20demayo Chapter 48 Battlefield Pianist
Chapter 48 Battlefield Pianist
Chapter 48 Battlefield Pianist (Fourth Update)
Burgh, the war room on the second floor of the city hall, 16:52 PM.
The sounds of gunfire outside the window had gradually subsided, eventually giving way to a deafening silence.
With the successful breaching of the northern embankment by engineers, the turbid canal water, like an angry yellow dragon, swept away the riverbank carrying dozens of tons of silt, completely cutting off the possibility of the German 10th Panzer Division's flanking attack from the north.
Major General Jensen had just received a report from the frontline scouts: the German armored vanguard was retreating, and from the south gate and the cemetery, apart from the occasional sniper shots, those gray figures had disappeared into the depths of the ruins.
The atmosphere in the meeting room became noticeably more relaxed.
The joy of surviving a close call evaporated in the air like alcohol. Several staff officers even unbuttoned their top buttons, lit cheap cigarettes, and gathered together, chatting and laughing in hushed tones, celebrating this unexpected victory.
In their eyes, the 12th Motorized Infantry Division had just accomplished a feat worthy of being recorded in history.
They not only miraculously held their ground against the steel onslaught, but also delivered a resounding slap to Heinz Guderian's face, a face etched with Prussian arrogance.
In this "great defeat" in which the entire Third French Republic collapsed like an avalanche, this insignificant tactical victory was like the only relatively intact diamond among shattered glass, both precious and ironic.
Only Arthur didn't laugh.
He was still sitting in that worn-out cot, his long legs crossed, holding the empty wine glass in one hand and casually tapping the wooden armrest of the chair with the other.
"Tap, tap, tap."
The monotonous yet rhythmic tapping sounded particularly jarring in the noisy conference room, like the countdown of some precision instrument.
Arthur's gaze was not focused on the jubilant French people in front of him, but rather on the RTS interface.
On the tactical map that covered the entire war zone, the red arrows that had been densely packed like ants and aggressively besieging Berg were now slowly retreating like the receding tide.
Round one, a complete victory.
But he did not feel relieved; instead, his brow furrowed slightly, forming a cold crease.
As a seasoned RTS player, he knew all too well what this "sudden silence" meant.
In the grand logical process of war, when computer AI detects a failure in ground pathfinding...
If the attack fails (or if the damage from a frontal assault is too high (DamageEchangeRatio<1), there is usually only one logic—switching the attack mode.
The Germans didn't come here for tourism; they came to kill.
If the ground is impassable, then go to the sky.
If tactical infiltration fails, then compensate with numerical superiority.
Sure enough, at that moment...
In the upper right corner of the RTS interface, the warning light representing "Airborne Threat" suddenly and without warning changed from a dull gray to a glaring scarlet.
drop!drop!drop!
The piercing alarm could only be heard by him, its urgent sound like a death knell, contrasting sharply with the laughter and chatter of the staff in the conference room.
[WARNING: A large number of airborne unit signals have been detected approaching at high speed]
[Identification: Ju-87B-2 "Stuka" (Stuka dive bomber)]
[Affiliation: 8th Air Army (VIl. Fliegerkorps) of the German Air Force]
[Quantity: 24 aircraft (two squadrons)]
[Armor: SC250 general aviation bomb + Jericho Horn]
Estimated arrival time: 25 minutes
Looking at that line of cold data, Arthur's lips curled into a cold smile that he had expected.
really.
This behavior of calling for reinforcements when he can't win a fight, and bombing the map when his tactics fail, is practically a textbook example of the red-temperature players he encountered in his previous life's games. Ferdinand Schall, that old-fashioned Prussian, finally lost his temper.
"It seems that the German general has finally lost his temper and is ready to overturn the table."
Arthur suddenly spoke.
His voice wasn't loud, but the chill emanating from it was like a bucket of ice water, instantly extinguishing the lively atmosphere around him.
Major General Rangsen, who was lighting a cigarette, paused, burning his finger with the match and wincing in pain. "Major Sterling, what did you say?"
"I said, put away the celebratory champagne, gentlemen."
Arthur put down his empty glass, which clattered against the table with a crisp sound.
