diymy Chapter 11 The Dance Under the Wolf's Skin
Chapter 11 The Dance Under the Wolf's Skin
1940年5月29日，深夜 23:15。阿兹海布鲁克，圣埃卢瓦修道院废墟。
As Major Heinrich von Stransky stepped into the courtyard of the monastery, his boots snapped with a crisp sound as they landed on a piece of charred wood that was still warm.
This place is no longer a monastery; it's not even ruins anymore.
After a full half hour of "cultivation" by 150mm heavy howitzers, the area was transformed into a massive, black-smoking lunar crater. The air was thick with the acrid smell of bitter, acidic explosives and lime dust, and visibility was less than five meters.
Faced with the brutal physical laws of large-caliber high-explosive grenades, the so-called "carbon-based life" is nothing more than a fragile protein solution with excessive water content.
Whether a high-ranking officer or a lowly private, they all met the same fate: instantly vaporized and then evenly mixed into the scorching hot soil, becoming a layer of dark red organic mortar that reinforced the ruins of the monastery—so thick that it couldn't be scraped off.
"Major, the 3rd Company reports: no enemy corpses found."
The adjutant's voice trembled slightly, clearly realizing what had happened; he didn't even dare to look his superior in the eye.
"The engineering platoon found a large number of abandoned bandages and empty cans in the basement, and... and..."
"What else?" Stransky's voice was eerily calm as he adjusted his pristine white gloves, which were now covered in dust.
"There's also a flag."
The adjutant turned to the side. On a section of the remaining wall of the altar, hung a British Union Jack, blackened by smoke but still recognizable by its color.
Below the flag, painted red—or perhaps with some kind of jam?—was a line of crooked German writing: "Danke für das Feuerwerk. Wir sehen uns in Berlin. (Thank you for the fireworks. See you in Berlin.)"
Major Stransky walked up to the flag and silently gazed at the provocative words.
There was no furious roar, nor any loss of composure such as throwing things.
Anger is the privilege of peasants and corporals, while Junker nobles only need to show contempt.
This has always been his belief. But today, this belief has failed.
He clearly felt a phantom pain—it felt as if a mud-covered British pickpocket, in broad daylight, had stomped hard on his gleaming Iron Cross medal with his filthy leather boots.
This is not anger, but the utter humiliation of being mocked by inferior beings.
He thought it was a duel between knights. He thought the British officer commanding the Coldstream Guard would fight to the last man for honor, just like the Duke of Wellington had done. So he mobilized heavy artillery, called in Stukas, and even prepared to give the man a dignified funeral after the war.
But what was the result? The other party acted like a rogue, like a slippery pickpocket, and pulled off a "ghost town" trick right under his nose. Not only did they escape, but they also managed to steal and blow up one of his half-track vehicles, and finally left this message to insult his intelligence.
"They're laughing at us, Lieutenant Hans."
Strunzsky removed his gloves, his fingers gently tracing the words, a cruel smile playing on his lips.
"That British commander, he wasn't a soldier at all. He was a gambler, a fraud."
"Major, then we..."
"Pass on the order."
Stransky turned around abruptly, the heels of his boots clattering together.
"Connect me to the regimental headquarters. I need to report directly to Colonel Oberst von Stockhausen."
A few minutes later, the major stood beside the half-track command vehicle, holding a microphone, his posture upright, his tone as firm as steel.
"Yes, Colonel. I know our mission is to clear the way for the 10th Armoured Division... but I must point out that this fleeing British force is extremely dangerous. Not only are they highly skilled at camouflage, but judging from the traces at the scene, they are infiltrating eastward—that is, towards our supply lines."
"No, this is not a personal grudge. It is for the flank security of the Großdeutschland Regiment. I request that my reinforced battalion form a 'special pursuit group' to break away from the main attack axis and advance eastward in search."
"Yes. I will bring their skulls back for you to use as ashtrays. I also assure you, they won't get away this time."
After hanging up the phone, Stransky looked up at the dark night sky in the east.
