plumnovel Chapter 46 God's Chessboard
Chapter 46 God's Chessboard
Chapter 46 God's Chessboard (Second Update)
"What did you say?"
A French captain's face instantly flushed crimson. He slammed his pencil on the table in anger, pointing at the densely covered map and roaring, "Major! This is the latest intelligence our fortress garrison spent three whole hours compiling from the latest reconnaissance reports of various frontline outposts! Every arrow is intelligence earned with blood! How dare you erase it like that?"
Major General Mori didn't speak, but his brows furrowed.
"Latest intelligence?"
Arthur chuckled softly, his voice filled with undisguised mockery.
He glanced casually at the map surrounded by his staff officers.
The arrows marked heavily in red pencil above were converging madly towards the south gate like rivers flowing into the sea. This was the "crystallization of collective wisdom" reached by the entire staff after countless arguments and deductions—the main attack direction of the 10th Armored Division must be the most heavily defended south gate.
Arthur didn't even glance at the French captain who was so furious he wanted to duel him.
He turned his head and looked out the window at the sky, which was tinged gray by gunpowder smoke: "Captain, save your energy."
"If your so-called intelligence were truly useful, Guderian should still be trapped outside the Maginot Line, instead of driving us into the sea as if we were strolling through his own backyard."
The other staff members originally wanted to argue, and some were even ready to slam their fists on the table, after all, they had all put in their efforts for this "broken map" to varying degrees.
But Arthur's words were too poisonous, as poisonous as a glass of absinthe laced with arsenic.
It stabbed into the Ardennes Forest, the most painful, festering, and irrefutable scar in the hearts of all the French soldiers present.
That was the fig leaf for the military creed of the entire French Third Republic, and also the crematorium of their intelligence.
For a moment, only heavy breathing filled the conference room. They opened their mouths, but couldn't find a single word to refute them.
Because in the face of war, that cruel accountant, misguided efforts are worthless.
"Admit it." Arthur raised his eyelids, his gaze icy, addressing not only the captain who had stepped forward, but also the entire division staff. "What use is this outdated map if you don't even know that hundreds of thousands of Germans have circled around from the Ardennes Forest to your backyard?"
"The map is dead, the ink is dry, but the Germans outside are alive."
He held up a finger and tapped his temple: "The real battlefield is here."
Ignoring the speechless captain and his staff, Arthur had no intention of listening to any of their advice from the start. He slightly adjusted his posture, seemingly staring out the window in a daze, but in reality, he was cutting out images.
Under the puzzled and astonished gazes of his staff—who couldn't understand why the Englishman was suddenly staring blankly into thin air—Arthur's vision underwent a dramatic transformation.
The tattered paper map, the mottled walls, and even the anxious French officers in front of him gradually faded from his sight, becoming a semi-transparent backdrop.
Instead, a three-dimensional holographic sand table is created, consisting of countless precise points of light, lines, and data streams.
The fog surrounding the real world has dissipated.
He gained a God's-eye view.
On this enormous virtual chessboard, the entire defensive system of the town of Berg is laid bare. The blue dots represent French firing positions: a few remaining 75mm field guns, machine gun nests scattered along the canal, and a few S35 medium tanks that have just been reloaded and are redeploying towards the south gate.
More importantly, there are those red dots of light.
Outside the town of Berg, there is an endless sea of red.
The German 10th Panzer Division.
This elite armored force, commanded by Lieutenant General Ferdinand Schaal, was like a giant python, slowly coiling around the neck of this ancient bastion.
Arthur could clearly see their deployment:
In the direction of the south gate, a large number of trucks were moving back and forth, creating the illusion of dust. Several mortar positions were pouring smoke bombs onto the south gate defense line, a textbook feint attack.
On the west side—
Arthur's gaze fell on the seemingly peaceful area to the west: the Berg Cemetery.
It was quiet there, with no artillery preparations underway. But in the RTS's highlighted display, thin red lines were seeping into the area like blood vessels.
[Enemy Unit: 1st Battalion, 86th Sniper Regiment]
[Troop Composition: Assault Engineer Platoon (equipped with TNT) / 2 Infantry Companies]
[Support Unit: Sd.Kfz.251/10 (37mm gun variant) 4]
Arthur immediately saw through the enemy's tactical intentions: using the tombstones and walls as cover, engineers would blow up the walls, and infantry would infiltrate to the side and rear of the city hall.
Just then, a communications soldier stumbled into the conference room.
"General! Urgent message from the South Gate defense zone!" The communications soldier gasped for breath, his face filled with terror. "The Germans have started shelling! Smoke grenades! Lots of smoke grenades! We can't see the enemy's position! But the observation post reports the sound of tracks approaching the line!"
Major General Sen turned around abruptly and glared at Arthur, as if to say: See? Although you just humiliated us, the facts prove that the Germans' main attack direction is the south gate!
