PFC Chapter 112 Welcome to the Night
Chapter 112 Welcome to the Night
Chapter 112 Welcome to the Night
"What are you standing there for? Didn't you hear what the general said?"
Rommel, seeing his messenger frozen in place, raised his voice. His mind was perhaps no clearer than Guderian's, as the shockwave from the explosion swept through his frontline command post: "Get the artillery ready! Wipe out all those British!"
The messenger then realized what was happening, stood at attention abruptly, and scrambled towards the surviving communications vehicle.
But then, a chief of staff stumbled up to Guderian, holding a battle damage report in his hand, which was trembling and stained with blood and oil of unknown origin.
"Generals, the preliminary statistics are in."
The Royal Air Force's sudden "visit" was certainly not to dent the German armor plates, but to weaken the Germans' offensive capabilities as much as possible, thereby relieving the defensive pressure on the 51st Hill Division on the front.
The chief of staff's voice was filled with an uncontrollable fear, an instinctive dread of the destructive power of industrialization. He didn't even dare to look up at Guderian's face, which was covered in black mud.
"The artillery regiment of the 7th Armored Division suffered more than 55% losses. We lost almost all of our heavy towed artillery."
He swallowed hard and pointed to the pile of burning scrap metal in the distance: "Those 88mm anti-aircraft guns towed by trucks—they were unprotected and overturned by the shockwave."
"The armored regiment reports that about one-third of the tanks are no longer combat-ready. Not all of them were destroyed, but the shockwave shattered a large number of observation and aiming devices and broke fragile track pins. Some tanks may appear to be intact, but their engines have been damaged by excessive dust intake, causing cylinder scoring and rendering them unusable. The colonel stated that they will be unable to be deployed in combat for the time being."
, 7
Rommel stood to the side, his face ashen as he looked at the shocking battle damage report.
His Adam's apple bobbed laboriously.
During the Battle of Arras, when he faced the counterattack of British Matilda tanks, he felt tactical pressure. Although it was tricky, it could be resolved by deploying the 88mm gun.
But at this moment, looking at the ruins billowing black smoke and the twisted steel wreckage, he felt a sense of awe for the first time regarding the concept of "air superiority."
This kind of destruction cannot be avoided by courage, willpower, or sophisticated tactical maneuvering.
"Report, General."
Another communications soldier came running up, sweating profusely, with news that was even more devastating to Guderian than the loss of tanks: "Urgent message from the rear! The 1st and 2nd Panzer Divisions are blocked ten kilometers away."
"The British bombing wasn't just targeting this area; they also cut off the main roads behind it. The D915 highway was riddled with huge craters, some more than five meters deep."
"Lieutenant General Stransky said that the engineer battalion was working on repairs, but trucks, tankers and tanks were stuck on the narrow road and could not get through."
Guderian and Rommel exchanged glances, both fully aware of what this meant.
This means that Guderian will lose more than half of the 19th Corps' strength in tonight's battle.
Of the four armored divisions originally planned, only the crippled 7th Armored Division and the 10th Armored Division, which have not yet been fully deployed, remain.
He had to use the remaining half of his forces to tackle Le Havre, a tough nut to crack that had already knocked out several of the 7th Panzer Division's teeth.
"Heinz—" Rommel attempted to offer a suggestion, his tone unusually hesitant, "Perhaps we should pause the offensive and wait for the engineers to clear the path, or—"
"No reinforcements are needed." Guderian's voice was as cold as ice as he interrupted Rommel.
He raised his head, his face, covered in foul-smelling mud, expressionless, as if the bombing had destroyed not only his tank, but also his emotional core as a human being.
He is now a logic machine, a processor that only calculates killing efficiency.
"Since the road is blocked, let's fill the hole with the bodies of the British."
"Since the optical instruments are broken, let's move the tank to a distance of ten meters and fire directly."
Guderian turned around, looking at the still-burning wreckage behind him and the wounded screaming in the ruins, and gave the order that would utterly savage this battle: "No matter what, I will grind that Sterling to dust."
He looked at the trembling staff officer in front of him who dared not speak: "Notify all the remaining artillery. No matter what caliber, even if it's just a 37mm mortar, bring it up."
