BSI Chapter 108 Tactical Negotiation and Guderian's PTSD
Chapter 108 Tactical Negotiation and Guderian's PTSD
Chapter 108 Tactical Negotiation and Guderian's PTSD
June 7, 1940, 16:00, main road in Zone D, outside the port of Le Havre.
The noise of the battlefield vanished in an instant, and the battlefield suddenly fell silent.
Just three minutes ago, this place was a chaotic force field composed of 75mm high-explosive shells, 7.92mm machine gun bullets, and concrete fragments.
Now, with several signal flares launched into the sky, the German offensive came to an abrupt halt.
It felt like a meat grinder running at full speed had its power plug suddenly pulled.
German frontline command post.
Major General Erwin Rommel stood beside the dusty half-track command vehicle, clutching the microphone that had been roaring just moments before.
His expression froze in a very awkward dimension—the muscle stiffness caused by being forced to suppress his anger halfway through.
In front of him stood a Daimler-Benz G4 SUV that had just entered the battlefield and was flying the flag of the 19th Armored Corps. That vehicle was also the Führer's favorite car.
General Heinz Guderian stood beside the vehicle. He brushed non-existent dust off his uniform and calmly looked at the major general before him, who was on the verge of spontaneous combustion.
"Withdraw the troops, Erwin."
Guderian's voice was calm, but his tone was meaningful: "Send someone to the other side to say that General Guderian, commander of the 19th Panzer Corps of the German Wehrmacht, wishes to have a meeting with the commander on the other side based on chivalry."
Upon hearing this, even Rommel narrowed his eyes.
His gaze swept back and forth across Guderian, as if trying to see through the general's uniform to see if anyone had replaced parts inside.
"Chivalry?"
Rommel repeated the word, his tone dripping with sarcasm: "General, if I remember correctly, in Poland, in the Ardennes Forest, in Sedan, the core doctrine you taught us was always: speed is everything, ignore the flanks, ignore the prisoners, just charge forward."
"What's wrong? Not enough diesel fuel for today? Or have your tanks suddenly learned what 'politeness' is?"
Rommel pointed to the still-smoking ruins in the distance: "Why don't you pick up your binoculars and look across the way? We're fighting a bunch of lunatics. Our soldiers are suffering heavy casualties. What's with all this talk of chivalry at a time like this? Are you trying to stop and invite the enemy for afternoon tea, General? You're just as absurd as those people in the Supreme Command."
Guderian wasn't angry. He simply sighed, took the telegram from Army Group A headquarters from his briefcase, and handed it to Rommel.
"If you need a reason, this is it."
Guderian pointed to a few lines on the telegram: "The painter—no, the Führer—has changed his mind."
"Given that Field Marshal Pétain is already considering forming a new government and has shown great sincerity," the Führer believes we should demonstrate the civility and restraint of the German Wehrmacht.
He wanted Le Havre to become a model of an open city, like Paris, resolved through negotiation, not with high-explosive bombs.
Rommel's lips twitched slightly after reading the telegram.
politics.
It's that damn politics again. When military operations reach their most critical breakthrough stage, politicians always like to stick their hands into the turning gears.
"Very well." Rommel tossed the telegram back onto the table, his tone unfriendly. "If this is truly the Führer's will, then I have nothing to say. Send an advisor to negotiate. Tell that British general—the one named Fortune—to come out and surrender."
"No."
Guderian suddenly interrupted him.
The word "no" was spoken with absolute certainty, even carrying a hint of barely perceptible urgency.
"I'm not looking for Fortune." Guderian straightened the Knight's Cross of the Iron Cross on his collar, trying to make his tone sound like it was just out of simple curiosity rather than some kind of psychological stress: "I'm looking for Arthur Sterling."
"AS."
"We're only looking for him."
Rommel was stunned.
He turned his head and looked at Guderian with a completely new, inquisitive gaze.
An eerie silence filled the air.
As a keen tactician, Rommel sensed something was amiss.
Something's not right, something's very wrong.
Although Rommel was not a member of the Prussian Junkers officer corps due to his background, he and Guderian shared a morbid belief in "speed" and "armor".
In a sense, they were accomplices, the left and right protectors of the internal combustion engine cult.
Like him, Guderian was a pure pragmatist. In his eyes, the battlefield was only divided into "passable terrain" and "impassable terrain," and he never had the sentimental question of "who the opponent is."
He only cared whether the tracks could run over the object, not who it crushed.
But what's going on today?
