xymnovel Chapter 103 The Trolley Problem
Chapter 103 The Trolley Problem
Chapter 103 The Trolley Problem
20：50，当前状态：车队平均时速：32公里/小时。阵型保持率：88%。环境噪音等级：110分贝（引擎轰鸣与远处炮火）。
There is no perfect script on the battlefield. Even if the commander is a god of war, the soldiers under his command are only flesh and blood.
The incident occurred 20 minutes after the breakout began.
The large convoy was traversing a road embankment with higher elevations on both sides. This was the last geographical pass leading to the western plains.
call out-
There was no large-scale ambush; the main German forces had been redeployed.
Those were just stragglers commonly seen on the battlefield.
On a hill 500 meters to the right, an Sd.Kfz.222 light armored reconnaissance vehicle belonging to the German 37th Reconnaissance Battalion lay stationary behind bushes. Initially, it did not detect the full extent of the British main force; the gunner only caught glimpses of the outlines moving rapidly in the darkness on the road through a TZF3a monocular sight.
Driven by a combat instinct, or perhaps to test the newly replaced ammunition belt, the gunner pressed the firing pedal on the 20mm KwK30 autocannon.
Tong, Tong, Tong.
The mechanical firing pin ignites the primer. The propellant gases propel the bolt back. Three 20mm PzG.39 armor-piercing incendiary rounds are fired in sequence from the L/55 caliber barrel.
The first two shots hit the muddy roadbed, only kicking up a few inconspicuous dust particles.
But the third time.
This projectile, weighing only 148 grams, carried an initial velocity of 800 meters per second and rotational kinetic energy. After flying through 500 meters of airspace, it precisely cut into the middle of the convoy.
It pierced the left fuel tank cover of a Bedford truck.
This is fatal for the car and the entire fleet.
The hardened steel bullet core generates high temperatures the moment it penetrates the metal. The propellant inside the bullet comes into contact with the atomized gasoline, causing the truck, which was full of fuel and wounded soldiers of the 152nd Brigade, to catch fire without actually catching fire.
It was an explosive combustion.
The gasoline vapors underwent a violent chemical expansion the instant they were ignited by the high temperature of the armor-piercing projectile. Orange-red flames engulfed the entire driver's compartment within 0.1 seconds.
The driver didn't even have a chance to scream; the intense heat instantly carbonized his vocal cords and lungs.
The out-of-control truck skidded on the highway.
Then, due to inertia, the burning 4-ton vehicle slid sideways for twelve meters, leaving four charred rubber marks on the asphalt road before violently crashing into a roadside ditch and overturning.
The huge vehicle was blocking the middle of the road.
Three spare fuel drums ruptured upon impact. Hundreds of liters of gasoline spilled out, flowing along the slope of the road and instantly forming a 15-meter-wide wall of liquid fire.
The road is blocked.
"Brake! Brake!"
A chaotic screech of brakes erupted from the convoy behind.
Countless tires rubbed violently against the ground. Hundreds of closely packed vehicles were pushed forward by inertia. The sounds of bumper impacts and metal scraping echoed through the night.
The high-speed torrent of steel was forced to a standstill at this bottleneck of the single-lane road.
20:51, inside the command vehicle.
[Warning: Convoy halted]
[Warning: Approaching flanking threat]
The RTS interface in front of Arthur instantly changed from blue to a glaring alarm red.
This was a traffic accident, but it was also a tactical death. His worst fears came true.
If a tank is destroyed, the subsequent torrent of steel can easily bypass the wreckage and continue its advance. But an overturned heavy truck in such narrow terrain would be catastrophic.
It's not about wasting military strength; it's about cutting off time.
On that holographic map, the western area, which originally represented safety, now had several rapidly flashing red dots.
Reconnaissance battalion of the German 7th Panzer Division.
Rommel realized what was happening. The tactical genius hadn't been completely fooled by the feint attack from the east.
While the main force was being redeployed, he retained a highly mobile force equipped with Sd.Kfz.231 eight-wheeled armored vehicles and motorized infantry, which was frantically infiltrating the field roads on the flank, attempting to cut off this retreat route.
Distance: 3 km.
