gnovel Chapter 92 We are ordered to take over your 88mm artillery positions
Chapter 92 We are ordered to take over your 88mm artillery positions
Chapter 92 We are ordered to take over your 88mm artillery position (Mega Chapter)
June 6, 1940, 12:00, Picardy Region, France, D928 Tactical Highway, SS 999th Special Operations Battalion (puppet) marching order.
The midday sun shone vertically on the asphalt road, creating distorted waves of heat.
The convoy had just left the Saint Valerian Abbey, a place filled with the stench of blood and charred corpses. Though there were no flames, the lingering smell of death still clung to the tracks of every half-track, carried away into the distance with each turn of the wheels.
Unlike the other soldiers, Arthur did not bask in the adrenaline rush of the one-sided massacre, nor did he touch the bottle of expensive Hennessy brandy that he had just captured.
He was looking at the picture, the one in his mind.
"Ryder".
Arthur spoke up: "Notify the entire convoy to cease radio silence. Switch the channel to the 51st Highland Division's public band, but only receive, do not transmit."
Ryder was wiping the blood off the Fairbairn-Sykes assault knife when he heard the order. He paused for half a second before pressing a knob on the car radio.
"Sir, what are you looking at?" Ryder asked.
"I'm looking at the dead eye in this game."
""
Arthur traced his finger in the air, zooming in on a map area located on the south bank of the Somme.
Immediately afterwards, his brows furrowed.
This trapped force was nothing like the routed troops Arthur encountered in the Dunkirk area—the infantrymen who had thrown away their rifles, the artillerymen who had destroyed their cannons, and the drivers who had burned their trucks.
On the contrary, according to the data displayed by the system, this was the last fully-fledged strategic unit left behind by the entire British Expeditionary Force on the European continent.
Arthur naturally clicked on the huge blue military emblem icon.
In an instant, countless fine streams of data unfolded like a waterfall on my retina. Each line of text represented a historically renowned honorary unit, and each number represented a fully armed Scottish elite.
This was a mighty army, strong enough to knock Rommel's teeth out on the front lines.
[Strategic Unit Details: 51st (High Ground) Infantry Division]
Commander: Major General Victor Fortune
[Current Status: Surrounded/Morale Shaken/Chain of Command in Disarray]
[Staff completeness: 98% (full strength, no heavy weapons losses)]
Total troop strength statistics
Combat personnel: 13,850 (excluding logistics and support units)
火炮总量：72门25磅野战炮，48门2磅反坦克炮车辆总数：3，200辆（含通用载具、牵引车及摩托车和自行车）
152nd Infantry Brigade
Commander: Brigadier General Stewart (Brigadier H.W.Stewart)
Strength: 2,450 men, comprising combat battalions:
2nd Battalion, Seaforth Highlanders: 785 men [Elite/Veteran]
4th Battalion, Seaforth Highlanders: 760 men [Regular]
4th Battalion, Queen's Own Cameron Highlanders: 775 men [regular]
Also listed alongside them are the 153rd Infantry Brigade, commanded by Brigadier General Burnett, with 2480 men, and the 154th Infantry Brigade, commanded by Brigadier General Stanley Clark, with 2440 men.
Of course, these three infantry brigades were just appetizers. What really made Arthur envious was the division's artillery. This division was equipped with three artillery regiments, each armed with 25 QF 25-pound field howitzers (Mk.1I): the 17th Field Regiment (RA), the 23rd Field Regiment, and the 75th Field Regiment, and they had ample ammunition (high-explosive shells/smoke shells/armor-piercing shells).
And an anti-tank regiment:
51st Anti-Tank Regiment (RA):
Equipment: 48 QF 2-pounder anti-tank guns (4 artillery batteries, 12 guns per battery)
And what about those special divisional support units?