This "father of armored troops" rushed from the rear headquarters of the 19th Army, a distance of hundreds of miles, and forcibly stopped two armored divisions. When did this guy start talking about politics?
Or was he just here to see a British colonel?
Immediately, he thought of the rumor, which he had dismissed as a joke when he heard people talking about it.
But now...
"General," Rommel stepped closer, lowering his voice, "You were at the bridge over the A River—was something I don't know about?"
"I heard that a squad of British soldiers charged in that night?"
Guderian's eye twitched very slightly.
Those are micro-expression remnants of post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD).
Although he did his utmost to maintain the rigidity and dignity expected of a Prussian officer, in that instant, his cerebral cortex did indeed replay the images of that night: the B1 heavy tank, that young and arrogant face, and the command vehicle that had been stolen.
But he would never admit it, or rather, he couldn't admit it.
A dignified armored general was almost taken away by a British major. Now he's a colonel, and he was even sent away on a tracked vehicle. In the end, he was even put on a tricycle, wearing pajamas, and fled in a sorry state through the muddy river.
If this were confirmed, it would instantly become a joke that even a private would secretly laugh about in bed.
"You're overthinking it, Erwin." Goodry turned around nonchalantly, looking at the distant ruins. "I'm simply curious about this young man who managed to hold you off for eight hours. That's all."
"Execute the order. Call that Sterling out."
16:15, British 51st Highland Division front command.
The communications officer took off his headset, and the expression on his face was priceless.
He swallowed hard and looked at Major General Fortune, who was studying the retreat route at the map table.
"Sir—" the staff officer stammered, "The Germans—the Germans have suggested a half-hour ceasefire."
"They sent a telegram in plain text. It was sent in the name of the 19th Armored Corps."
Major General Fortune raised his head, a hint of doubt flashing in his bloodshot old eyes: "The 19th Panzer Corps? Guderian?"
Shouldn't that guy be going to Paris?
"Yes, sir. But General Guderian is right across the street." The staff officer glanced at Arthur, who was standing in the corner wiping his submachine gun, and continued, "Guderian has indicated that, out of humanitarian considerations, he hopes to hold a ceasefire negotiation with our commander."
Major General Fortune paused for a moment, then straightened his dusty uniform.
As a traditional British gentleman and professional soldier, even though the war had progressed to this point, he still maintained a certain World War I-era courtesy and respect for this "meeting between generals".
"Alright." Fortune sighed, stood up, and said, "Since the one who led the blitzkrieg wants to sit down and talk this time, I'll go see him. At least it can buy some time for the wounded."
"Uh—Sir—" The staff officer's expression became even more awkward. "The Germans specifically emphasized that they refuse to negotiate with anyone except Colonel Arthur Sterling."
"Guderian specifically requested to see Colonel Sterling. He is the sole representative."
Quiet.
A deathly silence.
Everyone in the command post turned their heads in unison, including Major General Fortune, Major Ryder, McTavish, and even Jeanne, who was bandaging the wounded, to focus on Arthur in the corner.
Arthur Sterling was sitting on an ammunition box, wiping the bolt of Thompson's submachine gun with a rag that McTavish handed him.
Feeling the gazes of the crowd, he raised his head and blinked innocently.
Major General Fortune's face changed four colors in three seconds: from doubt to shock, from shock to anger, and finally settled on an extremely complex sense of absurdity.
"Colonel." Major General Fortune's voice trembled slightly. He pointed to the radio, then to Arthur: "You—I mean, during the breakout earlier—"
The old general took a deep breath.
"Did you steal Guderian's underwear?"
If there wasn't some deep-seated hatred, why would a German general specifically request to see a newly promoted colonel?
Even if Arthur was a national hero of the British Empire under Churchill's propaganda machine, in the Allied military organization chart, he was number 51.
The highest military commander and sole representative of the High Ground Division was still Major General Victor Fortune.
He and Guderian were the highest-ranking officers in their respective camps.
Arthur shrugged. He rested his submachine gun on his knees. "No, Major General. I have no interest in the underwear of old German men."
"I probably just stole his command vehicle. And smoked his cigar while I was at it. Oh, and maybe I accidentally crushed his tent while crossing the bridge."
Arthur spread his hands, giving an apologetic smile: "You know, we were in a hurry back then, and the road conditions weren't great."
Major General Fortune's mouth dropped open.
He instinctively glanced at the two people behind Arthur—Ryder and McTavish—trying to get a look of denial from them.
Unfortunately, what he saw was the reaction of an accomplice.
