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“General.” At this moment, it was Lieutenant General Clay who arrived. He was an old face from the standoff between the US and Soviet troops stationed in Germany. “Lieutenant General Truscott has returned to Frankfurt from Munich. He has completed the handover of command of the Third Army to General George Patton.”
“Oh, great.” Eisenhower slapped the sofa and jumped up, then waved to Bradley. “Let’s go, let’s get down to business and find those reporters who came from the other side of the Atlantic.”
"A reporter? Are you mistaken, Ike?"
"Get those guys with the cameras over here right now and get them away from George, my God! What if he suddenly has another brain fart and slaps a soldier, or drags Democrats and Republicans into the Nazis again? Does he think the army commander is some kind of runaway stud?!"
……
At dawn on July 5, the sun shone on the city of Munich, glittering over the ruins of the Arc de Triomphe.
Built in the mid-19th century on the eve of the establishment of the Second German Empire, it was destroyed in the mid-20th century during the World War. Several years later, it will be partially restored and, together with the Kaiser Wilhelm Memorial Church in Berlin, become a monument "dedicated to victory, destroyed by war, and a warning to peace".
Now, an M26 tank painted with General Pershing's image stands before the Arc de Triomphe, surrounded by smartly dressed American soldiers in full uniform. They are waiting for someone, someone extremely familiar to the veterans of the Third Army.
"Ten...hut!" The whispers and murmurs of the crowd were immediately cut off. Then the soldiers saw an "old guy" with a polished steel helmet bearing the four stars of a general and shiny leather boots on his head, tightly gripping a riding crop and looking down at everyone under the tank along with the revolver at his waist.
On his left arm patch, the letter A, lying in a blue circle, appeared once again.
"Good morning, brothers. Before that, I want to share something: When I was the lousy commander of the 15th Army, which was like a run-down stable, I heard a lot of nonsense."
"An officer who was good at writing muttered to himself while taking notes, 'Luckily we didn't fight the Russians, I'd like to go back for Easter next year.'"
"If it weren't for those reporters who were always following me around, I would have slapped him across the face, folks. Yeah, maybe he thinks it's unnecessary to fight with the Russians, but as a soldier, as a soldier who serves America, all he thinks about is Easter. He's just as useless as those cowards who secretly hide pornographic magazines."
"Americans have never been afraid of war. After serving in the military, they will understand even more what it means for soldiers to be dedicated to their duties! What is our responsibility? If another Mussolini or a madman gesticulating wildly on the stage comes along, we will take responsibility for putting the gallows back on his neck, until he is dead! We want victory!"
"Many people remember what I said two years ago: 'Americans love war. All real Americans love the thrill and confrontation of the battlefield. When you were kids, you idolized pinball champions, running champions, MLB players, and tough boxers. We admire winners and can't tolerate losers. We despise those who smile even after losing.'"
"Yes, Americans' hatred of 'losing' is innate, for no reason other than that we never lose and will never lose a game or a war."
"Yes, not long ago, we lost in Nuremberg. General Eisenhower told me that we lost at least 5 men from about ten divisions. If you add the earlier failure to attack Berlin... Among them are your brothers and your close friends, who were either driven into prisoner-of-war camps by those sons of bitches on the other side, or didn't even have the chance to die on the battlefield."
"So, now that we've become the losers, will we be all smiles? Of course, of course not. We proved that with our actions four or five years ago."
"When we learned of the attack on Pearl Harbor and the deaths of thousands of naval personnel, we did not laugh; when we heard of the German submarines wreaking havoc and committing massacres in the Atlantic, we did not laugh either. As for the reason, we have already demonstrated it with our actions: on the shore of the Pacific Ocean, there is a city that was completely destroyed by incendiary bombs dropped by bombers, where more than 100,000 people died."
"This is the victor's justified act against the vanquished, but those who died were all Japanese. So what were the Americans doing before that? Every time we tried to find excuses for the failure of Pearl Harbor and put on a brave face, we would slap ourselves in the face and then focus all our energy on how to kill more Japanese devils. That's why the USS Missouri was able to fly the Stars and Stripes and enter Tokyo Bay in early September last year."
"Yes, we all want to go home, we want to end this war, but we can't win it by lying down. The fastest way is to kill these bastards who started this war. When they pounce on us, we'll crush these stupid pigs from head to toe under tank tracks, grind their bones to dust, and then bury them with Hitler!"