皇家诺森伯兰发枪团第7营（机枪营）：配备48挺维克斯重机枪皇家工兵第26、236、237野战连：携带大量爆破器材与架桥设备看着这串长长的、闪烁着金色光芒的精锐列表，亚瑟感觉自己的太阳穴在突突直跳。
This is not some beggar's army that was routed and abandoned during the "Dunkirk evacuation".
This is a fully equipped heavy infantry division.
They possessed 72 of the world's best 25-pounder field guns, 48 of which were capable of penetrating any German tank at this range.
It possesses anti-tank guns and more than 10,000 Scottish Highland infantrymen known for their tenacity.
If commanded properly, this force could easily deploy a ring-shaped hedgehog formation on the spot.
(Defence), which held Rommel's 7th Panzer Division, which was short of oil and ammunition, on the south bank of the Somme for at least three days.
But now, this heavily armed behemoth is cowering by the river like a frightened quail, its only escape route blocked by several German 88mm guns, waiting for the white flag to be raised.
"What a waste of resources."
Arthur spat out the word through gritted teeth and slammed the data panel shut: "Churchill gave them the best sword, but they were prepared to use it to slice the white bread used for surrender."
This is precisely the cruel logic behind Winston Churchill's decision to leave them in France—
It wasn't because the prime minister was unaware of the danger of the situation, but because this cigar-smoking old fox needed a sufficiently significant political bargaining chip.
To appease the collapsing French government and to prove that "the British Empire would never abandon its allies," he did not hesitate to drive this elite division, equipped with full heavy weaponry and the best organization, into the crumbling Somme defense line like a nail.
Churchill was betting that this "Scottish hard walnut" could break the Germans' teeth and forcefully stabilize the French flank.
But now, the French defenses are as rotten as soaked toilet paper.
This elite force, on which high hopes were placed, was now facing the most awkward dead end: the gates of Dunkirk had been closed, their retreat to the north had been cut off, and their only way out was to head west and fight their way to Le Havre.
However, these soldiers, armed with the best weapons, were trapped in front of this damned bridge because of their commander's indecisiveness, waiting for a non-existent miracle.
Arthur stared at the chaotic, crowded blue icons on the map, his fingers tapping impatiently in the air.
Compared to the textbook "alternating cover retreat" demonstrated by Bernard Montgomery during the Dunkirk evacuation—where the firepower of each regiment covered each other, and the retreat was carried out in an orderly manner—the 51st Hill Division in front of us was simply a tactical disaster.
The defense zones of the three infantry brigades were tangled together like a ball of hemp thread.
The trucks of the 152nd Brigade blocked the artillery firing line of the 153rd Brigade; the flanks of the 154th Brigade were completely exposed to the direct fire of the 7th Armored Division, and no anti-tank strongpoints were set up; a large number of 25-pound field guns were not deployed to their positions, but were instead attached to the back of tractors, crowded on the road waiting for the order to pass that would never come down.
"Chaos. Disorder. Congestion."
Arthur coldly commented: "General Fortune may be a good man, but he clearly doesn't understand what modern armored defense warfare is."
"If Rommel's tanks were to charge now, this force of 10,000 elite soldiers and hundreds of artillery pieces would collapse within half an hour due to self-inflicted trampling and command paralysis."
"We have to take it over, Ryder."
Arthur closed the allied details page that was raising his blood pressure, and his gaze returned to the deadly red diamond icon on the south bank: "But before that, we need to open the gate for these sheep."
This force of over 10,000 men was now confined to a narrow strip of land north of Abbeville. Directly south of them, on the south bank of the Abbeville Bridge spanning the Somme, a striking red diamond-shaped anti-aircraft symbol was flashing unsettlingly.
[German Air Defense Position (LuftwaffeFlakBattery)]
[Unit: 2nd Battalion, 16th Air Defense Regiment]
[Specifications: 8.8cm Flak 364/20mm Flak 386]
[Status: Level 1 Combat Readiness/Ground Attack Alert Mode]
Around this red diamond-shaped icon is a striking light red fan-shaped area, which represents the absolute kill radius of the 88mm anti-aircraft gun in its horizontal firing state.