Relative speed: 45 km/h.
Arthur suddenly pushed open the roof of the command vehicle and leaned out.
The scene before me was brutal.
The overturned Bedford truck was burning fiercely. Flames reached over five meters high, and thick black smoke obscured the starlight.
Screams.
Those were the inhuman howls uttered by humans in extreme pain.
Through the firelight, Arthur could see several figures engulfed in flames trying to climb out of the overturned carriages. They struggled and rolled in the fire, their skin and muscles rapidly dehydrating, contracting, and peeling away under the intense heat.
Dozens of nearby infantrymen rushed forward. They took off their coats and tried to extinguish the flames. Some tried to approach the scorching carriages to pull out the wounded trapped inside.
"Help! Quick, grab a fire extinguisher!"
"Give him a hand! My God, that's Private Harris!"
"Don't grab his hand! The flesh is torn off! Grab his belt!"
Chaos, utter chaos.
This humanitarian rescue effort resulted in the complete paralysis of the entire highway.
On Arthur's retina, the image representing the German reconnaissance unit began to rapidly approach.
If they stop here, what if these 16,000 people and hundreds of vehicles are stuck on this highway with no cover?
A dozen minutes later, German eight-wheeled armored vehicles would appear on the flank high ground, their 20mm autocannons slicing the stationary dragon into pieces like sausages. At dawn, Stuka dive bombers would complete the final reaping.
This will no longer be a great retreat.
This would be the largest traffic accident-style massacre in the history of the British Army.
Arthur retreated into the command vehicle. The muscles in his face were so tense that they appeared as stiff as rock.
He didn't look at Major General Fortune beside him, but instead looked at the two numbers on the RTS screen:
Life signs inside the burning vehicle: 14.
Number of people waiting to pass behind the convoy: 16,200.
This isn't complicated; it's a classic trolley problem. But on a moral level, it's more weighty than the world's most complex mathematical problem.
Arthur closed his eyes for a second. Just one second.
When he opened his eyes again, all human emotions had vanished from his black pupils, leaving only a coldness.
He pressed the communication channel to connect to the vanguard tank, codenamed "Hammer-01".
"Hammer-01, this is Sterling."
The voice was calm, without trembling or hesitation.
"The obstacle in front of you has brought the entire army to a standstill."
"The order now is: break it open."
The accident scene.
Private Miller, the commander of the Panzer IV, was lying on the commander's cupola, staring in terror at the burning truck in front of him.
The command coming through the radio headset chilled him to the bone, but he was certain he hadn't misheard.
"Sir... sir?"
-
Miller's voice, accompanied by the heart-wrenching screams in the background, said: "That—that's a truck for the wounded. There are still people alive inside."
"I can see them—they're from the 152nd Brigade. Some of them are still moving; they're calling for help—"
"We're trying to put out the fire! Just give us five more minutes—no, three minutes! We can pull the person out!"
"Not even three minutes!!"
Suddenly, Arthur's roar erupted from the headphones, a howl of a wild beast driven to the brink of despair.
Arthur was gripping the microphone, veins bulging on his neck, his once handsome face now contorted and terrifying with bloodshot veins.
"Look at your 9 o'clock position! You idiot!"
"Rommel's reconnaissance battalion is about to be on our heels!!"
"If you stop now, all 16,000 of us will die here! We'll all turn into a pile of rotting flesh by the roadside!"
Arthur's voice pierced through the electricity: "You hold the lives of sixteen thousand people in your hands! You have no right to be merciful!"
"We either die together for these dozen or so people, or we live on by stepping over their corpses!"
"This is war! This is not a charity gala!"
"Execute the order! Sergeant! Put it in first gear! Push that damn truck off the road!!"
"Immediately! Right now!!"
Inside the command vehicle.
Major General Fortune dropped the map from his hand. The veteran of World War I was deathly pale. He stared at Arthur's retreating figure as if he were looking at a monster from hell, but in the end, he said nothing.
Arthur didn't turn around, nor did he care whether the soldier was Fortune's subordinate.
He just stared intently at the RTS screen. 1 kilometer.
"Move—move for me—" Arthur roared.
