sovbooks Chapter 29 Guderian's Pajamas
Chapter 29 Guderian's Pajamas
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"Enemy attack—!!!"
The piercing alarm blared instantly on the south bank of the A River.
But even faster than the alarm was the astonishing tactical proficiency of the 1st Armored Division.
Without any hesitation or the chaos of setting up camp, almost the instant the first explosion rang out, the German soldiers, still in their dreams, sprang up as if they had been electrocuted.
This is muscle memory unique to elite troops.
Before they could even put on their pants, countless hands instinctively reached for the pistol under their pillows and the Kar98k rifle propped up at the tent entrance. A few seconds later, the first flare was launched into the air, its stark white light instantly ripping through the rainy night.
Da da da da—!
Several MG34 machine guns on guard duty opened fire in a fan-shaped pattern the moment the flares went off, and tracer rounds lashed out like fire whips at the roaring steel monsters in the darkness.
Even when they were facing a 30-ton tank, not a single one of these Germans turned and ran.
Ding ding ding!
The dense barrage of 7.92mm steel-core bullets struck the B1 tank's thick cast armor, producing only harmless sparks, much like scattering peas on a wall.
But these machine gunners of the 1st Panzer Division were seasoned veterans who had crawled out of piles of dead bodies in Poland. Within half a second of discovering that bullets were ineffective against these steel monsters, they immediately made the most effective tactical adjustments.
"Can't penetrate armor! Attack infantry!"
A German sergeant roared and slammed his gun down.
The fiery whip of death instantly shifted away from the hard tank armor and swept towards the British soldiers behind it who had not been able to fully take shelter under the B1 tank.
Puff puff!
That was the dull sound of a bullet entering a human body, even drowning out the sound of a gunshot.
Several British soldiers who were following behind the tank and reacted a little slower were instantly doomed. At a rate of fire of 800 rounds per minute, the MG34 was like an invisible chainsaw, instantly sawing the unfortunate men and their weapons in two.
Warm blood and bits of flesh exploded like a spray, splattering onto the faces of the comrades nearby.
The British infantry, who had just been basking in the thrill of the surprise attack, were instantly brought back to reality by this bloody truth—in places without armor protection, human life is worth less than grass.
"Damn it! Back in! All of you, back in!"
Arthur roared into the radio as he watched the few green dots on the RTS interface go out in an instant.
"Infantry, all down! Hide behind the tanks! Don't stick your heads out!"
"German bullets don't have eyes! This isn't a stroll in Hyde Park!"
"Fire blindly with your Bren guns! Suppress those firing positions! Don't let them raise their heads!"
"11 o'clock! That machine gun emplacement still firing! Just run it over! Don't waste any ammunition!"
Arthur sat in the damp, cold command tower of the Verdun, looking at the German infantrymen before him who were as fierce as a pack of wolves, his eyes filled with fighting spirit.
In his RTS viewpoint, the entire camp became a precise chessboard illuminated from a God's-eye view.
Although the German counterattack was swift and professional, it was still futile against Arthur, who had activated his "map-wide cheat." All the firing positions, the anti-tank teams that were flanking and encircling, and the drivers who were trying to start their vehicles were marked with glaring red boxes by the system—a signal to "destroy."
But what's even more eye-catching is the pleasing golden marker located in the vehicle parking area on the left side of the camp.
There were three brand-new Panzer III Ausf. E tanks and four Sd.Kfz. 251 half-track armored personnel carriers parked there.
In Arthur's eyes, it was not the enemy's war machine, but a "special express delivery" sent by General Guderian.
"Attention everyone! Control the firing arc!"
Arthur pressed the intercom to his throat, his voice standing out clearly amidst the explosion.
"Raise your gun barrels higher! Don't fire at those parked tanks and half-tracks! If anyone dares to scratch a single speck of paint on those precious Panzer III tanks, I'll shove them into the gun barrel and fire them!"
"We want to give General Guderian an unforgettable night, but don't forget, we're also here to buy goods!"
"Kill only! Don't blow up the car! Take out those German soldiers trying to approach the vehicle! Miller can drive the rest!"
This was a surgical demolition, but also a meticulously planned armed robbery carried out under the cover of artillery fire.
