PFC Chapter 23 Gravedigger in the Mud and System Upgrade
Chapter 23 Gravedigger in the Mud and System Upgrade
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The battle reached its climax in just fifteen minutes, then plummeted into deathly silence.
In this close-quarters night battle, the psychological pressure exerted by heavy tanks is not only devastating, but also dimensionally devastating.
When SS soldiers discovered that their Mauser rifles could only leave negligible scratches on the armor of B1 tanks, when their prized 37mm anti-tank shells were deflected like cigarette butts by the 60-degree sloped armor, and when the enemy's heavy tracks could crush their bunkers and bodies into a two-dimensional plane like a hydraulic press processing scrap metal—
The fanatical belief instilled in them by the Nazis, based on a sense of superiority, collapsed.
The skeleton warriors' defenses weren't breached; they were crushed by the laws of physics.
Apart from a dozen or so corpses crushed beyond recognition by the tracks or riddled with holes by coaxial machine guns, the remaining SS soldiers, despite their so-called "elite" status, could not resist the biological instinct for survival. They dropped their weapons, and without even bothering to find cover, began to flee into the dark fields under the cover of night, like a swarm of cockroaches startled by a bright light.
"Stop chasing."
Arthur's voice cut through the static of the radio, ringing out on the channel. A good commander doesn't lose his temper or his senses in the face of victory. "Don't pursue a cornered enemy. Our mission is to rescue people, not to catch rats in the mud."
The roar of the engines of the four B1 heavy tanks gradually subsided, a sigh of relief as the pistons and cylinders exerted themselves to the limit. Rainwater on the surface of the vehicles evaporated due to the high temperature of the armor, rising in plumes of white mist, but this did not extinguish the headlights.
Four beams of snow-white light still pierced the darkness, illuminating the farm, which had just experienced a massacre and a counter-massacre, as if it were daytime, and also illuminating the messy evidence of the crime.
Arthur pushed open the heavy casting hatch, and the air, a mixture of damp mud, burnt rubber, and the pungent smell of blood, instantly filled his lungs. Without hesitation, he jumped into the ankle-deep mud.
His black leather boots shattered the reflections in the puddles. He strode toward the group of survivors, who were supporting each other and whose eyes still held shock and bewilderment.
An officer with a dirty bandage on his left arm pushed aside the soldier who was helping him and stumbled over. His uniform was muddy and his face bore deep marks of gunpowder, but he stopped in front of Arthur, straightened his back, and gave a standard royal salute.
"I am Major Ryder of the 2nd Battalion, Norfolk Regiment." Major Ryder looked at Arthur with a questioning gaze. "If you are an angel sent by God, then your attire is quite strange, Major."
Arthur stopped and looked down at himself.
This was indeed an outfit that would drive any military policeman crazy: over a German pilot's leather jacket covered in oil stains and scratches—a trophy he had smuggled from the 7th Panzer Division's logistics company; underneath, a British standard shirt, the collar open, vaguely revealing the dim crown insignia on the collar; and on the bottom, a pair of khaki trousers stained with mud.
This was the fashion of 1940: a utilitarian mix-and-match style.
"I am Major Arthur Sterling, Coldstream Guard." Arthur returned the salute crisply. "The angel is too busy to come to this godforsaken place. So I came in his place."
Major Ryder gave a wry smile; the exhaustion from surviving the ordeal almost made him lose his balance.
Arthur didn't exchange many pleasantries. His gaze swept over the major's shoulder, taking in the group of people who had been pulled back from the brink of death.
The RTS interface on the retina is performing a rapid personnel count, and the green numbers finally freeze:
[Current surviving units: 67]
Beneath that bullet-riddled red brick wall lay nearly thirty corpses. These were Norfolk Regiment soldiers who had been executed by the SS before Arthur arrived. They remained in various contorted positions: some were curled up in a ball, some had their arms outstretched as if questioning the sky, and others tightly gripped their comrades' hands, using this to combat the fear of their final moments of death.