"You want to go to Berlin? That's interesting."
The major put his gloves back on, his eyes as cold as the Norwegian snow.
"Then I'll personally see you off."
……
1940年5月30日，凌晨 01:45。梅泰伦（Méteren）以东，D916号公路，德军控制区腹地。
Under the same night sky, Lord Arthur Sterling was unaware that he had been targeted by a vengeful Prussian nobleman.
Or rather, he can't care about those things right now.
Because he was among a pack of real wolves, trying to play the role of a nonchalant sheepdog.
The windshield wipers made a monotonous, grating sound as they laboriously cleared the condensation from the windshield. The headlights pierced the darkness, illuminating the chilling scenery on either side of the road.
That was a real German field camp.
Countless gray tents spread like mushrooms across the fields along the roadside. A massive 88mm anti-aircraft gun stood proudly pointed to the sky, its barrel gleaming coldly in the afterglow of a searchlight. Squads of German soldiers in gray field uniforms gathered around campfires, some cleaning their weapons, others chatting and laughing loudly.
The air was filled with the smells of victors—the aroma of roasted meat, cheap tobacco, and the exhaust fumes of dozens of tons of burning diesel fuel.
Amidst these camps, a convoy of twelve Opel Lightning trucks swaggered through.
"God bless... God bless..."
Lieutenant Jeanne gripped the steering wheel tightly, muttering unconsciously to herself. Her forehead was covered in cold sweat beneath her crooked German M36 cap.
Just a minute earlier, a German Panzer III tank had rumbled past them. The German commander, sitting on the turret, had even whistled at Jeanne and shouted, "Good luck, brother!"
Jeanne was so frightened that she almost drove the car into the ditch, but luckily she just nodded stiffly.
"Relax, Lieutenant."
Arthur slumped in the passenger seat, huddled inside his oversized German leather overcoat. His hat was pulled low, and he clutched a half-empty bottle of Hennessy XO.
In this world full of enemies, he seemed so out of place, yet so... harmonious.
Your heartbeat is so loud I can see the ripples on the RTS map.
Arthur raised the bottle, took a swig, and silently complained to himself.
The pungent alcohol slid down his throat, slightly suppressing the sharp pain emanating from the wound on his left arm, and also giving his brain a morbid relaxation amidst the intense tension.
"This is the German rear area. You must remember one principle: the more dangerous the place, the more arrogant you need to be."
He pointed out the window to the seemingly invincible German armored units.
"In their minds, only their own people would drive such a well-organized convoy on the highway at this time of day. If you act timidly, you'll look like a deserter or a spy. But if you act like a bastard rushing to be reborn, they'll give you way."
"But ahead..." Jeanne's voice trembled.
Five hundred meters ahead, several blinding beams of searchlight stretched across the road.
Red and white railings blocked the way. Two trucks equipped with MG34 machine gun mounts were parked on the side of the road. Four or five soldiers wearing special rubber raincoats and crescent-shaped metal badges on their chests stood in the middle of the road.
[WARNING: High-risk target]
[Unit Identification: German Field Military Police (Feldgendarmerie)]
[Commonly known as: "Kettenhunde"]
[Threat Level: Extremely High (Power to Arrest and Execute)]
In Arthur's RTS view, the red dots above the heads of those military police officers were almost black.
This was the most notorious and troublesome unit in the German army. They were not under the control of the Wehrmacht or the SS, but were directly under the command of the Gendarmerie Command, and were specifically responsible for arresting deserters, checking suspicious vehicles, and maintaining order in occupied areas.
To make matters worse, they were leading two enormous black-backed wolfhounds on leashes.
"slow down."
Arthur sat up straight and spilled some of the liquor on the collar of his leather coat, hoping to create a strong hangover smell while also masking the stench of blood.
"The real test has begun. This isn't like those easily fooled Uncle Hans from the logistics company. These guys are deliberately looking for trouble."
He checked the MP40 submachine gun in his arms to make sure the safety under the foregrip was off, then turned to look at Jeanne.
