lovenovelstory Chapter 68 Greetings in the Mud
Chapter 68 Greetings in the Mud
Chapter 68 Greetings in the Mud (Two Chapters Combined)
P.S.: I've revised the part in the previous chapter about Bock's attitude towards the Führer, trying my best to be historically accurate. Thank you to the readers for pointing this out.
1940年6月4日，05：00，比利时·弗尔内西部防线外围N39公路淹没区。
In this Flanders lowlands forgotten by God, dawn brought no hope, only a hazy, seemingly perpetually veiled filter of death.
"Sir, if hell has an entrance, I think we've already driven half a wheel in."
In the driver's seat, the British corporal gripped the steering wheel tightly. His foot pounded frantically between the accelerator and clutch, trying to get the already groaning Sd.Kfz.251 half-track out of the mud pit that could swallow half an adult.
Arthur sat in the passenger seat, his Zippo lighter clicking shut and then popping open again. The flame danced in the damp air, illuminating his cold eyes.
He ignored the driver's complaints and instead looked out the window.
The situation here was ten times worse than the dark yellow "severely difficult terrain" he saw on the RTS tactical map.
Data is ultimately cold and impersonal; only when you personally step into this mud can you truly understand the sticky, desperate feeling.
In order to stop the unstoppable steel torrent of Guderian's 19th Panzer Corps, the engineers of the Cold Creek Guards defending Förne made an extremely decisive, yet also extremely reckless, tactical decision.
They blew up the main dam of the Lovaart Canal.
Under normal circumstances, this would have been just an ordinary water conservancy accident. But at high tide, it was tantamount to detonating an ecological bomb.
This ancient waterway, originally built in the 12th century and painstakingly dug out by Cistercian monks and their followers, has been the lifeline of the Flanders Lowlands for centuries. It drains inland waters into the sea, transforming this once saline-alkali land into one of Europe's most fertile "golden granaries."
But now, with a few muffled explosions, eight hundred years of civilization have been destroyed in an instant.
Seawater mixed with river water flooded in, instantly turning thousands of acres of fertile, flat beet fields and pastures on the west side of Flne into a huge, black, foul-smelling swamp.
"This is what is called absolute defense."
Arthur exhaled a smoke ring, looking at the Matilda I tank struggling through the mud ahead, but the image of the devastating flood on the Eastern battlefield involuntarily surfaced in his mind.
This is practically a mini version of that tactic.
On the other side of the world, that "bald guy" did something even more drastic to stop the invincible mechanized forces of Japan: he directly breached the Yellow River dike.
Indeed, the devastating mudslide brought the enemy's tanks and trucks to a standstill, dragging the invaders' offensive into the mire. But what was the cost? Millions of citizens who should have been protected were displaced, thousands starved to death, and countless people perished in the flood.
"Regardless of friend or foe, we will perish together."
Arthur flicked his cigarette ash, a flicker of mockery at the brutal tactics in his eyes, which quickly turned to schadenfreude: "I bet 'Rapid Heinz' is about to be driven mad with rage. After he's been sprawled in the mud of Förne for two days, his nickname on the Wehrmacht roster will probably be changed to 'Snail Heinz.'"
Arthur flicked his cigarette ash, looking at the black swamp where even flies couldn't get up, his eyes filled with amusement.
For that armored corps genius who believed that "speed is life" and wished he could give tanks wings, this kind of fighting style, in which his proud armored formations were crawling in the mud, was simply the greatest insult to his art of military command.
Arthur guessed that Gu Bu Shi was probably feeling like two knights were about to duel when one of them suddenly poured a bucket of excrement on the ground—it was disgusting.
Subconsciously turning to look at Major Ryder behind him, Arthur pointed to the poplar grove in the distance, where only the treetops were visible above the water, and said in a low voice, "For the German armored troops, this is another Battle of Moscow—except that what stops them is not the forty-degree cold and blizzards, but this endless mud."
This is the British defensive philosophy: if I can't beat you, I'll flip the chessboard and get everyone covered in mud, so no one can have any dignity.
Upon hearing this unfamiliar metaphor, Major Ryder was visibly taken aback. He was unaware of the young master's inner grumbling about the British Empire's meddling, and even less aware of the bewilderment and confusion that would follow in the Battle of Moscow a year later.
Moscow?
Ryder instinctively gripped his helmet. As far as he knew, the Germans and Soviets were currently on their honeymoon; they had not only partitioned Poland together, but the Soviet Foreign Minister, Molotov, was also sending a telegram to Berlin congratulating the German army on its victory in France.
