lovenovelstory Chapter 90 Someone is bearing the burden for us
Chapter 90 Someone is bearing the burden for us
Chapter 90 Someone Is Bearing the Burden for Us (Long Chapter)
The Maybach HL120TRM V-12 water-cooled gasoline engine is emitting a cheerful roar.
For Major Ryder—now SS 1st Strike Force Commander—this sound was like the most beautiful symphony in the world. The German heart propelled the 8-ton Sd.Kfz.251/1 half-track at a steady 35 km/h cruising speed on the smooth asphalt road, a stark contrast to Matilda's less than 15 km/h—a snail's pace.
Although the half-track could theoretically go faster, in order to protect the mechanical life of the twenty-four Panzer IV tanks behind him—especially to protect those delicate track pins and road wheel rubber rings—Ryder restrained the urge to floor the accelerator and strictly controlled the speed at the standard long-distance marching speed of the German armored forces.
Even so, this sustained speed of 35 km/h was still an almost flying experience for British officers who were used to the way British Bedford trucks climbed hills like asthma patients and were prone to overheating.
Behind Ryder, the long steel dragon was speeding along at the same pace.
Twenty-four brand-new Panzer IV Ausf. D tanks were lined up in double columns.
Arthur looked through the bulletproof glass at the deserted D928 National Highway ahead.
The morning light spilled onto the black asphalt road, reflecting a glossy sheen. Tall poplar trees on either side of the road stood like two rows of respectful guards, rushing past. The entire road was straight, wide, and dry; not a single extra pebble could be seen on the surface.
That was a "privileged passage" that only troops with the highest priority were entitled to.
"This is absolutely insane!"
Ryder gripped the steering wheel, staring at the pointer on the odometer that was firmly stuck at "35," and muttered to himself, "We're driving the enemy's cars, on the enemy's roads, using the enemy's gasoline, and nobody dares to stop us."
"To correct you, it's not that no one dared to stop them."
Arthur took a sip of coffee, his grey-blue eyes narrowing slightly as he looked down at the field to the right of the roadbed. A wildly arrogant smile curved his lips. "That's what you call having someone bearing the burden for us."
Following Arthur's gaze, Ryder turned to look to his right.
In that instant, the hairs on his body stood on end.
Because less than fifty meters below this flat national highway, in the muddy ground of the B4 rural auxiliary road, which runs parallel to D928, a much larger force is struggling.
That was the logistics corps of the German 7th Panzer Division, which had just been tricked by Arthur using a radio.
If Arthur's side is heaven, then his side is an absolute quagmire and hell.
A week of continuous spring rain in the Picardy region, combined with the heavy clay soil, has turned the dirt road that was once passable by horse-drawn carriages into a swamp half a meter deep.
Inside that winding muddy road, more than two hundred German trucks, fully loaded with ammunition, were crammed together, crawling along in a sorry state.
This is the most real, and also the most awkward, shadow beneath the so-called "blitzkrieg" aura.
The world only saw the steel torrent in Goebbels' propaganda videos, but they didn't know that even an elite unit like Rommel's 7th Panzer Division could not achieve full mechanization.
At that time in continental Europe, most of the Wehrmacht infantry divisions were essentially "Napoleon's army with automatic firearms"—their heavy artillery and supplies were still dragged by sweaty mules and horses, and getting stuck in the mud would be a disaster.
The true "full mechanization" where even the mess hall staff could ride in trucks was a luxury that only the wealthy American army and the later Soviet Guards could achieve a few years later.
In contrast, Arthur's "fake" unit, equipped entirely with half-tracks and Panzer IV tanks, was even more luxurious in terms of equipment than the regular army.
Looking at the old, broken-down Henschel 33s and the requisitioned Renault civilian trucks below, these rear-wheel-drive vehicles could barely keep up with the main force on dry roads, but in this muddy terrain, they were nothing more than a bunch of pigs waiting to be slaughtered. If their primary task wasn't to rendezvous with the 51st Highland Division, Arthur would have loved to devour this entire logistics unit in one go.
Ryder witnessed a Henschel truck fully loaded with 105mm grenade boxes spinning wildly in the mud, kicking up black mud that flew three meters high, turning a half-track motorcycle following behind into a black sculpture.
Dozens of German soldiers, barefoot with their trousers rolled up above their knees and covered in mud, were pushing the carts, hurling insults only German farmers would understand. Along the roadside, several large carts were still being pulled by mules and horses—the poor draft horses struggling in the mud, white breath coming from their nostrils.
