20demayo Chapter 60 Flesh Mill
Chapter 60 Flesh Mill
Chapter 60 Flesh Mill
09:45 AM.
The sniper threat had just been eliminated, but the situation in Berg did not improve. On the contrary, as if enraged by the gunshot, the German offensive became even more frenzied.
Deprived of sniper suppression, the German infantry, under the enraged command of their officers, launched an even more ferocious charge. No longer concerned with casualties, they attacked like a pack of mad wolves, attempting to overwhelm the tenacious defenders.
"They've broken through! Area C has fallen!"
"Damn it! Those Germans are insane! They're charging over their own people's corpses!"
Bad news came flying into Arthur's temporary command post like snowflakes.
Arthur stood before the map, watching the area rapidly turning red—the main road leading to the eastern plaza. A German armored column was assembling there, preparing to storm in.
"McTavish!" Arthur yelled into the walkie-talkie, "Take your men and block that intersection! I don't care what method you use!"
"Even if you bite with your teeth?" McTavish's voice was laced with the sound of a violent explosion.
"Even if you have to bite it with your teeth!"
boom!
Sergeant McTavish hung up the phone and turned to look at Miller, the private engineer who always carried a box of explosives and seemed a bit neurotic.
"Did you hear that, kid?" McTavish slung Thompson's submachine gun over his shoulder, grabbed two anti-tank mines from the ground, and said, "The sergeant wants us to build a 'parking lot' for the Germans."
"But Sergeant, we don't have time to dig a hole!"
Miller shouted, his face covered in dirt and looking panicked amidst the swirling dust: "The scouts said the German tanks will be here in two minutes! Two minutes! We won't even have time to pry open the road!"
According to infantry manuals, laying an anti-tank mine takes at least fifteen minutes: digging, camouflaging, and setting the fuse. Two minutes? That's only enough time to get yourself killed.
"Who said we were going to dig a hole?"
McTavish grinned. He pointed to the narrow street ahead, littered with rubble and debris from the recent shelling.
"See those broken bricks? Throw the landmines in! Cover them with a layer of dirt! That's the best cover!"
"Hurry! Get the rest of the explosives out of the box! Tie them to the lampposts and broken walls! We need to prepare a big surprise for them!"
A dozen or so Royal Engineers rushed into the streets like madmen. Instead of digging standard mine pits according to dogma, they simply threw heavy anti-tank mines into craters in the road or hid them behind collapsed walls.
Miller, carrying a large bundle of TNT, deftly tied it to a rickety utility pole, then pulled the detonating cord into the rubble on the street corner.
"They're here! They're here!"
The sentry on watch let out a piercing scream.
The ground began to tremble. The sound of tracks crushing gravel approached like thunder.
A gray Panzer III Ausf. E turned the corner. Its 37mm gun was pointing warily ahead, followed by two half-track troop carriers, their cargo compartments crammed with SS soldiers.
"Stay calm—stay calm—"
McTavish lay prone behind the rubble, his hand gripping the detonator tightly. His heart was pounding, but he forced himself to keep his eyes fixed on the tank's tracks.
The driver of the Panzer III was clearly cautious; he paused briefly in front of a pile of rubble.
"Damn it, don't stop! Move forward two more meters! That's a good spot I saved for you!" McTavish cursed inwardly.
Perhaps God heard the Scotsman's prayers, for the tank restarted, its tracks kicking up dust as it rolled over the seemingly ordinary crater.
It's now!
boom!!!
A deafening roar.
The anti-tank mine exploded directly beneath the Panzer III's breech. The massive shockwave instantly tore through the fragile chassis armor, flipping the entire tank over like a toy. Black and red flames erupted from the turret ring as the ammunition inside detonated.
"Detonate!"
McTavish roared.
Miller slammed down the lever.
Boom! Boom!
The roadside utility poles and broken walls collapsed with a roar during the directional blasting, and huge concrete blocks, like meteorites falling from the sky, slammed heavily onto the two half-track vehicles behind them.
One half-track was completely crushed, and the SS soldiers inside were buried before they could even scream; another was blocked by a fallen telephone pole, and before the soldiers on board could jump off, several grenades fell into the vehicle.