Where did the Battle of Moscow come from?
Could it be that this young nobleman heard through some secret channel known only to the upper class that the British planned to drag the Russians into the mess as well?
But Arthur clearly had no intention of giving the poor major any more "spoilers," and decided to be a riddle teller, only revealing half of what he was saying.
He stopped talking and just stared at the conveyor belt churning the black mud.
Here, Krupp's fine steel is meaningless, and Maybach's engine has no dignity. There are no leaders, and no blitzkrieg. Nature is the sole dictator.
However, their speed also slowed down.
For the previous half hour, this 27-ton infantry tank had moved like a noblewoman in a heavy crinoline, slow but steady. Now, however, it resembled a clumsy water buffalo stuck in a swamp.
The wide tracks churned up tons of mud, flung it into the air, and then fell like black raindrops. The engine roared dully, and black smoke billowed from the exhaust pipe, almost skimming the surface of the water. Each turn of the tracks required contending with immense suction.
Victims of this "tactical suicide" can be seen everywhere on the roadside.
Arthur saw a black Citroën sedan overturned off the road, with an exquisite wicker picnic box tied to its roof, clearly left behind by wealthy civilians fleeing the disaster.
Not far away, only the turret of a German Sd.Kfz. 222 light reconnaissance vehicle was visible above the water, with the barrel of its 20mm autocannon still stubbornly pointing to the sky, like a drowning person reaching out for help.
The German tanks couldn't get in unless Guderian fitted them with propellers. But—the people inside couldn't get out either.
They lock themselves in a cage and throw the key into the sea. They're willing to forgo the possibility of winning just to avoid losing.
This terrain is a safe cage for defenders, but a muddy nightmare for attackers.
But for a mechanized force like Arthur's, which was trying to "go against the flow" back to the city, this was an extreme test of mechanical performance and driving skills.
If it weren't for the excellent off-road capabilities of the German-made half-tracks they had stolen, and if it weren't for the wide enough tracks of the Matilda tank, they would probably have become steel corpses in this swamp, just like that German reconnaissance vehicle.
Tell the car behind you to keep your distance.
Arthur ordered over the radio: "Don't walk on the tracks ahead. They've been compacted and will only make it more slippery. Stay on the shoulder, even if you scrape some paint. Lieutenant Jeanne, keep an eye on the engine temperatures of those two tanks. I don't want them to burn through their head gaskets before they even see the Germans."
"Understood, sir."
Jeanne's tired but still capable voice came through the headset: "The left track of the Avenger is making a strange noise. It might have something caught in it, maybe some unlucky German's helmet. But it won't affect its movement."
"keep going."
Arthur looked away and flicked the cigarette butt into the muddy water outside the window, making a soft "sizzle" sound.
The mud is indiscriminate. It doesn't care whether you're made of precise German Krupp steel or an expensive leather boot of an English gentleman; it just wants to swallow you up and make you part of this black wasteland.
But he was determined to carve a path through the monster's throat.
The convoy, like a filthy steel behemoth, continued to crawl through the mud for a full twenty minutes.
Every second was agonizing. The roar of the engines echoed through the empty flooded area, and any German artillery observer with even a little experience could have fired shells at them with their eyes closed.
But this swamp seemed to be avoided even by the Germans. Apart from the occasional muffled thunderous artillery fire in the distance, the journey was unusually quiet, and Arthur did not detect any possible artillery fire aimed at the convoy.
Finally, after rounding a huge crater, a man-made "embankment" appeared ahead.
That was the end of the quagmire, and also the outermost edge of the Flner defensive line.
"parking."
Arthur raised his hand.
On the only road that wasn't completely flooded, a sturdy roadblock made of sandbags, barbed wire, furniture, and two overturned Bedford trucks stood in the way.
It was quiet behind the roadblocks; there was no one in sight.
But on Arthur's RTS system interface, several green dots representing friendly units were flashing wildly behind the pile of trash, and a red exclamation mark indicating "Alert Status" was displayed.
"Don't move."
Arthur stopped Major Ryder, who was about to peek out, and pointed to a seemingly tangled patch of bushes to the right of the roadblock: "There's a Vickers heavy machine gun there. If you stick your head out now, they'll turn your head into a pincushion in three seconds."
Before the words were finished, several figures covered in mud, with even their helmets smeared with black grime, peeked out from their hiding places like ghosts.
Arthur recognized them from the RTS—it was the outpost of B Company, 1st Battalion, Cold Creek Guards.
Although their uniforms were so dirty that their original khaki color was no longer visible, and although their faces were covered in fatigue and grease, the Lee-Enfield rifles in their hands remained frighteningly steady.
