BSI Chapter 110 Your cigar smells like Nazis.
Chapter 110 Your cigar smells like Nazis.
Chapter 110 Your cigar smells like Nazis.
16:55, outside the port of Le Havre. Environmental parameters: air pressure 1013 hPa, northwest wind force 3, visibility reduced to 4 km due to smoke and dust.
War is a sophisticated machine.
The saying goes that caliber is justice, but at certain specific moments, the factors that determine victory or defeat are no longer the armor thickness of tanks or the caliber of cannons, but the speed of information transmission and that bit of luck in the reflection of electromagnetic waves in the ionosphere.
The temporary command bunker of the British 51st Highland Division, 450 meters from the negotiation point.
There are no sniper rifles or diesel engines here.
Jeanne knelt on a pile of broken bricks. Her fingers were slender and pale, but steady. She wore a pair of bulky black bakelite headphones, the earcups worn and frayed from long wear, revealing the foam inside.
She is searching for a frequency.
"Speechless—it's all speechless." Jeanne frowned. The German electronic jamming vehicle was releasing jamming noise across the entire frequency band. Instead of clear Morse code, what came through her headphones was a piercing electrical roar, like thousands of flies frantically pounding against her eardrums.
"Voltage is unstable! The voltage is dropping!" Jeanne shouted without turning her head.
Behind her, a young intelligence officer from the 51st Highland Division was acting as a primitive human generator. He gripped the heavy hand-cranked generator handle with both hands, his face flushed, and sweat dripped from his nose onto the dusty floor.
"Damn it—Madam! How long are we going to keep this up?" The staff officer gasped for breath, feeling his biceps screaming in protest from the lactic acid buildup. "My arms are going to break! Is this damn machine broken?"
"Shut up, Captain. If the voltage drops below 12 volts, the signal will be cut off. Then Guderian will shove the 88mm gun right up Colonel Sterling's ass." Jeanne's voice was as cold as ice, but she wasn't joking at all. She knew very well that the lives of tens of thousands of people were in her hands, including the life of the man playing with fire outside.
She took a deep breath and fine-tuned the knob on the variable capacitor. 0.5 millimeters. Then another 0.2 millimeters.
Suddenly, amidst the chaotic white noise, a clear carrier wave cut in.
It was a man's voice.
Calm, elegant, and even with a hint of irritating languor, it didn't sound like the cockpit of a bomber at 3,000 feet, flying through a barrage of anti-aircraft fire. It sounded more like ordering food in a gentlemen's club in St. James's Park, London. The languid tone was exactly like Arthur's, clearly indicating that the other person was also an English aristocrat.
"This is the 'Hound' formation. Calling ground control."
"We've arrived above the party venue. I can't see that damn tea, but I can see lots of grayish-green ants."
"Please confirm the delivery address. Over."
Jeanne pressed her hand hard against the receiver in her throat, her fingers clenching excitedly. She had made contact; Death was online.
"Target coordinates: Grid-Delta (D zone) main road intersection."
"Attention, altitude correction! You are now at 3500 feet, the bomb dispersion circle will be very large."
"Correction parameters: Ground smoke is used as the wind direction reference. Wind deflection: Corrected eastward by two microseconds."
Jeanne paused for a moment.
She knew that at this altitude, the pilot couldn't possibly see that damned table. She had to provide an absolutely conspicuous, indisputable visual anchor: "Looking for a high-contrast target!"
Jeanne peered through the narrow observation slit in the bunker at the white tank that stood out starkly against the gray ruins in the distance: "In the middle of the intersection, there's a Panzer IV tank painted a ghastly white with red 'AS' markings on its side!"
"Repeat! That's a friendly beacon! That's the only friendly beacon!"
"You might not be able to see the letters above, but you can definitely see a white tank!"
"Use that white tank as the zero point! Don't cover it! Drop all bombs in the fan-shaped area east of the tank, within the German armored formation!"
"Gentlemen, don't put the scalpel to the patient's neck!"
A soft laugh came through the headset, accompanied by the roar of a Rolls-Royce engine in the background: "Roger that. White tank. Lord Sterling's taste is as terrible as ever; this makes him look like a moving target."
"One last check, ma'am. That location is extremely close to the beacon. This is an extremely dangerous distance." (Danger)
(Close). According to the Royal Air Force's operating manual, I have the right to refuse to execute this order.
"Are you sure you want to lay your egg here?"
Jeanne peered through the slit in the window at the figure who was still laughing and chatting in her field of vision.
"Confirmed." Jeanne's voice was unwavering. "Ignore the manual. Ignore the safety boundaries. Throw everything down."
"Also, Colonel Sterling asked me to tell you that if you don't blow up that intersection, he'll drink up your entire brigade's whiskey ration when he gets back."
There was a second of silence in the earpiece, then a burst of laughter erupted: "Ha! That's fair. I'll turn the place upside down for my whiskey."
Then, the voice turned serious, the professional tone of a pilot entering the attack route: "Attention, all units of the Hound Formation."
"Target confirmed. Insurance cancelled."