"Well done, old Scottish man!" Miller exclaimed, pumping his fist in excitement.
"Don't get too excited! This is just the appetizer!" McTavish cocked his rifle. "Prepare for battle! The infantry are coming!"
French positions on the eastern defensive line.
The situation here is even more critical than that on the engineers' side. German infantry, taking advantage of their numerical superiority, have infiltrated building after building and are fighting for control of each house.
Although the French soldiers were brave, they were gradually overwhelmed by the well-equipped and well-coordinated German commando units.
"We need backup! We're on the second floor! The Germans are downstairs! They're coming up!"
The French company commander's desperate cries came through the communicator.
Arthur's gaze shifted to the anti-aircraft positions.
"Higgins!"
"Yes, sir!" Captain Higgins' voice was filled with undisguised excitement.
Since he broke through his psychological barrier yesterday and shredded people with anti-aircraft guns, this once gentlemanly officer seems to have fully awakened some kind of bloodthirsty instinct.
"See that three-story building with the blue roof? Our French brothers are trapped up there. Below are all the Germans."
Arthur pointed in that direction, his tone icy: "Tear down the first floor of that building. Be careful not to hurt our own people on the second floor."
"Understood! Surgical demolition! That's my specialty!"
Captain Higgins jumped to the gun position and personally operated the crank handle of the Bofors 40mm anti-aircraft gun.
"Attention all personnel! High-explosive shell! Instant-fire fuse!"
At this moment, Higgins wore an almost morbid, maniacal grin. The world he saw was no longer buildings and humans, but countless coordinates waiting to be destroyed.
"Aim at the lobby on the first floor! Those windows are teeming with wild ducks! Fire!"
Boom!Boom!Boom!Boom!
The rhythmic, muffled sound of Bofors anti-aircraft guns echoed through the streets once again.
The 40mm high-explosive shells, fired at a rate of 120 rounds per minute, lashed out at the first floor of the small building like a fiery whip.
Every shell that entered the window caused a violent explosion.
The German commandos who were preparing to clear the stairs had no idea that a Bofors door was hidden behind them.
Without any warning, the distinctive, muffled roar of the Bofors 40mm anti-aircraft gun instantly tore through the air. For a high-explosive bomb designed to shred the duralumin skin of a heavy bomber at an altitude of 2,000 meters, the century-old red brick wall on the first floor was not much harder than a soaked newspaper.
The shell penetrated the wall without hindrance and then detonated a second time in the narrow corridor. In that instant, flying steel balls and shrapnel created a metal storm, reducing all the upright carbon-based biophysical beings in the confined space to unrecognizable pieces of flesh.
The walls collapsed, and dust billowed everywhere.
That bloody, flesh-and-blood-splattered "pink mist" once again billowed out of the window.
"Hahaha! See that? A guy's leg flew out!"
Higgins, churning the scope, roared with laughter, spitting as he cranked the reticle: "Keep going! Blow through that wall! I want the Germans to know that as long as I, Higgins, stand here, the first floor of this building is a no-go zone!"
Under the devastating firepower of the Bofors anti-aircraft guns, a full minute of "demolition-style firing" turned the first floor of that small building into a completely transparent void.
All the load-bearing columns were broken, and all the brick walls turned into red dust.
Accompanied by the sickening sounds of twisting steel bars and cracking concrete, the entire three-story building suddenly sank downwards in the dust—it did not collapse, but because the first floor disappeared, the entire building physically "shrank" a bit, like a person with a broken knee kneeling heavily on the ground.
The second floor becomes the first floor.
The French soldiers who had been hiding on the second floor felt the floor shake violently beneath their feet, as if they had experienced an 8-magnitude earthquake. When they crawled out of the rubble, covered in dust, and threw grenades down to mop up the remaining enemy, they discovered that there were no intact corpses left on the ground floor.
"Madmen! You bunch of British madmen!"
A French company commander's voice, choked with sobs, came through the communications channel. His tone was a mixture of relief at surviving and utter terror at his crazed allies: "Are you trying to blow up the second floor too?! My God, the building collapsed! We were almost buried alive! You damned British bastards!"