The dark muzzle of the gun and the famous bayonet mount were fixed on the lead half-track. As soon as a German got off, they would open fire immediately, not only to kill enemy soldiers, but also to warn their headquarters behind them.
"Password!"
It was a pure East End London accent, with a dryness that came from not having drunk water for days, but in this setting, it was more beautiful than any aristocratic aria.
That was the voice of a living person.
"Stop the car! Turn off the engine immediately! Keep your hands where we can see you!"
The sentry was clearly very nervous.
This is hardly surprising; in this godforsaken place, at this time, a group of German half-track vehicles with their hazard lights flashing suddenly appeared.
A convoy of two heavy tanks painted with strange graffiti rushed in, making anyone think it was a special infiltration force sent by Guderian.
"Sir, should I—" Major Ryder subconsciously reached for the pistol at his waist.
"Don't be silly, Ryder."
Arthur chuckled coldly, stopping his foolish move. "Drawing a gun in front of the Coldstream Guard is suicide. Those guys sleep with their fingers on the trigger guard."
He picked up the walkie-talkie and called the burly Scottish man who was wiping his MP40 submachine gun.
"McTavish".
"Yes, sir."
"Go down and say hello to your old friends." Arthur straightened his trench coat collar, a playful smile curving his lips. "Don't make them too nervous, or they might accidentally go off."
1
"I'd be happy to help."
Sergeant McTavish grinned, revealing a set of teeth that looked exceptionally white against his muddy face. He slung his MP40 around his neck, grabbed his helmet and put it on, then shoved open the car door.
puff.
The leather boots sank into the foul-smelling muddy water, which was up to their ankles.
McTavish seemed oblivious to the cold and stench. He straightened his back and strode arrogantly toward the sentry post that could burst into flames at any moment, as if he were changing the guard at Buckingham Palace.
"Password! I don't want to say it a third time!"
The sentry behind the roadblock was clearly enraged by this fearless fellow; the sound of his rifle bolt being pulled back was clearly audible. "Stand there and don't move! You damned bastard—"
However, when the mud-covered Scotsman approached within twenty meters, the sentry's voice suddenly caught in his throat.
Although his face was blackened by gunpowder smoke, although he was wearing an oddly matched tactical vest, and although he was holding a German submachine gun—the way he walked with his shoulders hunched, and that damned steel helmet, were all too familiar.
The sentry slowly rose from behind his bunker, forgetting even to seek cover. His eyes widened as he pointed at McTavish as if he'd seen a ghost: "Sergeant McTavish? The Scottish Drunkard? The Villainous Sergeant?"
"Watch your words, Private."
McTavish stopped and stood in a pool of stagnant, murky water.
"I'm the sergeant major of Sterling Combat Group now. If you call me a drunkard again, I'll have to let you experience solitary confinement—though in this godforsaken place, solitary confinement might be more comfortable than the trenches."
The sentry was still in a state of shock. He instinctively lowered his gun, his eyes scanning McTavish back and forth: "Damn it—you're still alive? Good heavens, the guys in B Company said you went off to the rear with that Sterling playboy to enjoy yourself, and then the next day they heard that Azhebrook had been bombed flat—we all thought you were already in a German POW camp eating moldy black bread."
"A prisoner-of-war camp?"
McTavish chuckled.
He struck a match, lit a cigarette, took a deep drag, and then casually tossed the remaining half-pack of Lucky Strike cigarettes—the American brand he'd scavenged from the German soldiers' corpses—along with the matchbox, to the sentry like trash.
"Sorry to disappoint you, brothers. The food there isn't to my taste."
The sentry hurriedly caught the pack of precious cigarettes, but before he could say anything, McTavish's next words completely stunned him.
This Scottish veteran, known throughout the regiment for his volatile temper in the Second Battalion, patted the still-sharp bayonet hanging at his waist, glanced back at Arthur's location, and grinned, saying, "And, about that 'playboy'—"
McTavish turned to the side and pointed with his thumb to the half-track vehicle parked in the fog behind him, and the figure that was faintly visible on the vehicle.
"He's sitting in his car smoking right now."
"As for the bayonet hanging on my waist, it's German-made, Krupp steel, and of good quality. Fifteen hours ago, in the ruins of Berg, I pulled it out of the stomach of an SS platoon leader."
Hearing their conversation, several soldiers behind the barricade peeked out. They looked at McTavish.
It's not just about his arrogant face.
They were mostly looking at his equipment.
