lovenovelstory Chapter 104 The Death Race Before Dawn
Chapter 104 The Death Race Before Dawn
Chapter 104 The Death Race Before Dawn (Long Chapter)
June 6, 1940, 21:15, France, 12 kilometers west of the Amiens Highway, forward command post of the German 7th Panzer Division.
Major General Erwin Rommel stands on the command half-track of the "Greif".
His gaze did not fall on the eastern night sky, but was fixed on the map in his hand.
In the past three thousand minutes, he has lost control of the situation on the battlefield.
To the east, in the sector he had identified as the "main direction of the breakout," apart from the dissipating cloud of smoke, no further substantial reports of firefights had emerged.
The enemy was engaging in high-intensity maneuvers, creating enormous visual noise, but lacked even the most basic tactical obstruction—
There were no rearguard troops, no covering fire, not even a single delaying mine. Apart from the billowing dust, it was like—a play staged specifically for him.
The advance troops of the 25th Armored Regiment reported that they had discovered a truck destroyed by howitzer fire. Although the vehicle was completely damaged and burned down to its frame, based on the scene, it was likely an empty truck.
Rommel immediately realized that he had been deceived.
Just then, the communications officer abruptly removed his headset and turned somewhat urgently to Rommel: "General! Urgent message from the 37th Panzer Reconnaissance Battalion!"
"They've made contact with a large number of British armored units on the west side—on the D940 road leading to Le Havre!"
"That's the main force! That's the main force of the 51st Hill Division!"
The staff officer's voice was filled with shock: "They've broken through the anti-tank battalion's lines! The blockade there has been breached. The reconnaissance battalion reports that the enemy has at least thirty tanks and countless truck convoys, at least three hundred vehicles."
The red and blue pencil in Rommel's hand snapped with a "crack".
An ordinary commander might have felt ashamed and indignant at this moment. But Rommel was a sophisticated war machine. The feeling of shame lingered in his mind for only 0.5 seconds before he immediately regained his composure as a commander.
He glanced at the map. The straight-line distance from here to the western highway is 15 kilometers.
The British commander used the "difference in line of sight" and the "time difference" to carry out a "golden cicada shedding its shell" right under his nose.
"Order."
Rommel spoke rapidly: "37th Reconnaissance Battalion. Hold them off at all costs."
"I'm not asking them to block them, they can't anyway. I'm asking them to be like hounds, sticking close to the back of the British vehicles. Harass them, slow them down with 20mm cannons and machine guns."
"I need them to buy time for my main players."
Rommel turned around and looked at the main tank group to the east that was doing futile work: "25th Panzer Regiment, cease pursuit immediately."
"Turn around on the spot. Head west at full speed to defend."
"Tell Colonel Rothenburg to floor the gas. I want him to intercept the convoy before dawn."
"That Englishman wants to outrun the Sun."
Rommel put on his goggles, a cold glint in his eyes: "That depends on how fast he is."
21:30, France, on the side of D940 highway, an unnamed side road.
Major Ryder shut off the Jeep's engine.
The surroundings were eerily quiet.
According to Arthur's plan, he and his "decoy squad" were supposed to draw the ire of the main German forces. He—
He was prepared to die, and even stuffed his will into his shirt pocket.
Arthur not only told him about the way to "catch frogs," but also about the ruthlessness of guns.
But now, on that dark road behind him, there was nothing but the sound of the wind.
There was no roar of tanks. No sound of tracks crushing rocks. Not even a stray bullet flew by.
Something's not right, unless—
Ryder abruptly turned around and looked northwest. In the sky there, he could faintly hear the muffled sounds of artillery fire.
That was the direction Arthur was heading to break out.
"My God—"
Ryder's Adam's apple bobbed violently. As a seasoned officer, he instantly understood the meaning behind the deathly silence:
The Germans were not fooled. Or rather, even if they were, they reacted faster than expected. They abandoned the pursuit of the non-existent "Eastern Route Army" and instead turned their attention to the real breakout force.
"Major?"
A sergeant from the Norfolk Regiment jumped off a truck in the back, his voice trembling with unease: "The Germans aren't chasing us—should we continue east?"
Ryder gritted his teeth; it was a difficult decision.
If they turn back now to support Arthur, these twenty dilapidated trucks will serve no purpose other than increasing the Germans' gains. Moreover, they will block Arthur's retreat.
Since the decoy tactic failed, there is only one task left.