"Look at them."
Arthur's voice held no remorse, only the triumph of a successful prank: "Those Henschel trucks have only 250 millimeters of ground clearance. Once they get stuck, the differential housing will become grounded. Our Panzer IV, on the other hand, has 400 millimeters of ground clearance, and the track's ground contact pressure is only 0.8 kilograms per square centimeter."
"That's why armored troops look down on infantry."
Arthur flicked his cigarette ash: "On the battlefield, mobility is class."
At that moment, Arthur's convoy was speeding along the main road above at 35 kilometers per hour.
The roar of the tracks crushing the road was like a thunderbolt overhead to the Germans struggling in the mud below.
Countless German soldiers instinctively stopped what they were doing.
They straightened up, wiped the sweat from their faces with their muddy hands, and looked up, staring intently at the convoy speeding ahead.
That look in his eyes wasn't the submissive look of a lower class.
It was an extremely complex look in his eyes—a mixture of awe for the equipment, envy for the road's priority, and a deep contempt and resentment hidden beneath his eyes, belonging to a veteran of the Wehrmacht towards the SS.
To the elite troops of the 7th Armored Division, this was a disgrace to the Wehrmacht.
They, the battle-hardened elite under Major General Rommel, the true warriors who had swept through France, were now pushing carts through the mud like beggars. Meanwhile, overhead, a group of "political soldiers" dressed in flashy camouflage smocks, adorned with exaggerated skulls, and knowing nothing but loyalty to the Führer, were driving the latest Panzer IV tanks, swaggering and occupying the road that rightfully belonged to them.
"Verdammte SS... (Damn SS)"
A Wehrmacht private spat angrily on the ground, staring at the rows of brand-new road wheels, not a single speck of paint chipped, and cursed through gritted teeth, "Look at those Asphalt Soldiers (a derogatory term used by the Wehrmacht for SS soldiers, meaning show-offs only fit to march on the concrete of the parade ground). They have the best equipment, and they expect us to give way to them?"
"Shut up, Hans." The sergeant beside him, though also pushing the cart, had a face so dark it could drip water. "That's the Special Operations Battalion. Those lunatics are Himmler's rabid dogs. You'd better shut up if you don't want to be called in for tea by the Gestapo."
Although the sergeant was reprimanding his men, the anger in his eyes when he looked at the command vehicle speeding past above was no less than that of the soldiers.
This is a perversion of order.
In the traditional values of the Wehrmacht, they were the superiors of the empire, while the SS were nothing more than a bunch of thugs who only knew how to carry out purges and parades.
But now, the rogue sits in the leather seats of the Maybach engine, looking down at the spine struggling in the mud.
This is the same SS 999th Special Operations Battalion that just verbally abused their commander over the radio and claimed they were going to deal with the "butterfly mine."
"Look over there."
Arthur suddenly raised his gloved fingers and gently tapped on the car window.
A Sd.Kfz.10 half-track motorcycle was parked on the muddy roadside below. It was the command vehicle for this logistics corps.
A slightly overweight German lieutenant colonel, his face covered in mud and looking as disheveled as a fleeing farmer, was standing in the back of the truck.
It was clearly marked on the RTS that it was Lieutenant Colonel Steiner. The poor guy who was trying to reason with Arthur on the radio just minutes before.
At that moment, he was looking through binoculars at the torrent of steel sweeping overhead.
When he saw Arthur's command vehicle, painted with a huge skull, drive by, the lieutenant colonel reacted as if he had been electrocuted, abruptly throwing away his binoculars, straightening his legs, and straightening his mud-soaked back.
Then, under Major Ryder's shocked gaze...
The lieutenant colonel of the Wehrmacht gave a perfectly standard Wehrmacht salute to the group of imposters, who were actually British, and to the culprit who had tricked him into this mess.
The gesture was full of respect, even carrying a hint of gratitude and ingratiation.
Yes, thank you.
In his view, if it weren't for the timely warning from this "Olympus," he might not be stuck in the mud now, but rather blown to pieces by that damned British butterfly mine along with his car.
On the other hand, Steiner was well aware, or rather, the officers of both the SS and the Wehrmacht were well aware, that although Major General Erwin Rommel was a favorite of the Führer and a favorite of the Reich, Rommel was not a deeply entrenched Prussian Junker aristocrat like Manstein or Guderian. These men and their officers would not be afraid of a secret service chief like Himmler.
