BSI Chapter 79 God's caliber is 88
Chapter 79 God's caliber is 88
Chapter 79 God's caliber is 88
13:30, N34 coastal highway, in the bushes on the west side of the roadbed, 1.5 km from the Lombard Bridge.
Arthur felt that if he led his men straight in, the Germans would probably see them as no different from rats running into a mousetrap.
However, this mousetrap weighs seven tons, is made of Krupp steel, and fires 88mm armor-piercing rounds.
He didn't stay inside the tank.
A few minutes earlier, he ordered the entire convoy to leave the road, using the sand dunes and windbreaks for camouflage, and to shut down and hide.
He was lying face down in the damp grass, his chest pressed against the cold earth. Beside him, Lieutenant Jeanne, Sergeant McTavish, and Major Ryder stood in a line, four binoculars peering out from the gaps in the bushes, their eyes fixed on the distance.
Although the rain and fog obscured most of the details in the field of vision, the four massive, fan-shaped outlines were still so clear that they were breathtaking.
Those were four Flak 18/36 88mm anti-aircraft guns.
At this distance, they could be precision instruments used to deal with bombers flying at 20,000 feet, or four shotguns pointed at the heads of Sterling's assault team.
"My God—"
Sergeant McTavish chewed on a muddy blade of grass: "Four 88mm guns. Two groups, cross firing range."
Together with the surrounding machine gun positions, they completely blocked off the bridge. There were no blind spots.
Arthur didn't say anything, he just adjusted the focus.
On his retina, the RTS system, visible only to him, thoughtfully marked the "lethal radius" of the four cannons in bright red. It was a huge fan shape covering a two-kilometer area on the south bank of the bridge.
The meaning is very simple:
Within this sector, God's will is 88 mm caliber.
Arthur withdrew his gaze and glanced back at the sand dunes behind him. There, his "ghost column" lay silently lurking in the shadows of the windbreak.
This was all the wealth he had managed to salvage from the meat grinder in Flöhrne.
The target was the eight Matilda II infantry tanks that were out of service—two of which were painted in "Avenger" camouflage, and the other six were painted in desert camouflage as "Desert Queens".
They are the only tough nuts to crack in this team.
Closely following behind were the elite of the Cold Creek Guard.
These veteran soldiers didn't crowd into the trucks; instead, they monopolized the vehicles with the strongest firepower and best protection (second only to tanks): 12 Sd.Kfz.251 half-tracks captured from the German army and 15 light and agile Bren gun vehicles.
They carried Thompson submachine guns, MP40 submachine guns, and Bren machine guns, remaining constantly on alert.
At the very end of the line were the more than three thousand line-filling babies under Major Ryder's command.
They crammed more than forty Bedford trucks, Morris commercial trucks, and even a few ambulances painted with the Red Cross into the trucks they had scavenged from various places, like sardines.
This is no longer the "Sterling Assault Group" that only had about twenty vehicles at most.
The current fleet has tripled in size.
Dozens of vehicles of different models, conditions, and even countries lined up in a long queue on the highway, like a bloated, sluggish python suffering from indigestion.
What gave Arthur the biggest headache was that this was a piece of meat with no air defenses whatsoever.
Arthur looked up at the thick fog overhead; it was the last curtain God had left for them. If it weren't for the fog that had shrouded the English Channel for the past two days, the Stukas of the German 2nd Air Force would have already caught wind of their approach.
But this good luck won't last long.
The RTS "Weather Forecast" module indicates that a low-pressure trough is about to pass.
As soon as the sun comes out, or the sea breeze disperses the fog, this convoy stretching for kilometers becomes a live target for dive bombers to practice dropping bombs.
Once discovered, a single artillery barrage or a dive by two Stukas would turn at least half of these thousands of people into charred remains.
Arthur's gaze pierced through the rain and mist, locking onto a medical truck in the middle of the convoy, its surface completely covered by a tarpaulin.
In the back of that vehicle lay his once spirited senior—Major Edward Hawke, former battalion commander of the Cold Creek Guards.
Hawke was no longer the spirited aristocratic officer he once was at the military academy. The fleeing soldiers took turns looking after him, trying to cool him down with wet towels, but they couldn't stop the high fever from consuming his life.
In Arthur's system interface, the green health bar above Major Hawke's head had turned a chilling orange-red.
[Target: Edward Hawke]
[Status: Severe infection/Deep coma]
HP: 30% (Continuing to decrease)
"There isn't much time left."
Arthur was silently calculating in his mind.