"No."
Ryder restarted the Jeep, the engine roaring: "Plan remains unchanged."
"Now it's a race."
He pointed to the narrow path ahead, almost invisible on the map—the shortcut to Le Havre that Arthur had mentioned earlier.
"Although the Germans went to catch up with the main force, we still cut through along this road."
"We must reach the port before the main force. We need to contact the garrison there and prepare fortifications."
"Full speed ahead! Don't hold back!"
22:00, France, D940 main road.
Current convoy total weight: approximately 45,000 tons. Average speed: 25 km/h.
This massive column of 16,000 people and hundreds of vehicles is undergoing the most brutal test of the journey, bearing an unbearable weight.
Chapter 4, Section 3 of the Army Field Regulations imposes strict requirements on the marching of motorized infantry divisions:
To protect against air raids and artillery fire, vehicles should be spaced 50 to 100 meters apart. With the addition of logistical support, field hospitals, and engineer bridge equipment, a full-strength division's marching column would stretch for more than 50 kilometers on the road.
This means that when the vanguard arrived at the port of Le Havre, the rear guard had not even left Abbeville.
But tonight, that rule won't work.
Arthur knew very well that the straight-line distance from the Bétine River to the port of Le Havre was only 40 kilometers. And Rommel's armored pincer attack was closing in from the flanks. He didn't have 50 kilometers of space to waste, nor did he have time to stretch his convoy into a long, single file.
Thus, on this narrow French country road, a spectacle emerged that would suffocate any logistics officer.
Tactical compression.
There was no "marching column." What was moving on the highway was a high-density steel cuboid that violated safety regulations.
Arthur forcibly divided the original two-lane asphalt road into four columns.
All wheeled vehicles—Bedford MWs, Opel Lightnings, Renault buses—were strictly prohibited from driving off the road. They were crammed tightly into the center of the road, with the tires of the outer vehicles almost spinning against the edge of the asphalt embankment. Side mirrors were folded, and doors could not be opened due to the lateral pressure.
Vehicle spacing: almost zero.
The exhaust fumes from the car in front were spraying directly onto the grille of the car behind. The bumper was almost touching the bumper.
Meanwhile, the soft Normandy black soil farmland on both sides of the highway now belongs to the tracked vehicles.
The Panzer IV tank and half-track vehicles, utilizing their relatively superior off-road capabilities, traversed the muddy ground below the roadbed. They not only served as mobile flank armor but also carved out two temporary parallel paths through the mud.
Through this almost suicidal spatial folding, Arthur forcibly compressed a massive army that could have stretched for tens of kilometers into a length of less than 8 kilometers.
In order to make room for the vehicles, Arthur ordered the soldiers to discard as many personal belongings as possible.
At the river valley assembly point before departure, tons of "non-survival necessities" were thrown into the river. These included field tents, cots, cooks' boilers, spare clothing, and even engineers' bridge-building boats.
Every inch of space in the truck was reserved for only two things: people and ammunition.
As for fuel? As long as these vehicles can get them to the port, they've fulfilled their mission.
All the fuel tanks were already full in Abbeville. In addition, each truck had two 50-gallon spare gasoline drums packed in the bed.
Arthur didn't need to consider the possibility of returning; it was a one-way ticket.
As for 40 kilometers—for a fully fueled Panzer IV (maximum range 200 kilometers) and a Bedford truck (maximum range 400 kilometers), there is little difference between being empty and fully loaded.
Rumble—
Thousands of pistons are working simultaneously inside the cylinders. This crowded, heavy metal array, violating all safety regulations, is making an irreversible, arduous journey toward the sea on this cold night, at a speed of less than 30 kilometers per hour.
Arthur sat in the command vehicle, looking out the window at the truck side panels that were almost pressed against his face.
He was well aware of the cost of this formation. Extremely high density meant extremely high vulnerability. If even one car broke down or overturned in the middle of the road, the entire convoy behind it would instantly experience a chain reaction of blockages.
There is no braking distance and no room to maneuver.
That's why he decisively ordered the removal of the medical truck—it was a blood clot that had to be removed.
He was gambling with the lives of 16,000 people on that final window of opportunity; he was all in, and he couldn't afford to lose.
However, it was clear that the German army would not give up the pursuit so easily; they stuck to them again, like a persistent leech.