"Fire all the remaining shells. I don't want to see a single shell left in the ammunition box tomorrow morning."
"implement."
17:30, the underground command post of the British 51st Highland Division (formerly the wine cellar).
The heavy blast door was pushed open with a dull creak, the rusty hinges protesting as if warning those inside that the outside world had become hell.
Arthur walked in.
The smell of engine oil, gunpowder, and sweat on him was negligible in this already polluted space.
He casually tossed his tattered SS overcoat, covered in scratches and mud, into a corner, revealing his British uniform underneath.
He swore he would never wear that thing again.
-
The uniform belonging to the Cold Creek Guard was soaked with sweat, clinging tightly to his back and revealing his taut muscle lines—a physiological reaction to prolonged periods of extreme tension.
All the staff officers and communications personnel stopped what they were doing and looked at him.
The entire command center fell into a brief silence.
His eyes were complicated.
There was a sense of awe, as if watching a madman who had just finished dancing on the scythe of death.
There was also fear, because they knew exactly what kind of monster this madman had angered.
They knew all too well that the battle to come would no longer be a tactical contest, but a return to the bloody, grinding deathmatch of the morning—until the last drop of blood was shed.
Major General Fortune sat at the map table, carefully wiping the dust off his glasses with a velvet cloth. Hearing footsteps, the old general looked up, his bloodshot eyes fixed on Arthur.
"You're back." Major General Fortune put his glasses back on, sighed, and said in a tone that was both reproachful and helplessly admiring, "You've angered that old man, Arthur."
"I bet Guderian doesn't want to conquer us anymore; he just wants to chew us up."
"What follows is no longer war. It's personal vendetta."
"He's a mad dog, General." Arthur walked to the table, picked up his canteen, and took a big gulp. His Adam's apple bobbed violently, and water dripped down his greasy chin onto the map, blurring the coordinates of Le Havre. "I just kept him from thinking about tactics, leaving him only with anger."
"Angry people make mistakes. Only when they make mistakes do we have a chance."
Arthur put down the kettle, turned around, and looked at Jeanne in the corner.
The French girl was sitting next to the radio, her hand still on the earpiece, as if she had endless telegrams to send.
She has just orchestrated a catastrophe that may have indirectly killed thousands of people.
And Arthur was the one standing at the center of the destruction.
She knew very well that if she had hesitated for even a second, or if the coordinates had been reported a hundred meters off, it wouldn't be Arthur walking in now, but a charred corpse inside Tank No. 4.
Arthur walked over and pulled half a chocolate bar from his pocket. It had been shattered during the tank's violent jolting; the wrapper was torn and had a trace of black gunpowder residue clinging to it.
He handed it to Jeanne.
"Calm down." Arthur smiled, revealing a set of white teeth. The grease on his face made the smile look particularly vivid, and also particularly cruel. "Although it's only half a piece, it's a German brand. This is probably the portion that Guderian didn't have time to eat."
Jeanne took the chocolate, looked at Arthur, and a tacit understanding between them, akin to "accomplices," flashed in her eyes.
She didn't say anything, but silently stuffed the chocolate into her mouth, using the bitterness to force her overloaded nerves to calm down.
Everyone knew that from this moment on, they were all residents of hell.
"Alright, gentlemen." Arthur clapped his hands, his clear voice drawing everyone's attention back to the map table.
At the same time, he focused his attention on the system.
[Hint] Enemy movement has changed.
7th Armored Division: Attack arrows disbanded → converted to full deployment.
10th Armored Division: Flanking maneuver stopped → switch to frontal assault.
Artillery unit: High heat source reaction. In progress.
Arthur pointed to the map on the table, drawing a huge semicircle around the perimeter of the defensive line. The semicircle looked like a giant hydraulic clamp, about to close: "I reckon the Germans will have to change their tactics after what our air force lads have done."
"They will no longer seek a central breakthrough. The 7th and 10th Armored Divisions have abandoned that 'armored wedge' tactic."
"Guderian right now probably just wants to crush us," Arthur's voice turned cold. "He wants to push forward across the board."
He intends to use overwhelming firepower and armor thickness to flatten us like sardines. This means the upcoming battle will no longer be a battle of wits, but will revert to a clash of strength, just like this morning.