He stood up, his movements retaining that ingrained British gentlemanly demeanor, slowly straightening his slightly wrinkled collar. But when he spoke again, his pace was astonishingly fast, each word like a bullet fired from a chamber, precise, cold, and urgent: "I think the German air force has been deployed. And their Stukas could very well be over our heads in twenty minutes."
"General Rangsen, if you don't want your men to become roast meat, start the countdown now."
As Arthur spoke, he strode towards the window, giving the other man no time to react: "Keep an eye on your troops. No living thing is allowed on the streets. All trucks and tanks, drive them into barns or cover them with camouflage netting. Infantry, leave the lines immediately, all of you get into the cellars and air-raid shelters!"
"But----"
"No buts! Be quick! Anything exposed outside the cover will be scrap metal in twenty minutes!"
Arthur whirled around, staring at the pale-faced Jensen, his eyes filled with urgency: "Also, summon Captain Higgins immediately. Tell him to bring out his four Bofors anti-aircraft guns. Furthermore, Major General, I want you to gather all the Hotchkiss heavy machine guns under your command, leave none behind, and mount them all on the roof of the City Hall."
"Higgins' 'piano' no longer needs to be played for the infantry."
"This time, we are going to welcome our guests from heaven."
City Hall rooftop 17:00 PM
The wind picked up, whipping up scraps of paper and dust from the street, which slapped against Captain Higgins' oil-stained face.
The artillery captain stood with his hands and feet ice-cold beside the newly erected Bofors anti-aircraft gun, looking at the swarm of black dots that grew larger and larger like locusts on the horizon.
His throat was dry, and he turned to look at Arthur, who was sitting leisurely in a velvet chair—which had just been moved from the mayor's office.
"Sir—this is insane!"
Higgins' voice trembled slightly in the wind. He pointed to the four Bofors 40mm anti-aircraft guns spread out at the four corners of the roof, then pointed to the horizon: "That's at least two whole squadrons of Stukas! Twenty-four! Each carrying 250 kilograms of bombs!"
"According to the artillery manual, to cover this density of air raids, we would need at least a complete air defense battalion, which is sixteen guns! And that would also require searchlights and rangefinders! We only have four guns—we'd be crushed like insects!"
"And the city—" Colonel Pierre shouted breathlessly as he rushed onto the roof, "Should we use anti-aircraft fire to protect the city center?"
"Shut up."
Arthur held a data sheet that he had just hastily scribbled on a piece of paper with a pen. It was the "absolute kill data" calculated by the RTS system based on wind speed, cloud height, and the performance of the Stuka.
He coldly interrupted the two men's cacophony: "Colonel, face reality. No matter what we do, half the city of Berg will be in ruins in ten minutes. It's inevitable; even God couldn't change it. Expecting four cannons to protect a few thousand houses? That's a fairy tale."
"Buildings are inanimate; they collapse when they crumble. But people and artillery are alive."
In Arthur's pupils, the RTS system's ballistic prediction module was frantically calculating. Red parabolas covered the entire city model like a torrential downpour, but he only focused on the "death zones" with the highest overlap.
He suddenly realized something, whirled around, grabbed Colonel Pierre's well-tailored lapel, and roared through the howling wind, "Colonel!"
Arthur's voice drowned out the distant rumble: "Get down there now! Tell General Jensen that if he doesn't want all his men dead, he'd better listen up!"
Arthur pointed to the two most prominent buildings in the distance, his eyes filled with a frightening ferocity: "My intuition tells me that the Germans' first wave of bombing will focus on the southern barracks and the clock tower on the west side—those are your two tallest landmarks, and also the Stuka pilots' favorite targets!"
"Order the 1st Battalion and the 3rd Company to immediately abandon their positions! Retreat entirely to the underground wine cellar and air-raid shelters! You have two minutes; run as fast as you can!"
"But—but what about all that field equipment?" Colonel Pierre instinctively tried to protect the French army's few remaining assets. "Tents, cooking utensils, and—"
"Throw away those damn bedding rolls and pots and pans! They're for the dead!"
Arthur shoved Pierre aside and roared at the stairwell, "Tell them to get inside with their guns! If they're alive, they can get their equipment back; if they're dead, this batch of armor-piercing rounds is just spoils for the Germans! Go now!"