[The rearguard was attacked]
[Enemy Units: Sd.Kfz.231 (Eight-wheeled Armored Vehicle), 12]
[Enemy Unit: Motorized Infantry Company 2]
Rommel's 37th Reconnaissance Battalion, like a pack of tireless wolves, relentlessly pursued the convoy's tail.
They didn't intend to engage in a direct confrontation, but instead used the high mobility of their wheeled armored vehicles to travel parallel to the convoy across the fields on its flanks. Once the British convoy slowed down due to bends or uphill sections, the 20mm autocannons would immediately open fire, blasting out the tires of several trucks or puncturing fuel tanks.
Each attack forces the convoy to slow down. And each slowdown consumes Arthur's most precious resource: time.
Although the convoy resumed its advance after that brutal "crash into the roadblock" incident, its morale was severely damaged.
Every truck driver passing the gap would instinctively swerve to avoid the still-burning ditch on the side of the road. This psychological hesitation reduced the convoy's average speed by 15%.
"Sir."
The voice of the battalion commander of the 4th Battalion, responsible for the rearguard, came through: "We can't hold on much longer. The German armored vehicles are only 300 meters to our flank. My anti-tank guns can't fire while we're moving, and their machine guns are picking off my trucks one by one."
"If we don't stop them, the defense will be scattered."
Arthur glanced at the time. Then he looked at the RTS map and saw the huge red arrow rushing towards them from the east at full speed—that was Rommel's main armored regiment.
45 minutes remaining until the main force makes contact.
Someone has to stay behind. Someone has to act as that "speed bump" to buy them time.
Arthur decisively pressed the communicator.
"4th Battalion, C Company. This is Colonel Sterling."
"Listen. There's a junction called Etretta about 3 kilometers ahead. That's where the D940 highway meets the flanking fields."
"I want you to stop there and deploy in defensive formation."
There was a moment of silence on the other end of the radio. The company commander of C Company, a 24-year-old Scottish captain, seemed to understand something.
"A sniping mission, sir?"
"Yes."
Arthur stared at the dark road ahead, his voice devoid of any emotion: "Your mission is to establish an anti-tank line. Stop the German reconnaissance battalion's harassment and delay the main German force that follows as much as possible."
"You need to hold on for at least 30 minutes."
"These 30 minutes will determine whether the main force can get into the outer defenses of Le Havre before Rommel arrives."
This was practically a death sentence for them.
An infantry company was sent to intercept an armored reconnaissance battalion or even a subsequent armored regiment.
"Understood, sir." The captain's voice was unusually calm. "C Company will hold out. For the High Ground Division."
Arthur's fingers paused in mid-air. He took a deep breath, the cold air mixed with the smell of gasoline filling his lungs.
"Captain."
"I've added a line to the command."
"30 minutes later. If you're still alive and out of ammunition."
Arthur closed his eyes: "I authorize you to surrender to the German army."
The radio crackled with static. After a long pause, the captain chuckled softly, "Roger that, sir. We'll—do our best."
22:15, Etretta intersection.
The main force of the convoy roared past. Only the eight trucks of Company C slowly slowed down, carrying two 2-pounder cannons, and drove off the road, stopping behind the bunker at the intersection.
One hundred and twenty soldiers in kilts jumped from the vehicles. They watched their comrades' convoy drive away, watching the red taillights disappear into the darkness.
No one spoke. They silently set up the Bren gun, bundled together anti-tank grenades, and began laying mines along the road.
They are the discarded pawns. They are the limbs that must be amputated to preserve the survival of the torso.
This is the ugliest, and also the most real, side of war.
Arthur didn't look back. But he knew that from this moment on, those 120 names would be forever etched on his spine, bringing phantom pain with every breath.
The following day, June 7, 1940, at 03:50, on the outskirts of Le Havre, 5 kilometers from the port.
The sky began to lighten with the first hint of dawn. The darkness before dawn is the thickest.
After a night of frantic driving, this torrent of steel was nearing its limit. White steam billowed from the trucks' radiators.
Many vehicles have worn-out tires, leaving only the rims sparking from the ground – the price of being overweight.
Arthur sat in the command vehicle, his eyes bloodshot and sunken, the intense command of the night having drained him of his energy.
To his left, the Panzer IV tank, which had always served as a "breaching hammer," was still roaring.
The tank commander, Miller, is still in the control tower.
Since crashing into the truck carrying the wounded, the young private has not uttered a single word.
He was simply following orders mechanically, driving the tank ahead to clear the way.