“I once asked a few young men who had survived the Berlin Incident: one was from the 82nd Airborne Division, and two were from the 1st Red Army Division. They said that in Berlin, they encountered something called an attack helicopter, and since they didn’t have any anti-aircraft guns, they risked their lives to seize an enemy vehicle and shoot it down with their machine guns.”
"I asked, 'Aren't you afraid? They've never faced an enemy before.' They said they were afraid, but if they didn't do this, some guys in the building behind them would die, and they would never have the face to live as American soldiers again. Look at that, these are real heroes, guys. Don't ask where the enemy comes from; they only deserve to die here!"
"You can remember the men who died in Nuremberg, because one day you will personally end the lives of your enemies; you can also forget the departing faces in Nuremberg, because you are not standing here for any one person. You are the most manly men elected by all of America. The truth that the Americans will win is conveyed to the cowards on the other side by these men!"
"Twenty-eight years ago, we won in Europe, and last year, we won again. So we will keep winning forever! Use your guns and cannons to tell those arrogant aliens that Americans call the shots here! Our duty is not some bullshit about sacrificing for our country, but to make those sons of bitches on the other side disappear like fat pigs for their country!"
"We'll show those ungrateful bastards through battle that we're braver than them and that's how we win this war. The more bastards we kill, the fewer of our own men will be killed. I want you all to remember this: those sons of bitches on the other side chose war, and we'll fight them to the death!"
……
"Finally, I want to ask every American soldier here a question." The general paused, "You men, thirty years from now, you won't be telling your grandchildren on your knees, 'Back when we were fighting, your grandpa was shoveling manure in Louisiana.' So, what will you say to them?!"
"Grandpa was fighting alongside the great Third Army and George Patton at the time!"
At this moment, the soldiers standing around the Arc de Triomphe were no longer exhausted from their retreat to Munich. The rising sun from the east shone on the faces of everyone, which were full of energy and fighting spirit, sweeping away the chill that had been hanging over them for weeks.
Amid the cheers of the crowd, the general let out a long sigh, and unusually removed his helmet, turning back to quietly glance at the portrait of General Pershing on the tank.
"I once said that the luckiest thing in my life was commanding the Third Army in bloody battles." General Patton turned around, a glint in his eyes, and looked down at each soldier facing him. "Today, I'm back."
Chapter 377, Section 479: The Opening is Fierce
The lion and serpent flag was raised over Nuremberg, along with the nearly 100,000 casualties, which was certainly something to celebrate.
But honor and victory are like toys; you can only play with them and not get addicted to them—not only might you fail to achieve anything, but you might also become helpless when faced with new variables.
This was the case with the Britannian Expeditionary Force major. A little over a week ago, he took his canteen from his subordinate, downed a freshly filled bottle of German beer from District 45, and watched as American prisoners of war were led to their rear. Three days ago, he received a special mission: to deliver news of the bombing of Stockholm by Expeditionary Force air power to the POW camp in Leipzig.
Today, as he and his men were sent to the front lines of the attack, he seemed to sense that the Stars and Stripes on the other side of the position had suddenly become far more bloodthirsty and belligerent than before.
The previous night, they had captured the hill in a triumphant advance, and the American troops hastily withdrew after leaving behind a hill full of supplies in a rather undignified manner.
However, early this morning, hundreds of cannons painted with the US Army logo were aimed at them as they woke up from their dreams. Looking down the mountain, it seemed as if the entire earth was firing at the major's head, and the swarming US military vehicles and soldiers' helmets almost blocked all the roads.
"Are you sure? We were ordered to attack the American forces, not to defend our position?!"
Of course, what was happening suddenly was not enough to make him give up and surrender. They held out on the mountain for a long time under the fire of the American troops, until they received support from the rear artillery and helicopters.
"Need any help, Major?" As for the radio call from his superior, there was no blame, only empathetic concern: "The Americans want to compete with us, so we'll compete right here."
"Here? What do you mean by 'here,' sir?"
"It's not just your position; now the entire force that started from southwest of Nuremberg and is advancing towards Stuttgart is embroiled in a fierce battle with the American forces! This is not entirely unexpected."
"Understood, Your Excellency! Do you require me to continue holding this position to the death?"
"Stand by and I will inform everyone, including you, as soon as there is any new information! Duke Sassler already knows all this. He understands that we and the American army are like two hands clasped together, and soon a third hand will come and pry the Americans' fingers off! Stay calm!"
……
As the major answered the radio, small groups of people in olive-green helmets slowly climbed up the cratered hillside.
