sovbooks Chapter 63 Ghost Symphony
Chapter 63 Ghost Symphony
Chapter 63 Ghost Symphony
At 11:00 PM on June 3, 1940, in Bergner, the darkness over the front lines was as thick as ink, with only the occasional flare casting a pale shadow over the ruins.
This place is less than nine kilometers from Dunkirk Beach to the north.
For the German Panzer III and Panzer IV tanks, equipped with Maybach engines and capable of speeds up to 40 kilometers per hour, this was hardly a journey, but merely a 15-minute sprint with the accelerator floored.
But this was the closest Heinz Guderian's 19th Panzer Corps came to Dunkirk, and it was also the closest the Third Reich came to completely winning the war and uprooting the British Expeditionary Force.
These seemingly within-reach nine kilometers have become an insurmountable barrier.
Because on this short stretch of road, every meter of the advance route was blocked by the Allied rearguard with blood, corpses, and burning debris.
Tonight, the legendary "miracle fog"—the white barrier that protected the retreat of 300,000 allied troops on the beach—now also heavily shrouds the ancient city of Berg.
The eerie fog that hung over the streets was a mixture of the sea's moisture and the black smoke from the oil tanks that had been burning in the port for days, drifting in from that direction. It carried a pungent smell of heavy oil and a burnt, fishy odor, like a huge, gray shroud, slowly flowing along the canal, tightly enveloping the dying town of Berg, where countless souls of those who had fallen in the war lingered.
A suffocating stillness filled the air.
In the deathly silence, a group of dark figures busily moved among the ruins. They made no sound, their movements as gentle as if they were setting up a grand banquet—except that the "guests" of this banquet were all dead.
"Lift his head up, McTavish."
Arthur stood behind the sandbag wall, scrutinizing the "work" before him in the dim moonlight, his tone as critical as an artist directing an exhibition: "Put a cigarette in his mouth. Even if it won't light, it has to look presentable. This is the first impression we'll give the Germans."
Sergeant McTavish grinned, revealing a set of white teeth. He carried in his hand the still-rigid body of a French soldier—a corporal who had been killed in the counterattack a few hours earlier.
The Scotsman deftly positioned the body on the sandbags behind the heavy machine gun, securing his spine with wooden planks and wire to maintain a posture of "intense aiming." Then, he pulled a flattened cigarette from his pocket and placed it between the dead man's cold lips, even thoughtfully pulling down the brim of his helmet to cover the dull, lifeless eyes.
"That's right."
Arthur nodded in satisfaction, then turned to look at the long street behind him: "What about the others?"
"Everything's arranged, sir." McTavish dusted off his hands. "Forty-two sentries in total. One every twenty meters. All the heavy machine gun positions and road fortifications are manned."
On both sides of the main road leading to the central square, dozens of corpses that should have been collected have now been given a new "mission".
Some of them clung to the broken window frames on the second floor, their stiff fingers still stubbornly gripping the trigger guards of their Enfield rifles; others sat in foxholes by the roadside, clutching unexploded anti-tank mines as if they were their most cherished lovers; still others leaned against bullet-riddled corners of walls, their dull eyes still coldly gazing at the end of the street through the brim of their helmets.
In conditions of extremely poor night vision, amidst the ever-changing smoke and fog, even with the best Zeiss binoculars, the Germans could only see a disciplined and motionless ambush force.
These soldiers defended this land in life, shedding their last drop of blood; and in death, they continue to defend this land with their long-cooled bodies.
Death is not a retirement notice.
On this night forgotten by God, these fallen soldiers from the Cold Creek Guards and the French 12th Division became the eternal guards of Berg. Their flesh and blood have become one with the bricks and stones of the city, transforming into fortifications stronger than steel.
This is Arthur Sterling's "empty city strategy".
Or, to be more precise, it was a sacred yet cruel "necromancy".
"very good."
Arthur turned around and looked at the B1Bis heavy tanks that were completely broken down.
Major Ryder, along with his oil-splattered tank crew, reluctantly stroked these steel behemoths. The Verdun's fuel tanks were so dry that not a single drop of oil could be squeezed out, and several sections of its tracks were broken.
"Major, don't look like an old man seeing his daughter off at her wedding." Arthur walked over and patted Ryder on the shoulder. "Even though they can't run anymore, they can still let out one last roar."
Major Ryder, his eyes red-rimmed, nodded through gritted teeth: "The breech is already loaded with the last high-explosive shell. A booby trap is attached to the breech. If anyone tries to open the hatch or turn the turret—"
"If the Germans dare to touch them, these thirty tons of scrap metal will become the world's largest roadside bomb," Arthur continued, his tone icy. "Remember, make sure the gun barrels are pointed at the intersection. That's the last line of defense."