Within the old-school circle of the Wehrmacht, Rommel was an outlier; in the eyes of the SS, Rommel was a rival.
Steiner was a smart man. He knew that Major General Rommel wouldn't stay in that position for long and would soon be promoted to command corps or even army-level units based on his military achievements.
At that point, without anyone protecting him, a mere logistics lieutenant colonel, if he offended a powerful "special operations battalion"—perhaps even personally deployed by Himmler—over a damned issue of "rights of passage"—
After all, Steiner would never forget which channel the order came from.
"Olympus" - the main channel for strategic command of Army Group A.
The troops that have access to this channel and dare to roar and curse in it are not ordinary SS troops—it means they have the highest authority to communicate directly with Berlin.
The consequences would be far worse than stepping on a butterfly mine.
The former would only result in losing a leg, while the latter would cause his entire family to disappear from the Gestapo's blacklist.
Therefore, this salute was not for that person.
He respected the radio frequency of that army group, and he respected the immense power represented by that black leather uniform.
"He—he is saluting us."
Ryder's voice was trembling. The absurd scene was assaulting his cerebral cortex, giving him a dizzying feeling of wanting to vomit yet also being extremely excited.
Instinctively, Ryder wanted to raise his right hand in a standard Nazi salute. This was a ingrained sense of etiquette in the officer's bones, and also an instinct to cover up his guilty conscience.
"Don't move."
Arthur interrupted him.
His hand pressed down on the back of Ryder's hand. The white-gloved hand didn't use much force, but it firmly held down Ryder's arm as he tried to raise it.
"Drive carefully, Captain."
Arthur leaned back in his leather seat, holding a coffee cup in his other hand.
Then, he turned his head and looked through the thick bulletproof glass at Lieutenant Colonel Steiner, who stood upright in the mud like a javelin.
Arthur raised his right hand.
But he didn't do it the way Ryder expected.
His upper arm remained almost flat against his ribs, while his forearm lazily rose and his hand loosely flipped backward, making an extremely perfunctory gesture, almost like shooing away a fly.
But this is an extremely standard "lazy salute" (FührerGruB) that was frequently used only by high-ranking Nazi bureaucrats, or even by the "Bohemian Corporal" himself.
In that instant, Arthur's eyes were filled with extreme indifference and arrogance, roughly meaning, "I see you, you bug. And I allow you to pay your respects to me."
The convoy sped past.
The moment Arthur casually lowered his hand, Lieutenant Colonel Steiner, standing in the mud, felt not insulted, but rather as if he had gained a great honor and relief, and straightened his back even more.
This "casual return salute" is more persuasive than the most standard military salute. It perfectly confirms Steiner's conjecture that only a truly powerful figure would dare to return a salute so casually.
Inside the train carriage.
Arthur looked away, took a sip of coffee, and stared at the fool in the rearview mirror who was still saluting.
"See that, Ryder?"
-
Arthur said calmly, "In this hierarchical empire, standard military salutes are reserved for subordinates to show to their superiors."
"And this kind of return greeting, where they don't even bother to straighten their arms, is the highest manifestation of power. It proves that I don't need to prove my loyalty to anyone, but he must kneel before me."
"Remember this gesture. Next time someone salutes you, return the salute like this."
Only after Arthur's car had driven far away did Lieutenant Colonel Steiner finally lower his arm. He breathed a sigh of relief and turned to his adjutant beside him, saying, "See that? That's a big shot from Berlin. That look in his eyes—tsk tsk, only someone who's worked in the Chancellery has that kind of look."
"Luckily we gave way. Otherwise, these lunatics would have really put us in a court-martial."
Inside the command vehicle.
Ryder watched Lieutenant Colonel Steiner grow smaller and smaller in the rearview mirror and felt his throat go dry.
"Sir, you were being incredibly rude just now." Ryder wasn't accusing him, but rather expressing his astonishment. "That was a fellow officer. According to regulations—"
"In this rigidly hierarchical empire, regulations are written for the dead."
Arthur put down his coffee cup, took out a cigarette case from his pocket, and said with a relaxed and unhurried motion, "Ryder, remember this. Returning a gift is a courtesy between peers, or even between friends."
"But we are not playing the role of his friend now. We are his nightmare, his judge, a higher being he cannot comprehend."