Captain Higgins released the scorching firing pedal, removed his oil-stained goggles, and wiped the oil and sweat mixed with gunpowder residue from his face. Facing the curses of his allies, his smoke-blackened face showed no remorse, but instead displayed a standard, arrogant smile characteristic of artillerymen. He patted the still-smoking gun barrel and replied nonchalantly into the radio, "No need to thank God, sir. Thank Bofors."
"Also, don't mention it, this is just a small token of our appreciation from the artillery."
The real highlight takes place on the main road on the north side.
That was the direction in which the main German armored force was advancing.
Major Ryder and Captain Durand were leading this hastily assembled "armored freak company" in an ambush in the ruins.
The composition of this unit was an insult to logistics science: four French B1bis heavy tanks—the Verdun, Joan of Arc, Alsace, and Brittany; four newly captured and repaired German Panzer III Ausf. E tanks; and several half-tracks equipped with machine guns.
"They're here."
Captain Durand's voice came through the headset. His B1 tank, the Verdun, was hidden behind a collapsed wall, its 75mm howitzer mounted at the front of the hull facing the intersection.
Dozens of German Panzer III and Panzer IV tanks, under the cover of infantry, drove in menacingly.
In the cramped urban environment of Berg, the numerical advantage of the tanks became a disadvantage. The German tanks were crammed together, unable to deploy in formation, and could only form a long, single-file line.
This is exactly the effect Arthur wanted.
"Wait until they get into the circle—closer—" Major Ryder pushed up his glasses. His Type 3 captured gun was hidden in the alley on the other side, its muzzle aimed at the flank of the German column.
The moment the first German Panzer IV tank drove through the intersection.
"Fire!"
boom!
The 75mm howitzer on the Verdun fired first. A high-explosive shell struck the side of the lead Panzer IV tank. Although it didn't penetrate, the massive shockwave broke its tracks, leaving it blocking the path of the tanks behind.
Immediately afterwards, the "Joan of Arc" and the "Alsace" slowly emerged from the ruins on either side.
For German tank crews in 1940, the B1bis was a nightmare.
This French monster, equipped with 60mm sloped armor, was virtually immune to all German vehicle-mounted artillery at this range.
Ding ding ding!
The German 37mm armor-piercing shells hit the armor of the B1 tank, only sending up a series of sparks before being mercilessly deflected.
"It can't be penetrated! It's impossible to penetrate!" Terrified screams filled the German radio.
The B1 tank's counterattack was deadly. Although their 47mm turrets rotated slowly, fortunately, they didn't need to be aimed at very close range.
boom!
A 47mm armor-piercing round precisely penetrated the driver's window of a Panzer III tank. A burst of flames instantly erupted from inside the tank.
At the same time, the four captured Panzer III tanks under Major Ryder's command also attacked from the flank.
"Spank them! That's their softest spot!"
Major Ryder calmly gave orders. These tanks, whose Iron Crosses were still faintly visible, were firing on their own men, completely disrupting the Germans' judgment.
"Those are our men! Don't fire! That's a Panzer III!" the German commander shouted amidst the chaos.
In those few seconds of hesitation, Ryder's convoy had already completed two salvos, disabling three more German tanks.
However, the battle was not one-sided.
"We're out of 75mm grenades! And only five 47mm rounds left! I can only use the coaxial machine gun to scare them now!" Captain Durand shouted anxiously, his voice piercing the static-filled channel.
The intense urban warfare caused this armored unit to deplete its ammunition very quickly.
Hang in there!
Arthur's voice cut in: "If you don't have shells, lay the tanks sideways! That's sixty tons of steel! That's the most expensive roadblock in the world! Block the road! Don't let them advance an inch!"
"As for those German infantrymen—leave them to us."
As Arthur finished speaking, a suffocating metal storm suddenly erupted from the previously desolate ruins on both sides of the street.
"Fire! Peel them off the tanks!"
The Cold Creek Guards infantry and remnants of the French army, who had been lying in ambush behind the broken wall, in the basement windows, and behind the broken window frames on the second floor, pulled the triggers at the same time.