This radius perfectly covers the bridge deck of the Abbeville Bridge and the approach bridge area on the north bank.
Any armored unit or infantry group attempting to cross this bridge will be directly dismembered by 88mm armor-piercing rounds at this distance.
"They're in trouble."
Arthur looked away and tapped a Lucky Strike cigarette out of the pack—he had just grabbed it from the monastery's supply box.
"Click."
Major Ryder instinctively struck a match and leaned over to light Arthur's cigarette.
"If the 51st Heights Division wanted to go home, they had to cross the river to Le Havre. But the Germans had prepared a great gift for them on the other side of the bridge."
"9
"An 88mm gun?"
Ryder understood Arthur's implication, but looking at the terrain on the map, he frowned. "Sir," he said, "from what I understand, the large-caliber anti-aircraft guns the Germans use employ high-velocity armor-piercing shells or delayed-explosive grapeshot. They are designed to penetrate armor or create fragmentation in the air, and are not very effective against dispersed infantry groups. In theory, the 51st Division's infantry could easily break through and charge."
"If you're in the open African desert, you're right, Ryder. But on a bridge, which is an absolute one-way street, it's a completely different story."
Arthur took a deep drag of his cigarette and pointed to the narrow stone bridge on the map: "The Germans don't need to kill all ten thousand. They only need to do one thing—shoot down the truck in the front row."
"Once the first Bedford truck that tries to cross the bridge burns to a pile of scrap metal in the middle, the entire bridge will become congested. Thousands of vehicles and hundreds of cannons behind it will be stuck on the approach bridge on the north bank, unable to move."
"What about their artillery? They have dozens of 25-pound cannons, are they just firewood?"
Major Ryder was clearly aware of the 51st Division's formidable firepower, which was what puzzled him most: "The 51st Division has three Royal Field Artillery Regiments, with 72 QF 25-pound howitzers. Even in a firefight, 72 guns against 6 guns should be enough to destroy that anti-aircraft position."
"Ryder, you're right, that's the most ironic part."
Arthur exhaled a smoke ring: "If I'm not mistaken..."
"Those 25-pounder guns are not on the position now, but towed. They are attached to the back of Morris's tractor, crammed into the chaotic marching column, and essentially, they are no different from the fleeing soldiers we have encountered."
When the artillery is towed, it's just a pile of scrap metal. To fire it, you need to drive the vehicle to an open area, unhook the tow hook, lower the spade, and calibrate the firing data—this whole process takes at least 20 to 30 minutes.
"And the 88mm guns on the other side were direct fire. At a distance of 1500 meters, the Germans could blow any British tractor-trailer attempting to deploy into pieces in just two seconds."
"Then why don't they use indirect fire?"
Major Ryder immediately pointed out another tactical possibility: "The 25-pounder is a howitzer, and its curved trajectory can be used to conduct indirect fire from the reverse slope to the north. The artillery of the 51st Division does not need to be exposed to the direct fire of the 88mm gun."
"That's true in theory. But unfortunately, indirect fire requires one thing—an eye."
Arthur interrupted him coldly: "Indirect fire isn't just shooting blindly at a map. It requires forward observers to climb to high ground to confirm the target, radio or wired telephones to transmit the coordinates back to the artillery battery, the fire command post to calculate the data, and test firings and corrections."
"But like I said before, the entire division is probably in complete chaos right now. Their chain of command has long since broken, and the radios are probably filled with screams and jamming. Without real-time fire corrections from observers, are they just blindly firing across the hills?"
"That would have no tactical value other than making a noise for the Germans. In fact, it would be tactically suicidal – blindly firing would only reveal our coordinates and attract German shells and Stukas."