However, Arthur, sitting in his chair, showed no panic. He simply watched the tactical sand table that was changing in his eyes, a slight smile playing on his lips.
"Perfect tactics."
Arthur gave a soft sigh of praise.
In the relentless, omniscient perspective of an RTS game, no disguise can be concealed. The billowing smoke at the South Gate is merely a black cloth used by the magician to deceive others, while the real dagger is held in the other hand hidden behind the magician's back.
Germans are intelligent, even admirably cunning.
They knew that trying to force their way through the fortified defenses at the South Gate, which had been built during the Vauban era and reinforced with modern technology, would be futile. So they chose the cemetery, which was the weakest point in their defenses and the most easily overlooked psychologically, as their entry point.
This is precisely the core logic of the "blitzkrieg" that the Hans were so proud of—like water flowing around solid reefs, seeping through the gaps, and then delivering a fatal blow from the side and rear.
If left unchecked, in twenty minutes, these German commandos will infiltrate the city of Berg like a virus through the cemetery and then burn down Jensen's command post.
"What did you say?"
Sen frowned, the sound of cannons outside making him restless. He couldn't understand what Arthur was muttering at this critical moment.
"I said, the German tactics were perfect. If this were a textbook exercise, they would have won."
Arthur took the red wine from the orderly and swirled it gently. The ruby-red liquid dripped onto the glass, forming streaks of tears that contrasted sharply with the somber smoke outside the window.
He didn't look at Rang Sen, but instead extended a long, slender finger and pointed to the seemingly still, blank area on the west side of the map on the table: "But, General, stop your men from gathering at the south gate. That's a trap."
"A trap?" Colonel Pierre couldn't help but retort. "Major, the south gate is under heavy mortar bombardment! The observation post reports a large amount of dust! That's their main force!"
"That was a show put on for you by the Germans. They tied tree branches to the back of the trucks to create dust as if a large force was moving. As for the mortars? They were just there to make a noise."
Arthur took a sip of the liquor; it tasted somewhat sour and astringent, clearly a poorly stored product, but he didn't care. He looked up: "The real deadly knife is here."
His finger tapped heavily on that inconspicuous corner of the map: "Cemetery."
"Here?" Pierre laughed. "Major, it's an open area with very high walls. If the Germans attack from there, they won't even be able to deploy their heavy weapons. Besides, our observation posts haven't seen anything at all."
"It's precisely because there's no movement that it's even more terrifying."
Arthur put down his glass, his tone cold and hard. He didn't want to explain anything more to these Frenchmen; all he needed was obedience: "General Jeanson, if you don't want to be drinking soup in the German POW camp tonight, give the order immediately."
He grabbed a pencil from the map table and drew a circle at a T-junction inside the cemetery wall: "Move your anti-tank gun platoon—those little toys equipped with 25mm SA34 cannons—to this position immediately—the angle between St. Martin's Road and the cemetery wall."
"Whatever they're doing, make them stop what they're doing immediately and push the cannon over there."
"No need to construct complicated fortifications, just aim the cannons at the best-looking section of the western wall of the cemetery. Keep the distance within 400 meters."
Sen stared at Arthur, then looked at the map. This deployment was utterly absurd. That position was currently deserted; why would they deploy a valuable anti-tank gun to guard a single wall?
"What if the Germans don't come?" Jensen asked.
"If the Germans don't show up in five minutes," Arthur shrugged, "you can hand me over. Maybe the Germans will trade me, a British major, for a Panzer III tank."
The room was deathly silent.
This was a high-stakes gamble. The stakes were Arthur's reputation and the safety of the 12th Division's flank.
After a long pause, Sen took a deep breath. He recalled the battle at the East Gate, and how this Englishman had turned the impossible into the possible; at the very least, the other party must have some skill.
"Pierre!" Renson whirled around. "Pass on my orders! 2nd Platoon, 3rd Anti-Tank Company, move immediately toward the cemetery! Execute Major Sterling's deployment! Quickly!"
West of Berg, outside the cemetery.
Captain Müller of the 1st Battalion, 86th Sniper Regiment of the German Wehrmacht was lying behind a bush, observing the mottled brick wall in front of him through binoculars.
The place was eerily quiet.
Only the distant rumble of cannons coming from the south gate reminded him that this was a battlefield.
"The French have been fooled." Captain Muller's lips curled into a smug smile.
He had just received a report from a scout that the French were frantically moving reserves toward the south gate. The defenses here were as weak as the streets of Berlin at dawn.
"That's the French for you," he thought. "Their minds are still stuck in the era of the Verdun meat grinder, reacting only to noise and blind to real danger."
This was a perfect infiltration operation.
Behind him were two fully armed infantry companies. Engineers were already crawling forward with demolition charges, while assault troops carried MP40 submachine guns and had grenades strapped to their waists. Four light Sd.Kfz.251/10 half-track vehicles (equipped with 37mm anti-tank guns) were quietly idling, ready to rush in and provide fire support at any moment.