The MP40 submachine gun hanging on his chest was filled with live ammunition; his belt was full of M24 stick grenades, like grapes; the pockets of his tactical vest were bulging, obviously stuffed with ammunition and supplies; even his boots had a captured Luger P08 pistol strapped to them.
These are hardly deserters.
This is practically a fully armed mobile arsenal.
As for themselves, apart from the rifle with only five bullets, their ammunition pouches were long gone, and they even had to share a biscuit for breakfast.
This stark contrast transformed the originally hostile and mocking gaze into a complex mix of surprise, envy, and even a hint of awe.
"You mean—that's Master Sterling?"
The sentry stared incredulously at the half-track. "You mean, the one who only knows how to play with horse racing and women—"
"Shut up."
McTavish interrupted him abruptly, his voice low but laced with a bloodthirsty tone, "If you had seen how he crushed German bones with French tanks, or how he hanged SS soldiers on the city walls, you wouldn't be wasting your breath here."
He took a deep drag and then flicked the cigarette butt into the water.
"Now, move that damn roadblock. The young master has a bad temper; he doesn't like waiting."
A few minutes later.
Amidst a series of rapid scraping sounds, dozens of soldiers worked together to push open a gap between the two overturned trucks.
The convoy restarted.
As the lead half-track vehicle slowly drove past the roadblock, Arthur did not look at the soldiers who were staring at him.
He simply maintained that languid posture, as if it were all perfectly natural.
McTavish climbed onto the car, clinging to the door, bringing with him a damp, earthy smell.
Did you run into someone you know?
Arthur looked at the outline of the ruins ahead and asked casually.
Actually, there's no need to ask. Arthur knows perfectly well that if there were to be a "ranking of the most famous people in the Cold Creek Guards," Sergeant McTavish's name would definitely be in the top three.
First on the list is naturally the commander; second on the list is Arthur himself—after all, the title of "the spendthrift son of the Earl of Stirling" is too well-known in London's social circles and officers' clubs.
And right behind him was this Scottish scoundrel—the only one in the group who treated the solitary confinement cell like a resort.
The veteran with a criminal record in the military police was thicker than the Bible, so the soldiers gave him a nickname: "The Villainous Sergeant."
"Yes, sir."
McTavish pulled back the bolt, checked the safety, and a complex smile appeared on his lips.
He glanced back.
那些曾经在训练场上或许还被他揍过、骂过的曾经的新兵，也是战友，此刻正贪婪地分食着那包「好彩」，甚至连包装纸里残留的菸丝末都被手指蘸着舔了个乾乾净净。
In their eyes, a mixture of fear and ingratiation, McTavish read something called "hope."
That's ironic.
You should know that his nickname in the regiment was "Villain Sergeant"—the kind of bastard that new recruits would tremble at the sight of, military police would have a headache when they saw him, and even the regimental commander might want to kick him out.
But in such desperate situations where death could come at any moment, the logic often works in the opposite way.
When death knocks on your door, would you rather see a priest spouting righteousness and morality, or a villain who can bite through an enemy's throat with his teeth?
Moreover, this villain is someone you know well, one of your own.
The answer is obvious.
In this quagmire, seeing a "villain" like McTavish is more reassuring than seeing one's own mother—because everyone knows that following villains usually leads to a longer life.
"A bunch of poor groundhogs."
The Scotsman said in a low voice, as if talking to himself, "They're hiding in the cave, thinking we're out there fleeing for our lives, thinking we're refugees seeking asylum."
"Little did they know, we came back to pull them out of this damn mud pit."
Arthur smiled.
It was an extremely brief, yet extremely sharp, smile.
"Then let them see it clearly."
Arthur suddenly waved his hand, pointing to the city of Flörn, which was shrouded in the morning mist and resembled a dead city.
"McTavish, tell everyone to cheer up."
"We are not penniless people who came to seek refuge with relatives."
"We are the kings who have returned with gold."
"Go into town."
With a roar of engines, the steel convoy shattered the last vestige of tranquility, like a red-hot bayonet stabbing viciously into the city filled with despair and death.
Behind them, the sentries who had been given cigarettes were staring blankly at the black smoke billowing from the rear of the two Matilda tanks.
One of the privates, looking at the huge "Avengers" graffiti, muttered to himself, "God—I have a feeling."
"What's your premonition?" The old soldier next to him greedily puffed on his cigarette butt.
"These guys, that playboy... I mean, Commander Arthur, seem to really be here to fight."
The old soldier exhaled a smoke ring, staring at the muddy tire tracks, his eyes deepening: "No, kid."
"They came to kill people."
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