In the dim morning light, Arthur could see a dark red stain on the tank's glacier plate. It was charred paint. It was also human tissue carbonized by the high temperature.
-
That tank is now a moving tombstone.
Major General Fortune broke the hours-long silence in the carriage.
"We're almost there."
The old general's voice betrayed a hint of exhaustion. He gazed at the occasionally flickering lighthouse, the navigation light of the port of Le Havre, on the horizon.
"We—we escaped."
Arthur didn't answer. He just glanced at the RTS map.
Thirty kilometers behind. C Company's signal had disappeared two hours earlier. In its place was a massive red bloc representing the main German force, rapidly approaching at 40 kilometers per hour.
Company C paid the price of being either killed or captured to gain these precious 30 minutes.
"Not yet," Arthur said softly.
04:15, Le Havre Port, Place Victor.
[Arrival at the evacuation zone]
Survival rate: 82%
As the first rays of dawn pierced the thin mist over the English Channel, the battered convoy finally crashed through the last barbed wire fence at the port.
They outran the sun, they outran Rommel.
Apart from the vehicles lost in the Abbeville breakout and those abandoned en route due to breakdowns and enemy fire, this force of 16,000 men retained 80% of its original strength.
In particular, the dozens of 25-pounder cannons and the dozen or so Panzer IV tanks that had been seized from the German army were brought in almost intact.
The convoy drove into the spacious city square. The engines were shut off.
For a moment, the world seemed to stand still. There was no more deafening roar, no more creaking of tracks, only the sound of waves crashing against the breakwater.
The sound of the truck bed panels being lowered echoed throughout the trucks. Soldiers jumped off. Their legs were stiff from being cramped for so long, and many fell directly to the ground.
No one laughed at them. Some knelt on the ground, kissing the filthy cement with their greasy lips. Some hugged their rifles, leaning against tires and weeping bitterly. Many more simply collapsed on the roadside, sprawled out, watching the sky gradually brighten above, and fell into a deep sleep.
This is a kind of exhaustion from surviving a disaster.
Arthur pushed open the door of the command vehicle and jumped out. His black SS leather overcoat was covered in dust and smelled of gunpowder. His legs felt as heavy as lead, and every step required the use of all his muscles.
He walked toward the Panzer IV tank codenamed "Hammer-01".
The tank engine finally shut down. The cooling grille emitted a "clicking" sound as metal cooled.
Corporal Miller was leaning against the track pad. He had taken off his tank helmet. His face was covered in oil and soot, making him look like a miner who had just crawled out of a coal mine.
His eyes were empty and unfocused. They weren't the eyes of a living person, but those of a still-breathing corpse.
He watched Arthur approach, his lips moved, and a hoarse sob escaped his throat. It seemed he wanted to explain something, to repent for something. But the image of the burning truck, the screams—choked his voice.
Arthur didn't speak. He walked over and took out the badly deformed pack of "Lucky Strike" cigarettes from his pocket.
There were only two cigarettes left inside.
He pulled out a match and put it into the corporal's chapped lips. Then he struck a match, cupped the flame in his hands, and lit it for him.
The corporal took a deep breath. Nicotine entered his lungs. Tears mixed with the oil on his face, washing away two white streaks that dripped onto his dusty uniform.
"Sir—I—"
Miller's voice trembled, filled with utter despair and self-reproach: "I killed them—I—"
"Shut up."
Arthur interrupted him. Arthur lit his last cigarette, took a deep drag, and the pungent smoke swirled in his lungs.
He reached out and patted the corporal on the shoulder. The hand was strong, carrying an irresistible weight.
"This debt is owed to my soul."
Arthur's voice was hoarse and deep, drifting in the morning breeze: "You were the one who stepped on the gas. But I was the one who gave the order."
"If God wants to judge, let Him come to me. You just made yourself a cog in my machine at that moment."
"This is the commander's privilege—that is, priority in going to hell."
Miller looked at Arthur. A glimmer of life finally returned to his eyes. He nodded heavily, took a deep drag on his cigarette, as if trying to numb that memory with the smoke.
Just then.
A sudden screech of brakes shattered the tranquility of the square.
A muddy, nearly broken-down jeep came hurtling towards us.
Major Ryder jumped out of the vehicle. He looked even more disheveled than during the breakout. His uniform was torn by tree branches, and there was a bloody mark on his face.