If the bridge isn't opened up quickly and Hawke isn't taken to a proper field hospital, the only possible outcome for this Guards Major will likely be adding a new tombstone to his family cemetery.
But this is just a matter of one person dying. Arthur and he were not related, so his death can only be attributed to bad luck.
Even more fatally, Arthur knew very well what the land beneath their feet meant.
It's clearly marked on the RTS map that this is the junction of the German 1st and 2nd Panzer Divisions.
If they stay here for just one more hour, and are caught by reconnaissance forces from either side, when these two meat grinders close in, these thousands of people will be crushed along with their vehicles, leaving no trace of their deaths.
"What if we force our way through?"
Major Ryder lowered his binoculars and turned to look at Arthur.
The orthodox British officer frowned, clearly uneasy about the current standstill. "I mean, full speed ahead. Get Matilda at full throttle, weaving through traffic, using smoke grenades to obstruct vision—"
"Serpentine maneuver?"
Arthur's expression visibly turned cold. He turned his head and stared intently at the major with the look one would give a murderer.
At that moment, Major Ryder felt a palpable killing intent.
"It is because there are too many fools like you who only make assumptions on a sand table that the British armored forces bleed dry on the plains of France like a herd of slaughtered pigs!"
Arthur slammed the unlit cigarette onto the muddy ground, his voice suddenly becoming low and irritable. He was clearly angered by Ryder's words and would not tolerate such a foolish commander under his command: "Major, do you know the top speed of the Matilda I1 on the road? 24 kilometers per hour. And that's downhill, with a tailwind, and the engine not breaking down."
"If you make this 27-ton iron lump do a serpentine maneuver, its speed will drop to less than 10 kilometers per hour."
In the German gunner's scope, that wasn't a snake; it was a constipated turtle!
He stretched out his finger, almost poking Major Ryder's nose, and then pointed sharply at the several dark cannon muzzles in the distance: "Faced with an anti-aircraft gun that can penetrate 100mm of vertical armor at a distance of 1500 meters, what you're driving isn't a tank, it's a mobile coffin."
"At this distance, the 88mm gun's shells have a flight time of less than two seconds. Forget about serpentine maneuvers, even if you waltz over there, the Germans can still blow your damn turret off into the Iser River to feed the fish."
"Besides, open your eyes and look! That's a bridge!"
Arthur's voice turned into a roar, spitting directly into Ryder's face. He had no intention of giving the major any face; he wanted to teach him a lesson—in a way that would leave a lasting impression.
"Making serpentine maneuvers on a straight road that's only six meters wide? Are you trying to save them ammunition by driving the tank straight into the river because you think the Germans have too much trouble aiming?!"
"Listen, Ryder."
Arthur took a step closer and grabbed the major by the collar: "If you ever dare to make such stupid suggestions as sending my tank crew to their deaths again, or spout nonsense in tactical meetings, I'll strip you of your command and throw you into the mess hall."
He loosened his grip, disgustedly brushing the dirt off his gloves: "Perhaps going back to your hometown in Yorkshire to raise pigs would be more suitable for you than commanding battles. At least the pigs would appreciate you feeding them, instead of sending living people into meat grinders like this."
Major Ryder's face turned ugly, his pale face showing a hint of shame and indignation, but he opened his mouth and made a "gurgling" sound in his throat, but could not utter a single word in rebuttal.
"And there's an even more fatal problem."
Jeanne interrupted.
She lay prone to Arthur's left, her binoculars still in her hand, and said with a hint of helplessness, "Sir, our ammunition."
"We do not have high-explosive shells."
This is a weakness that is often overlooked, but is fatal at this time.
The 2-pounder gun equipped on the Matilda II tank was designed purely as an anti-tank weapon from the outset, and was issued only with solid armor-piercing rounds.
This means that even if they miraculously manage to cross that 1500-meter death zone and reach those cannons, all they'll be holding are large steel needles.
"Use that thing to fight anti-aircraft guns?" Jeanne gave a wry smile. "Unless you can guarantee that every shot will accurately hit that recoil cylinder, which is only the size of a bowl, or hit the gunner directly in the head. Otherwise, the solid shot will only go through a few millimeters of protective shield, leaving a small hole, and then the German gunner who is not dead will turn around as if nothing happened and blow you to smithereens."
"It can't be penetrated, it can't be blown up, and it can't be broken through."
McTavish spat out the grass in his mouth and concluded, "This is a dead end. If we had a few 3-inch mortars, we could have fired over the dunes, since those 88mm guns have no overhead protection. Even throwing a few smoke grenades would have helped."
