noveltune Chapter 39 The Hell Pianist
Chapter 39 The Hell Pianist
Watching the dozen or so soldiers who were overjoyed at being chosen, some even with tears of excitement in their eyes, scramble onto the half-track vehicle behind them, Arthur felt no emotional fluctuation whatsoever.
He merely glanced indifferently at the "defeated candidates" who were left behind, still pleading desperately on the roadside.
Is it cruel?
Perhaps in a peaceful era filled with warmth and compassion, such behavior would have been court-martialed. But now... it's simply to save more lives.
This is called "selecting the elite".
Since his own supply and transportation capabilities were limited, he couldn't just throw all the junk into his ranks like a charitable organization. He had to convert every unit of population into the highest possible combat effectiveness.
Those who lost their guns, broke their will, or could only serve as foot soldiers were "negative assets" to him—they would only consume precious fuel and rations, but could not provide corresponding DPS (damage per second).
"drive."
Arthur tapped on the hatch, not even glancing at his abandoned brethren.
The convoy continued northward.
Like a giant snowball rolling on snow, Arthur's army grew bigger and bigger.
However, his standards for eliminating "impurities" have become increasingly stringent.
Later on, even ordinary Enfield riflemen no longer caught his eye. Unless they were burly men carrying Bren guns or sergeants with binoculars around their necks, Arthur had no interest in stopping the car.
He's now like a picky buyer on the secondhand market, only interested in technical soldiers with special skills.
Until he saw the cannons that were about to be blown up next to a birch grove by the roadside.
"parking."
Arthur's voice suddenly rose an octave, even carrying a hint of surprise, his attitude completely different from before, like a stamp collector who had discovered the "Penny Black" stamp.
Those were four towed cannons with uniquely long barrels, mounted on complex cruciform carriages.
The iconic trumpet-shaped flash suppressor at the top of the cannon barrel gleamed so beautifully in the dappled sunlight.
Bofors 40 mm L/60 anti-aircraft gun.
This was the best medium-caliber anti-aircraft gun of World War II, bar none.
With a firing rate of up to 120 rounds per minute, it is known as the "anti-aircraft piano".
But in Arthur's eyes, who is an expert in RTS games and War Thunder, this thing has another, more terrifying and adrenaline-pumping name—Infantry Harvester.
If you've ever seen this thing blow up a fully metal Bf-109 fighter plane in mid-air with a high-explosive incendiary bomb, you'd never want to know what it would do to a human.
I guarantee I'll take on one enemy without making a sound.
At that moment, several officers in artillery uniforms were sweating profusely as they stuffed thermite grenades into the gun barrels, clearly preparing to destroy the equipment and then abandon the vehicle and escape.
"Stop! You bunch of good-for-nothings!"
Arthur leaped directly from the two-meter-high B1 tank turret, his movements as swift as a cheetah spotting its prey. He strode forward and, with his expensive sterling silver lion-head cane, forcefully slapped away the hand of one of the lieutenants who was about to draw the bowstring.
"Snapped!"
"Ah! What are you doing, sir!" The lieutenant clutched his swollen wrist, looking in horror at the major who had suddenly appeared out of nowhere, exuding a menacing aura.
"I am saving the assets of the British Empire, and your non-existent honor."
Arthur stared at him coldly, his eyes filled with contempt for such a wasteful act.
Then he turned to look at the commander of the artillery company—a captain who looked refined and wore gold-rimmed glasses, but whose face was covered in grease and who looked disheveled.
"I am Major Arthur Sterling, the highest-ranking officer here."
Arthur leisurely straightened his cuffs, which had been wrinkled from jumping out of the car, and his tone returned to its previous arrogant manner, as if he were inspecting his own estate:
"Is that your cannon?"
"I am Captain William Higgins, 1st Heavy Anti-Aircraft Regiment."
The bespectacled captain hastily wiped the grime off his glasses, clearly intimidated by Arthur's imposing presence: "Yes, sir. But the tractor unit is out of gas, and the gearbox is broken. Our orders are to destroy the equipment and then retreat to the beach on foot."
"The orders have changed."
Arthur ignored his explanation and walked straight to a Bofors anti-aircraft gun.
He took off his gloves and lovingly stroked the cold breechblock, his fingers sliding over the smooth ammunition funnel as if caressing a lover's firm thigh.
In the RTS interface, the icons of these four cannons are radiating an alluring golden light that only he can see.
[Unit: Bofors 40mm anti-aircraft gun group x4]
Rarity: Epic
【Characteristics: Air Suppression/Devastating Ground Attack/High Rate of Fire】
"Captain Higgins, your tractor is out of gas?"