This was the second noose Arthur prepared for the German army.
The reason German tanks dared to advance in urban warfare was entirely due to the armored grenadiers accompanying them on the flanks and rear. These elite infantrymen moved close to the tank's side armor, clearing away surrounding threats with submachine guns and grenades, acting as the tanks' "eyes."
But now, these "eyes" have been slaughtered.
Da da da da!
Two half-track vehicles, hidden in the shadows of a side alley, suddenly tore through the camouflage netting. The MG34s on the roofs and the Bren guns mounted beside them formed two intersecting whips of fire, lashing wildly at the flanks of the German tanks.
The German infantry, who were cautiously advancing under the cover of tanks, had no time to react.
Bullets clanged and ricocheted as they struck the tank armor. But when they hit a human body, they made a dull thud.
A German corporal who was preparing to throw a grenade to the second floor was accurately shot through the neck by an Enfield rifle bullet. The grenade fell at his feet and blew him and two soldiers behind him into the air.
Another group of infantrymen, attempting to use the tank tracks for cover, were relentlessly bombarded by the general-purpose machine gun designed by the Germans themselves, mounted on the half-track. Bullets easily pierced the brick wall, then swept them down into pools of blood like garbage.
"My periscope! I can't see to the left!"
"Infantry! The infantry are all dead!"
The radios on the German tanks were in complete chaos.
Without the cover of infantry, the once invincible Panzer III and Panzer IV tanks instantly turned into frightened rhinos.
To avoid being hit by snipers and stray bullets, German tank commanders had to retreat into their turrets in terror and slam the hatches shut—in that instant, they became truly blind.
Through the narrow observation slit, they could only see a few dozen degrees in front of them. To the side? Behind? Above? That was death's blind spot.
"Now!"
Major Ryder seized the opportunity.
Although his tanks didn't have many armor-piercing rounds left, that was enough.
"Charge them! Squeeze them against the wall!"
The heavy B1Bis tanks, like enraged bulls, used their thick armor to ram directly into the panicked German convoy, crushing a Panzer III tank that was trying to reverse into the roadside ruins. The tracks got tangled together, making a sickening metallic twisting sound.
On this street of death, there are no shells; steel itself is the weapon.
11:45 AM.
Although the various local battlefields were putting up a desperate resistance, the German forces were simply too numerous.
It's like a flood bursting its banks; if you block one breach, it will just pour in through another.
The defensive line was being compressed smaller and smaller. German assault engineers used the sewers and breached walls to infiltrate behind the defensive line.
The fiercest fighting took place at Major General Mori's division headquarters.
The once-secure basement was no longer safe. A group of well-equipped SS assault engineers blasted open the side wall and stormed into the building housing the division headquarters.
"Guard the stairwell! Don't let them come up!"
Amidst the chaotic gunfire and explosions, a hoarse yet still powerful roar stood out sharply.
That was Major General Rangsen.
This old man, who nearly collapsed under heavy artillery bombardment, regained his dignity as a French general when facing death.
He did not retreat.
At the narrow stairwell leading from the first floor to the basement, Major General Mori pushed aside the guards who were trying to pull him away. His military cap was nowhere to be seen, his gray hair was disheveled and stuck to his forehead, and his general's uniform, covered in medals, was torn and stained with dust and blood.
In his hand was no longer the sword that symbolized command, but a strangely shaped MAS-38 submachine gun with a uniquely tilted barrel, which he had picked up from the hands of a fallen military policeman.
"Da da da da da!"
This French-made weapon, firing 7.65mm pistol rounds, had an extremely high rate of fire and minimal recoil. An SS soldier had just peeked out at the top of the stairs when General Renson fired a precise long burst, riddling him with bullets. He didn't even have time to scream before tumbling down the stairs.
"Come on! You German bastards!"
The old general roared, his eyes bloodshot, his face filled with an almost manic killing intent. He seemed to have returned to Verdun twenty-four years ago, to the era when he fought the Germans to the death on this land.