"Open the bomb bay. Prepare to drop bombs. 30 seconds countdown."
Jeanne took off her headphones, feeling as if all her strength had been drained away.
She looked at the flashing red traffic light in front of her and said softly, "Goodbye, Guderian."
The front-line command post of the German 7th Panzer Division.
Major General Erwin Rommel was holding up his binoculars, completely absorbed in what he was watching.
On the one hand, he was furious that Guderian had been ridiculed in public by that British colonel; on the other hand, as a colleague and competitor, he even felt a kind of morbid pleasure at seeing the usually meticulous Guderian get the short end of the stick.
"Look at that posture—" Rommel was still commenting to his staff, "Heinz's shoulders are shaking. He's about to draw his gun."
However, this delicate psychological balance was completely shattered in the next second.
"General! General Rommel!!"
A piercing, completely distorted scream came from behind, the sound of a human's vocal cords being forcibly torn apart in extreme fear.
-
Rommel frowned and turned around, his face showing displeasure: "Who is it now? When did officers in the German Wehrmacht learn to scream like women?"
The communications officer stumbled over.
He ran too fast and completely lost his balance. When he was five meters away from the command vehicle, his military boots tripped over the towing cable of the half-track, and he fell heavily to the ground.
But he ignored the pain and didn't even bother to pick up the military cap that had fallen to the side. Instead, he used both his hands and feet to crawl to the command vehicle.
This is very unusual.
The officers of the German Wehrmacht were rigorously trained in deportment and would never lose their composure like this unless the sky were falling.
"What's the panic!" Rommel roared, looking down at him. "Stand up! Straighten your collar! Where's your manners, Lieutenant!"
The communications officer was completely deaf to the reprimands about manners.
He waved a newly translated urgent telegram, its edges soaked with sweat: "No—it's not a matter of manners, General!"
"Radar! Highest level alert from the air defense outposts along the Dover Strait!"
The communications officer swallowed hard, pointing to the northwest sky, his fingers trembling violently: "Just now! Five minutes ago! A large-scale low-frequency radar echo appeared in the direction of Dover!"
"It wasn't a reconnaissance plane! It wasn't a small-scale harassment operation!"
"A huge number! It's a massive fleet!"
Rommel's heart clenched as if gripped by an icy hand.
"A cluster? A number?" He snatched the telegram, his eyes quickly scanning the characters.
"Unable to count accurately!" the communications officer cried out in despair. "The forward observation post reports that it's a dark cloud! Two whole squadrons of twin-engine bombers!"
"Blenheim! Wellington! And even Hurricane and Spitfire fighters are escorting us!"
"Heading 135! They're heading this way! At an extremely low altitude!"
Rommel's brain went blank for a moment.
Two large teams?
According to the Royal Air Force's organization, that would require at least thirty-six bombers. If they were Wellington heavy bombers, each carrying 4500 pounds of bombs—that would be hundreds of tons of high explosives. Had the British gone mad? Had they mobilized their entire homeland air defense force for a besieged Le Havre?
"Where is our air force?" Rommel roared suddenly, crumpling the telegram into a ball. "What is Kesselring's 2nd Air Force doing?! Where are our fighters in Calais?"
"They're taking off to intercept! But it's too late!" The communications officer shook his head in despair. "They're too close! The British are cutting into our blind spot from low altitude! By the time our Bf-109s climb from Abbeville airfield to attack altitude, the British bombs will have already hit the ground!"
Just then, the buzzing sound came. At first, it was very faint, like muffled thunder from the depths of the horizon, or like thousands of bees fluttering their wings.
As thousands of Rolls-Royce Merlin and Bristol Hercules engines approached at 240 miles per hour, the sound waves were compressed and stacked, forming an invisible wall of sound that struck the eardrums of every German on the ground at the most oppressive frequency of their lives.
Rommel suddenly raised his head.
Radar was no longer needed. It was visible to the naked eye. Beneath the clouds to the northwest, countless black dots were rapidly growing larger, obscuring the sunlight. Those were the Royal Air Force's most famous "close box formations" from the early days of World War II—to ensure bombing density, they flew extremely low, so low that Rommel could even see the massive 500-pound aerial bomb carried under the lead plane's belly.
"Notify Guderian!" Rommel roared at the top of his lungs, yelling at the radio operator, "Let him get away!!!"
Guderian was unaware of Rommel's collapse a few hundred meters away. He also didn't hear the communications officer's screams. But as a battle-hardened veteran, his intuition, honed through countless brushes with death, began to send frantic alarms through his spine.
The young man in front of him, Arthur Sterling, was behaving very strangely. After humiliating him, the man started chatting with him casually.
The way he kept looking at the sky, did he think it would rain today?
And now, that movement that's constantly retreating, with ridiculously light steps.
"Discuss?" Guderian frowned, taking a step closer and trying to block the other's escape route with his aura. "You are the commander. You can directly order your soldiers to lay down their weapons. The German Wehrmacht does not need to negotiate with a soldiers' committee."
"This is democracy, General. Not understanding democracy is a fatal flaw for you Germans."