Arthur flicked his cigarette ash and gazed into the seemingly quiet depths of the woods on the south bank: "Don't forget, it's not just tanks following Rommel. The 150mm heavy howitzers of the 7th Panzer Division's artillery regiment have been set up for a long time, and even the firing data have been calibrated."
"The only reason they're remaining silent is because the shells haven't arrived yet."
"But Victoire was unaware of this. He was very cautious and would never dare to order the firing before he was absolutely certain that he could break through the 7th Armored Division's blockade in one blow, because he only had one chance."
"So now he needs someone to help him break out of this predicament."
Arthur flicked his cigarette ash: "But what's worse is that the German armored forces are catching up from behind."
Arthur turned his head and glanced at the road behind him through the rearview mirror.
At the edge of the RTS map, in the direction of the monastery he had just left, a crimson arrow representing German armored forces was rapidly generating and advancing south at an astonishing speed.
[Enemy Movements: 25th Panzer Regiment, 7th Panzer Division (Reinforced)]
Distance: 15 kilometers
Speed: 40 km/h
[Intent: Pursuit/Annihilation]
Rommel reacted even faster than Yasser had anticipated. The "Desert Fox" was clearly enraged and unleashed his sharpest fangs.
The road was blocked by 88mm artillery in front, and an armored regiment was in pursuit from behind.
Sandwiched in the middle was the 51st Highland Division, which was still hesitant and confused.
If nothing is done, the Scottish troops will either be wiped out or surrender.
"We're stuck in the middle." Ryder quickly made the assessment. "Sir, should we take a detour? Before Rommel's tanks catch up, we can head west and go along the beach—"
"A detour?"
Arthur's face broke into a greedy grin, the kind that only a seasoned RTS player would wear when spotting perfect ambush terrain: "No, Ryder. Why take the detour?"
Arthur pointed to the red anti-aircraft position blocking the bridge on the map: "When God closes a door, we blow the door frame off with explosives."
"We're not going to the beach. We're going to that anti-aircraft gun position."
"What are you going to do?" Ryder was a little confused by this jump in his thoughts.
"Go and change shifts."
Arthur drew his Luger P08 pistol from his waist, checked the bullets in the chamber: "Go tell those air force lads that the SS have taken over their positions. Also, we happen to need a few good can openers" to entertain General Rommel's pursuers.
"Use German cannons to shoot down German tanks and save British lives."
Arthur took one last drag of his cigarette, exhaling the pungent smoke after it circulated through his lungs: "This is the most efficient use of resources."
12:15. German 7th Panzer Division front command post.
Major General Erwin Rommel stood before the field table covered with maps.
Inside the tent, the staff officers held their breath, no one daring to make a sound at this moment, because they had never seen their division commander show such a terrifying expression.
Just fifteen minutes ago, the motorized messengers of the 37th Armored Reconnaissance Battalion finally sent back visual confirmation of the T-4 front-line supply depot.
Because the field phone at the station remained silent, the irritable Rommel had only ordered someone to check if Ike's group of drug addicts had once again collectively passed out in the oil drums due to drug abuse.
But the reply he received plunged the entire command center into a deathly silence.
They are all dead.
And they passed away peacefully. If you ignored the pools of congealed dark red blood on the floor, the skeleton soldiers looked as if they had collectively fallen into a deep sleep after a drug overdose.
The only exception was their commander.
The first-class assault company commander was brutally nailed to the base of the crucifix statue in the center of the courtyard by a bayonet with a blood groove, becoming the latest member of the "French hanged ghosts" who were hanged outside the gate.
"All men were killed. Not a single one survived."
"Cause of death: all deaths were caused by slitting the throat or stabbing the back with a sharp weapon. No gunshot wounds were found."
"Company Commander Schmidt was nailed to the cross with a bayonet; the cause of death was a pierced heart."
"All supplies were removed. The remaining facilities were technically destroyed."
Rommel gripped the telegram tightly.