Four B1 heavy tanks formed a wedge-shaped assault formation, like four armored rhinoceroses charging into a china shop, rampaging through the camp under heavy German machine gun fire.
Clang!
The "Joan of Arc" rolled straight over a row of sandbag fortifications attempting to hold them off, crushing the MG34 machine gunners and their gunners into the mud. Lieutenant Jeanne didn't even bother to fire; this 32-ton steel monster was itself a terrifying kinetic weapon.
However, not all "goods" are displayed on shelves for anyone to take.
hold head high--!
With the distinctive high-frequency whine of the Maybach engine, two Panzer III tanks on guard duty suddenly broke through the camouflage netting.
Their reaction was astonishingly fast. Before the commander could even close the hatch, the turret had already made a rapid turn driven by the electric motor, and the dark muzzle locked onto the "Verdun" charging at the forefront.
This was Guderian's army. Even in the chaos of a surprise attack, they were able to mount a deadly counterattack.
Clang! Clang!
Two 37mm armor-piercing shells slammed into the frontal armor of the Verdun at a distance of less than fifty meters.
Sparks flew everywhere.
But at this near-face-to-face distance, the famous "Army door knocker" (37mm KwK 36 gun) once again proved its embarrassing nickname.
The bullet shattered upon impact with the B1 bis's 60mm thick, sharply angled cast armor. Aside from sending up two streaks of blinding sparks and producing a tooth-grinding metallic clang, it didn't even leave a decent dent in Arthur's tank.
"Damn it! A ricocheting bullet! Is that a monster?!"
The German tank commander on the opposite side roared in despair, "Load PzGr 40 (armor-piercing round)! Shoot at its observation window! Quickly!"
"Good response, Germans. But your tubes are too thin."
Arthur stared coldly at the two enemy markers on the RTS map, now a deep, almost purple red. High-explosive shells wouldn't completely destroy the two tanks, but they could silence them.
The 75mm howitzer beneath the hull of the Verdun let out a muffled roar.
boom--!
The shot wasn't aimed at the turret, but rather landed precisely on the drive wheel of the Panzer III tank on the left.
The massive explosion instantly tore through the tracks, blasting the road wheels to smithereens. The Panzer III tank, which was charging at high speed, instantly lost its balance, slid violently to the left, and plunged headfirst into the nearby drainage ditch, completely immobilized.
"Forget about those flimsy trucks!"
Arthur glanced disdainfully at the row of Opel Lightning 3-ton trucks next to him.
Just two days ago, when he raided the Skeleton Division supply depot, these diligent German transport vehicles were still hot commodities on his "shopping list"—at least they could haul Wright and his wounded men away along with their supplies. But now? Human desires always evolve faster than technology.
As the saying goes, it's easy to go from frugality to extravagance.
Once you've seen the sexy sloped armor and mud-slick half-track chassis of the Sd.Kfz. 251, these Opel trucks still cobbled together from thin sheet metal and cheap pine planks instantly become a pile of nauseating industrial waste.
Their so-called "protection" is a joke in the face of real war.
As long as an inconspicuous MG34 machine gun in the roadside bushes sweeps across, those whistling 7.92mm steel-core bullets can penetrate the wooden planks of the carriage without hindrance, like a hot knife through butter, instantly turning an entire squad of soldiers inside into a pile of rotten flesh mixed with bloody sawdust.
That wasn't a vehicle; it was a mass grave on wheels. Arthur mentally gave his final verdict: any commander who dared to send soldiers to the front lines in such a monstrous contraption should be court-martialed for first-degree murder.
"Those Opels are worthless now! Blow them up! We need firelight!"
Arthur issued new instructions:
"Target: Half-tracks! Those are the 'leather sofas' we want! Anyone who dares to fire a shell at a half-track will have to walk all the way back to Dunkirk!"
Boom! Boom!
Having received the "destroy order," McTavish and Jeanne began firing indiscriminately.
Each 75mm grenade fired could turn an Opel truck loaded with ammunition or fuel into a giant orange torch. The only value of these expensive military trucks at this moment was to serve as background lighting for this frenzied plundering feast, illuminating the half-tracks that Arthur regarded as his "new rides" in a dazzling light.
