diymy Chapter 62 The Ruined Legion
Chapter 62 The Ruined Legion
Chapter 62 The Ruined Legion
17:30 PM, outside the central square of Berger, a blind spot in the French defense line.
If you had to describe this team lying in the shadows of the ruins in one word, it would be—absurd.
The sun was hanging high in the western sky, its golden rays filtering through the smoke that filled the city and casting dappled, blinding beams of light. In this bright sunlight, the horrific state of the troops was laid bare.
Leading the way were dozens of lightly wounded soldiers, their bodies wrapped in blood-soaked bandages, leaning on crutches, or even carrying mops. They supported each other, many wearing ill-fitting, mud-stained French army sky-blue shirts, carrying various weapons salvaged from the corpses—old-fashioned Lebel rifles, carbines with broken stocks, and even a few Mauser rifles without bullets, only fitted with bayonets.
Mixed among them was a group of chefs wearing greasy white coats.
The portly chef with the exaggerated mustache was squatting behind a broken wall, the sunlight reflecting off his gleaming cleaver with a chilling glint. His apron, already stained with cow's blood, was about to be stained with human blood.
Beside him were several pale-faced clerks wearing thick-rimmed glasses, their pockets stuffed with Mills grenades the size of potatoes, their teeth chattering from extreme tension.
There were even a few chaplains who did not want to wait to be slaughtered while praying, clutching a silver cross tightly in one hand and an entrenching tool with its edge sharpened in the other.
They had no orderly formation, no uniforms, and no tactical communications.
Their only common trait was that desperate and ferocious look in their eyes, like those of a trapped beast—a murderous aura that erupted from an honest person when cornered, a aura capable of devouring everything.
Arthur Sterling crouched at the front of the line, his Webley revolver hammered low.
On his RTS tactical map, the defense line, which was originally completely red and on the verge of collapse, miraculously showed a slight loosening after the addition of this "crippled legion" marked by the system as [Special Unit: BerserkMob].
"Sir—"
McTavish emerged from the rubble ahead, his face covered in coal dust.
When he saw the group of men behind Arthur, he froze for a full two seconds, then let out a flippant whistle: "Wow, young master, so this is our Royal Guard?" It must be said, the cleaver in that fat man's hand looked truly terrifying in the sunlight.
"Enough with the nonsense," Arthur interrupted him coldly. "How's the situation?"
"The German vanguard has captured the square fountain. About two platoons of infantry, and three Panzer IV tanks. They are setting up a defensive line."
Arthur nodded and glanced at the blinding sun.
This is exactly the effect he wanted.
At this time, the sun was low in the western sky, and at this angle, the German troops, who were in an attacking position on the east side, would have to face extremely glaring backlight.
This "crippled legion" that bursts out from the shadows on the west side, with the setting sun behind them, looks like a group of demons emerging from light or hellfire.
Listen.
Arthur turned around, lowered his voice, and spoke in French to the rabble behind him.
His gaze turned extremely cold at that moment, like a pack of wolves scrutinizing his pack.
"I know many of you have never even fired a gun. That's okay."
"No need to aim. Aiming at this distance is a waste of time. We're facing away from the sun, so they can't see us."
Arthur pointed to the ruins of the square, shrouded in sunlight and smoke, a few dozen meters away: "After I fire the first shot, you all throw everything you have—bullets, grenades, gasoline, stones, even your shoes—at the Germans' heads!"
"Scream like mad dogs! Roar like demons! Even if we die, we'll die on the front lines!"
"We want them to think that what rushed out wasn't a few hundred wounded soldiers, but an entire division of lunatics!"
'
Arthur took a deep breath, and the Webley revolver in his hand made a soft "click".
"action."
17:40 PM Berg Central Square
An advance unit of the German 10th Panzer Division—an reinforced company of the 69th Regiment—had just captured this ancient central square.
They were exhausted, but also somewhat relaxed. After all, in broad daylight, no regular army would choose to launch a counterattack without artillery support.
"Establish a defensive line! Machine gun crews up to the second floor! Tanks, stop at the intersection, monitor the west side!" — German commander
A captain of the National Defense Forces gave a loud order.
The soldiers squinted because the afternoon sun was so blinding that they had to pull their helmet brims down or raise their hands to shield their eyes from the light. The tank crew climbed out of the turret and sat on the scorching engine hood, drowsy from the sun.
An eerie, calm before the storm hung in the air.
Sudden.
Clang!
A crisp sound of shattering glass echoed at the edge of the silent square.
A German tank sentry wiping sweat from his brow looked up alertly, trying to see through the blinding sunlight: "Who's there?!"