Arthur lit a cigarette, took a deep drag, and exhaled a cloud of bluish-gray smoke that shrouded his handsome face in shadow: "Ignoring these lowly people whom we've driven into the mud is the greatest compliment we can give them."
"Because it proves my pure bloodline. It proves I possess privileges he doesn't. If I reciprocate, he'll suspect—why would a high-ranking SS officer be so polite to him? Is he hiding something?"
Arthur pointed out the window to the German trucks struggling in the mud: "Look there, Ryder. That's power."
"Power is not about how many tanks you own, nor is it about what rank you wear on your shoulders."
"Power is the ability to make someone salute you in the mud, grateful that you didn't kill them, without you even having to roll down your car window."
Ryder looked at Arthur. In that instant, he suddenly felt that this young English nobleman was a complete stranger.
The Arthur who drank cheap whiskey with him in Flöhrne was gone. In his place was a terrifying SS butcher who had truly become part of the madman.
But what's even more terrifying is that Ryder discovered that deep down, he actually longed for that feeling.
09:00. At the rear of the convoy, troop transport truck number 12.
This "poison of power" is not only infecting officers; it is spreading rapidly like a plague to every corner of the entire force.
Sergeant Dawson was sitting on the back panel of the truck. His MP40 submachine gun was casually slung around his neck, and his feet dangled outside the truck bed, swaying with the undulations of the road.
-
In his hand was a freshly opened can of German beef. Inside were large chunks of braised beef, glistening with solidified white fat, a hundred times more delicious than the British corned beef mixed with sawdust.
The truck was speeding along the roadbed.
Dawson looked down at the B4 auxiliary road a few meters below.
There, a German half-track tractor had just suffered a flat tire, and a group of Hans were pushing it, sweating profusely. Mud splattered all over their gray-green uniforms, making them look like a bunch of gray rats.
The German soldiers heard the engine sound overhead, looked up, and met Dawson's gaze.
Over the past week, whenever Dawson saw a German, his first reaction was fear, a desire to find cover or to pray that the other person hadn't seen him.
But now?
Dawson chewed on his beef, looking at the disheveled Germans. He suddenly felt sorry for them. Even—ridiculous.
"What are you looking at?!"
As one of the few members of the "SS 999 Special Operations Battalion" who was fluent in German, a strange impulse welled up in his heart.
"Hey! Here you go!"
Dawson shouted with a mocking expression and casually tossed the empty tin can, which was covered in white butter, downwards.
"Clang!"
The tin can hit the engine cover of the half-track below, bounced, and splashed black mud that landed right in the face of the German soldier who was pushing the vehicle.
"Raus! (Get out of here!)"
Dawson even gave the middle finger to the person below.
The German soldier below was blown up.
"Fuck your SS!"
The National Defense Army soldier, whose face was splattered with mud, straightened up abruptly. Instead of shrinking back, he wiped the mud off his face like an enraged bull, and his suppressed anger erupted.
Unlike some politically astute lieutenant colonels, he was a veteran under Major General Rommel, a conqueror who fought his way from the Ardennes Mountains to the Atlantic Ocean, not a pushover to be bullied.
"Etappen—Hengste! (A stallion in the rear!)"
The German soldier roared out the extremely insulting word in German, and without thinking, he dug a fist-sized pebble out of the mud and hurled it at Dawson with all his might.
"Bang!"
The stone slammed hard against the truck's wooden sidewall with a dull thud, just centimeters from Dawson's knee.
This was like lighting a powder keg.
The IDF soldiers who had been pushing the truck straightened up, their hands free of guns, but countless angry eyes fixed on it. A few hot-tempered soldiers even picked up clods of mud and stones and threw them at the truck bearing the skull and crossbones insignia.
"Go back to Berlin! You bunch of bastards who only know how to walk on asphalt!"
"Come down here if you dare! I'll teach you how to fight!"
Angri curses rose and fell.
This is the deep, unfathomable rift between the Wehrmacht and the SS—a soldier bleeding on the front lines harboring a deep-seated hatred for the privileged "political forces" in the rear.
Dawson, who was in the car, was startled by the rock that hit him and instinctively pulled his head back into the car.
But the convoy did not stop.
Instead, the driver stepped on the gas, and the truck spewed out a plume of black smoke from its exhaust pipe, as if mocking the group of incompetent and furious infantrymen below, before swaggering away.
Looking at the Germans behind him who were still waving their fists and cursing, Lieutenant Gray sat in the half-track and thoughtfully picked up his pen.