"This wasn't done by the guerrillas."
"Guerrillas don't have that kind of technology. They just shoot from the sidelines or plant those damn roadside bombs."
He abruptly raised his head, his eyes fixed on the operations staff officer: "One hundred and fifty SS soldiers were wiped out silently in their own camp. They didn't even have a chance to raise an alarm."
"This is the Commando. Professional assassins trained by Churchill's old dog."
Rommel grabbed a red and blue pencil from the table and drew a thick red circle in the direction of Abbeyville on the map, the force so great it pierced the drawing: "They're infiltrating. They're moving in our guts. They're wearing our uniforms, driving our cars, and using our passes."
"This is an insult to the 7th Panzer Division. This is a slap in the face to Erwin."
He turned and roared at the communications officer, "Connect to the 25th Panzer Regiment! Find Colonel Karl Rothenburg!"
The communicator was connected, and the background noise was filled with the roar of tank engines.
"Rothenburg," Rommel gave the order into the microphone, "I am Rommel. Listen carefully."
"I don't know what kind of uniforms the convoy ahead of you are wearing, whether they're from the Wehrmacht or the SS. I don't care what flags they're flying or what accent they're speaking German, they're all the enemy."
"No prisoners. No warnings. We don't need that damn chivalry with spies."
"I want you to crush them. I want to watch their trucks turn into scrap metal."
"Full speed ahead! Drag out this British rat that snuck in and burn it to ashes!"
12:30. North of Abbeville, the temporary command post of the British 51st Highland Division.
The harsh sea wind, carrying moisture from the Somme, whipped against Major General Victor Fortune's aged and weary face.
The Scottish general stood on a high ground, holding a Zeiss telescope, observing the German positions on the south bank.
The scene he saw through the telescope filled him with despair.
On the high ground south of the Abbeville Bridge, the six towering 88mm Flak 36 anti-aircraft guns stood silently like six tombstones. Their long barrels pointed north, and the dark muzzles sent a chill down his spine.
Around those artillery pieces, several concrete machine gun bunkers could be clearly seen, along with German Luftwaffe soldiers in blue-gray uniforms swaying about.
-
This is an ironclad defense line.
"We can't get through this."
Major General Fortune lowered his binoculars, his voice tinged with a sense of despondency: "That's an 88mm gun. Even if we filled the entire division with all its trucks and armored vehicles, we still couldn't get across that bridge. It's a meat grinder."
"But General, we must break through."
The chief of staff beside him pointed anxiously at the map: "The German 7th Panzer Division is closing in. If we stay here, we're trapped. Even if we die, we'll die on the way to the charge—"
"die?"
Major General Fortune turned around and looked at the young soldiers behind him who were wiping their bayonets and tidying up their bagpipes in the trenches.
The vast majority of them came from the granite moors of the Scottish Highlands. Beneath these still somewhat immature young faces were the sons of Victor Fortune, whom he had personally recruited from his hometown. This force broke down class barriers: the blacksmith's son from Stirling sat side by side with a lord of hereditary titles in the muddy trenches, and a shepherd from Inverness shared a cigarette with a Member of Parliament from Westminster.
There are commoners, nobles, artisans, and politicians here.
There were no cowards.
"If it were a glorious death in battle, I wouldn't hesitate," Major General Fortune said, closing his eyes in anguish. "But what we're facing now isn't a battle. It's a massacre. It's sending my soldiers to their deaths."
"The French are collapsing. The 10th Army no longer exists. We are fighting alone."
A sense of defeatism spread through the command post.
This World War I veteran felt utterly powerless in the face of this new and suffocating pace of "blitzkrieg." His thinking was still stuck in trench warfare, and he was completely unable to adapt to this highly mobile, high-firepower, three-dimensional offensive and defensive strategy.
"Prepare the white flag first."
Major General Fortune made a startling statement: "If the German tanks really break through the rear guard—in order to save these children's lives, I may have to—end this war with dignity."
