BSI Chapter 109: A Battlefield Dialogue About the Mercedes-Benz G4, the Stolen Panzer IV Tank, and Cigar
Chapter 109: A Battlefield Dialogue About the Mercedes-Benz G4, the Stolen Panzer IV Tank, and Cigar
Chapter 109: A Battlefield Dialogue About the Mercedes-Benz G4, the Stolen Panzer IV Tank, and Cigars
June 7, 1940, 16:45, Le Havre Port, France, on the outskirts of District D, in the center of the main road.
Environmental parameters: normal air pressure, good visibility, and 0.4 grams of smokeless gunpowder residue per cubic meter of air.
According to Article 102, Section 4 of the German Armed Forces Field Regulations (Heeresdienstyorschrift) regarding "Safety Procedures for Senior Frontline Commanders": Army commanders must comply with the following regulations when entering areas under enemy fire control (NoMan's...).
When engaging in combat in the land, at least one reinforced platoon of mechanized guards must be provided, accompanied by a major general or higher officer familiar with the local situation, to ensure the integrity of the chain of command.
Major General Erwin Rommel also thought so.
At least from a biological survival instinct perspective, he felt he should do something for Guderian.
Heinz.
Rommel did not use honorifics such as "General" or "Commander," but instead addressed the other person by his name.
As two outliers in the national defense system who were equally obsessed with "speed" and "armor," their personal relationship was much closer than outsiders imagined.
After all, in this officer corps that was still stuck in the cavalry era, they were among the few who could understand the enemy's tactical language amidst the roar of engines.
Oh, right.
Guderian also has a very high opinion of another man—Erich von Manstein.
tein).
The mastermind behind the "Scythe Blitz" plan. After all, in the eyes of a madman, only seeing another madman is normal.
However, Guderian was very unhappy with Rommel's current behavior because he was preventing him from seeing Arthur Sterling, or rather, from being with him.
Rommel's hand was already on the rear door handle of the dark green Mercedes G4 SUV. He was trying to squeeze half of his body into the back seat, his face filled with a longing that said, "I want to see what that bastard looks like too."
Of course, his reasoning was very high-sounding, filled with a touching subordinate's concern for his superior: "For your safety, I think I must accompany you. After all, the other party is a madman with no chivalry whatsoever, who habitually uses high-explosive shells as a greeting gift. If that Englishman suddenly goes mad, I can at least—"
"No."
Heinz Guderian stubbornly turned his head away.
At this moment, the "father of armored forces" no longer had the bureaucratic helplessness he had shown when facing "political orders" on his face. His eyes became sharp and hard again, even carrying a chilling sense of oppression.
Unfortunately, the object of his affections was his colleague.
In that instant, Rommel felt as if time had reversed. The man who, in the early stages of the Battle of France, dared to cut off the radio…
The "Rapid Heinz," which ignores the Supreme Command's order to halt and only knows how to launch a full-speed attack, is back.
"Erwin."
Guderian straightened the Knight's Cross of the Iron Cross on his collar, his voice devoid of any emotion: "Stay here. Keep an eye on your 7th Panzer Division."
"If I don't return, or if that table gets blown up, just order the attack. No need to consult the army group, and no need to worry about those politicians in Berlin."
Rommel paused for a moment: "But, Heinz, according to the orders of the Supreme Command—"
"This is my order as the highest-ranking commander on the front lines."
Guderian slammed the car door shut, the thin steel plate instantly blocking Rommel's view and silencing any further discussion: "Moreover, this is a—private confirmation. There are some things I must verify myself."
To verify whether that so-called "AS" was indeed the bastard who stole his cigar and command vehicle that night at the Ahhe Bridge. To verify whether the humiliation of fleeing in the mud in his silk pajamas that night was indeed caused by this person.
This verification process doesn't require witnesses. Especially not a blabbermouth like Rommel. If he saw or heard anything that might happen, or even something more absurd, Guderian's reputation in the Wehrmacht generals' club would probably plummet.