They hid behind large rocks or below the ridge. Apart from the whistling of American artillery and machine guns overhead, the enemy hiding and providing cover on the mountaintop did not stop at all. For now, the soldiers could only use rifle grenades to bombard the enemy on the opposite side or prepare smoke grenades and wait for an opportunity.
The soldiers' superior officer was an infantry regimental commander from the 8th Infantry Division, who was watching every detail of the battlefield through binoculars from the rear.
Even a second lieutenant now understands how important their task is. Including the hilltop before them, there are at least ten strategic high points within a radius of twenty or thirty kilometers, each with an elevation exceeding 400 meters. Each of these is crucial to preventing the Britannians from breaking through to their rear.
Now, nearly half of these high places have fallen into enemy hands. If they don't take the initiative to reclaim them, the Britannians will be unable to stop the javelins they throw at Stuttgart in both directions.
One shot was fired south, aimed directly at the highway connecting Munich; another was fired northwest towards Mannheim, a transportation hub on the way to Frankfurt, where the Neckar River, which flows through Stuttgart, joins the Rhine.
"Lieutenant Colonel!" A shout came from a sixty-year-old man as he turned around—he was wearing his polished steel helmet and walked over in front of the four-star general's flag and the Third Army's flag on his jeep. "How long will it take your troops to get up to those bastards who shit on the hilltop?!"
"Soon, General, I promise!" The lieutenant colonel showed no sign of complaint as he looked at the old face. "Even if you can call in unreliable air support, my guys on the mountainside can throw a green smoke signal to make the target clear to them!"
"The air support should go help the French who are holding us back first. Don't worry about the helicopters, others will take care of that. Keep firing and don't let them raise their heads!"
After saying that, Patton got back into his jeep and drove off. But before the smell of fuel from the jeep's exhaust pipe could dissipate, a long line of M16 machine gun carriers arrived in front of the lieutenant colonel, and the soldiers sitting on the quadruple .50 machine gun turrets in the cabs were already facing the sky, ready to receive their guests.
As for what the general said about the problems the French were facing? He could only see a few shadows that might be related to France passing by a small village in the distance—square and, at first glance, no different from the Panzer IV tank; the original Iron Cross on the tank had been painted off, a white five-pointed star was sprayed on the roof, and the sides of the turret had the same red and blue concentric circles as the French Air Force.
"Sir!" A captain's voice boomed from the lieutenant colonel's microphone. "If your artillery can't hit its mark soon, my lads and I will be buried alive in this landslide!"
"Listen up! In one minute, charge up there, open fire, and take down the lion and the stinking snake on the mountaintop. Otherwise, I'll find a private who's braver than you to replace you as company commander, understand?!"
……
"We've run out of 75mm shells, we have to go!"
Two Marder II tank destroyers painted with the Lorraine Cross drove apologetically past a group of French infantrymen—with empty ammunition racks beside them and young men in front of them, holding Lee-Enfield and Bren light machine guns and wearing helmets resembling firefighters' helmets.
They had nothing left to use—a few surviving Panzer II tanks and American-made half-tracks accompanied them to this last trench amidst the ruins of the village. As for the artillery fire that covered their retreat, it came from two or three kilometers behind, with Wasp self-propelled guns, based on the same chassis, throwing all their remaining 105mm high-explosive shells at them.
"That's definitely not enough! Add it too!" The voice came from a group of exhausted soldiers, a passionate private named Bono. He pulled together a few other privates in French uniforms and, with all their might, dug out a Pak 38 anti-tank gun buried in a mound of dirt, along with several shells that looked still usable.
"Are you serious, Bono?" his platoon leader questioned, but not out of a lack of confidence in their ability to hold the line. "How many four- or five-meter-tall guys have been in front of us for the past two days, huh? You're relying on this 50mm gun mount that's a bit crooked and could probably break itself from the shock of firing again?"
“Even if the shards it sends flying can knock out some unlucky guy on the other side, I’m still going to do it, sir!” Bono angrily shoved the platoon leader in front of everyone. “Say what you will, I don’t mind if you use me as a breechblock and press me against this thing!”
"Calm down! Calm down! I'll handle my men!" His sergeant gently persuaded the two men to separate, and while speaking politely to the platoon leader, he yelled at Bono, "Fils de pute! Now, take your gun, and if you dare to leave this cannon even a step, I'll shoot you!"