Before he could see it clearly, a ball of orange-red flame suddenly burst open in mid-air.
It was a burning glass bottle—filled with gasoline siphoned from an abandoned truck and soap scraps salvaged from a hospital. It was a highly viscous, French-style Molotov cocktail that, once it got on you, was impossible to extinguish.
It traced a crystal-clear parabola in the golden sunset, and with a snap, it accurately struck the engine air intake of the lead Panzer IV tank.
boom!
Flames instantly engulfed the rear of the tank. Thick, burning liquid flowed into the engine compartment through the cooling vents, igniting the fuel lines and rubber hoses in the high temperature.
The engine let out one last muffled groan, like the wheezing of a dying beast.
The Maybach HL120's engine sucked in flames instead of air, causing its RPM to drop sharply and then completely stall.
Immediately afterwards, thick black smoke billowed into the combat compartment through the gaps in the firewall and the observation window. The narrow metal box instantly transformed into an oven filled with poison gas and intense heat.
"Cough cough cough! Fire! Fire!"
Several tank crew members, their bodies engulfed in flames, screamed as they pushed open the turret cover and tumbled out of the turret, rolling onto the ground like burning torches, struggling painfully in the mud.
"Enemy attack!!!"
The piercing scream had barely begun when it was completely drowned out by the roar that followed, like a wild beast unleashed from its cage.
"Pour la France!!"
"Die, you Germans!"
"Kill them!!!"
In the shadows against the light, countless dark figures suddenly emerged from behind the broken walls around the square, from the windows, and even from under the manhole covers.
The sunlight outlined golden streaks behind them, making them look like vengeful ghosts from mythology.
Tap tap tap! Bang! Bang!
There was no tactical coordination, no fire support, only the most primal venting of killing.
At that moment, by the light of the Molotov cocktails and the blinding sunset, the Germans were horrified to discover that the attackers were not regular troops at all.
—It was a nightmarish “freak show”.
A wounded French soldier, his left arm wrapped in a blood-soaked bandage, charged forward, frantically pulling the trigger while holding an MP40 submachine gun belonging to his Wehrmacht in one hand. He had been shot in the abdomen, his intestines spilling out, but he seemed oblivious to the pain until he charged into the crowd of German soldiers, where he detonated a string of grenades hanging from his chest before collapsing to the ground.
Boom!
Two German machine gunners hiding behind sandbags were blown into the air along with their MG34 machine guns.
The portly chef was at the very front. His white lab coat was extremely conspicuous in the sunlight, stained with red blood and black grease.
"I'll cut you all up!"
He roared and leaped into the trench. A German soldier, terrified, raised his rifle to fire, but he slashed the barrel of the rifle with his cleaver, sparks flying. Then, the heavy boning knife fell with a whoosh, striking the German's helmet.
Click!
The helmet was cleaved open, and with a sickening cracking sound, the German soldier collapsed to the ground without even letting out a scream.
"What the hell kind of unit is this?!"
The German commander roared in terror, emptying the magazine of his Luger P08 towards the crowd until the sound of the bolt being pulled over rang out.
The scene before him shattered all his common sense about war—these enemies lacked the rigid gentlemanly manners of the British, and the nonchalant slackness of the French regular army.
In that instant, he had an absurd illusion: this group of madmen in tattered shirts, wielding kitchen knives, were more like the SS than those who were madly criticizing the SS.
"Tanks! Open fire! Suppress them! Now!"
The remaining two Panzer IV tanks frantically spun their turrets. But the afternoon sun shone directly into the observation ports, rendering the gunners almost blind. The coaxial machine guns fired wildly, but due to the limited field of vision, most of the bullets missed their targets.
But this "crippled legion" didn't care at all.
Taking advantage of the backlighting, they stuck close to us.
Arthur Sterling was at the very front of this group of lunatics.
[Tactical Vision: Backlight Assault]
[Enemy Morale: Shaken]
[Aura Effect: Desperate Charge (Active)]
In his RTS view, the red dot representing the German army was trembling violently, and the once orderly defensive line was rapidly collapsing.
He held the gun in one hand, and the Webley revolver demonstrated terrifying power in close combat.
boom!
A German corporal attempting a flank attack was struck in the chest by a large-caliber bullet, the immense kinetic energy sending him flying two meters backward.
"Jeanne! To the left!"
Arthur roared.
From the shadows on the flank, Jeanne emerged with a dozen or so lightly wounded soldiers who could still run. Her Thompson submachine gun spitted long tongues of fire, pinning down a German squad attempting to outflank them.