At this point, the sergeant suddenly remembered something, turned his head, and looked at Major Ryder with the eyes of someone looking at a spendthrift: "Unfortunately, our only few boxes of mortar shells were shot down like fireworks by some people when we broke out of Flney."
Feeling the murderous glares directed at him, Major Ryder immediately raised his hands innocently, looking aggrieved: "Don't look at me like that! I'm just strictly following orders!"
Ryder, his face radiating self-righteousness and even a hint of indignation at being misunderstood, declared: "Sir, you yourself said—don't conserve ammunition! That's why, when German infantry charged, I ordered the mortars to clear the area to minimize casualties!"
Arthur looked at Ryder, opened his mouth, but found himself speechless.
What a perfect logical closed loop.
"We're stuck at this damn intersection," McTavish sighed, turning his gaze back to the map, "waiting for the 1st Armored Division to catch up and sandwich us."
A brief silence fell over the bushes once more.
Rain dripped down the edge of the helmet and onto the back of Arthur's hand.
"No."
Arthur suddenly spoke up.
His gaze passed over the Bridge of Death on the RTS map and landed on the Niupot district on the other side of the river.
Around the blue dot representing friendly forces, countless red enemy markers were writhing. That was the encirclement of the German 2nd Panzer Division.
But he discovered a detail—a detail that could only be seen from a God's-eye view, or that only an extremely calm observer could capture.
The muzzles of all four 88mm guns were pointed south—that is, towards Highway N34 on Arthur's side.
In pursuit of maximizing the frontal defensive area, the Germans piled up shields and sandbag fortifications on the front.
They may have received some information, such as someone was going to charge into their territory, so they made preparations to defend against the enemy, and even brought in 88mm cannons.
But to the Niupot city behind them, what they revealed was their undefended rear end, covered with cables, spare ammunition boxes, and no armor protection whatsoever.
"The Germans have locked the door and won't let us in."
Arthur slowly pulled himself out of the bushes, rolled over, and looked up at the gloomy sky.
A sinister smile curled at the corner of his mouth: "Since they can't get in, then let them out."
14: 00.
"This is 'Wildcats.' Sterling, are you still there?"
Major McKenzie's voice came through the radio again. Compared to his previous excitement, this time his voice carried a hint of numbness born of despair: "The Germans' loudspeakers just blared again. They said there's dessert after lunch—the artillery regiment of the 2nd Panzer Division is in position. If we don't surrender, they're going to bomb Niupot back to the Stone Age."
"Don't rush to eat dessert, Major. If I were you, I'd save room for the victory celebration."
"You and I both know that's just a German trick. If they really dared to bomb you, they would have done it already."
Arthur leaned against the edge of the command tower, microphone in hand, his eyes still fixed on the bridge: "But I did see the welcoming ceremony. Four 88mm guns. I must say, the Germans really went all out to welcome me."
"Four gates?!" Mackenzie gasped. "Then you absolutely mustn't come over! That's death trap!"
"I think so too. So I don't plan to force it."
Arthur's tone calmed down: "Listen, Mackenzie. Let's make a deal."
"What kind of deal?"
"I will knock on the door promptly at 22:00 PM tonight."
Arthur paused, his tone chilling, "But I can't open this door. There are four vicious dogs behind it. So, I need you to help me from inside."
Do you have a mortar?
"—Yes. The last two boxes of shells."
That's enough.
Arthur pointed heavily at the coordinates of the 88mm cannons on the map: "Tonight at 10 PM. I want you to smash those two boxes of shells onto the backs of those cannons at the bridgehead. The accuracy doesn't need to be perfect, just make a loud bang."
"At the same time, bring out all your tanks—if those Vickers light tanks are still operational. Take your men, charge out of the city, and run onto the bridge."
"Are you crazy?" Mackenzie's voice suddenly rose. "That's suicide! Those Vickers tanks aren't as thick-skinned as me!"
"If you stay in the cave, that's suicide."
Arthur interrupted him, giving him no room for negotiation: "Those are 88mm guns, Major. Their gun shields only protect the front, not the back. When you rush out of the city, they'll be four immobile iron targets."
"We're going to make a sandwich for the Germans. I'll make the bread, and you'll make the meat."
"What if—I mean, what if," Mackenzie's voice trembled slightly, "what if we make it out, and the bridge gets blown up?"
"Then swim over here."
Arthur stubbed out his cigarette and said coldly, "Or, pray that my infantry can outrun the German engineers."
"22:00. See you there, Major."
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