"Begin the operation," Muller whispered the order.
Several engineers in gray uniforms scrambled up the cemetery wall like lizards. They skillfully placed the explosives and lit the fuse.
boom--!
A dull bang, not too loud, broke the silence.
Smoke and dust billowed up. The seemingly impregnable red brick wall had been blasted open, leaving a huge gap ten meters wide.
"Charge! For the Führer!"
Captain Muller, brandishing his pistol, was the first to jump up.
The German infantry, who had been waiting in ambush, surged through the breach like a flood. The tracks of their half-tracks kicked up mud, using it as cover as they rushed into the cemetery.
Once you cross this cemetery, the road ahead leads to the city hall.
however.
Just as the first Sd.Kfz.251 half-track had broken through the gap and its tracks crushed the first marble tombstone, Captain Muller witnessed a scene that made his heart stop.
At the T-junction about 400 meters ahead, in the shadows, several seemingly inconspicuous piles of dead branches were suddenly pushed aside.
Four dark, slender cannon muzzles were exposed.
Those were French 25mm SA34 anti-tank guns. They were like four patient hunters, already there with their guns at the ready, quietly waiting for their prey to walk right into their barrels.
On the other hand, although his body was comfortably nestled in the uncomfortable military chair in the conference room, in terms of thought, Arthur was the only omniscient and omnipotent "0B" (observer) on the entire battlefield.
In the cold and emotionless holographic vision of RTS, killing is simplified into the brutal collision of geometric shapes.
He stared expressionlessly at the menacing red arrow representing the German commando unit, with a resolute air of ignorance, like a moth drawn to a flamethrower, crashing headlong into the weapon pocket already baring its fangs and covered by blue fan-shaped spots of light.
The logical loop is closed, and the dead end is inevitable.
Arthur gently swirled the tulip glass in his hand, watching the crimson liquid spin along the glass wall under centrifugal force, forming poignant arcs. The color was strikingly similar to the arterial blood about to spurt from the German captain he had never met.
He raised his glass to the void, his tone as if bidding farewell to a clown who had just stepped onto the stage but had fallen and broken his neck: "Auf Wiedersehen, Müller. (Goodbye, Müller.)"
boom!boom!boom!boom!
Four crisp cannon shots, like the popping of champagne corks, rang out almost simultaneously.
Although this 25mm cannon had a small caliber and was jokingly called a "fly swatter" by the French army at the time, it had an extremely high muzzle velocity, an astonishingly flat trajectory, and an extremely fast rate of fire.
At this distance, hitting a lightly armored target like a half-track vehicle would be an instant kill.
The first shell pierced directly through the cab of the lead 251 half-track vehicle. The tungsten-core armor-piercing shell easily tore through the thin layer of bulletproof steel, binding the driver and the radio operator sitting next to him together.
The vehicle instantly went out of control, crashed into an angel statue next to it, and overturned on its side.
Then came the second one, and the third one.
The German infantrymen who hadn't yet jumped off the vehicles suffered annihilation. Although the 25mm shells were unloaded, the secondary effects of them hitting the engine or fuel tank inside the half-track were terrifying.
Even more frightening was the extremely high rate of fire of these small-caliber cannons. A skilled French artillery crew could fire 15 rounds per minute.
Four cannons, that's 60 rounds per minute.
This was a massacre.
The German commando unit that had just stormed into the breach was instantly engulfed in a hail of bullets. The tombstones, originally intended as cover, were shattered by shells, sending stone fragments flying. The German soldiers who tried to find cover discovered that there were no blind spots in this meticulously designed kill zone.
"Retreat! Retreat..."
Captain Muller roared in terror, but his orders could never be fully conveyed.
A 25mm armor-piercing round, with an extremely high initial velocity of nearly 900 meters per second, whistled and struck the base of a marble angel statue less than two meters away from him.
This solid steel-core bullet, which was not loaded with any explosives, shattered the hard marble base instantly upon impact with its enormous kinetic energy.
collapse!
There was no fire, only the muffled sound of stone cracking.
Countless sharp, knife-like fragments of stone, propelled by kinetic energy, transformed into a deadly hail of bullets, spraying in all directions without leaving any blind spots. One particularly sharp, irregularly shaped fragment, like a spinning saw, instantly severed his right carotid artery.
puff.
There were no dramatic last words.
The originally high-pitched roar came to an abrupt halt, replaced by a series of eerie, wet, bubbling sounds.
Captain Muller clutched his neck in terror, but it was no use. Scalding hot arterial blood gushed from between his fingers like a high-pressure water jet, instantly pooling on the floor.
Two seconds later, the elite officer of the 10th Armored Division collapsed heavily into the muddy water, watching helplessly as his life rapidly drained away with the red liquid, suffocating in agony.
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