plumnovel Chapter 13 The Ghost's Role is Only in Creating Chaos
Chapter 13 The Ghost's Role is Only in Creating Chaos
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06:15, refueling completed.
"Danke! Danke schön! (Thank you! Thank you so much!)"
Captain Hauptmann Viktor Kroll of the 2nd Battalion, 11th Panzer Regiment of the German Army stood by the roadside, holding Lieutenant Jeanne's hands tightly. He looked so excited that it was as if he was holding the hands of a long-lost brother or sister, not a friendly logistics officer.
Behind him, dozens of German tank crews were whistling as they rolled the last oil drum, marked "Standard Fuel of the Wehrmacht," next to their Panzer IV tank, like industrious worker ants.
That was liquid gold. That was the blood of attack.
"Salute to the 7th Panzer Division! Salute to the tireless General Rommel!"
Captain Victor straightened up, straightened his dusty but still crisp officer's uniform, and gave an impeccable salute. His eyes were sincere—the kind of emotion that comes from "comradeship in arms."
"To meet you on this chaotic morning is truly a blessing from the Führer! If it weren't for this batch of oil, my tank would just be sitting here as scrap metal!"
Lieutenant Jeanne was still wearing that ill-fitting German overcoat, the brim of her hat pulled low, obscuring her tense, trembling amber eyes. She tried to maintain her persona as the "temperamental Alsatian logistics officer," and nodded curtly.
"Good luck to you too, Captain. I hope your engines are as good as your luck."
After saying that, she turned around and jumped onto the footrest of the Opel truck, her movements swift and decisive.
Lord Arthur Sterling was still nowhere to be seen in the driver's cab of the lead car.
He was like a shy ghost, or the devil manipulating puppets behind the scenes, quietly hiding in the shadows. Through the dusty car window, he looked at the grateful German captain, a slight smile playing on his lips.
He raised his gloved right hand and gently touched the brim of his hat with two fingers.
This is a return gift. It is also a farewell.
"Goodbye, Victor. I hope you enjoyed the cappuccino I made for you."
With a crisp click of gears meshing, twelve empty Opel trucks roared to life. The convoy accelerated, like a group of mischievous children who had just finished a prank, quickly disappearing into the morning mist and heading towards the edge of the battlefield—the junction of the German lines.
Captain Victor watched his allied forces drive away until their taillights disappeared, then turned and roared at his soldiers:
"What are you still looking at?! These guys from the 7th Armored Division need to get going, we have work to do too!"
He patted the Panzer IV Ausf. D tank next to him, which had just been filled with fuel, and felt a reassuring touch from the cold armor plates.
"Fill up the tank! Check the tracks! Distribute those damn British cigars to the brothers!"
The captain took a cigar from the box given to him by the "friendly forces," lit it in the heat of the tank's exhaust pipe, and took a deep drag.
"That's a really good cigarette. The British certainly know how to enjoy it."
He looked at the Kassel Hill, which stood majestically in the morning light in the distance, and his eyes gradually became sharp and contemptuous.
"But when it comes to fighting? Hmph."
He exhaled a smoke ring, the smoke dissipating in the wind, just like the British defenses he had envisioned collapsing.
"Attention all tank commanders! Attack in ten minutes! Target: the summit of Kassel! We're going to plant the Iron Cross on that damned church steeple! Let those speedsters from the 7th Panzer Division see that the 6th Panzer Division is the real assault ace!"
"Jawohl! (Yes!)"
A burst of enthusiastic responses came through the radio.
The Maybach HL120 TRM engine roared to life. It was the roar of German industrial excellence, steady and powerful, carrying a confidence that seemed to crush the world.
But these Germans were unaware that, deep within the roar of the engines, a deadly chemical reaction was quietly taking place.
Sugar does not dissolve in gasoline, but as the fuel pump pressurizes and the engine temperature rises, those tiny white crystals are injected into the hot cylinder along with the fuel.