"Fortunately, we've bought ourselves enough time. Now all we have to do is try to survive until nightfall."
"Prepare for the impact." Arthur looked up at the ceiling above, where dust was constantly falling, as if he could see through the thick concrete to the blood-red sunset outside: "The first wave of retaliation is coming soon."
At 17:45, the German artillery positions did not fire probing shots, nor did they require tactical calibration.
Behind the German positions, the surviving artillery pieces had their camouflage nets removed.
It's not just the division's artillery regiments' 105mm IeFH18 howitzers and 150mm sFH18 heavy howitzers.
The heavy weapons company of the infantry regiment also brought out its short, menacing 150mm sIG33 heavy infantry guns. These weapons, known as "mobile demolition machines," raised their muzzles high, ready to sling-fire 38-kilogram high-explosive shells into the British trenches.
In the forward foxholes, countless 81mm s.Gr.W34 mortars have been set up, ready to fill all the blind spots of direct fire with a barrage of bullets.
Even the 88mm Flak 36 anti-aircraft guns, originally intended to deal with aircraft, had their barrels laid flat and were loaded with high-explosive shells with delayed fuses, ready to tear the bunkers apart like opening a can.
-
The artillerymen, shirtless and drenched in sweat, carried heavy shells. There was no need for complicated calculations or conserving ammunition.
Guderian's order was simple: empty the inventory.
"put!!!"
At the commander's order, hundreds of firing pins struck the primer simultaneously. The propellant exploded in the chamber, and the resulting high-pressure gas propelled the projectile out of the muzzle.
Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom!
The earth trembled. Countless streaks of fire ripped through the twilight sky, carrying the howl of death, crashing down on the positions of the 51st High Ground Division.
The barrage of comments gradually builds up. This is a specialty of the German artillery.
On the British lines, the world turned red and black. Trenches were flattened. Sandbags were hurled into the air. Concrete bunkers were overturned like paper. The air was filled with deadly heat, sharp shrapnel, and shockwaves. Every inch of land was being repeatedly plowed.
Arthur hid in the constantly shaking underground command post. The light bulbs overhead swayed wildly, and dust fell in clumps, landing on the map and on everyone's shoulders. Each close-range explosion made the walls of the bunker groan in pain.
Major Ryder covered his ears and shouted, "This is insane! Are they using artillery shells to plow the fields?!"
Arthur brushed the dust off the map, lit a cigarette, and took a deep drag.
His hands were very steady.
"This is the price, Ryder." Arthur watched as the value representing the integrity of his own defenses on the RTS interface rapidly decreased, his tone eerily calm.
"Once the German bombardment ends, it will be our turn."
The British artillery force appeared so meager at this point.
The 51st Ground Division was left with only a few 25-pounder field guns. Compared to the overwhelming firepower of the German army, it was like using a toothpick against a hammer.
According to standard tactics, the British artillery should remain silent at this moment to avoid exposing their positions and being destroyed in a counterattack.
But Arthur doesn't need to fight conventional battles.
He closed his eyes.
On his retina, the tactical map of the RTS system unfolded. The fog of war was one-way transparent to him.
On those complex contour maps, each German artillery position was transformed into a bright red dot. The brightness of those dots represented the firing frequency, and their positions represented coordinates.
He doesn't need fire control aircraft or hot air balloons. He doesn't even need forward observation posts. He is the fire control radar with a god-like perspective.
Arthur grabbed the phone leading to the artillery position, his voice cutting through the background explosions: "Attention all artillery units."
"I don't ask them to provide overwhelming firepower. That's the way German nouveau riche play."
"We want to be surgeons."
「方位2—4—0，距离4500码。敌方105榴弹炮连。弹药堆积点锁定。」亚瑟报出的数据精确到了小数点后两位：「立爆弹。效力射。急速射，三发。」
"Move immediately after the attack."
"put!"
German artillery positions on the flank.
The German artillery here is firing indiscriminately.
They believed that the British army had been suppressed by the previous bombing and the current artillery fire and was unable to mount an effective counterattack.
-
They were too lazy to dig shell craters; they simply piled boxes of shells next to the artillery for quick reloading.