Turning around, he saw the platoon leader busy directing the setting up of machine guns and the ambush positions of the Panzer II tanks, while the seventy or eighty French soldiers were operating in an orderly manner. The sergeant hesitated for a moment, then picked up his Sten submachine gun and joined Bono and the others.
“In the military, you want to learn how to shoot, how to use artillery, and how to lay mines.” He pressed Bono’s head against the sights of the Pak 38. “If your dad does all sorts of jobs on a warship, you’d better prove you’re his biological son.”
……
The enemy had already crept up when they were spitting everywhere, and the Frenchmen, carrying a bunch of British-made light weapons, had no choice but to open fire and return fire.
"It's here! Attack it!"
"Hey!" Before the sergeant could finish his shout, Bono pointed to an infantry fighting vehicle that had just appeared on either side of the gun mount, prompting his equally enthusiastic comrades to yell.
Of course, the infantry fighting vehicle was pierced on the spot, but Bono got a whack on the head from the sergeant: "What kind of nonsense are you giving orders! The enemy won't be scared away just because you fired a shot at them!"
The sergeant was right. Soon, four or five KMFs and assault guns appeared and disappeared beside the wreckage of the infantry fighting vehicle, pointing their guns at the French soldiers.
"Run! Run! Run!" The quick-thinking sergeant grabbed a few people who were nearby and hurriedly ran backward. Immediately afterwards, the Britannians' concentrated fire created craters, rushing over like the footprints of a charging rhinoceros and destroying the Pak38 anti-tank gun.
"What the hell was the point of me telling you to drag that cannon to that hidden opening? Just to expose yourselves so early?!" he yelled, pointing to the young man who hadn't managed to escape and had been crushed to death along with the cannon carriage. "Follow me! We have something else to do now!"
Looking around at his comrades amidst the hail of bullets and the cover, he knew the Britannians on the other side were well aware of their desperate situation. KMF, while providing cover for the infantry behind him, used his UL-loaded machine gun to suppress the young French soldiers while keeping an eye on any possible Panzer II tanks that might appear.
The sergeant was right; the men in black following the KMF were far more level-headed than Bono. They kept a constant watch on every French firing position where a bazooka might appear, allowing the KMF pilots to focus entirely on the vulnerable Panzer II tanks and their Kwk 38 cannons.
……
They held on for a short while. Just as the platoon leader was clinging to a Panzer II tank and talking over the radio, a shell pushed him and the tank commander off the platform. The driver and loader, however, were not so lucky.
"It's time! Retreat, head to the logging camp in the southwest!" He gave the order, dragging away the soldiers who were still busy fighting back. The group followed the last tank and made their escape.
Bono and the sergeant were in an even worse situation; they were the only two left alive and able to move. He pulled along the rear, dragging the somewhat dazed private, and they stumbled along, desperately making their way to the lumberyard.
"Leave me alone, Sergeant, I'm just a damn burden!" Bono started tugging at the sergeant's arm, pulling the bayonet out of his body in the process. "I'll cover you, you get out of here!"
"Shut up! Is this how you expect me to explain myself to your father?!" Although they had already escaped into the woods, the Britannian soldiers and chariots following closely behind were still in hot pursuit, and the two men were already exhausted.
While strangling Bono by the neck, he ran towards the logging camp, and it was only a matter of time before the KMF pursued them, whether they wanted to kill the two men or sweep through the roof of the logging camp. At this moment, the sergeant seemed to see something and suddenly led the private into a tree hole.
Even Bono himself didn't understand what was going on when he heard a cannon shot from the logging camp and the sound of a KMF falling to the ground—it wasn't something a Panzer II tank could do, nor did it resemble any familiar American or British tanks; rather, it sounded like something ancient from his memories.
Emerging from beside the logging camp crane was a Panzer III tank, topped with a 50mm short-barreled cannon. The side of the turret was painted with the French Air Force's tricolor concentric circles. After marking the remaining two KMFs charging forward, it fired a few more shots before quickly retreating behind the building.
"Our tanks are in trouble!" The sergeant peeked back from the tree hole, only to find that the Panzer III had only scratched the face of the Britannian assault gun that was following behind, and the latter seemed determined to overturn everything in the logging camp.
Fortunately, the French didn't "die alone" this time. Several more Panzer III tanks, coming from the road outside the forest and attacking the assault guns from the side, arrived just in time, forcing these black-clad armored vehicles to retreat step by step until three American Mustang fighter planes arrived to drop bombs, finally relieving the immediate crisis.