They will melt there, turn into caramel, and eventually become hard carbon deposits, like cement, sealing every piston ring and clogging every fuel injector.
That was the curse left by Arthur Sterling. A sweet, irreversible curse.
……
07:15, Kassel Heights, British Gloucestershire Regiment defensive line.
It was a suffocating wait, a torment.
For the British soldiers crouching in the trenches, the morning dampness felt like a venomous snake seeping into their bones, but it was no colder than the despair in their hearts.
This is a dead end.
Everyone knows this. Just yesterday, the last evacuation route to Dunkirk was cut off. They were left here not for victory, but for death. To buy time for their compatriots queuing on the beach.
"What is this? The Forgotten Legion?"
At a concealed anti-tank gun position, a young loader wiped a brass-colored 2-pound shell with trembling hands, his voice trembling with tears.
"We're going to die here, Sergeant. The Germans have us surrounded. I heard the sound of treads all over the hillside last night."
"Shut your mouth, Private."
The gunner—a World War I veteran—was staring intently into the mist at the foot of the mountain through his gunner's scope. He had an unlit cigarette dangling from his mouth, his face was covered in stubble, but his eyes were as hard as rock.
"As long as you're not dead, shove the shells into the breech. Remember, we are the Gloucester Regiment. We didn't run in Egypt, we didn't run in Ypres, and we won't run here."
Although he said that, the old sergeant was actually quite nervous inside.
He only had this one Ordnance QF 2-pounder gun. This small 40mm caliber gun was okay for taking down armored vehicles, but if he encountered a German Panzer III or IV tank, he would be at the mercy of fate.
Moreover, they were running low on ammunition.
"They're here, they're here."
The watchtower's piercing shout broke the deathly silence.
"Tanks! Straight ahead! At twelve o'clock! That's... God, that's an entire armored battalion!"
The morning mist dissipated.
That scene was enough to break any infantryman.
At the foot of the mountain, the once empty fields are now filled with steel.
This is not the kind of barbarian-style charge from the East, where soldiers, armed with Type 38 rifles and wearing loincloths, try to use their bodies to stop steel.
The Germans displayed a different dimension of violent aesthetics. It was an "armored wedge formation" completely stripped of emotion, adhering solely to the principles of geometry and ballistics. In the eyes of these Prussian officers, war was not a fanatical sacrifice, but a rigorous mathematical problem.
What the British troops saw was the standard armored battalion formation that the German Wehrmacht was most proud of in 1940. According to the wartime organization chart, a fully-strength armored battalion had 71 to 75 tanks, each of which was a mobile steel fortress.
At the very edge of this wedge-shaped formation lies the core strength of the 6th Armored Division—the medium tank company.
Leading the way were 14 Panzer IV Ausf. D tanks painted in dark gray. These 20-ton vehicles were the "hammers" in the hands of the German army at this time. They were equipped with 75mm KwK 37 L/24 short-barreled howitzers. Although the short and thick barrels looked somewhat comical and were quite ineffective against armored targets, they were an absolute nightmare for infantry and fortified positions.
On the flanks of the Panzer IV, spread out like a pack of wolves, were the main force of two light tank companies—more than 40 Czech-made 38(t) light tanks.
These riveted armored Czech tanks, though slightly less protected, were renowned for their exceptional mechanical reliability and accurate 37mm Škoda gun. Agile and fast, they resembled a pack of hounds hunting a lion, tasked with tearing at the enemy's flanks.
With the addition of command tanks and half-track vehicles interspersed among them, the entire attack front was a kilometer wide.
Dozens of white Iron Cross insignia gleamed coldly in the morning light, and the dust kicked up by the tracks blotted out the sky. This was not merely an army unit; it was a violent display of the Third Reich's industrial capacity.
Boom—Boom—Boom—!
The German offensive began.
The Iron Cross emblem looked particularly striking in the morning light.
The 75mm short-barreled howitzer spat out orange-red fireballs. High-explosive shells whistled as they crashed into the British positions, kicking up clouds of dirt and mangled limbs.