"Do you still remember your script?"
"Alsatians... short-tempered... logistics officers." Jeanne took a deep breath, the fear in her eyes gradually replaced by a sense of resignation.
"Good. Drive over there. Like a real German bastard."
……
01:50, Military Police Checkpoint on the west side of Meitalon Town.
"Halt!"
A military police sergeant raised a red stop sign, and the blinding beam of his flashlight shone directly onto the windshield of the driver's cab.
The convoy came to a stop with a screeching sound of brakes.
Jeanne didn't turn off the engine immediately. She kept it idling, causing the whole truck to vibrate slightly—a silent urging and impatience.
The military police sergeant walked to the car window. He was burly, with a cold and gloomy expression on his face, and the metal badge that read "Field Military Police" on his chest gleamed coldly under the car headlights.
The German Shepherd stood up, clawing at the car door, its massive paws scraping against the paint with a sickening sound. It growled lowly at the inside of the car, its foul-smelling saliva dripping onto the glass.
"Turn off the engine! Get your documents!"
The military police knocked on the car window without saying anything more.
Jeanne rolled down the car window.
Before the military police could speak, she suddenly leaned out and shouted back in extremely rude German with a heavy accent:
"Get that damn flashlight away! You idiot! Are you trying to blind me?"
It was a pure, rustic Alsatian swear word, even containing a few words that only border farmers would use.
The military police sergeant was clearly taken aback.
He was used to the ordinary low-ranking soldiers who trembled at the sight of him, or the officers who politely showed their identification. But he clearly didn't expect a corporal driving a car to dare to speak to him like that.
"Watch your manners, Corporal!" The military policeman's hand reached for his Walther P38 pistol at his waist, his eyes turning dangerous. "Routine check. Which unit are you from? What's in the vehicle? Why are you still on the highway at this hour?"
"7th Armored Division! 59th Logistics Company! 2nd Transport Column!"
Jeanne slammed the forged vehicle logbook—which was actually the real one she had stolen from that unfortunate military post, only with the date altered—onto the military policeman's chest.
"The truck is loaded with the 88mm anti-aircraft shells and aviation gasoline that Major General Rommel wanted! Damn it, we've been on the road for six hours! The clutch in this wrecked truck is practically burning out!"
She glared at the military policeman, her anger more real than any real anger could be—it was fueled by fear.
"If you want to delay the 7th Armored Division's advance, then go ahead and check every single tank! But I assure you, once we get to the front lines, I'll give your name to that grumpy devil boss! Then you can explain to him why his tanks ran out of fuel!"
When the "7th Panzer Division" and "Rommel" were mentioned, the military police's morale noticeably weakened.
At this point in time, Rommel's "Ghost Division" was a legend in the German army, and no one dared to easily provoke even those logistics soldiers who were only associated with armored divisions.
He wasn't suspicious of the presence of this convoy.
On the contrary, it would be strange if the convoy followed the route properly towards the Dunkirk coast.
In that frenzied end of May, Erwin Rommel and his 7th Panzer Division were like a gravity-defying cannonball. He ran too fast, too wildly, often deliberately cutting off radio communication with his superiors in order to get there faster.
Now, across the entire Western Front, the British didn't know where the 7th Panzer Division was, the French didn't know where the 7th Panzer Division was, and even the Army High Command in Berlin didn't know where these lunatics were.
Since even the Führer didn't know Rommel's exact coordinates, it was perfectly reasonable for this straggling logistics company to be here.
"The 7th Armored Division..."
The sergeant major of the military police handed the vehicle log back to Jeanne, his tone surprisingly tinged with gossipy curiosity, as if he were addressing not a subordinate, but an explorer who had just returned from the mysterious Bermuda Triangle.
"Hey brother, where is your tireless general now?"
The military policeman leaned closer to the car window, lowered his voice, and asked, while helplessly pointing to the phone booth behind him.
"I want to know too. Since last night, the army group headquarters' phones have been ringing off the hook. Those staff officers are very anxious, all asking if Rommel has already swum across the English Channel."