He quickly wrote in his diary: "June 6, 1940. Rain turned to sunshine."
"Sergeant Dawson just did something stupid, but maybe—it's a good thing."
"He successfully provoked the soldiers of the 7th Panzer Division. Those Germans threw stones at us and called us SS pigs. The hatred in their eyes seemed to run deeper than it did for the British."
"This is interesting. Very interesting."
"If we continue to play these arrogant bastards," perhaps we won't need to fire a single shot to make the Germans fight amongst themselves. We are directing hatred towards the SS; we are hating Himmler.
"When the Wehrmacht throws stones at the SS, we just drive away with our heads held high."
"The only scary thing is that I've discovered my soldiers are starting to enjoy the feeling of being hated. They think it's cool. How far is a person from becoming a true monster when they start enjoying the thrill of being a villain?"
Gray closed his diary and sighed.
He looked up and saw the huge place name on the road sign ahead:
【Abbeville — 35km】
09:30, 5 kilometers away from the T-4 supply station.
The convoy continued its high-speed journey on the highway.
Although the "privilege parade" had sent everyone's adrenaline soaring, Arthur remained calm.
Instead of indulging in blind optimism, he turned his attention to the RTS tactical map on his retina.
Five kilometers ahead, an abandoned monastery by the roadside is marked as a prominent resource point:
[T-4 Frontline Supply Transfer Station]
Location: Saint Valeri Abbey (Abandoned)
[Inventory: High-octane aviation fuel/diesel/ammunition/French brandy/chocolate]
Arthur's Adam's apple bobbed slightly.
"Ryder, turn left at the intersection ahead."
"Turn left?" Ryder hesitated for a moment, glancing at the instrument panel. "Sir, we have 60% fuel left, enough to get to Abbeyville. Is it really necessary to go through the trouble of resupplying? Besides, every stop increases the risk of being exposed."
"Indeed, tactically speaking, you can go straight."
Arthur took a deep drag of his cigarette and slowly exhaled. "But I think you'll want to go there. Especially after you hear who's stationed there."
Ryder's hand on the steering wheel paused slightly; he sensed the unusual tone in Arthur's voice: "Who is it?"
Arthur didn't answer directly, but slowly exhaled a smoke ring: "Do you remember the scene when we met in that farm POW camp? Do you remember those Royal Norfolk Regiment brothers under your command who were slaughtered?"
Ryder's pupils contracted instantly.
That memory will forever be a thorn in his side.
"The 3rd SS Panzer Reconnaissance Company of the Totenkopf is stationed in that monastery ahead."
Arthur pointed to the fake skull on his collar insignia, his tone turning sinister: "That's the scouts of the Skeleton Division, the very unit that slaughtered your men."
Ryder did not speak.
Arthur didn't say anything either.
Ryder's breathing became heavy, and his eyes, which had been somewhat tired, were now bloodshot. Fear? No, when hatred intensifies to a certain degree, fear is completely burned to ashes.
"Sir—"
"You mean—it's full of skeleton bastards?"
"That's right."
Arthur flicked his cigarette ash, his eyes cold: "Although it's only a company, about 150 men, they are indeed Theodore Iker's men, members of that executioner group."
Arthur looked at Ryder, his voice like a tempting devil: "We're not just going to refuel, we're going to requisition" their supplies. Brandy, ammunition, chocolate—I'll empty the place."
"But what if, during this process, some misunderstandings occur, or some Skeleton Division soldiers disappear due to an accident?"
Arthur paused, a cruel smile playing on his lips. "I don't care. After all, anything can happen on the battlefield, right?"
Ryder fell silent.
A few seconds later, the British major, who was always cautious and always worried about being discovered, slowly turned his head.
The hesitation and fear from before were gone from his face. In their place was a chilling killing intent. It was an expression only a man burdened with a blood feud could have.
"Sir."
Ryder said, enunciating each word clearly, "If it's a skeleton master—then I have no objection."
"I'll kill them all I see."
"very good."
Arthur drew his Luger P08 pistol from his waist, checked the magazine with a crisp "click," and then put it back in the holster.
"Tell Gray to raise the cannon barrels. If those skeleton sergeant brats dare to bare their teeth at us for a few barrels of oil—"
Arthur flicked away the cigarette butt, sparks tracing a bright arc in the air: "Then let's turn them into real skeletons."
"Target: T-4 Supply Depot. Full speed ahead."
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