"Hide! Hide!"
Chaos reigned on the British positions. Machine gunners were blown away, and trenches were filled in.
Amidst the smoke and fire, the German tank formations launched their attack.
It was an overwhelming sense of mechanical oppression. The roar of the Maybach engines coalesced into a torrent, and the vibrations from the tracks crushing the earth traveled through the ground to the soles of every British soldier's feet, sending shivers down their spines.
They are climbing the hill.
Although the slopes of the Kassel Heights were steep, they were not an insurmountable obstacle in the face of the superior mechanical capabilities of the German army.
"800 yards!" the old sergeant roared. "Hold your fire! Don't fire! Wait until 500 yards! We need to target the side armor!"
He stared at the growing Panzer IV in his scope, cold sweat trickling down his forehead and stinging his eyes.
Too fast. These Germans are charging too fast, it's like they're on steroids.
At this rate, they'll have rolled over the first trench in two minutes at most. Then, it won't be a battle, it will be a massacre.
"It's over."
The loader closed his eyes, clutching the shell tightly in his hands as if it were his last lifeline.
On the other side, Captain Victor sat in his command tank, numbered "01," looking quite pleased with himself.
He opened the top hatch and even leaned half his body out—a characteristic arrogance of German armored troops, who liked to stick their heads out during attacks to feel the wind and smell the gunpowder.
As for those British snipers who might be hiding in the shadows?
A cold smile crept across Victor's lips. Faced with the absolute truth of the caliber of that 75mm KwK 37 short-barreled cannon, any attempt at a "sniper duel" with a .303 caliber rifle was nothing more than a laughable suicide by a carbon-based life form against industrial violence.
"Forward! Full speed ahead!"
He shouted into the throat communicator, his voice distorted with excitement.
"The British are under pressure! They don't even dare to fire! See that church? Whoever's the first to charge in, I'll buy him French champagne!"
The engine roared. The tachometer needle approached the redline.
The newly added "Rommel-specific fuel" seemed exceptionally powerful, giving the tank a strong sense of acceleration when climbing hills.
"What a perfect morning," Captain Victor thought.
This is Blitzkrieg. This is the invincible German Panzer Division.
however.
Just as his tank broke through a ridge and was less than 400 meters from the British position, at the most crucial stage of the climb—
hum.
That wasn't the sound of a shell hitting the ground. It was a strange noise coming from deep within the heart of the tank.
Immediately afterwards, a plume of black smoke—not the normal pale gray exhaust fumes, but a thick, pungent smoke with a caramelized and acrid smell of charcoal—suddenly billowed from the exhaust pipe at the rear of the car.
Puff—puff—click click click!
The once smooth and deep engine roar suddenly became extremely rough, like a giant with a severe cold coughing violently.
The tank's power suddenly plummeted.
"What's going on?!" Captain Victor felt the vehicle suddenly lurch, almost hitting his nose on the edge of the hatch.
"The engine's losing power, sir! The revs are dropping!" came the driver's panicked voice. "I've floored the accelerator! Nothing!"
"Shift gears! Downshift! Don't stop! This is a steep slope!" Victor yelled.
However, the laws of physics do not change according to human will.
As the sugar inside the cylinder completely carbonized, a hard, black, sticky substance clung tightly to the piston rings and cylinder walls. The connecting rod struggled desperately, trying to push the solidified piston, producing a teeth-grinding metallic grinding sound.
boom!
A muffled thud. That's the sound of a connecting rod breaking or a cylinder exploding.
This 20-ton steel monster, just one step away from victory, convulsed violently, then lay sprawled on the mountainside like an elephant that had suffered a stroke.
It died.
"Damn it! How is this possible? This is a newly replaced engine!" Captain Victor hadn't even reacted yet.
Immediately afterwards, a series of terrible news came through his earpiece.
