhuman roars emanating from the pain.
Guderian twitched his fingers.
Fortunately, the neural connections are normal.
He tried to sit up, but felt as if a huge boulder was pressing on his chest.
He lowered his head. In the dim light, he could see what was pressing down on him.
That was a sergeant in the Wehrmacht. He was an old soldier from his guard platoon; I think his name was Hans, or Helmut?
Guderian couldn't remember.
The sergeant maintained a posture with his arms outstretched, like a mother hen protecting her chicks, pinning Guderian down firmly.
But the sergeant's back was gone.
A piece of hot shrapnel sliced through his uniform, tearing his spine and most of his back muscles ripped apart. His blood, mixed with the muddy water at the bottom of the crater, had already cooled.
Guderian showed no expression.
There was not even sadness.
After extreme shocks, the human emotional module usually restarts one step later than the logical module.
He forcefully pushed the heavy corpse aside.
Splash!
The body rolled into the muddy water, making a gurgling sound.
Guderian slowly stood up. He was covered in black mud. It wasn't ordinary mud; it was a disgusting substance that had been repeatedly stirred with high-temperature explosives, mixed with sewer sludge, engine oil, and human tissue.
His crisp gray-green general's uniform, the Knight's Cross of the Iron Cross hanging on his collar, and his gleaming riding boots were all now completely black.
He was like a demon crawling out of a hellish swamp.
"General! My God! General!"
His adjutant, Colonel Nelin, stumbled over.
The colonel was clearly terrified. He held a clean white handkerchief in his hand and trembled as he tried to wipe the mud off Guderian's face.
"Don't move! General, your face—"
Snapped!
Guderian abruptly swung his hand, roughly knocking the handkerchief from his adjutant's hand. The movement was full of power, and also full of brutality.
The adjutant froze, staring at his superior in horror.
Guderian didn't speak. He stood ramrod straight, letting the foul-smelling muddy water drip down his nose and the hem of his clothes. Drip. Drip.
He reached out and touched his jacket pocket. Empty. The silver cigar case containing his Havana cigars, the prop he used to project an image of sophistication and status, had vaporized along with the negotiating table.
Buzz—a half-track command vehicle rolled over the gravel; Rommel had arrived.
Rommel jumped out of the car, looked at the ruins before him, and then at the mud-covered figure. The usually outspoken Rommel was speechless.
Guderian turned to look at Rommel. His face was also covered in a thick layer of black mud, with only his eyes visible.
What kind of eyes were those? No anger. No fear. No gentlemanly manners. Only a cold, mechanical feeling, like treadmills crushing bones.
Guderian bent down and picked up his deformed military cap from the mud. He patted the cap, but instead of shaking off the mud, he put it directly on his head.
"Erwin," Guderian's voice was hoarse and deep, "you see."
He pointed to the huge bomb crater, then to himself: "That's the gentlemanly demeanor of the British."
"That cigarette case—that was the timer he gave me."
Rommel swallowed hard. "Heinz, we—"
"Shut up, Erwin," Guderian interrupted him.
He snatched a surviving, still-leaking microphone from the communications officer.
"I am Guderian."
"Issue the order to the entire 19th Armored Corps."
His voice was completely flat: "Notify the artillery. Bring out all the stockpiled ammunition—high-explosive shells, incendiary shells, smoke shells—everything."
"Regardless of caliber. Regardless of range."
"Target: The entire 51st Highland Division."
Guderian paused, a cold glint in his eyes: "From now on, I will not accept any form of negotiation."
"Remove all restrictions on prisoners of war under the Geneva Conventions."
"No prisoners. Repeat, no prisoners."
"I want to cut three meters off the land in Le Havre."
"I'm going to grind that Sterling into powder."