It's a big gamble.
Arthur knew very well that with over a thousand wounded and exhausted soldiers, he couldn't possibly outrun Guderian's armored division. His only chance of survival was to prevent the Germans from pursuing him.
He wanted to create the illusion that the Anglo-French forces were prepared to fight to the death at Berg, or even that they were preparing a large-scale ambush.
Tactical Deception: The plan is complete.
[Estimated effective time: 3 hours]
[Current Fear Level (EnemyFear): Accumulating]
Arthur glanced at the countdown on his retina, then turned to Jeanne and said, "Go. Let the music start."
23:45 Ruins of Berg City Hall, broadcast tower.
Jeanne, carrying the heavy phonograph, climbed breathlessly to the top of the clock tower.
This was the highest point in the city, and it had originally been the broadcasting center for the air raid siren system. Although the power had long been cut off, the still-intact high-powered horn-type loudspeaker system was now connected to a high-powered battery—the last bit of power salvaged from an abandoned truck.
The wind was strong, making her oversized men's military uniform flutter loudly.
Jeanne placed the phonograph on the dusty workbench and carefully took out the vinyl record.
That is Sir Edward Elgar's masterpiece composed in 1901 – "The March of the Mighty".
Pomp and Circumstance March No. 1.
On the back of the record is engraved the lyrics to the song that could bring tears to the eyes of any Englishman—"Land of Hope and Glory".
This is not just a piece of music; it is a monument.
It was born in the glorious era of Queen Victoria's death and Edward VII's accession to the throne. That was the zenith of the British Empire, the golden twilight of the "Paritannica" (British Empire).
The British at that time believed that their territory would "grow ever wider" and that God would make the land "powerful and free".
It is the closing piece of the Proms at the Royal Albert Hall in London and is the country's de facto "second national anthem".
But on this day in 1940, when this once invincible army was squeezed onto a few kilometers of beach and fled in panic to Beigu, when the "empire on which the sun never sets" shrank into burning strongholds, playing this piece of music full of imperialist arrogance and expansionism is both a lament for the glorious past and a mockery of the current desperate situation.
"For France—and for that madman."
Jeanne took a deep breath and slowly pressed the needle onto the spinning record.
Then, she plugged in the microphone of the broadcasting system and pointed the phonograph speaker at the receiver.
Sizzle—Sizzle—
The sound of electricity pierced the silent night sky.
next second.
The solemn, grand, and stirring orchestral sounds, amplified by high-powered loudspeakers, exploded like divine thunder over the ruins of Berg.
[BGM starting: PompandCircumstanceMarchNo.1]
The magnificent brass music, the strings that surged forward like a tide, carried an unparalleled sense of oppression, echoing over every street, every bomb crater, and every corpse.
The sound was incredibly loud, even drowning out the sporadic cannon fire in the distance.
It didn't sound like the lament of a defeated army, but rather like the incursion of a victorious conqueror's legion returning from a triumphant battle.
00:10, Forward Command Post of the German 10th Panzer Division.
"What is that sound?!"
Lieutenant General Schar, commander of the 10th Armored Division, suddenly pushed open the door of the half-track command vehicle and looked in astonishment at the dark city a few hundred meters away.
Amidst the deafening symphony, the battle-hardened Prussian officer was completely stunned.
He had heard countless sounds of the battlefield—the shriek of a Stuka, the roar of heavy artillery, the screams of the dying.
But he had never heard such a symphony, like a live performance in a royal concert hall, on the front lines where the two armies were facing off.
Moreover, it's the most typical kind of British music, arrogant to the core.
"It's the 'Majestic March' — Sir."
A staff officer lowered his binoculars, a hint of fear in his voice: "It's the British war song. They only play it during major celebrations or—or when the general offensive is launched."
"All-out offensive?"
Lieutenant General Shar frowned.
If it were daytime, he would not hesitate to order the artillery to blow up the radio tower.
But it's late at night now.
Moreover, the "crippled legion" that had charged like mad dogs at dusk had indeed left a huge psychological scar on his vanguard. That kind of suicidal charge, which disregarded costs, defied common sense, and even involved fighting with kitchen knives and teeth, completely disrupted the rational logic of the Germans, or rather, the Wehrmacht.
Add to that the unusual, ritualistic, and grand music playing at this moment—
A strange feeling began to spread across the German positions.
The German soldiers in the trenches began to grow suspicious. They stared fearfully at the thick fog drifting in from the north, whispering among themselves, "Are the British going to counterattack?"
"Listening to this music—it's like they're celebrating some kind of victory."
"Has the Royal Navy brought them supplies? Or have new reinforcements landed?"
This speculation was not unfounded; it permeated the entire command chain of the Third Reich like a plague.