While loudly proclaiming his determination to die for his country with impassioned words and ordering the infantry brigade to deploy in an attack formation, he calmly completed two mutually exclusive tactical plans on the command post's work plan table.
Just as the soldiers on the front lines were fixing bayonets to their Enfield rifles and preparing to launch a desperate charge, his chief of staff had already drafted and stamped a "conditional ceasefire agreement" and placed it at the bottom of the battle map, ready to replace the attack order at any time.
And in the trenches less than two hundred meters from the command post.
A Scottish bagpiper is applying maintenance oil to his bagpipe airbags. Nearby, soldiers are hanging grenades one by one on their chests.
"If the Germans come, I'll shove my bayonet into their stomachs. If the tanks come, we'll detonate grenades together," the young soldier said. "We are Highlanders. Highlanders never surrender."
Soldiers in trenches don't have the complex mental bandwidth to perform geopolitical calculations.
For Major General Fortune, "decency" might require a complicated weighing of military court trials and aristocratic honor; but for these infantrymen lying in the mud, the definition of dignity had been simplified to the most primitive physical logic.
They rejected the calculations about the probability of survival and decided to defend their honor with .303 caliber bullets from Lee-Enfield rifles and Mills grenades, rather than the white flag at the negotiating table.
At 12:45, 2 kilometers from the Abbeville air defense position.
Arthur's convoy slowly came to a stop in the shadow of a grove of trees.
This is a blind spot for the Germans. Further ahead lies the open firing zone.
-
"Everyone get off the bus."
Arthur jumped out of the command vehicle, not shouting, but lowering his voice, his tone carrying a chilling, murderous intent: "Assemble."
The main force waited in trucks at the rear, while Arthur only brought the most elite Cold Creek Guard assault team, about 100 men, who quickly surrounded them.
They had already removed their SS camouflage smocks, revealing their black uniforms underneath. But these uniforms could not conceal the murderous aura of elite British infantry emanating from them.
Arthur stood on a rock, surveying his stern-faced subordinates.
Listen carefully.
Arthur pointed to the faintly visible hill ahead: "That's the German Luftwaffe's anti-aircraft position. There are six 88mm guns there. They're the deadliest weapons in all of Europe, and most of you have seen their power without me having to tell you. If we don't do something, those guns will blow our 51st Division brothers to bits."
"We're going to take it down."
"Same as always, I don't want to hear gunshots, and I especially don't want to hear grenades exploding. I don't even want to see you pull the bolt."
Arthur drew the captured Luger pistol, but instead of disengaging the safety, he holstered it and then pulled a gleaming assault knife from his boot.
This double-edged dagger is standard issue for British special forces, and its design has only one purpose: to efficiently sever the carotid artery or pierce the kidney.
"We're going to drive in with a swagger. I'll use my rank and that grumpy face to make that air force commander think we're some SS bigwigs on an inspection tour."
"The moment the convoy stopped, everyone disembarked. No need to line up. No need to salute."
Arthur made a downward slicing gesture, the movement swift and decisive: "Each of you lock onto a target. Get behind them. Cover their mouths. Slash."
"The movements must be quick, ruthless, and synchronized."
"I don't want to see a single living Air Force soldier press that damn alarm."
Arthur looked at Ryder: "Major Ryder, you'll lead the first group, responsible for the two guns on the left flank. Lieutenant Gray, you'll lead the second group, responsible for the right flank."
"The rest, McTavish, you go and take control of the command post and the ammunition depot."
"Remember, we're not going there to fight."
Arthur's lips curled into a cruel smile: "We're going to relieve them. Let those Germans rest forever."
"Do you understand?"
"Understood, sir!"
The soldiers responded in hushed tones, their voices unified and tinged with suppressed excitement. The hatred they had harbored in Leparadis, in Forne, and in Niupt, after its outburst at the monastery, had now transformed into pure professionalism.