A loader, with a cigarette dangling from his mouth, pushed the shell into the breech.
Suddenly. There was no sign of a test firing by Mob. There was no usual calibration process of "one close-range shot, one long-range shot, and then a strafe shot".
Just like the German artillery, there was no probing, only the methods used by both sides were slightly different.
Whoosh—Boom!
A volley of 25-pound shells, with incredible precision, as if they had eyes, struck the unprotected ammunition pile directly.
Psychotic explosion.
This is the most terrifying sight on the battlefield, in case anything happens.
Hundreds of 105mm shells detonated simultaneously, and a massive fireball instantly engulfed the entire artillery battery. The loader, who was smoking a cigarette, didn't even have time to react before being torn apart by the blast wave. The cannon wheels flew dozens of meters into the air, and the gun barrel twisted like mud.
This was perfect. Arthur, single-handedly, solved a major problem that had been troubling Guderian's quartermasters:
For example, Bu completed the ammunition consumption target given by General Gu within one second.
There was no overwhelming counterattack, but every British shell that landed precisely targeted the most threatening German targets, such as ammunition trucks, command posts, or the core of artillery positions.
Guderian put down his binoculars, his face grim.
Beside him, Rommel shook his head, a disdainful sneer playing on his lips.
He quickly made a rational assessment: "Don't be alarmed, Heinz. It was just luck on their part." Rommel pointed to the rising smoke, his tone certain: "The British observation posts were all flattened in that sweep. It was just a stray bullet that happened to hit the propellant canister. The probability of that is even lower than being hit by a meteorite, they couldn't possibly—"
Before the words were even finished, *whoosh!*
The air seemed to be struck again by a giant iron hammer.
Five hundred meters away from the first explosion point, a 150mm sFH18 heavy howitzer position belonging to the 7th Armored Division suddenly exploded without warning.
This time, even a telescope wasn't needed to see it clearly. The heavy howitzer shell, weighing several tons, was detonated, and the fireball instantly engulfed the entire gun emplacement. The several-ton gun barrel was thrown into the air by the enormous impact, spinning in the air with a mournful sound, before crashing heavily onto a tractor-trailer.
Rommel's words caught in his throat.
His once confident expression froze on his face, like a weathered plaster statue.
Guderian also suddenly raised his binoculars, his pupils contracting violently to the size of pinpoints.
If the first shot was luck, then the second shot is judgment.
"How is this possible—" Guderian's voice began to tremble, filled with fear of the unknown: "No correction shots. No point of impact adjustment. Three rapid-fire shots, directly covering the core area."
He whirled around, roaring at his chief of staff behind him, the steel bars on his neck bulging: "How could they possibly have this kind of accuracy?! This is blind firing! This is absolutely blind firing!"
"All their observation posts are dead! Does that Sterling have eyes that can see through the terrain?!"
This is the stalemate.
Guderian discovered that despite his overwhelming firepower, he could not locate the enemy's artillery positions.
Because Arthur is playing guerrilla warfare from your RTS God's-eye view.
"Fire three shots, then change positions." Arthur was like a ghost wielding a sniper rifle in the darkness, each shot aimed to take down a valuable target. The German artillery fire, though fierce, was like wildly swinging a club in the dark, mostly hitting open ground.
The sun is about to set.
The ground offensive was thwarted by the British army's tenacious defenses, and the artillery fire that was expected to sweep across the land proved ineffective against this ghostly opponent.
18: 15.
Guderian was losing his patience. The agonizing pace of the advance was suffocating him. He was a believer in speed, and this tug-of-war was an insult to his "blitzkrieg" creed.
He grabbed the field telephone leading to the 2nd Air Force headquarters and roared into the receiver, "Keiklin! This is Guderian!"
"Blow that damn position flat! I need Stukas now! All of them! I'd rather drop them like bombs!"
18:20, British Command.
Arthur was drinking water, and constantly reporting coordinates had made his throat a little dry and hoarse.
Suddenly, a glaring red emergency alert popped up again on the pale blue RTS interface in his field of vision. The alert was flashing faster than ever before, as if it were frantically alarming on his retina.