As for fuel and ammunition supplies? We'll take as much as we can in a bit.
"Don't linger, Sergeant!"
Arthur yelled into the radio, the optimal attack route flashing on the RTS map, "Our objective isn't killing! It's getting the goods! Charge to the left-hand parking area! Hurry!"
In the center of the camp stands a large command tent bearing the insignia of the 19th Armored Corps.
Boom!
An explosion that came right up close caused the tent's supports to shake violently, sending dirt and dust raining down.
Heinz Guderian sat up abruptly from his cot.
The meticulous Prussian general was wearing only a fine white silk nightgown. It was a spoil of war he had captured during the Polish campaign, one of his few personal possessions.
"What's going on?! British bombers?"
Guderian's first reaction wasn't to look for cover, but to grab the Luger P08 pistol from under his pillow. He stepped barefoot directly onto the cold, damp canvas mat laid on the mud.
This isn't the General Staff building in Berlin; there are no thick Persian carpets to soothe a general's nerves through his feet. What travels through the soles of his feet is only the chill and dampness unique to the French soil, shooting up his spine like an electric current to the top of his head.
But he did not back down; instead, he strode toward the door.
"Guard company! Damn it, why aren't the anti-aircraft guns firing?!"
At that moment, the curtain of the command tent was suddenly flung open, and Colonel Nelin, the adjutant, stumbled in.
This usually gentle and soft-spoken operations staff officer was now covered in cigarette ash, his military cap nowhere to be seen, and if it weren't for his National Defense Army uniform, he would look like a French refugee.
"General! We can't go out! It's tanks! Heavy tanks!"
Nelin stopped Guderian, who was about to rush out and fight:
"It's the French B1 heavy armored regiment! Those monsters are everywhere! At least a full regiment! They've broken through the outer defenses and are already within two hundred meters!"
"What?!"
Guderian's pupils contracted sharply. An entire regiment of heavy tanks? At a time like this?
"So what?!"
Guderian flung Nelin's hand away. The over-fifty-year-old general, like an enraged bull, brandished his Luger pistol and roared:
"I am the commander of the 19th Army! Are you expecting me to sneak out the back door in my pajamas like a coward? Give me a rifle! Or even an anti-tank mine! I want to be with my soldiers!"
"My command post is right here! I'm right here!"
Whoosh—smack!
A stray bullet, seemingly out of nowhere, ripped through the waterproof canvas at the top of the tent with a whistling sound.
"General!"
Colonel Nelin lunged forward, pinning Guderian down with his heavy body.
Clang!
The stray bullet shattered the half-finished bottle of Bordeaux wine on the table. The deep purple-red liquid exploded like a scarlet fountain, splashing onto the two of them and staining their expensive white silk pajamas.
In the dim, flickering light, the crimson patch on Guderian's chest looked exactly like gushing blood.
"Let me go, Nellie! That's an order!"
Guderian struggled on the ground, trying to push his adjutant away, shouting, "Even if I die, I'll die on the charge!"
"No! General! There's no time!"
Nellie held the stubborn old man down firmly, disregarding the hierarchy between superiors and subordinates, and practically roared into his ear:
"This is a close-range raid! If we don't leave, you will become the first armored general in the history of the German Wehrmacht to be captured!"
"Think of Goebbels' broadcasts! Think of the Führer's rage! If you were caged and exhibited by the French like an animal, that would be the greatest humiliation for Germany! A thousand times worse than death!"
Captured.
That word seemed to stop him from struggling.
For a Prussian officer, death in battle was the inevitable end, but being captured—especially by a defeated enemy he had always looked down upon—was a fate worse than hell.
The sounds of gunfire outside the tent grew closer, and the sound of tracks crushing bones was clearly audible.
"Bullshit! Nellie! Get your dirty hands off me!"
Guderian quickly shook off the adjutant who tried to stop him, his grey-blue eyes burning with the tenacity characteristic of Prussian soldiers.
The general, who was over fifty years old, didn't even have time to put on a raincoat. Wearing his silk pajamas stained with red wine, he grabbed his Luger pistol and rushed out of the tent without a care in the world.