He saw Arthur, whose taut shoulders finally relaxed.
"Young Master Sterling—"
Ryder gasped for breath, his voice tinged with the exhaustion of someone who had just escaped death: "We got there before the Germans—the road is open. The Germans are left behind."
He wanted to laugh, but couldn't. So he just mechanically repeated, "We won. That damn Rommel, we won."
However, Arthur did not answer. Arthur's gaze passed over Ryder and looked behind him.
A lieutenant from the division's communications company stumbled over, clutching a thin telegram in his hand.
"Colonel Sterling!"
The lieutenant rushed to Arthur, saluted, and said breathlessly, "A call from London. Highest encryption level. Just decrypted."
Upon hearing the news from London, everyone gathered around.
Ryder's relief vanished instantly. He turned around and looked at the communications officer, a primal unease making his heart race.
Arthur frowned. He reached out and took the telegram.
In the morning light of the rising sun, he could see every letter on it.
[To: Colonel Arthur Sterling, Acting Commander of the 51st Hill Division]
[Source: Navy Department/Operations Room]
The transport fleet carrying out the "Bicycle Project" is assembling.
Minesweeping operations are underway.
The evacuation fleet is expected to arrive at 22:00 tonight (June 7th).
Before proceeding, execute the following commands:
[Contract defenses. Hold the port at all costs. Await reinforcements.]
Before proceeding, you need to execute the following commands:
1. Tighten the outer defensive line of Le Havre.
2. Defend the port to the death.
3. Prepare to endure for 16 hours.
16 hours.
They held out for 16 hours against Rommel's main armored divisions and Guderian's 19th Corps.
Arthur's hand holding the telegram didn't tremble; he knew things wouldn't be that simple.
Major General Fortune, however, was furious. He completely broke down at that moment. Not out of fear, but because of a huge, cruel joke that fate had played on him.
They calculated everything.
They sprinted forty kilometers. They outran the sun. They outran Rommel. To buy those few minutes, they didn't hesitate to crush their own wounded, selling their souls to the devil. To cover the main force, an entire company of one hundred and twenty thousand Scottish lads may now all be corpses.
All the sacrifices. All the sins. All the madness. All for the sake of reaching this port, to board that imagined ship.
As it turned out, there were no ships, and the sea was empty.
"No ship—hahaha—no ship—" Major General Fortune's voice echoed across the square, sounding even more jarring than crying.
"Sir—what do we do?" Ryder's voice trembled. "The soldiers already—they thought it was over. Now to send them back to their positions—this—"
Just then.
Yeah—woo—!
A chilling, high-frequency sound of air tearing echoed through the sky.
Arthur suddenly looked up.
In the eastern sky, bathed in the glow of the rising sun, twelve black dots were rapidly expanding. They formed a line and swooped down towards the port of Le Havre.
Ju87 "Stuka" dive bomber.
Rommel caught up. His tanks were still on their way, but his air force had arrived.
Boom! Boom!
The first 250-kilogram bomb landed on the breakwater, creating a huge column of water. The square, which had just relaxed, instantly erupted into chaos. Soldiers screamed in terror and scrambled for cover.
But this did not frighten Arthur. Instead, he felt a utter, chilling sense of relief.
He carefully folded the telegram that would determine his fate and stuffed it into the pocket of his leather coat.
He threw the cigarette butt from his mouth onto the ground and crushed it out with his dusty leather boots.
A weary yet sharp, cold smile curled at the corners of Arthur's lips.
He turned around, looking at Ryder, at Miller, and at the panicked soldiers.
"Ryder".
"Get everyone up."
Arthur's voice pierced through Stuka's shrieking: "Tell them it's not over yet."
"We just passed by the gates of hell."
He looked at the harbor where the bombs had splashed the water, his eyes burning with a frenzied fighting spirit: "Now—we're going to go in and have a seat."
I'm correcting a common-sense error from a previous chapter: a division's convoy is very long and large, making it impossible for them to cross a three-kilometer intersection in a short time. Therefore, I removed the description of encountering the enemy three minutes later and replaced it with a more reasonable distance. In reality, it would have taken at least fifteen minutes, or even half an hour, or longer. Thank you for pointing this out. I will try my best to recreate the true battlefield scene, but due to the author's limited ability and some artistic embellishment, there will inevitably be some discrepancies with reality. Please be understanding and forgiving. Thank you all.
There will be another chapter tonight.