Arthur raised an eyebrow:
"That's perfect. Anyway, those Bedford trucks are useless except for slipping in the mud and serving as practice targets for the German Stuka."
"As for fuel..."
Arthur turned around and pointed with his cane at the long line of cars stretching out on the highway behind him.
Although those Opel trucks carrying supplies had been gloriously killed in the previous "Sleepy Valley Fireworks Show," he now had better alternatives—eight dark gray Sd.Kfz. 251 half-track armored vehicles that he had "taken over" from the Germans.
"See those big guys?"
Arthur is now like a nouveau riche showing off his luxury car to his poor relatives:
"German half-tracks. The Hans not only politely filled the fuel tanks, but you can also see that each vehicle has four or five jerry cans full of fuel hanging on the side."
"I have enough horsepower to pull your precious ones, and enough diesel to get them to port."
"Now, I have two proposals."
Arthur held up two long, slender fingers and waved them in front of Higgins:
"First, you blow up these cannons, then lead your men to Dunkirk like a bunch of beggars, praying that the German Stukas won't blow you to pieces on the way."
"second."
Arthur pointed to the several half-track vehicles idling and emitting a low rumble:
"Have your men climb onto those German tanks and mount your cannons on their tow hooks. In exchange, you will use these 'pianos' to play a hellish symphony for the Germans."
Captain Higgins looked at the oil drums, then at the imposing B1 tank with its German helmet, and his Adam's apple bobbed with difficulty.
For an artilleryman, there is nothing more painful than destroying his own beloved gun with his own hands. It's like strangling his own child.
"But sir..." Higgins hesitated for a moment, then raised a technical question, "These are anti-aircraft guns. Our high-altitude optical sights were damaged in the previous air raids, making it impossible to calculate precise firing data... In other words, if it's a bomber flying at an altitude of over two thousand meters, we simply can't hit it."
"Then ignore those flies flying above the clouds."
Arthur interrupted him, his tone becoming matter-of-fact, as if it were no problem at all. He knew that for the next ten days or so, cloudless weather was unlikely; high-altitude bombers were practically blind. The only thing to watch out for was the Stuka.
"If those Stukas dare to dive down and get themselves killed, or try to drop bombs on the top of my tank, then I certainly welcome you to turn it into a nice festive firework. That's your job, Captain."
At this point, Arthur suddenly changed the subject.
He removed his gloves, gently patted the thick, long L/60 gun barrel, and revealed a cruel smile that chilled all infantrymen to the bone:
"But until they come, Higgins, I don't want you to crane your necks too high. You should lower your gaze a bit."
"Lower it?" Higgins was taken aback.
"That's right, lower it."
Arthur leaned closer to the captain, his voice low and seductive:
Have you ever heard of "Direct Fire"?
"At a rate of fire of 120 rounds per minute, we poured 40mm high-explosive shells like water onto the German infantry ranks, trucks, or those fragile light tanks."
Arthur pointed to the dangerous road ahead:
"This isn't just an anti-aircraft gun, Captain. In my convoy, it's a semi-automatic sniper rifle. I want you to lay it flat and tear apart anything that stands in our way—whether it's iron birds in the sky, living people on the ground, or that damned Guderian's pride."
Arthur patted the thick, long L/60 cannon barrel, producing a crisp metallic echo:
"So forget about that damn 'Air Defense Manual'."
Higgins was stunned.
His mind raced, imagining the scene: four Bofors anti-aircraft guns lined up, muzzles flat. Accompanied by the distinctive, rhythmic "thump-thump-thump" of the guns, countless 40mm high-explosive incendiary shells pounded into the dense formation of German grenadiers charging into the fray.
The battle will turn into a highly efficient industrialized slaughter.
Those arrogant Hans in their field gray uniforms didn't even have time to scream before they were instantly "physically disintegrated" by the combined effects of kinetic and chemical energy. In the continuous explosions, they would be reduced to the most basic organic matter—clumps of crimson blood mist that tragically burst open in the summer air.
Does this violate chivalry? Perhaps. Is it cruel? Absolutely.
But Higgins felt his adrenaline surging, and he struggled to swallow, forced to admit that this idea, so full of extreme violent aesthetics, sounded...
That's fucking awesome.
"Deal, sir!"
Higgins straightened up abruptly, gave a crisp military salute, and his eyes gleamed with the pride unique to artillerymen. "The 1st Heavy Anti-Aircraft Company is at your command! As long as there's enough ammunition, I can blast the Germans back to Berlin!"
Besides the four Bofors anti-aircraft guns that were like a gift from heaven, Arthur also found another treasure in the following two kilometers.
That was a combat engineer unit belonging to the Corps of Royal Engineers.