"drive."
Guderian gave the order to the driver in the front seat.
The Mercedes-Benz G4's 5.0-liter inline 8-cylinder engine emitted a deep, smooth roar—the pride of German industry: precise, powerful, and expensive. The vehicle slowly drove out of the German army's blast wall.
Rommel stood there, coughing twice as he was choked by the dust that rose up.
He watched the command vehicle drive away and muttered a very offensive swear word in Swabian dialect.
But he didn't give up. Instead, he picked up the binoculars in his hand and felt like a child who had been abandoned at the entrance of an amusement park by a strict parent.
Since I can't play, I can only watch from the sidelines.
He raised his Zeiss binoculars, staring intently at the rubble-strewn area in the middle, and roared at his staff officer, "Get the artillery aimed at that table! If that Englishman dares to lay a finger on it, blast that area to smithereens!"
The middle zone, 150 meters from both sides' positions.
This is an absolute dead zone. Although it is very close, the asphalt road that was relatively smooth just a day ago has been turned upside down countless times by ammunition of various calibers. Everywhere there are blackened vehicle wrecks, broken utility poles, and still smoking concrete fragments.
Guderian's Mercedes G4 stopped in front of a small, solitary round table.
This table was salvaged from a bombed-out French café next door; it even has a dusty red and white checkered tablecloth on it. Quite charming, if you ignore the strong stench of decay, burning, and lingering white phosphorus fumes around it.
Guderian got out of the car.
Four elite Wehrmacht grenadiers followed closely behind. Instead of the cumbersome Mauser 98k rifles, they were all armed with MP38 submachine guns, their fingers constantly on the trigger guards. Their eyes vigilantly scanned every pile of rubble, ready to unleash a barrage of fire on any moving object, or to shield the general from a deadly sniper bullet.
"There, sir." A sergeant from the National Defence Force suddenly pointed in the direction of the British positions, his voice tinged with confusion.
Guderian narrowed his eyes.
According to the standard Geneva Conventions or the diplomatic protocol commonly used by European militaries, the other party should send a jeep with a white flag or walk over on foot to show sincerity.
But when the machine came into view with a piercing screech of tracks, Guderian's eye twitched involuntarily.
That was a tank.
To be precise, it was a German-made Panzer IV tank.
But the paint scheme on this tank was a serious crime against the German logistics department.
The originally majestic dark gray body of the car was covered with a layer of pale white lime and paint, a "ghost camouflage" designed to conceal it in the urban ruins. But to Guderian, it looked like a Rolls-Royce painted white.
What made Guderian's blood pressure rise even higher was the side of the turret.
The Iron Cross, a symbol of the Wehrmacht's honor, was crudely crossed out with a huge red X. And next to that red X, in extremely messy and unrestrained handwriting, was the codename that gave Guderian nightmares:
AS
Moreover, the tank did not slow down. The Maybach HL120TRM engine roared, its tracks crushing gravel, charging straight toward Guderian's Mercedes with an extremely arrogant attitude.
"Protect the general!" a sergeant from the National Defense Force shouted in terror, raising his submachine gun and aiming it at the tank's driver's observation window.
But Guderian did not move.
He simply stood there, hands behind his back, coldly watching the steel monster.
He knew very well that if the other side wanted to kill him, they could simply fire a shot from a few hundred meters away with that 75mm cannon; there was no need to waste fuel driving all the way here.
This is psychological warfare.
This is a contest to see who can blink first.
He absolutely cannot! He cannot show even the slightest expression that would damage his composure in front of AS.
He wanted to maintain that breathtaking elegance and ruthlessness that belonged to an armored general.
As for the pajamas that night? And that damn tricycle?
What is that?
Rumble and creak!
With a sudden screech of brakes, the Panzer IV's wide manganese steel tracks came to a stop less than two meters from the front of Guderian's Mercedes.
The enormous kinetic energy was converted into the potential energy of the suspension system, causing the tank to tilt violently forward. The muzzle of the short-barreled cannon swung up and down like a thick cigar, finally coming to a steady stop at the height of Guderian's nose.