Jeanne paused for a moment, then thanked God in her heart—or thanked that madman Rommel.
Following the military police's lead, she adopted an even more devastated and furious expression, and slammed her hand on the steering wheel:
"God knows! That warmonger is faster than a rabbit! The last time we received his coordinates, they were west of Lille, but when we rushed there desperately, all we saw were spent shell casings and French white flags!"
"Our truckload of fuel is chasing after his tire tracks! If we can't catch up tonight, I'll have to go to the Dunkirk beach to collect it from him!"
"Ha! Go to Dunkirk to sign for it!"
The military police were amused by the complaint and burst into a rude laugh.
Then, he flipped through the driving log.
The document is genuine, the official seal is genuine, and the signature even has oil stains from last night.
"The 59th Logistics Company..." the military police muttered, seemingly confirming the unit number.
He still harbored some doubts. His intuition as a professional military policeman told him that something was amiss with this convoy. The soldiers in the back vehicles, though wearing German raincoats, were sitting too stiffly, and the way they held their rifles...
He held a flashlight and tried to shine it into the driver's cab.
Who else is in the car?
The beam of light swept across the passenger seat.
There sat an officer, his face buried in his collar, reeking of alcohol. His peaked cap was askew, and he seemed to be fast asleep.
"That's our company commander." Jeanne lowered her voice, her tone carrying a hint of "you know what I mean" helplessness, and even made a face at the military police.
"Yesterday I passed by a winery and 'requisitioned' a lot of good wine from the French... You know, once you drink too much..."
The military policeman gave a knowing smile.
In the rear, it was common for officers to drink alcohol, especially logistics officers who were not under combat pressure.
"Alright, let him sleep." The military policeman closed the vehicle logbook, preparing to hand it back to Jeanne. "But I need to check on the cars behind us..."
Just then, a sudden change occurred.
"Woof! Woof woof woof!"
The black-backed wolfhound that had been kicked off suddenly pounced again, barking wildly at the passenger window and even trying to bite the door handle.
The dog's nose smelled something it shouldn't have.
It wasn't the smell of alcohol, but the smell of blood.
Although the wound under Arthur's fur coat was bandaged and covered with alcohol, the fresh, inflammatory smell of human blood was as obvious as a searchlight in the dark to a specially trained hunting dog.
"Max! Sitz! (Sit down!)"
The military police tried to pull the dog back on its leash, but the dog had gone mad.
The military policeman's expression changed instantly.
As a veteran, he knew all too well what this reaction meant—there were wounded or dead people in the car.
Why would a logistics company commander smell of blood?
"etc."
The military policeman raised his flashlight again, unfastened the holster with his other hand, and even took a step back to signal to the machine gunner behind him.
The atmosphere instantly became extremely tense.
McTavish in the vehicle behind had already quietly pressed the muzzle of his Thompson submachine gun against the windshield, his finger on the trigger.
"Sir? Please raise your head." The military policeman's voice turned cold.
No response.
"Sir! Please show me your identification! This dog smells blood! If you don't cooperate, I have the right to shoot!"
Jeanne's hand reached for the Luger pistol under the seat. She knew she'd been exposed.
The moment the military policeman's hand touched the car door handle.
Snapped!
A hand wearing a black leather glove suddenly reached out from the car and grabbed the military policeman's collar. The force that burst out in that instant was astonishing, pulling the burly military policeman's upper body directly against the car window frame.
"Awooo—"
Just as the dog was about to pounce, it was punched in the nose by the hand, whimpering and shrinking back with its tail between its legs.
Arthur raised his head.
There was no sign of sleepiness on his face, only a chilling rage and ferocity.
His grey-blue eyes were bloodshot, like two burning will-o'-the-wisps, as he stared intently at the terrified military policeman.
"You bastard (Verdammter Mistkerl)!"
Arthur roared in a perfect, arrogant accent typical of Berlin's high society, the kind of accent that comes with being born with a silver spoon in your mouth.