"General! We must retreat! We can't hold this place!" a staff officer cried out, grabbing his arm.
"Retreat? Where to retreat to?"
Sen shoved the staff officer aside, skillfully changing the slender 32-round magazine of the angular submachine gun while pointing at the panicked civilian staff behind him: "The last basement is right behind us! One more step and we're in a dead end!"
He fired another burst, instantly killing a German soldier who was just about to throw a grenade. The grenade landed in the stairwell. The violent explosion made everyone's ears ring, and smoke and dust instantly filled the corridor.
"I am the commander of the 12th French Division! As long as I am alive, this flag must not fall!"
General Rangsen leaned against the wall, panting heavily. His left arm was grazed by shrapnel, and blood stained his sleeve.
He glanced at the submachine gun in his hand, then at the mountain of corpses piled up at the stairwell—some German, some French.
This may be his final destination.
Tell that English kid Sterling—
A bitter smile appeared on the old general's lips as he said to the communications soldier beside him, "Even if I die, I'll still have this old bone stuck in the Germans' throats and knock out a few of their teeth."
"Let him hold the line! Don't embarrass me!"
boom!
Another loud bang. A large hole was blasted in the wall below the stairs. More gray figures loomed in the mist.
General Sen pulled the bolt and chambered the last bullet.
He stood upright at the top of the stairs, like a statue.
"Long live France!"
He pulled the trigger, the muzzle flashing in the dark stairwell, illuminating his resolute and determined face.
12:00 PM.
Just as General Mori was preparing to face his death.
Da da da! Da da da!
A burst of rapid, rhythmic Thompson submachine gun fire suddenly erupted from behind the SS.
That wasn't indiscriminate spraying; it was precise, short bursts of fire. The German soldiers, who had been crowding the narrow corridor and preparing to rush up the stairs, fell in droves like wheat being cut down, their screams instantly drowning out the sound of the explosions.
"There are people behind us! There are people behind us!"
The remaining German soldiers turned back in terror.
At the end of the dusty corridor, an unexpected figure appeared.
It wasn't a burly soldier in a bulky British overcoat, but a slender woman.
Jeanne de Valois.
The oversized men's military jacket hung loosely on her body, the cuffs roughly rolled up to her elbows, revealing her forearms covered in black ash; the belt around her waist, which probably belonged to a fallen soldier, was tightened to its limit, outlining her slender yet powerful waist.
She cut her once beautiful long hair short, the messy short hair sticking to her dusty cheeks, and she held a Thompson submachine gun that was still smoking in her hand.
Behind her stood an entire platoon of Cold Creek Guards soldiers—Arthur's "last fire brigade" for her.
"This is my country, German."
Jeanne said coldly, her eyes, which had only shown gentleness in peacetime, now exuded a chilling aura like that of a vengeful goddess.
"Open fire! Clear them out!"
Bang bang bang!
The Guardsmen descended like tigers from a mountain, accurately throwing several Mills grenades into the crowd, followed by a relentless barrage of close-range fire. Those once-arrogant SS commandos crumbled instantly, surrounded and attacked from both sides, turning into a field of corpses.
The smoke of battle has cleared.
Jeanne stepped over the bullet casings and blood on the ground and walked up to General Jeanne, who was covered in blood and leaning against the wall, panting.
"General, it's not time for you to die yet."
She reached out her hand, which was wrapped in dirty bandages. She pulled the stunned old man to his feet.
General Sen stared at the woman in a daze. The loose-fitting French uniform looked somewhat comical on her, but at that moment, the old man felt it was the most standard military uniform he had ever seen.
"Major Sterling asked me to tell you—this tooth broke well, but we need to stay alive to break more teeth."
Jeanne brushed the dust off the old general's shoulders and said firmly, "Now, come with us. We're going to push the front lines back."
Letsen looked at the woman before him, who had once been Arthur's communications officer, and then at the menacing British soldiers behind her. He suddenly burst into laughter, laughing until tears streamed down his face, laughing so hard his wounds ached.
"Good! Good! Good!"
The old man picked up the submachine gun from the ground, straightened his back, and said, "Let's go! Let's fight our way back!"
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