"That's General Guderian!"
"Rapid Heinz is with us!"
Amidst the torrential rain and firelight, Guderian's white silk pajamas, though comical, appeared to the desperate German soldiers like a battle flag standing out starkly in the darkness.
The defense line, which was already on the verge of collapse, miraculously erupted with a roar that seemed to be a final burst of energy before it died down.
"For Guderian! For Germany!"
A corporal in the IDF, upon seeing the general personally oversee the battle, seemed to be injected with some kind of mad drug. With bloodshot eyes, he grabbed a bundle of cluster grenades, leaped out of the trench, and charged like a human cannonball toward the nearest B1 tank.
Thump thump thump—
No miracle occurred.
The machine gun on the B1 tank spat out a tongue of fire.
Thirty meters from the tank, the young corporal was riddled with bullets. The explosives in his hand rolled into the mud and water, but did not detonate. They were simply crushed into the mud along with his body by the tank tracks that followed.
boom--!
A 75mm high-explosive bomb exploded less than 20 meters from Guderian.
The blast wave, carrying shrapnel and mud, sent the general staggering.
"General! We can't fight anymore! Let's go!"
Colonel Nelin rushed over to support him and shouted loudly.
"No! I won't leave!"
Guderian wiped the mud off his face, shoved his adjutant aside, and roared at the tank, "I am Guderian! Don't try to capture me! Don't try to make me submit!"
"Excuse me, General!"
Colonel Nelin looked at his superior officer, who had already fallen into a state of madness, and made a snap decision, giving a wink to the two guards behind him.
"Take him away! This is for the sake of the Empire!"
Two burly guards immediately rushed up, one on each side, and ignoring Guderian's kicks and curses, they forcibly grabbed the general almost like a kidnapper and dragged him toward the motorcycle behind them.
"Let me go! This is treason! Nelson! I'm going to shoot you!"
Guderian struggled in the mud, but the two guards held his arms tightly like iron clamps.
It wasn't until he was forcibly shoved into the sidecar of that BMW R75 motorcycle and the icy rain hit him that Guderian's feverish brain finally cooled down a bit. He looked at the soldiers who had died under the tank tracks while protecting him, and the burning passion in his eyes gradually turned into unfathomable anguish.
He stopped struggling.
He lowered his head and glanced at the Luger pistol in his hand, which he hadn't loosened his grip on from beginning to end.
He skillfully pulled back the bolt and inspected the bright yellow bullet inside the chamber.
"Alright, Nelson. You win."
Guderian's voice suddenly became terrifyingly calm, carrying a resolute intent to die:
"We're retreating."
"But listen, Nelson. If we get surrounded on the road... don't expect me to surrender."
He raised the pistol, the cold muzzle pointing at his temple, his eyes as hard as steel:
"The last bullet in this gun is always reserved for Heinz Guderian himself."
"Walk!"
The motorcycle roared and sped into the darkness.
In the bumpy sidecar, Guderian turned around and, by the light of the burning truck, witnessed a scene he would never forget—
Less than 150 meters away, the B1 tank he had seen countless times through his binoculars, numbered "Verdun," was like an arrogant black knight, mercilessly crushing a German tanker with its wide tracks.
The dark, gaping cannon barrel spun, as if mocking his pathetic state.
He gripped the loaded Luger pistol tightly, the muzzle always seemingly pointed at his chin.
"Drive! Reverse! To the 1st Armored Regiment's base!"
Guderian roared from the side chamber.
At this moment, the renowned general finally paid the price for his radical habit of "setting up his command post right under the enemy's nose."
He knew very well that even a full regiment of French B1 tanks was nothing more than an appetizer compared to the main force of his 1st Panzer Division, which possessed hundreds of Panzer III and IV tanks. The problem was, in his pursuit of command speed, he had placed his "brain" too far ahead, while his "fist"—the main force of the armored regiment—was currently sleeping five kilometers behind!
"Take me back now! I need to bring my tanks up! I'm going to crush these rats!"
"Hold on tight, General!"
Colonel Nelin slammed on the starter lever, and the horizontally opposed twin-cylinder engine let out a piercing screech that tore through the rain.