Major Ryder covered his face in pain and let out a desperate groan—clearly, as one of the participants in that night's operation, he knew very well how badly they had tormented the German general that night.
McTavish then let out a carefree "pfft" laugh.
The case has been solved; it was an extremely heinous gang crime.
"This is a trap." Major Ryder covered his face, but quickly regained his composure, though his voice sounded weak. "Arthur, you can't go. Guderian is definitely holding a grudge. We were all there that night—I mean, considering we were less than fifty meters away from him, he definitely remembers our faces."
Fortune understood now. No wonder the Germans were so persistent.
This is not a negotiation at all; the victim has come to us.
"This is a trap." Major Ryder regained his composure, even becoming somewhat anxious. "Arthur, you can't go. Guderian is definitely holding a grudge. Once you step out, that madman Rommel might just shove an 88mm gun into your mouth."
"No, Ryder." Arthur stood up, tossing the gun-cleaning cloth onto the table, his eyes calm. "This is to our advantage. Very much to our advantage."
"The current situation is that the Germans have the upper hand. If they wanted to fight, they could simply crush them. But they chose to stop and negotiate."
"What does this mean?" Arthur held up one finger. "It means there might be a change in the situation in Berlin. It means Guderian might have received some political order to 'limit the war effort.'"
"You have to understand, the person on the other side is Guderian, not some street thug. He would never order a division to cease fire just because I stole his car. Besides, the 7th Panzer Division belongs to Rommel. Even if Guderian gave the order, Rommel would definitely continue the attack without sufficient justification."
"And the one who can restrain both of them at the same time must be someone higher up."
"Since they want to talk, I'll talk with them." Arthur glanced at his watch.
16: 25.
There are three and a half hours until nightfall. There are five and a half hours until the convoy arrives.
There were still fifteen minutes before the reinforcements arrived.
"Every minute we can buy time means fewer deaths." Arthur straightened his SS leather overcoat, which was covered in lime powder—a trophy that now seemed particularly ironic.
"McTavish".
"Yes, sir." The Scottish sergeant immediately stood at attention.
"Take your men with you. Especially those sharpshooters who are the best hunters in the Scottish Highlands."
"Find a high vantage point with a good view. Right to the side of the meeting place."
"If the Germans dare to play dirty, or if Guderian even moves his hand towards the holster—" Arthur made a "bloom" gesture: "smash that general's head. I want to see if he can still run a blitzkrieg after losing his brain."
"Got it." McTavish grinned. "I'll give him a real head start."
Arthur turned his head again and looked at Jeanne in the corner. The woman was currently clutching a special radio tightly.
"Have the coordinates been corrected?" Arthur asked.
"It's been corrected." Jeanne nodded. "It's at the intersection of the main road in District D. That's where you'll meet."
"Very good." Arthur nodded. "Once you hear my signal—or see me lie down—guide the Royal Air Force to get to work."
Jeanne's finger hovered over the telegraph key, a flicker of disbelief and astonishment crossing her grey-blue eyes. She looked at the man adjusting his collar as if he were a critically ill patient who had just escaped from a mental hospital.
"Colonel, this is insane."
Although she had known this madman for a few days, Jeanne couldn't help but speak, her voice filled with awe: "Are you sure, Colonel? That coordinate is less than a hundred meters from the intersection where you're negotiating. According to the circular error probable of Blenheim bombers at an altitude of two thousand feet, this is an absolutely 'extremely dangerous distance.'"
"Given the scale, tens of tons of explosives would have fallen from the sky. If even one bomb had missed by the slightest margin, you would have been vaporized along with that table, and perhaps that German general."
Jeanne stared intently at Arthur: "To blow the heroes of the British Empire into a pile of this damn rubble for a mere tactical deception? Is it worth it?"
Arthur stopped what he was doing. He turned to look at Jeanne, seemingly unconcerned: "Tell those pilots not to care too much about those so-called safety limits in the textbooks."
""
"Just don't drop a bomb directly on my head. As for the rest, I'll leave it to luck."
As for whether it's worth it—
Arthur shrugged and pushed open the heavy iron door of the command post, the smell of gunpowder outside instantly rushing in: "If I could trade my life for the lives of Guderian and Rommel, I think Prime Minister Churchill would probably be dancing in the bathtub with joy."
"Let's go, gentlemen."
Arthur strode out, his back view resolute like that of a condemned prisoner heading to his execution, or a thug preparing to cause trouble: "I'm going to meet the father of armored warfare."
There are two more chapters coming up, they'll be a little later, but they'll definitely be here.
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