"Do you want to die? That's my blood! The blood I shed for the Führer in Poland! What? You, a mere watchdog, want to examine my medals too?!"
The roar was so powerful that it even drowned out the engine's rumble.
Arthur held the Hennessy bottle in his other hand and waved it around like a grenade, spilling the liquor everywhere.
Immediately afterwards, he pulled out an identification card from his pocket—the one he had previously taken from the real logistics company commander who was about to drink red wine but was killed with a shovel—and slammed it hard into the military policeman's face.
"Open your dog eyes and look carefully! I'm from the von Stransky family! My uncle works in the General Staff!"
Arthur is gambling.
He was betting that the terrified military policeman wouldn't dare to check the photo and name on the badge at this distance, in the dim light of a flashlight. If he did, the badge would actually say something like "Captain Schmidt." He was betting on the prestigious surname "von Stransky," and the sense of authority conveyed by the leather overcoat and captain's epaulets.
"If you dare let that beast bark at me again, I'll shove this bottle down your backside and send you to a penal camp to clear mines along the coast!"
This combination of punches was too ruthless.
Junker aristocratic accent + the name of the Stransky family + extreme arrogance.
This is practically the ultimate form of hierarchical suppression within the German army.
The military police sergeant was completely stunned. In the rigidly hierarchical German army, a drunk, wounded, and noble-born officer was someone you absolutely couldn't mess with. Even though he was a military policeman, he didn't dare offend those people with the surname "von".
"I'm...I'm sorry, sir!"
The military police sergeant picked up the fallen identification document, not even daring to glance at it, and handed it back with trembling hands.
"I didn't know it was you! This dog is crazy! It deserves to die!"
To show his loyalty, he turned around and kicked the still whimpering black-backed dog hard, sending it flying two meters away.
"Get out of the way! Get out of the way! Let them through! Let them through now!"
The railing was frantically lifted. The machine gunners holstered their guns and stood at attention, saluting.
"Major Sstránsky! Have a safe journey! Respectfully yours, General Rommel!"
Arthur snorted coldly, snatched back the identification, and shrank back into his coat, as if even glancing at the military policeman would dirty his eyes.
"drive."
The convoy roared past the checkpoint as the military police watched.
……
It wasn't until we had driven a full three kilometers, and until the checkpoint in the rearview mirror became a small dot of light, that the air in the car started to circulate again.
Jeanne parked the car on the side of the road, leaned on the steering wheel, and gasped for breath, her whole body looking as if she had been pulled out of the water.
"My God..." she trembled, "You just...you just acted like a real Nazi madman."
"If you're going to act, you have to go all the way, Lieutenant."
Arthur slumped back into his seat, his hands trembling violently—the burst of energy had exhausted his last remaining strength.
He relit a cigar, but couldn't hold the lighter steady, so Na lit it for him in the end.
"That name...Stransky." Jeanne looked at him, her eyes filled with inquiry. "How did you know?"
"I've seen this surname in the captured documents from the monastery. That's the name of the major who commanded the Großdeutschland Regiment and tried to crush us."
Arthur took a deep drag on his cigarette, and as he exhaled the smoke, a smile appeared on his lips.
"Although we blew up his half-track and embarrassed him, that doesn't stop me from using his family name. I don't think Major von Stransky will mind—"
He flicked his cigarette ash, watching the German road signs flash by outside the window with a mocking look in his eyes.
"After all, we're helping him 'make a name for himself' behind German lines, even if it's in a way he would never expect or want to admit."
"Let's go, Jeanne. Next stop, Kassel."
"Hopefully the British there are smarter than these German military police."
The convoy started again and disappeared into the pre-dawn darkness.
Behind them, the military police sergeant, who had just been humiliated, stood by the roadside, watching the convoy disappear into the distance, a sudden thought creeping into his mind.
"Any members of the Strunzsky family...serving in the logistics unit?"
He shook his head, dismissing the thought.
Who cares? We're going to the front lines to die anyway, why bother arguing with dead people?