"Car 02 reports! Engine stalled! Cannot start!" "Car 05 lost power! Oil pressure zero! God, the engine is smoking!" "Car 11's engine has blown! We're stuck!"
It was like toppling dominoes, or like some mysterious plague suddenly breaking out.
The tanks at the very front, those dozen or so that were fueled with "special fuel," all broke down within thirty seconds.
They weren't destroyed. They were simply "broken".
But on the battlefield, there is no difference between being damaged and being dead.
Even worse.
Because they broke down in the most awkward position—without cover and climbing uphill at an angle, they were like a group of targets frozen in place, exposing their vulnerable chassis and sides to the British guns.
This sudden turn of events brought a brief silence to the British positions.
The old sergeant, who had been preparing to close his eyes and await death, opened them. He stared in disbelief at the Panzer IV tank that had suddenly stopped in his scope.
"What's going on? Why did they stop? Are they waiting at the traffic light?"
"Never mind! Fire! Fire now!"
The old sergeant kicked the stunned gunner in the buttocks.
boom!
The crisp sound of the 2-pound cannon echoed through the valley.
At this distance, hitting a stationary target is as easy as playing darts in a pub for a well-trained British gunner.
The armor-piercing shell whistled out and precisely penetrated the turret ring of the Panzer IV tank.
Boom!
A fireball erupted from inside the tank. Captain Victor didn't even have time to scream before the blast wave threw him away, sending him tumbling down the hillside like a rag doll.
"Hit! Hit!" the loader screamed excitedly.
"Don't stop! Switch to high-explosive shells! Attack the infantry! Drag that Bofors over here! Quickly!"
The entire British position instantly erupted in cheers.
The morale that had been suppressed by the fear of death transformed into a frenzied desire to kill.
Thump thump thump thump—!
Two Bofors 40mm anti-aircraft guns on the flanks also joined the chorus. These machine guns, originally designed to shoot down aircraft, were practically meat grinders for infantry when fired horizontally.
Dense barrages of tracer bullets lashed out at the German attacking formation like whips of fire.
The German grenadiers following behind the tanks, having lost their cover, were instantly exposed to a hail of bullets and were torn to pieces.
"It seems they are indeed experiencing some 'indigestion'."
Arthur stood on a small hill two kilometers away, holding a Zeiss telescope, watching the black smoke rising in the distance, and elegantly raised the bottle of liquor in his hand.
"A toast to the fruits of German industrial prowess."
He spoke to Jeanne beside him, without a trace of pity in his eyes.
"This is our final gift to the Gloucester Regiment. At least this morning, they don't have to worry about tanks charging up."
Jeanne looked at the man.
The morning light shone on his blood-stained yet still handsome face, illuminating the hellish calmness in his eyes.
She suddenly realized that, compared to the Germans driving tanks, the British gentleman in front of her, holding champagne and smiling as he sent hundreds of people to hell, was perhaps a more terrifying monster.
"You're a devil, Lord," Jeanne whispered, but she gripped the Luger pistol Arthur had given her tightly in her hand.
"I'm a pragmatist, Lieutenant."
Arthur tilted his head back and took a sip of wine, the spicy liquid washing away the bloody taste in his throat.
"In this damn world, demons often outlive angels."
He turned around and threw the empty bottle into the bushes.
On the RTS map, the massive red dot representing the main force of the German 6th Panzer Division is descending into chaos and stagnation due to setbacks in its advance. And this is precisely the opening he has been waiting for.
"Get in the car."
Arthur waved his cane, pointing to the slightly sparse red area in the east.
"While they're fixing the car, let's head to the next stop."
The convoy started again.
This time, all the soldiers stood tall and proud. Looking at the burning German tanks in the distance, their eyes no longer held fear, but only a fervent desire to hunt alongside their "alpha wolf."
Behind them, the sounds of gunfire from the Kassel Heights continued intensely, but that was no longer relevant to them.
They are ghosts. Ghosts are only responsible for creating chaos, not cleaning up the battlefield.