The icy rain relentlessly washed over those young, pale, and forever frozen faces, turning the soil beneath them into a glaring dark red.
An indescribable sense of desolation washed over everyone like a tide.
Arthur looked at the rows of twisted corpses at the base of the wall, rainwater pooling into streams on their pale faces.
For a true warrior, death is never the most terrifying end.
If one falls to the sound of the charge, if one dies alongside the enemy in the meat grinder-like quagmire of Verdun, then at least it's an equal exchange—trading life for honor, or even just a few meters of blood-stained trench. That kind of death, still warm with the lingering smoke of battle, is the soldier's destiny.
But what does that mean?
These people were deprived of their right to resist, stripped of the rifles they held tightly in their hands, driven into a corner like livestock to be slaughtered, and then "destroyed" without any dignity. It made death lose its weight, leaving only a nauseating biological end.
Arthur kicked away an SS helmet at his feet, a deep sense of nausea flashing in his eyes.
Not only him, but the British and French also realized that times had changed.
The Germans before me are no longer the same arrogant, yet at least chivalrous, adversaries of twenty years ago. Those "German soldiers" who would hold a Christmas truce and fire salutes to fallen enemies are dead.
Instead, there was this group of lunatics wearing skull badges.
In their logic, war is no longer a contest of national will, but a biological purification against "pests." Since it's about killing pests, there's no need for pity, no bottom line, and certainly no need for that ridiculous chivalrous spirit.
The cloak of civilization has been torn away, revealing the beast called ideology within.
Even with a system that allows Arthur to see through the battlefield, and even with four steel behemoths capable of crushing any lightly armored vehicle, he still couldn't save everyone.
That damned war never adds anything, it only does disgusting subtraction. All you can do is make the minuend a tiny bit smaller.
"Sir!"
Two burly Norfolk soldiers dragged a mud-covered man out from behind a pile of corpses like a dead dog. They walked up to Arthur and roughly slammed the man into a muddy, filthy puddle.
The splashed mud covered the man's face, but he didn't bother to wipe it off. He just instinctively curled up like a maggot with its spine removed.
Arthur looked down at the mouse that had been dragged out.
[High-Value Target Identification: Fritz Konopka (SS-Hauptsturmführer)]
[Position: Commander of the Leparadis node / Company Commander of the 14th Company, SS Totenkopf Division]
[Related Crime: Ongoing War Crimes (Murder of Prisoners of War)]
it's him.
Ten minutes ago, this man was standing on a pile of corpses, waving his Luger pistol, a symbol of his power of life and death, roaring at unarmed British soldiers like an arrogant ancient Roman emperor, enjoying the thrill of dominating life.
But at this moment, the golden image of "Aryan Superman," meticulously woven by Goebbels' propaganda machine, has been shattered by the tracks of the B1 tank.
He huddled in the mud mixed with blood and excrement, his once impeccably tailored black uniform, which represented absolute power and seemed capable of slicing through the air, now hanging on his body like a moldy rag. His face, once etched with racial arrogance, was now nothing but a stream of snot and tears flowing uncontrollably from his nose and eyes.
In this zero-distance trial arena, there is no grand narrative of a "superior race," only a lump of organic waste trembling with biological instinct.
"So, once you peel away that black skin, the SS are nothing more than cowardly carbon-based organisms."
Arthur watched the scene unfold coldly in his mind.
There are indeed people in this world who would face a gun for the honor of their family, and others who would smile as they burn their lives for a noble belief. But this man before me clearly possessed neither. His fanaticism existed only when he held the gun barrel, and once the gun was turned around, his so-called loyalty to the leader of the Third Reich, like substandard concrete mixed with sand, collapsed instantly under the weight of death.
It seems that the corporal's magic did not produce a "bulletproof effect" on every believer.
His peaked cap was nowhere to be seen, and his meticulously combed blond hair was plastered messily to his forehead. His well-made black uniform, a symbol of SS honor, was torn open with a large rip, half of his epaulets were ripped off, and his face was covered in bruises and blood.