[WARNING]: Large-scale air units approaching.
-
[Type]: Dive bomber group/escort fighter group.
[Quantity]: More mothers.
Arthur put down the kettle. Without Mob's hesitation, he immediately connected to Jeanne's radio, his voice urgent: "Calling for Flamethrower."
"Stop watching the show from above the clouds."
"I know they're on their way. Low on fuel, huh?"
"Hurry up. Help me get rid of the flies on my head. Time to get to work."
18:25, over Le Havre.
This time, the German Luftwaffe learned a painful lesson. The Bf-109E "Emil" fighters of the 2nd Air Fleet did not use their superior climb rate to conduct "free hunting" on the ground as they had done before, thus ignoring the Stukas that should have been protected.
They were forced to deviate from their original design intent and execute a tactic known as "close escort." They flew closely alongside the bulky Ju-87 Stuka bombers, sacrificing their vertical and speed advantages and converting all the energy they would have used for vertical maneuvering into an impenetrable defensive formation.
-
The afterglow of dusk dyed the sky blood red, the clouds looked like pieces of burning cotton, and dozens of Stukas, like a group of carcasses waiting to rot, lined up in a long dragon of death, opened their speed brakes, and prepared to enter a high-angle dive attack route.
At that very moment, that chilling voice rang out.
The "Yenighorn" wind-driven siren, mounted on the Stuka's landing gear fairing, began to whistle under the influence of the high-speed airflow.
Ugh—! ! !
It physiologically induces panic, stiffens the muscles of anti-aircraft gunners, and paralyzes the thinking of commanders.
At dusk, the sound was more devastating than the bomb itself.
But just as the death knell sounded at its highest point...
"Tally—ho! (Enemy aircraft spotted, prepare to engage)"
The clouds broke apart.
The Royal Air Force's Avengers, like a swarm of angry wasps, swooped down from the sky with tremendous kinetic energy.
This is a collision of three different design philosophies.
Leading the charge is the "fire-breathing" unit.
They possess a distinctive, elegant elliptical shape. This ingenious aerodynamic design is not merely for aesthetics; it greatly reduces induced drag, giving the aircraft remarkable speed retention and turning radius at high speeds.
Beneath the streamlined engine hood, the 1030-horsepower Rolls-Royce Merlin 11I liquid-cooled engine roars. It can propel this nimble fighter to a top speed of 580 km/h. Their self-proclaimed purpose is clear: use this superior maneuverability to cut into enemy lines and relentlessly pursue the escorting Bf-109s.
Behind them stood the heavy and sturdy "Hurricane." They were not as agile as the Spitfire, and their thicker fuselage resulted in greater drag, limiting their maximum level flight speed to only 515 km/h—a full 45 km/h slower than the German Bf-109.
But it was an extremely stable firing platform, as sturdy and robust as a flying brick, with a wooden and fabric-blend skin that could withstand greater battle damage. And inside that thick fuselage, eight .303 caliber (7.7 mm) Browning machine guns were densely packed together.
When they fire in unison, they can unleash 9200 bullets per minute.
Their mission is simple: to use this terrifying munitions to kill the cumbersome bombers.
Their opponent was the pride of German industry—the Bf-109E. These fighters were equipped with advanced Daimler-Benz DB601A engines, and their biggest weapon was their unique fuel injection system.
This prevents their engines from stalling due to fuel shortages, unlike British aircraft that used float-type carburetors, when performing violent negative G dive maneuvers.
In addition, they are equipped with two 20mm MGFF cannons, which are heavy hammers specifically designed to tear apart metal skin.
This is no longer a duel between knights. This is a bayonet charge in the air.
Melee.
There were no tactics, no formations. The two sides clashed the moment they made contact. The sky was shattered by the trajectories of tracer bullets.
A German Bf-109E attempted to break free from a tail-tailed attack. The German pilot slammed on the control stick, utilizing the advantage of the fuel injection system to perform a violent negative-G dive. This maneuver caused the British aircraft, equipped with float-type carburetors, to shut down due to fuel cutoff.
Unfortunately, he underestimated the British determination.
The Spitfire behind you didn't follow the dive; instead, you used your superior horizontal maneuverability to cut an inner circle.