"Eat this!"
The bespectacled clerk screamed, closed his eyes, and threw a cluster grenade with an extremely clumsy motion.
Although the aim was poor, it landed right in the middle of the group of German soldiers who were being suppressed by Jeanne.
Boom!
The blast wave ripped off the entire wall, burying the German soldiers along with their screams.
18:15 PM.
Fear is a more effective weapon than bullets.
Especially in broad daylight, when German soldiers realized that the ones who killed their comrades were a group of fat men with kitchen knives and wounded soldiers with broken legs, the fear brought by that "cognitive collapse" was even greater than that of night fighting.
This is not war, this is a slaughterhouse.
"Sir! The left flank has been breached!"
"They're everywhere! Those lunatics don't even dodge bullets!"
"My machine gunner was taken down by a guy with a broken leg! He bit through Hans's throat!"
Panic spread like a plague through the German lines.
Although the soldiers of the 10th Armored Division were elite, they were still human beings.
Faced with this completely unreasonable fighting style that even violated all common sense about warfare, their psychological defenses began to collapse.
No one wants to be killed by a kitchen knife, nor does anyone want to die together with a dead man with his intestines spilling out, especially when they believe the war is about to end.
"Retreat! Retreat to the street corner! Establish a second line of defense!"
The German commander finally broke down and ordered a retreat. He dared not linger with these lunatics in the square.
Two Panzer IV tanks reversed while blindly firing in all directions, their tracks crushing corpses and broken bricks on the ground, covering the infantry's scrambled retreat from the square.
"We won!"
"We won! We drove them out!"
As the taillights of the German tanks disappeared into the dusty end of the street, a heart-wrenching cheer erupted in the square.
The wounded, cooks, and clerks dropped their weapons and embraced each other, weeping. With their own flesh and blood, they had pushed the heavily armed German armored division back two blocks.
Arthur stood on the ruins of the fountain in the center of the square, panting heavily.
The afterglow of the setting sun shone on him, casting a long shadow.
His uniform was soaked with sweat and blood, his hands were trembling slightly, and the recoil of the revolver had cracked his thumb and forefinger, with blood dripping from his fingertips onto the hot barrel, making a sizzling sound.
He didn't cheer. He just coldly surveyed his surroundings.
The ground was littered with corpses. Some were Germans, but most were their own.
The fat chef who had just been shouting that he wanted to cut up the German devils was now lying quietly in a pool of blood.
He was shot three times in the chest, his white coat stained a glaring red, but in his large hand he still gripped the dulled cleaver tightly, half of a German epaulette embedded in the blade.
The bespectacled clerk had half his body blown off by a tank shell; his glasses lay to the side, the shattered lenses reflecting the bleak red light of the setting sun.
This is the price to pay.
This is the "last reserve".
Jeanne walked over to Arthur, stepping over the spent cartridge cases scattered on the ground. Her face was covered in soot, but her eyes still shone brightly in the setting sun. She looked at Arthur without speaking, and silently took a relatively clean bandage from her pocket and handed it to him.
Arthur took the bandage and casually wrapped it around his bleeding hand. He looked at the group of survivors who were cheering and crying, but felt no joy of victory, only endless exhaustion and desolation.
This is just a temporary resurgence.
He knew better than anyone that this group had exhausted all their courage and vitality. Tomorrow at daybreak, when the Germans realized that what was holding them back was only a group of wounded soldiers and cooks, an even more brutal massacre would ensue.
But at least, this twilight belongs to them.
22:00 PM, temporary command post at the Bergner City defense line.
The battle is over.
Night finally enveloped the city completely. Apart from sporadic gunshots and the distant groans of the wounded, the battlefield fell into a deathly silence.
Arthur sat atop an ammunition box, a lit cigarette in his hand. The red dots on the RTS map, though no longer advancing, still surrounded the last isolated island like an iron barrel.
Current Status: Everyone is exhausted (Ehausted)
Ammunition Remaining: Critical
[Reserve Team: 0]
The curtain was lifted, bringing with it a gust of cold wind. Major General Ryūmori walked in.
The old general's left arm was re-bandaged and hung in front of his chest; his face was terribly ashen. The counterattack just now had exhausted his last bit of energy; after the "Verdun-style" excitement subsided, all that remained was the weariness of an old man.
"Major Sterling." Jensen's voice was a little hoarse. He found a chair and sat down, as if all the bones in his body were about to fall apart. "Well done. That battle just now will give those Germans nightmares for a whole night."
Arthur looked up, and with the dim light of his lighter, gave a bitter laugh: "General, we can only scare them for one night. Tomorrow morning, our show will be over."