In the chaos of the earlier rout, he had tried to feign death by lying among the corpses, hoping to slip through the cracks. But he underestimated the hatred—those prisoners of war would never forget his face, even if they were reduced to ashes.
"Don't kill me! Don't kill me!"
Konopka struggled back in the mud, shouting, "I'm an officer! I'm a member of the Wehrmacht... no, I'm a regular officer! I have the right to be protected by the Geneva Conventions!"
He stared at the pairs of expressionless eyes around him in the darkness—not human eyes, but two hundred wolf eyes that wanted to devour him alive. Fear finally broke through his psychological defenses.
He scrambled to his feet, frantically trying to grab Arthur's mud-caked trouser leg like a drowning man grasping at a straw: "You're an officer, aren't you? You're an English gentleman! You can't let them kill me! This is a violation of the Geneva Convention! This is murder!"
"The Geneva Convention?"
Arthur didn't back down, nor did he kick him away. He simply lowered his head, ignoring the trembling man.
Then he slowly turned around, raised his gloved fingers, and pointed to a row of corpses under the red brick wall.
Every corpse there is a silent accusation.
"When you ordered the MG34 gunners to pull the trigger, did you think about the convention, Captain?" Arthur's voice was soft, yet it pierced clearly through the rain.
"That...that was an order! I was just following orders!"
Konopka screamed in defense, using the same lame excuse all war criminals use when facing trial: "I'm a soldier! Obedience is my duty! I had no choice!"
"Every dog has a choice: to bite or to wag its tail."
Arthur did not speak again.
He didn't even bother to refute such weak sophistry. He simply drew the Webley revolver from his waist slowly and ritualistically.
Click.
He turned on the reel and examined the brass bullets one by one in the rain. The crisp metallic clanging was exceptionally clear in the rainy night, each strike feeling like a blow to Konopka's heart valve.
"Sergeant McTavish."
"Yes, sir."
From the shadow of the Verdun tank, the Scotsman with a menacing expression emerged. He wasn't carrying a gun, but rather a shovel with its edges sharpened, which he had just removed from the side of the tank.
"How's the soil quality around here?"
"It's so soft, sir." McTavish rubbed the mud under his boots. "After all, it's rained so hard, it's like rotten pudding."
"very good."
Arthur nodded in satisfaction, snapped the cylinder shut, and put the pistol back into its holster.
Then he took the heavy entrenching tool from McTavish.
Clang!
The shovel was thrown in front of Konopka, splashing mud and water all over his face again.
"The Geneva Conventions do indeed stipulate the humane treatment of prisoners of war."
Arthur looked down at him, a cold smile playing on his lips. "But it doesn't say I can't let prisoners do any physical exercise that's good for their physical and mental health."
He held up a finger and pointed to the ground beneath his feet, a mixture of blood and mud.
"dig."
"Wh...what?" Konopka was stunned, his mind went blank, but he quickly realized what was about to happen; it was one of his methods of dealing with prisoners of war.
I said, dig.
Arthur's gaze sent a chill down Konopka's spine. "I'll give you ten minutes. Dig yourself a hole. If you dig deep enough and square enough, maybe I'll consider letting you live a little longer."
The British soldiers stood silently in a circle. No one spoke, no one made a sound. They simply watched quietly, their rifles already cocked.
This silence is more chilling than a cacophony of angry shouts.
"You...you are a devil! You are a devil!" Konopka screamed in despair, tears and snot streaming down his face.
"No, Captain."
Arthur shook his head. He pointed behind him to the B1 tanks that were still belching black smoke, and to the British and French soldiers who had jumped off the tanks, their faces filled with hatred.
"We are mortals. Mortals with flesh and blood, who bleed and seek revenge."
His voice suddenly turned low, carrying a chilling aura from hell:
"The real devil is lying at the foot of that wall. Now, we're sending you to see them, to explain to them what 'following orders' means."
……
ten minutes.
In the RTS system's timer, this is a very precise time period. But for Fritz Konopka, it was the longest century of his life.
The pit wasn't completely dug.