"Yes—yes!"
Colonel Pierre was completely overwhelmed by this imposing aura. He turned pale, turned and ran a few steps toward the stairwell, but suddenly stopped.
He whirled around, staring at Arthur, who was still standing in the center of the rooftop, his eyes filled with disbelief and terror: "Wait—and what about you, Lord Sterling!"
Pierre pointed to the already opened entrance to the air-raid shelter not far away: "Aren't you coming down? Once the bombing starts, this will be the front line! That roof offers absolutely no protection!"
"Go down?"
Arthur seemed to have heard some absurd suggestion.
He unbuttoned his cuffs and neatly rolled up his sleeves to his elbows, revealing his sleek forearms.
"Colonel, if I also scurry into my hole like a startled gopher, who will conduct this concert?"
Arthur looked up, his head flashing as the sunlight swept over the trembling anti-aircraft gunners. He knew that if the commander retreated now, the morale of these soldiers would collapse in a second; they would either abandon their guns and run away or fire blindly.
He must remain here like a stabilizing force.
"But those are Stukas! Two whole squadrons!" Pierre was so anxious he almost stamped his feet. "Staying here is suicide!"
You are the brain of this unit, you cannot—”
"Because I am the brain, I must remain where the eyes can see."
Arthur interrupted him coldly, his tone carrying an arrogance and contempt for death ingrained in the bones of Anglo-Saxon nobles: "Moreover, Colonel, as a gentleman, it is extremely impolite of the host not to greet guests who have flown all this way to visit."
He pulled the pen from his pocket, twirled it in his hand, and pointed it at the four Bofors anti-aircraft guns pointing skyward: "Go, Pierre. Go and protect General Jeanson."
As for me—
Arthur's lips curled into a mad smile, the smile of a gambler before going all in: "I want to stay and see for myself what kind of fireworks will explode when the German planes crash down."
"You—you're a madman."
Colonel Pierre stared blankly at the Englishman. At that moment, he couldn't tell whether this man was a reckless madman or a true war god.
But he knew he couldn't persuade the stone.
"Good luck, sir."
Pierre gritted his teeth, took one last look at the back of the figure sitting in the velvet chair, turned around and stumbled down the stairs.
A few seconds later, Pierre’s desperate shouts and the frantic ringing of the telephone came from downstairs.
The entire command post instantly descended into chaos. But this time, no one questioned the order from the rooftop. Standing on the rooftop, Arthur could see countless soldiers, like startled ants, frantically dropping their backpacks and grabbing their rifles and ammunition boxes, moving from the exposed positions to the deep cellars and bunkers.
Seeing all this, Arthur turned back around.
The elegant smile on his face vanished the moment Pierre disappeared, replaced by a cold, hard focus, like that of granite.
He slammed the sticky note covered in numbers onto Higgins' chest. "Alright, the audience's gone. Now, the stage is ours."
"Captain, I want you to forget all that nonsense about 'probabilistic shooting' and 'bullet barrage' that the Royal Artillery Academy taught you."
"The Stuka is not a level bomber; it's a dive bomber. This means that before it can drop its bombs on us, it has to be fixed to a straight, unchangeable track."
Arthur pointed to a patch of empty clouds directly overhead, where there seemed to be nothing: "No matter how many of them they have, if they want to blow up City Hall, they have to dive from that point. That's dictated by aerodynamics."
"Lock all four cannons to the coordinates on that piece of paper. Altitude 1200 meters, azimuth 275 degrees, elevation 65 degrees. Set the fuse to a 3.5-second delay."
"But sir, it's empty!" Higgins looked at the empty sky, almost crying with anxiety.
"It's empty now."
Arthur raised his wrist and looked at his watch; the second hand was relentlessly ticking. "But in forty-five seconds, those Germans will be lining up and ramming their bellies into your shells."
He stood up and walked to the edge of the roof. There, dozens of French soldiers were mounting heavy Hotchkiss 13.2mm machine guns on sandbags.
"As for the remaining ones who slipped through the net—"
Arthur coldly looked at the machine gunners: "Tell them not to aim at the planes. As long as you see something falling from the sky, fire a lead wall into the air. As long as the Germans are scared and drop their bombs prematurely, that's victory."