These defeated soldiers are turning into killers.
"very good."
Arthur sheathed his dagger, straightened his uniform collar, and put his white gloves back on.
He reverted to being that arrogant, cold, and overbearing SS captain.
"Get in the car."
"The hunt begins."
13:00. South bank of the Abbeville Bridge, the position of the 2nd Battalion of the 16th Anti-Aircraft Regiment of the German Army.
Air Force Major Hans Kluge sat in a folding chair in the command post, idly looking at a propaganda magazine called "Signa I" in his hand.
The position was quiet.
Six brand-new 8.8cm Flak 36 anti-aircraft guns stood proudly, their shields still bearing the smell of the anti-rust oil from when they left the factory.
The gun cover had long been removed, and the long, slender L/56 caliber gun barrel was pointing horizontally at the highway bridge on the north bank.
The gunners didn't maintain the standard standing posture they had on the parade ground; instead, they leaned against the sandbag fortifications in twos and threes, smoking. Several observers were using Steredo rangefinders to observe with great interest the British trucks that were causing chaos on the road two kilometers away.
This relaxation doesn't stem from the fact that this is a safe rear area, but rather from their absolute advantage.
In their eyes, the more than 10,000 Scottish soldiers on the other side were not a threatening combat unit, but a flock of lambs trapped in a cage, waiting to be slaughtered. If the trucks on the other side dared to run onto the bridge, or if those 25-pounder guns in towed mode dared to stop and deploy, these six 88mm guns could reduce them to scrap before the other side could fire.
They weren't standing guard. They were awaiting execution orders.
The afternoon tranquility was broken by a deep engine roar.
Major Kruger put down the magazine and looked at the northern highway with a puzzled expression.
A huge convoy emerged from the woods, kicking up clouds of dust.
They were all painted in uniform German gray. Leading the way was a half-track command vehicle, followed by dozens of trucks full of soldiers, and an impressive twenty-four Panzer IV tanks.
The sheer size and sophistication of the convoy made Major Kruger stand up; his first thought was of Rommel's 7th Panzer Division.
But when he looked through the binoculars and saw the white markings painted on the side of the command vehicle and the tank turret, his heart skipped a beat.
Skull.
That was the SS.
And these weren't ordinary SS troops. The command vehicle carried a swallowtail flag, a privilege reserved for high-ranking officers.
"Damn it—it's a big shot from the SS."
Major Kruger quickly straightened his somewhat disheveled Air Force uniform, fastened the top button, and put on his peaked cap.
Within the armed forces ecosystem of the Third Reich, a strict and concrete hierarchy of contempt existed. The Wehrmacht despised the SS's barbarity, and the SS scorned the SA's incompetence.
But everyone had a peculiar attitude toward the Air Force because the Commander-in-Chief of the Air Force was the powerful Hermann Göring.
If Arthur were standing in front of a group of Bf-109 fighter pilots, these "sons of heaven" who received double pay, wore Iron Crosses on their collars, and were the apple of Hermann Göring's eye, they might not even look at an SS officer, and might even dare to blow smoke rings in his face.
Unfortunately, Major Kruger and his men were only anti-aircraft artillerymen.
Although they wore those smart blue-gray uniforms, in the Nazi power structure, they were "ground service personnel" without any immunity. For these unfortunate men squatting in the mud, shooting planes, their pitiful sense of superiority vanished when faced with an SS captain who represented Heinrich Himmler, the Gestapo, and the omnipresent forces of political purges.
Offending the army and those Junker nobles might at most result in a military court, but offending the SS could mean your whole family disappearing in some unknown concentration camp.
"Line up! Line up now!"
Kluge yelled at his gunners, "Throw away your cigarette butts! Button up your uniforms! Don't give the SS any ammunition!"
The previously lazy air force soldiers suddenly erupted into chaos, frantically searching for their helmets and belts, and barely managed to form a series of irregular lines beside the gun positions.