The heat from the cannon muzzle even ruffled Guderian's collar.
The hatch opened. Two figures emerged.
The driver was a British Private Miller, whose face was covered in grease and who was chewing gum.
He peeked out and glanced at the ashen-faced German general in front of him, nearly swallowing his chewing gum. Sitting on the edge of the turret, legs crossed, was a young officer in a black SS leather overcoat, fiddling with an empty flask.
Guderian looked up, while Arthur Sterling looked down.
Their gazes met in the air thick with the smell of gunpowder.
Guderian took a deep breath. No DNA testing was needed, nor was it necessary to consult any Gestapo files.
That's the face.
He would recognize this face even if it turned to ashes. That night at the bridgehead of the Ahe River, in his most beloved command vehicle, that British bastard who gave him the middle finger and crushed his beloved marching tent to pieces.
"Good afternoon, General."
Arthur broke the silence first.
He sat atop the tank turret, looking down at Guderian with that signature smug grin that could give any serious Prussian officer a stroke.
Arthur's gaze swept over the gleaming Mercedes G4 SUV behind Guderian, and he exclaimed, "Well, looks like you've finally found a replacement?"
Arthur patted the Panzer IV beneath him: "This Mercedes is nice. Really nice. Much more impressive than that half-track."
He then shifted his gaze to Guderian's uniform, his eyes filled with concern: "By the way, how are you feeling? It was very foggy that night, and I think I saw you dressed very—coolly? Was it silk?"
puff.
Private Miller, who was driving the tank, couldn't help but let out an extremely unkind laugh. It was the kind of laugh that you had to squeeze all the air out of your lungs to hold back. But after being exposed to Guderian's murderous self-gaze, Miller immediately shut his mouth, pulled his head back into the driver's compartment, leaving only his eyes darting around through the observation window, his shoulders still shaking violently.
Guderian's expression became quite interesting.
From rosy to bluish-gray, then from bluish-gray to a sickly pale, finally settling on a purplish-brown.
"Cough cough cough—!!"
A violent coughing sound, like an old diesel engine failing to start in the cold, broke out without warning.
The German sergeant next to him was terrified. Disregarding etiquette and regulations, he hurriedly patted the general's back vigorously, trying to restart the breathing function of this "father of armored troops".
A blatant provocation!
This was a public execution of him in front of both armies.
If eyes could fire 88mm armor-piercing rounds, Arthur would have become a mass of elementary particles by now.
The three other Wehrmacht soldiers behind Guderian exchanged bewildered glances. They didn't understand English, but judging from the general's expression, which looked as if he had swallowed a fly, the other man must have said something extremely insulting.
But Guderian was Guderian after all. He suppressed with immense willpower the urge to pull out his Luger pistol and start a Western duel. He was there to negotiate, to carry out the Führer's will, not to act as a street thug.
"Colonel Sterling."
Guderian gritted his teeth, each syllable seemingly squeezed out from between them: "I'm glad to see you're still alive. And—your spirit is still so high."
"I'm also pleased to see you dressed so neatly." Arthur jumped off the tank, completely ignoring the submachine guns pointed at him, and walked straight to the small round table. He pulled out a chair and sat down casually. "After all, the sea breeze in Le Havre is quite strong. If you're not wearing pajamas—oh no, if you're not wearing an overcoat—it's easy to catch a chill." Guderian's forehead bulged with a vein. He mentioned pajamas again. That bastard was definitely doing it on purpose.
There is more than one person here. This is a silent, mixed combat team of Scottish Highlanders and Coldstream Guards.
McTavish lay sprawled among a pile of broken bricks and broken gears.
What he held in his hand was no longer a Thompson submachine gun, nor an ordinary infantry rifle, but a Pattern 1914Mk.
I(T) Enfield rifle (P14 Enfield).
This rifle is heavier and has a more robust bolt than the Lee-Enfield Short Rifle (SMLE), and is an old relic from World War I.