Perhaps fear drained all his strength, or perhaps the entrenching tool was too heavy for his pampered hands. When he dug a shallow pit, just enough to bury half his body, his mental defenses crumbled completely.
"Ahhhhh!"
He let out a desperate howl, and suddenly raised the entrenching tool in his hand, not to dig, but to frantically rush towards the nearest Norfolk soldier, attempting a last-ditch struggle.
boom!
A dull thud.
That was the sound of a rifle butt smashing bones.
Major Ryder didn't even fire. He simply stepped forward and slammed the metal butt of the MP40 submachine gun he had just picked up into Konopka's chin.
This attack ignited the fury of all the survivors of the 2nd Battalion.
Konopka's jaw shattered instantly, and he flew backward like a tattered sack, crashing heavily into the shallow pit he had dug himself.
He was still convulsing and trying to get up.
There was no trial, no dying words, and no need for a pastor's prayers.
Arthur turned away, refusing to look at what was happening.
A muffled gunshot rang out behind me. It was the distinctive boom of a Webley pistol's large caliber.
Thus ended the life of this executioner of Leparadis, a life of sin and utter dishonor. His body was roughly kicked into place by several soldiers, and then the surrounding dirt was hastily pushed down.
The rain is still falling, and it will soon fill this unremarkable mound. Next spring, the weeds here might grow wildly.
But this didn't bring Arthur much pleasure. The emptiness after the killing was like a damp chill that seeped into his bones.
He stood in the rain, lit a cigarette, and looked at the bustling scene before him:
The surviving British soldiers were displaying astonishing adaptability. Like a pack of hungry wolves, they plucked raincoats, boots, and ammunition pouches from the SS corpses. Those British soldiers who had previously carried Enfield rifles now had MP40s in their hands, German stick grenades on their hips, and some even wore SS helmets, though they had removed their insignia.
This is a revenge legion that is growing rapidly and wildly.
On the RTS system's tactical map, the scarlet high-risk marker representing the "Leparadis Massacre" finally went out completely.
This time, the data stream on the retina did not fall silent as usual after the battle ended.
Arthur looked at the line of pale green code that was constantly reassembling with some surprise.
Before this, the so-called RTS system was nothing more than an advanced military map that updated in real time, or a cheat device that could see through enemy unit numbers and commanders' names. It was indifferent and passive, never showing any "subjective" feedback, like a terminal with only display functions but no processing core.
But now, with the extinguishing of Leparadis's red dot, a certain hidden threshold seems to have been forcibly broken through by the battle that was just now, a battle filled with bloodshed and redemption.
The system issued its first verdict, like a mentor who had been observing from the sidelines, finally awarding his score after the apprentice had completed a decent piece of work:
[Tactical Node Settlement: First Trigger]
[Mission Complete: Leparadis's Comeback]
Overall Rating: S-level
[Commentary: A perfect balance between extreme violence and extreme mercy. You cleansed the sins with the enemy's blood, and then marked the boundary with steel treads. This is no longer guerrilla harassment; this is the nascent art of command.]
This was followed by a dazzling series of reward notifications, marking Arthur's official transition from a simple "map user" to a "chess player":
[Reward Settlement:]
1. Commander Module: Officially Activated
Experience points gained: +3500
Current level: LV.1 (Newbie) → LV.2 (Junior Commander) (Note: You are no longer just an infantry platoon leader with the rank of major who only knows how to lead men to charge around recklessly. Although you are still far from being a famous general, at least you have learned how to use other people's lives to achieve victory.)
2. Battlefield Aura Unlocked: "Fear Shock"
Effect: Your units inflict an additional 15% morale damage on units like the SS/Gestapo and significantly increase their chance of rout. (Note: Because you've proven that even a madman fears a madman even more ruthless than himself.)
3. Trait Acquisition: "King of Scavengers"
Effect: Your troops gain a 50% increase in the efficiency of acquiring supplies from the battlefield (including weapons, fuel, vehicles, and various loot). (Note: Fighting to sustain the war. In this blockaded land, scavenging is a refined art.)