……
"I need to report some things to you, Your Grace. Our offensive in the direction of Stimpfab village has also encountered some obstacles, and we have made some new discoveries. These things are gradually proving that we are beginning to face the so-called French in District 45."
"The so-called EU leaders who are already beyond saving? In this world, they encountered your subordinates first, Colonel?"
"Although they may not seem to meet the standards of the US military, who are also from District 45, sir. But I don't want to waste my precious time on such matters now. It would be better to wait until Lord Suzaku Kururugi comes to District 45 in the future, and let him, who once wreaked havoc in Bordeaux, personally compare and evaluate them."
"what about now?"
"The troops that were driven back by the French have rejoined Captain Marie in the rear. However, according to the latest news, the captain told me that the French have retreated again. But based on the previous battle situation, it seems that the tanks the French have are not something we need to worry about too much."
While I was on the phone with the Duke, a communication from Captain Mary suddenly interrupted everything—what had just happened was that the captain's unit had been ambushed and destroyed by direct fire from at least a kilometer away.
This is certainly not something that the Panzer III, which was "boxy like a 'Jaguar' but whose firepower was so poor that it didn't look like something from District 45," could have done.
With her eyes wide open, Mary finally spotted some clues in the area she could see, but a little analysis made her heart tighten.
She saw several pairs of tank track tracks on the plain, but they were wider than those of Sherman, Cromwell, or even M26 tanks—specifically, they were similar to those of the Jaguar tanks she had encountered in Neumarkt, the kind of tracks that could only be made by interlaced road wheels and extra-wide tracks!
Chapter 378, Section 480: Using a Leopard to Subdue Violence
“I can’t see it, Captain! But it must be hidden in the woods.”
"Load high-explosive shells and clear away the vegetation! ... Damn it, if it really is a tank, we're in big trouble."
Captain Mary and her group were crammed onto the road leading into the village—a village nestled among rolling wheat fields and woodlands, bisected by a Y-shaped three-way road. They entered the village from the lower end of the "Y," directly facing the artillery fire from the upper part of the "Y," which was hidden high up and had pierced through the infantry fighting vehicle at the front of the column.
So, unless they can clear a path through the houses, fences, and low walls in the village, the only way forward is to push aside the wreckage of the infantry fighting vehicles with assault guns.
A team of assault gunners volunteered, stepping forward while everyone else scrambled to get started. This wasn't exactly reckless; once the black smoke thickened, the assault gun would turn its nose back to conceal the barrel, leaving the enemy with little more than a vague outline to pinpoint its turret location. "Luckily, I didn't live to see the day when people in District 45 could see the enemy even through the swirling clouds..."
As they pushed the wreckage up the road, a KMF pilot hoisted his aircraft onto the outer wall of the barn. He then led the way, firing another assault gun that was already in position, using the explosions and burning trees to cover the direction from which the shells were coming—the enemy on the other side was really patient, and hadn't fired a second shot yet.
"It's out! Did you see it?!"
Following her teammate's directions, Mary looked through her binoculars and saw a slightly rusted and muddy steel outline emerging from the dust and sand. It wasn't American or British, nor was it Soviet, but it felt somewhat similar to something in her memory.
"Fire at will!" Whether it was a KMF or an assault gun, they immediately started firing shells at it. However, a dramatic feeling, full of past memories, welled up again: the frontal armor was being hit with a ping-pong sound, but the tank seemed to be unharmed.
"This is a heavy tank from District 45!" Everyone exclaimed. Only Mary immediately took out her PDA to compare it with the opponent a kilometer away. The result was remarkable: the yellow and green camouflage, the turret with no roundness at all, and the sturdy body. She seemed to have found something that had been almost forgotten by everyone in the electronic files of District 45 tanks, known as the "Tiger King".
"What the hell! Back off, back off!" The captain looked up and started shouting to the people around him. Upon hearing this, everyone immediately became alert as if an earthquake was about to occur—after all, IS-2 had seen living things since Berlin, but this time they encountered something that had "come back to life."
The assault gun crew, still in the middle of the road, hadn't even realized what was happening when they wasted their last bit of luck—the tank's first two shells hadn't hit them, but this time, the armor-piercing shell grazed the top of the infantry fighting vehicle, passed through the black smoke, and precisely penetrated the assault gun's turret ring, igniting everything inside and smashing through the engine as well.
"No, no." Watching her comrades' shells being bounced off its armor one after another, Mary vaguely felt that this new face was smaller than the Tiger II in terms of both size and artillery.