The standard SMLE rifle was designed for a "crazy minute." It features a rear-locking mechanism, a short bolt travel, extremely fast operation, and remarkably large tolerances. This allows it to fire reliably without jamming in muddy trenches, but it also means that its bolt undergoes a slight deformation at the moment of firing. Combined with its thin barrel, this results in uncontrollable high-frequency resonance at the muzzle under the impact of high-powered ammunition.
Within 300 meters, it is a powerful weapon for suppressing infantry; but beyond 600 meters, its bullet spread is no different from the footsteps of a drunkard.
The P14 rifle, however, is quite different. It is a direct descendant of the German Mauser system. It employs a robust front-locking double-lug design, with the bolt locking as tightly as a bank vault door. It boasts a heavy match-grade barrel and an extremely rigid receiver, meaning that there is virtually no parasitic vibration in the rifle at the moment of the propellant gas explosion.
On that afternoon in 1940, equipped with the Aldis Model 1918 optical sight, it was the most sophisticated long-range drilling machine in all of Le Havre.
Through that precisely polished optical lens, the world was compressed into a circular field of view. That distinctive T-shaped reticle was firmly fixed on the forehead of the elderly German man in the gray-green coat.
That's where the frontal cortex of the brain is located. With just a pull of the trigger, that 174-grain .303-inch MkVI pointed bullet would cross the distance in 0.4 seconds, turning the brain of the "father of Blitzkrieg" into a worthless lump of protein paste.
"Wind speed level 3, correction amount 0.5 mils," McTavish muttered the ballistic data.
To his left lay several sharpshooters from the Coldstream Guard.
The most eye-catching of them all is Williams.
His head was still wrapped in thick bandages, the price he paid for sniping the Germans in Berg. The blood had long since congealed, and even though he had lost half an ear, it did nothing to diminish the murderous intent in his eyes.
Williams was also carrying a carefully selected Lee-Enfield rifle, though it lacked a scope—the scope had been damaged by German artillery fire—but he was still confident that he could break Guderian's neck with a single shot at this distance.
"If the young master gives the signal," Williams licked his chapped lips, "I'd like to fire the first shot. Consider it interest on my ears."
Beside McTavish, Major Ryder, holding binoculars, was on the verge of collapse. His palms were drenched in sweat, and the rubber grips of the binoculars were so slippery that he almost slipped from his grasp. His uniform was soaked through with cold sweat, clinging tightly to his spine.
"Young Master is playing with fire—" Ryder's voice trembled, his teeth chattering. "He's provoking Guderian. He's constantly stabbing Guderian in the back with that damned language."
"Look! He's laughing again! And he's pointing his finger at Guderian!"
Ryder lowered his binoculars, wiped the sweat from his brow, and asked in alarm, "What if that old German has a stroke? Or what if he loses his temper and pulls out a gun?"
"If Guderian were killed here, the entire German Wehrmacht would tear us apart like mad dogs! Rommel would grind every single brick here to dust!"
"Calm down, Ryder."
McTavish didn't turn his head, remaining in his firing stance. His finger lightly rested on the second trigger of the P14 rifle, his tone full of trust in his young master: "That's the young master's tactic."
"Tactics? This is tactics? This is suicide!" Ryder retorted.
"This is called the carburetor spill tactic."
1
McTavish took a deep breath, observing Guderian's face, which was alternating between red and white, through the Aldis scope. His tone was frighteningly calm: "The young master is currently flooding Guderian's brain with an excessive amount of high-octane trash talk."
"The air-fuel mixture is too rich, and there's not enough air intake. If Guderian's thinking is like a flooded engine, then now the spark plugs are soaked, and it won't start at all."
McTavish paused, a cold smile playing on his lips. "This is psychological warfare, Ryder. Although it looks like courting death, at this moment, the young master has controlled Guderian's thought process."
"As long as that old man is still angry, we are still safe."
There will be one more chapter later, around 11 PM.
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