Arthur waved his hand and continued backing away as he spoke.
His movements were fluid and natural, yet extremely fast.
In the blink of an eye, he had retreated to the tracks of the white Panzer IV tank. One hand gripped the climbing handrail on the side of the turret, while the other remained in the pocket of his leather coat. He wore that sincere smile that made Guderian want to vomit: "It's settled then. Give me three minutes."
"I'll go tell them we're going to Berlin for vacation," and also have them wipe the gun oil clean so it doesn't get on the floors of your POW camp, then we'll come out and surrender our weapons."
"Wait a minute!" Guderian shouted.
Not right.
If the intention was truly to surrender, why get on the tank? Why keep the driver at idle? Why go back into the driver's compartment instead of standing on the ground?
Just then, a gust of wind blew in.
Carrying the salty taste of the sea, and also the death symphony composed of thousands of horsepower engines overhead.
The buzzing vibrations were no longer transmitted through the ears, but directly through the soil beneath the feet, along the bones to the skull. That was the physical characteristic of a large swarm of aircraft flying low overhead.
Guderian suddenly raised his head.
That was no longer a faint rumble of thunder; it was a roar right before our eyes.
The clouds were violently torn apart.
Dozens of huge bombers, painted in British camouflage, appeared suddenly overhead like a pack of hungry bald men. They flew so low that Guderian could even see the rivets under their wings.
Guderian's pupils shrank instantly.
He saw the bomb bay doors opening on the bellies of the planes. He also saw the dark, gaping abyss.
He turned his head sharply and looked at Arthur, who had already jumped onto the tank.
"You bastard!!" Guderian roared, completely losing all his aristocratic composure, his voice filled with the rage, shame, and fear of being fooled: "You've played me!!"
Arthur stood on the turret.
At that moment, the helplessness, sincerity, and exhaustion on his face vanished instantly. It was as if the mask of "gentleman" had been brutally torn away, revealing the true face of the English madman beneath.
It was a wild, vengeful grin.
He pointed to the hordes of death whistling down overhead and shouted at Guderian, who was bewildered in the wind, his voice drowning out the roar of the engine: "Sorry, Admiral!"
"My men just told me they don't want to go to Berlin to smoke your cigars!"
"Because your cigar smells like Nazis!!"
"As a return gift, they would like to invite you to watch the fireworks here!!"
After saying that, Arthur instantly retreated into the turret. The hatch slammed shut above his head with a loud bang.
"Miller! Drive!!"
boom!
The white Panzer IV roared to life. Miller had clearly floored the accelerator, and the Maybach HL120 engine, running under overload, spewed out a thick plume of black diesel smoke that sprayed directly into Guderian's face, causing him to cough violently.
With its tracks spinning wildly, kicking up gravel and dirt, the white steel monster, in an extremely unreasonable manner, shifted into reverse and rapidly retreated towards the British positions.
"Grab him! Open fire!!"
Guderian instinctively drew his Luger P08 pistol from his waist and fired three shots at the departing tank.
boom! boom! boom!
But against the thousands of tons of surface-hardened steel armor, these three 9mm bullets were like tickling a charging rhinoceros, leaving only three faint white dots on the armor plate.
The soldiers of the National Defense Forces who were on guard around the area finally snapped out of their shock and raised their MP38 submachine guns to fire.
But it was too late; the sky had collapsed.
16: 58.
There was no precise bombing. There was no damage assessment. This was the beginning of World War II, the prelude to carpet bombing.
At that very moment, three thousand feet above the ground, the lead pilot of the 2nd Bomber Group of the Royal Air Force saw the Grid-D intersection on the ground through the MarkIX bombing sight. He knew nothing about the situation on the ground; he didn't know who was standing below. He only knew that the coordinates Grid-D were the German assembly point, and a crazy woman was yelling into the radio, "Don't worry about anything, just drop them!"
So he threw it away.
The bomb bay opened. Tons of Black Death hurtled down, the force of gravity transforming them into unstoppable kinetic weapons.
Boom! ...
The first 500-pound high-explosive bomb landed 120 meters away from Guderian.
The massive fireball instantly engulfed the air on that side, the shockwave like an invisible, sweeping hammer, carrying scorching earth and rocks as it hurtled towards them. The red and white checkered negotiating table disintegrated in an instant, turning into a shower of wood chips. The expensive Havana cigars that Guderian had used to persuade Arthur to surrender didn't even have time to burn before being carbonized in the high-temperature airflow, turning into black dust.
"General! Air raid!!"
Just a second before the shockwave arrived, four Wehrmacht soldiers in gray-green field uniforms—the most loyal veterans in Guderian’s guard platoon—rushed forward like a flock of mother hens protecting their chicks.
The four men used their broad bodies to slam Guderian hard, shoving the still-unresponsive general into a waterlogged crater by the roadside.
Just as Guderian's face was pressed into the cold, damp, rotting earth, he heard a sound that sent chills down his spine—the shrill whistling of subsequent aerial bombs tearing through the air.
That was the whistle of death.
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