Here's a little-known fact that's often overlooked in the British military: in this conservative country, the navy and air force belong to the King (Royal Navy), but the army (British Army) is unique in that it doesn't have the word "Royal" in its name.
This is a "historical legacy" left over from Oliver Cromwell's beheading of Charles I.
Legally speaking, the army is Parliament's henchman, not the king's private army.
But engineers are an exception.
This group of professionals, who were established even before the regular army, earned themselves the title of "Royal" thanks to their irreplaceable skills in siege warfare and fortification.
However, do not confuse these burly men, who reek of gunpowder, with the Pioneer Corps, who only know how to repair roads, build makeshift toilets in the rear, or wield shovels.
That was an insult to them.
Advance laborers were responsible for construction, while combat engineers—or, by their more preferred, older name, "sappers"—were responsible for destruction.
They are the kind of "professional saboteurs" who would rush into enemy bunkers amidst a hail of bullets to plant explosives, lay anti-tank mines in front of enemy tank tracks, or detonate the fuse the second their retreating soldier crossed the bridge.
Construction may take years, but destruction takes only a second.
And they are the artists of this very second.
At this moment, the group of artists are frantically cursing a Bedford truck with a broken axle, their vocabulary so rich with profanity that it would put any dockworker in London's East End to shame.
The vehicle was loaded with TNT blocks that were originally intended to be used to blow up the bridge, but were not used due to the hasty retreat, as well as boxes of anti-tank mines.
For ordinary infantry commanders, this group of men, who had no heavy machine guns and carried a vehicle full of dangerous materials that could explode at any moment, were like mobile powder kegs on the battlefield, and they wanted to avoid them at all costs.
But in the eyes of Arthur, a madman obsessed with "civil engineering work," this was no powder keg.
They were practically a group of angels who smelled of sulfur.
No, he's a demolition genius.
"You know how to lay mines?" Arthur looked at the sergeant major, whose face was full of scars and who was preparing to bury landmines in the roadside bushes.
"Sir, give me enough explosives and I can blow Buckingham Palace to the sky—of course, that's just a metaphor."
The sergeant grinned, revealing a set of rotten teeth yellowed from years of smoking cheap cigarettes, and toyed with a detonator in his hand.
"There is nothing our 3rd Field Company cannot blast open, and there is no roadblock we cannot build."
"very good."
Arthur nodded in satisfaction; that destructive look in his eyes was exactly what he needed.
"Your car broke down? Move the explosives to my half-track. Take everything, don't leave the Germans a single brick."
"Miller!"
"Here, sir!"
"Incorporate these demolition experts into your special operations team," Arthur said meaningfully, gesturing to the sergeant major. "Teach them your 'insidious' mine-laying techniques. I want the Germans to have to write a will to God before taking any further steps."
Thus, this escape squad, which originally consisted of only a few dozen people, swelled like an inflating balloon in just half a day into a well-equipped mechanized mixed combat group with more than 300 soldiers.
At noon, when the convoy arrived at an abandoned French supply depot, Arthur ordered a halt and a brief reorganization.
This is not for rest, but for establishing order.
The more than three hundred soldiers originally came from five or six different divisions and regiments, with different unit numbers and command structures. Without integration, they would just be a mob with guns. In the event of a tough battle, they would immediately scatter like sand, and even the bonds of an RTS game could not connect them in the void.
Arthur stood on the track guards of the B1 tank "Verdun", holding the cane that symbolized power, looking down at the soldiers below who were receiving canned beef and cigarettes.
He didn't need a megaphone, because all eyes in the room were on him. It was a gaze that mixed reverence, reliance, and expectation.
"Gentlemen."
Arthur spoke, his voice not loud, but his tribal authority was undeniable; the tone cultivated only in London's high society carried particular weight at this moment.
"Look around you. Just yesterday, you were infantrymen of the 48th Division, gunners of the 1st Anti-Aircraft Regiment, or miners of the 3rd Engineer Company."
"But from now on, forget those damned unit numbers. Those numbers became worthless with the chaos of Dunkirk, along with the officers who dumped you here."
Arthur struck the tank armor heavily with his cane, producing a crisp sound, like striking a war drum.
"Here, there is only one identity—a soldier of the Stirling Battle Group."
The crowd stirred briefly, then quieted down.
"I do not promise to take you home. That is a politician's lie. I am not Churchill, and I do not have time to give you tickets."
Arthur paused, his gaze sweeping over each dust-covered face, a haughty smile curving his lips:
"What I promise is—victory."
"We will no longer flee like rats. We will be a sharp knife to completely pierce this tangled mess. If the Germans are in our way, we will blow them up; if tanks are in our way, we will crush them."
"Want to get back to England alive for afternoon tea? Then polish your guns and load your cannons."
"Now, reorganize!"
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