Just as the Bf-109 leveled off, a Hurricane fighter jet, rushing in from the side, delivered the fatal blow. Eight Browning machine guns on the Hurricane's fuselage opened fire simultaneously. It was as if a giant shotgun was being wielded in the sky.
Sizzle sizzle sizzle—!
Eight tongues of fire converged at a point 300 meters apart. The canopy of the Bf-109 was instantly shattered. There was no targeting of weak points; it was simply a pure storm of metal. The German pilot didn't even have time to pull the bail handle. Blood splattered onto the instrument panel instantly, and the aircraft tumbled out of control, crashing to the ground like a bird with a broken wing, trailing black smoke.
The Stuka, now without its escort, immediately became an easy target in the air.
The Stuka was diving at a steep angle, the 500 kg bombs it carried making it incredibly cumbersome. Its speed brakes were deployed, locking it onto a fixed trajectory and preventing it from performing any evasive maneuvers.
A Spitfire fighter, braving German anti-aircraft fire on the ground, relentlessly pursued it.
The pilot pulled the trigger at a "suicide distance" of less than fifty meters.
boom! boom! boom!
This early Spitfire was even modified with a 20mm Hispano cannon. The large-caliber vertical explosive warhead instantly tore through the Stuka's fragile aluminum alloy skin and struck the fuel tank in the fuselage.
Aviation fuel is ignited and expands.
The Stuka did not disintegrate; instead, it transformed into a massive, roaring fireball. Carrying the unexploded 500-kilogram bomb, it crashed like a falling meteorite into the no-man's-land between the two armies' positions at near-sonic speed.
Boom! ...
This was a perfect secondary explosion; the massive shockwave even blew away several nearby corpses.
At that moment, both sides' soldiers on the ground temporarily ceased fire.
Both Germans and British peered out of their trenches, staring blankly at the aerial battle that resembled Ragnarok.
Fragments of aluminum alloy fell like snowflakes, accompanied by the smell of burning aviation fuel and burnt meat.
However, war is fair.
The Spitfire, eager for glory, got too close to German air defenses and was hit by a 37mm vertical cannon on the ground, damaging its liquid-cooled radiator. The Merlin engine's delicate cooling system failed instantly, and white ethylene glycol vapor gushed out. The pilot was forced to open the canopy and bail out before the plane exploded.
This is a meat grinder.
There is no such thing as chivalry.
The only options are tail biting, head-on shooting, and mid-air collision.
Although the Royal Air Force fought desperately to intercept them, the German forces simply had a numerical advantage.
This is the logic of a war of attrition: the defender must intercept every attack, while the attacker only needs to succeed once.
A dozen or so Stukas that slipped through the net broke through the defenses.
They swooped down with shrieks, bringing death with them.
Boom! Boom! Boom!
The British positions were once again engulfed in flames. The underground command post shook violently, the blast-proof lights flickered, and dust filled the air, as if the entire frontier was crumbling.
19: 00.
As fuel ran out and night fell, both sides began to withdraw their aircraft.
The sky returned to its gray hue, with only a few pieces of wreckage still burning on the ground, crackling and providing the only light in the ruins.
The artillery fire stopped, the planes flew away. A more terrifying silence descended upon the frontier.
Arthur stood before the map table in the command post. He knew this was the calm before the storm.
Guderian had no intention of retreating.
On the RTS interface, the red dots representing the German armored troops did not decrease; instead, they became denser and were slowly and silently creeping towards the British lines.
Guderian prepared for a night battle.
He wants you to launch a nighttime assault using searchlights and flares. For both sides lacking night vision equipment, this is nothing short of a chaotic battle of stabbing each other in the dark.
Arthur straightened his collar; his British military uniform was stained and mangled by sweat and oil, but his back remained ramrod straight.
He looked at Major General Fortune, at Jeanne, at Ryder, and at the exhausted staff officers around him.
"We made it through this round." Arthur's voice was soft, but clearly audible in the silent command post: "Have the engineers smash all those searchlights."
Sharpen the bayonets.
"Tell everyone—"
Arthur looked up at the dark, blast-proof door leading to the ground, a slight smile playing on his lips: "Welcome to the night."
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