The convoy stopped less than ten meters from the gate of the position.
The roar of the Maybach engine gradually subsided, leaving only the metallic contraction of the exhaust pipes as they cooled.
The car door opened.
A pair of gleaming black riding boots stepped onto the ground.
Arthur got down.
He didn't look at Kruger immediately, but instead took off his white gloves and lightly patted away non-existent dust from the hem of his uniform. Then, he slowly raised his head and scanned the seemingly impregnable air defense position with an extremely critical and arrogant gaze.
That look in his eyes was like that of a strict landowner scrutinizing a group of lazy farmhands.
Major Kluge felt a sting from that gaze. He steeled himself and stepped forward, raising his hand in salute: "Sir! Major Hans Kluge, commander of the 2nd Battalion, 16th Anti-Aircraft Regiment, salutes you!"
Arthur did not return the gift.
He simply stared at Kluge until the major was sweating and at a loss for what to do, then slowly pulled a document from his jacket pocket. It was a blank transfer order with the SS seal that he had found at the monastery with Schmidt, which he had filled in with new information.
"Major Kruger."
Arthur's voice was calm and cold: "Your defensive setup is a disaster. If I were the British special forces, I would have cut off your beautiful head and used it as a football by now."
Kruger's face flushed instantly. He wanted to explain, but under the overwhelming aura of the other man, the words he stammered out came out as, "Sir...sir, we've been on high alert all along..."
"Level One combat readiness?"
Arthur chuckled coldly and slammed the document onto Kruger's chest. "Take a look at this. Direct orders from Berlin. The Gestapo intercepted intelligence that a British commando unit codenamed 'Red Berets' has infiltrated the area. Their target is these expensive toys of yours."
"In order to prevent damage to the Führer's assets, the 999th SS Special Operations Battalion was ordered to take over the defense of this area."
"Take over?" Kruger was stunned. "But I haven't received any orders from my superiors—"
"Because your superiors are busy explaining to Marshal Göring why British planes can still fly to the Ruhr region."
Arthur took a step closer, his grey-blue eyes filled with oppressive force: "What? Major? Are you questioning the SS's intelligence capabilities? Or are you questioning the Führer's special authorization?"
"No! I wouldn't dare!"
Kruger was completely bewildered by all these accusations. He glanced at the fully armed "SS soldiers" behind Arthur, who had already jumped out of the car and were staring coldly at them, and his defenses crumbled completely.
"very good."
Arthur patted Kruger on the shoulder, a kind smile on his face. "Don't be nervous, Major. We're just here to help. Now, let your soldiers relax. My men will take over their posts."
"Let everyone take a break and have a smoke. I think they're tired too."
Hearing this, Kluge breathed a sigh of relief. This SS commander didn't seem so difficult to talk to after all.
"Yes, sir!"
Kluge turned to his men and shouted, "All hands on deck! Give up your positions to the SS brothers! Everyone take a break!"
With the order given, the previously tense air force soldiers completely relaxed their vigilance. They left their gun positions one after another; some took out cigarettes, some looked at the new "friendly forces" with curiosity, and some even took the initiative to approach them to ask for a light.
The entire defensive system of the position collapsed in that instant.
Arthur stood there, watching it all unfold.
His left hand remained on Kruger's shoulder, but his right hand slipped silently to his sleeve.
There, hidden, is a Fairbairn-Sykes dagger.
At this moment.
At the tactical level, this is no longer a battle, but a surgical operation.
Strategically, this is the hunter's last moment of breath before closing in.
Arthur looked at Kruger's unguarded smiling face and silently counted to three in his mind.
three.
Ryder led the first group to the gunners on the left flank.
two.
Lieutenant Gray led the second group to surround the right flank.
One.
Arthur's fingers tightened suddenly, gripping Kruger's collarbone.
Goodnight, Hans.
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