Sen fell silent. He knew Arthur was telling the truth.
Just then, the dusty radio in the corner suddenly emitted a faint beeping sound.
Drip—drip—drip—drip—
The sound was particularly jarring in the deathly silent command post.
The communications soldier, who had been dozing off by the radio, jumped up abruptly. He put on his headphones and scribbled furiously on a piece of paper. A few seconds later, he jerked his head up, his voice trembling as he shouted, "Sir! There's a signal! It's Dunkirk headquarters! It's Admiral Ramsey's urgent code!"
Arthur and Jeanson stood up at the same time.
The communications soldier quickly took notes, and as the telegram was translated, his expression became increasingly strange, a mixture of relief and indescribable despair.
"Read it," Arthur commanded calmly.
The communications soldier swallowed hard and read aloud: "To all British and French forces still resisting outside Dunkirk—whether it be the British 1st Corps, the French 12th Division, or any isolated units that have lost their formation:"
Operation Dynamo will officially terminate at 04:00 tomorrow morning. All rescue vessels will withdraw from the port. The gates will be closing soon.
1
"This is the final announcement. The Royal Navy is no longer able to provide further support."
"If you can still move, break out immediately."
"God bless you."
A deathly silence descended upon the command post once more. Only the crackling of the radio's static could be heard.
No names were mentioned.
The command had no idea how many men from the French 12th Motorized Division were still resisting, nor did they know that a Major named Arthur Sterling was in command. In headquarters' eyes, they were probably already a line on the dead list.
"Finally—it's here."
It was a long sigh of relief.
Major General Mori's previously hunched posture straightened abruptly, as if the telegram had been a powerful stimulant. He glanced at the cracked military watch on his wrist, his previously clouded eyes replaced by a desperate will to survive.
"Less than six hours left."
The old man whirled around, grabbed the map from the table, and said urgently and excitedly, "Major, this is our last chance! The generator is about to shut down, but the gate isn't completely closed! The Germans were just scared off; they're regrouping, and this is the window of opportunity!"
He grabbed Arthur's shoulder: "Quick! Get your men assembled! We need to leave immediately! Under the cover of darkness, before the Germans can react, we'll crawl to the beach, even if we have to!"
Arthur did not move.
He sat on the ammunition box, letting Major General Jensen shake his shoulders. His gaze wasn't on Jensen, but fixed on the red markers on the RTS screen that surrounded Berg like a school of sharks.
"Sterling! What are you waiting for?!" Sen cried out anxiously. "If we don't leave now, it'll be too late!"
"General."
Arthur finally spoke, his voice calm, a stark contrast to Jensen's anxiety: "Look outside. We have limited vehicles and fuel; we can't possibly take everyone with us."
He raised his head, his grey-blue eyes revealing a rationality: "Those more than a thousand wounded, and those cooks and clerks who just picked up guns, they can't all get on the vehicles. If we turn around and run now, most of them will have to walk."
"And the German tanks were just two blocks away."
"The sound of engines starting up can be heard for kilometers at night. At that point, we'll be a bunch of moving targets on the plains. Do you think our wounded soldiers can run faster, or the German tracks can?"
Sen was stunned. He opened his mouth, but couldn't say a word.
The harsh reality hit him like a bucket of ice water. Yes, this was no longer a mechanized force, but a mob with families to support. Retreating now would only turn a positional battle into a massacre, and as long as Arthur remained commander, he would never allow such a chaotic rout to occur.
"Then—what do we do?" The old general dejectedly released his grip. "Are we just going to wait here to die?"
"No."
Arthur stood up and struck a match.
The firelight illuminated his face, which was covered in blood and mud, and a cold smile curled at the corner of his mouth.
"Since that's a dead end, we have to put on a show for the Germans. A show that will make them afraid to move, unwilling to move, and even unable to guess what we're up to."
He turned around and looked at Jeanne, who was standing in the shadows.
Jeanne.
"Yes, sir."
"Go and find that phonograph that was moved from the mayor's office. And that record too."
Jeanne paused, a look of surprise appearing for the first time in her eyes, which were usually ruthless on the battlefield: "A record? At this time?"
"Yes, at this time."
Arthur took a deep drag on his cigarette, the smoke swirling in the dim light, like a layer of mist shrouding the sand table.
"Since we're leaving, we can't sneak away like mice. Otherwise, the cat will catch up and bite us to death."
He straightened his blood-stained collar: "We should leave like gentlemen."
"We want to leave the Germans with a concert that they will never forget."
There will be two more updates tonight.