The BMW motorcycle, carrying the armored general in his silk pajamas, his face contorted with humiliation and rage, drifted across the muddy road before speeding off toward the main force's assembly point.
……
Inside the command tower of the Verdun.
Arthur stared intently at the RTS map in the lower left corner of his retina.
On that dark wasteland where nothing could be seen except rain, the enormous golden five-pointed star icon representing [Heinz Guderian] was moving away from the center of the battlefield at an astonishing speed, rushing towards the edge of the map.
[Distance: 680 meters]
[Status: Extreme panic/Disheveled (Disheveled)]
[Achievement Progress: The hidden achievement "Pajama General" has been completed]
"ha……"
Looking at the golden pentagram on the RTS map, which was frantically fleeing south in a serpentine manner through the mud, Arthur couldn't help but laugh.
He could almost picture Guderian looking like that now.
The "father of Blitzkrieg," who usually appears on the front page of the People's Observer newspaper wearing a sharp overcoat, standing on a half-track command vehicle, and pointing out the situation through binoculars, is now rolling around in the mud in his pajamas like an unlucky man caught in the act.
For a moment, Arthur did indeed have murderous intent.
He knew very well that if this shot hit its mark, the history of World War II would be completely and violently rewritten. Without Guderian's armored genius, the subsequent Operation Barbarossa and the Battle of Moscow might have been drastically different.
But he quickly abandoned the tempting idea.
Murder is not the goal; robbery is.
Killed Guderian?
That would only give Goebbels perfect propaganda material to portray the "father of the armored forces" as the most tragic martyr of the Third Reich, and to incite even more fanatical hatred by holding a grand state funeral for his death in Berlin.
Then, in the name of revenge, the Bohemian corporal would not hesitate to replace him with a real butcher—a mad dog who may not understand the art of armored warfare, but is absolutely proficient in scorched earth policies and ethnic cleansing.
The Prussian General Staff produced famous generals at an unstoppable rate, like an assembly line; they were never finished killing them.
In comparison, keeping Heinz around was safer. At least this arrogant Prussian Junker nobleman still considered himself a pure soldier and retained that pitiful but precious chivalrous spirit of the old era.
It's better to face a lion that follows the rules than a pack of unreasonable mad dogs, especially when the lion can keep its pack in check.
In a sense, a living Guderian, burdened by psychological trauma, is more useful than a hero who died in the French mud.
On the other hand, Arthur also very much hopes to have a thrilling showdown with this master of armored warfare in the future.
Besides, even if Guderian isn't here tonight, Arthur will still make a surprise return. The core objective of this operation has never been a single head, but rather the Panzer III tanks and half-tracks parked under the awnings.
But doing nothing is impossible.
Arthur watched the disappearing dot on the RTS screen, a mischievous smile playing on his lips, and pressed the intercom.
"Captain Durand, adjust the vehicle to the 11 o'clock position."
"Raise the muzzle to an elevation angle of 15 degrees."
A puzzled French captain, in charge of operating the vehicle's cannon, came through the radio: "Sir? It's just a dark wasteland over there, not a soul in sight. Isn't our target the convoy over there?"
In the eyes of ordinary people, there is nothing in that direction except for torrential rain and darkness.
"Don't ask. Just do it."
Arthur didn't bother to explain.
"Fire a high-explosive shell in that direction."
"Just consider it... a show for the Germans."
Despite his deep suspicions, Captain Durand instinctively carried out the order under the suffocating authority of the battlefield.
boom--!
The vehicle jolted violently as a 75mm high-explosive shell whistled out and plunged into the endless darkness.
This was just a simple intimidation.
In Arthur's RTS view, the shell landed on an open area about twenty meters away from the golden pentagram, exploding into a huge mud pit.
The enormous explosion and shockwave clearly terrified the renowned general.
On the map, the golden icon jerked violently—in reality, the BMW R75 motorcycle nearly flipped into the roadside ditch. Then, the cursor moved at an instant faster speed; the driver, clearly acting like a madman, twisted the throttle to the floor, carrying the terrified "father of Blitzkrieg," disappearing into the depths of the rainy night at an almost takeoff speed.