From the division commanders at the forefront—Rommel and Schall, to Guderian, Reinhardt, and Kleist who controlled the armored formations, and even the two supreme commanders with the surname von Bock and Rundstedt who stood at the top of the Western Front pyramid, everyone's eyes were fixed on that coordinate point called "Dunkirk".
For the army commanders at that time, the direction shrouded in thick smoke, fog, and the smell of burning heavy oil was a huge "black hole" that swallowed up all intelligence.
Whether it was a Do-17 or a He-111 reconnaissance aircraft, any attempt to approach that airspace would be met with a vicious onslaught from the Royal Air Force. Spitfire fighters acted like protective umbrellas, completely obscuring the truth on the beach.
For German pilots accustomed to flying freely over Poland and France, this was a painful "technology shock."
Their prized Bf 109E "Emil" fighter, equipped with Daimler-Benz engines, encountered its true nemesis in the skies for the first time. Those cutting-edge British fighters with their elegant elliptical wings demonstrated a devastating ability to maneuver horizontally.
In dogfights, the German aces were horrified to discover that once they entered level maneuvers, their prized Messerschmitts would be like clumsy geese, their tails being relentlessly bitten by their opponents.
The brutal exchange ratios over the past few days of fighting have made the German generals on the ground even more convinced that Göring's Luftwaffe not only can't see the ground clearly, but they can't even clean up their own mess.
As of now, they don't even know how many people are left there, or whether the British are retreating or preparing for a damn flanking landing.
And, most fatally—
At this moment, the only one who claims to be able to see and resolve the situation there is the Air Force.
But to this group of meticulous Prussian professional soldiers, not a single punctuation mark uttered by Hermann Göring, that fat marshal obsessed with morphine, art, and boasting, was trustworthy.
Should we retreat or send reinforcements?
This is a fatal choice.
Although intelligence indicated that the British were on the run, who could guarantee that the British Empire, with the world's strongest navy, wouldn't take advantage of the fog of war these past few days to suddenly send several divisions of Canadians or Australians ashore from the sea and launch a deadly amphibious assault from the flank and rear of the German defenses?
What sent chills down Lieutenant General Shar's spine was the strategic situation map.
General Guderian's 19th Panzer Corps rushed too fast and went too far. This sharp armored dagger had planted itself on the shore, but the hilt had already slipped from its grasp—they had seriously outmaneuvered the main infantry force of the 12th Army responsible for covering their flanks.
The 10th Armoured Division now resembles a lone figure standing on the edge of a cliff. If this victorious British force isn't there to cover a retreat, but rather to support an impending counter-offensive—
Therefore, it was not the British who were surrounded, but their isolated armored force.
"Damn sea fog. Damn Englishmen."
Faced with such enormous strategic uncertainty, Lieutenant General Shar chose the safest and most desirable decision Arthur had hoped for—to remain inactive.
Lieutenant General Shar gripped the binoculars tightly in his hand.
What truly sent chills down his spine was the casualty report in his hand.
Just two days —
Shal gritted his teeth, looking at the shocking numbers; nearly a third of the company had been lost.
In this tiny Berg, the casualties inflicted on the 10th Panzer Division in the past two days are more than the hundreds of kilometers they advanced in the previous three months of the French campaign!
This doesn't resemble a defeated rearguard at all; it's more like a relentless meat grinder.
Now, this meat grinder is playing such a loud tune in the dead of night that even the naturally cautious Lieutenant General Shar can't help but suspect that there's something dirty on the other side.
"That's a ghost."
As the stirring "March of the Great" echoed over the city littered with corpses, Lieutenant General Shar felt a chill run down his spine: "This is no concert—it's practically a ritual to drag the dead back from hell."
"Sir, frontline scouts report!" The communications soldier removed his headset, his voice tense. "They've spotted British heavy machine gun positions at every intersection! And tanks! There are people behind every window! Judging from the outlines—"
They're all aiming!
"And—and they're completely still, as if waiting for us to enter their ambush zone!"
Lieutenant General Shar gasped.
Motionless?
This is the most terrifying discipline. It means that the enemy is not some defeated army, but a highly disciplined, well-prepared, and even desperate elite force.
"This is a trap."
The cautious German general made the final decision.
"The British wanted to provoke us. They deliberately made a big show of it to lure us into street fighting at night, and then use those pre-arranged positions to take down our armored forces."
He looked at the city that "trembled" in the night to the music, and it seemed as if he saw a gaping maw.
"Order the troops to halt their advance!"
Schar issued the order: "Artillery, conduct firing corrections, but this damn music is too loud, we can't locate the enemy by sound! All tanks, stand by, increase vigilance! Wait until dawn! I want to see clearly what these British lunatics are up to!"