Miller's face was streaked with tears. He stared at the several charred arms sticking out from the sea of fire ahead.
He knew what this order meant. He was about to become an executioner, killing his own comrades with his own hands.
But he also heard Arthur's near-breakdown ultimatum coming through the earpiece.
He glanced back. In the endless convoy, countless eyes stared in terror. Those trucks were also crammed with young soldiers; they wanted to go home, they wanted to survive.
Miller let out a desperate howl.
He shrank back into the turret and slammed the hatch shut.
"Driver!"
His voice was hoarse, trembling with tears: "Move one gear."
"Aim at that truck."
An incredulous question came from the cockpit: "Sergeant? There's someone inside!"
"Execute the command!!"
Miller kicked the back of the driver's seat with the greatest force he had ever used in his life: "Step on the gas! Don't slow down! Don't look!"
"Charge!!"
boom-
The Maybach HL120TRM engine let out a deep roar. A thick plume of black smoke billowed from the exhaust pipe.
Under the horrified and desperate gaze of dozens of infantrymen who were fighting the fire.
The 22-ton Panzer IV tank, painted with the Union Jack, neither reversed nor slowed down. It surged forward, its tracks kicking up gravel, and charged toward the burning wall of fire.
crunch—
That was the sound of metal violently pressing against metal.
The Panzer IV's upper glacis armor, with its hard 50mm steel plate, slammed heavily into the chassis of the Bedford truck.
boom!
The immense impact instantly deformed the burning truck. The already overturned truck bed frame twisted and creaked under the tank's thrust.
The wooden structure cracked.
besides----
There's also the sound of a wet, organic object being crushed by a heavy object.
A final, piercing scream echoed from the sea of fire. The scream was extremely brief, immediately drowned out by the clanging of metal and the crackling of flames.
The tanks did not stop.
The Maybach engine was producing 300 horsepower of torque at its redline, and the tracks gripped the ground tightly, propelling the massive fireball forward.
One meter. Two meters. Five meters.
Boom!
With a loud bang, the burning wreckage of the truck was pushed to the edge of the roadbed and then rolled into a ditch ten meters deep.
Flames tumbled and scattered in the rolling ditch. The truck carrying the wounded was now a burning pile of scrap metal at the bottom of the ditch. No more sounds came from within.
The road is now open.
The asphalt road that was originally blocked by the firewall now only has a wide black scorch mark and dark red mud left by the tracks.
That's not mud.
Arthur flung open the hatch, ignoring the cold wind outside, and leaned half his body out of the vehicle.
He looked at the still-smoking breach ahead, and at the drivers and infantrymen who were still in a daze, still crying, still at a loss.
He raised his MP40 submachine gun and pulled the trigger towards the sky.
Da da da!
"Pass! Pass! Pass!"
Arthur's voice was hoarse, but still incredibly penetrating: "Stop fucking looking!"
"Don't look down! Step on the gas!"
"Full speed ahead! Anyone who stops will be shot!"
Fear. Fear of death, fear of his superiors, overwhelmed the grief.
The driver of the first truck shuddered as he released the clutch. The wheels turned.
The convoy started again.
One truck after another sped through the gap. Each truck could feel a slight bump under its tires as it passed that section of road.
Every driver stared intently ahead, their hands gripping the steering wheel stiffly. No one dared to glance into the ditch beside the road. There were only burning wreckage and a silence that gradually subsided as the distance receded.
Just two minutes after the convoy resumed movement.
A burst of 20mm machine gun tracer rounds swept down from the high ground on the flank, hitting the road and sending up a string of sparks.
The vanguard of the reconnaissance battalion of the German 7th Panzer Division has arrived.
But they were too late.
During that brief window of opportunity of ten minutes or so, the main British force had already passed through the most dangerous pass and entered the hilly terrain with its complex topography. The German light reconnaissance vehicles were unable to cut off this steel torrent at this time and could only futilely carry out harassing fire from the rear.
Inside the command vehicle.
The red countdown timer on the RTS map has disappeared, and the crisis is over.
-
Arthur slowly slid back into his seat. In that instant, all the strength that had been supporting him as he stood seemed to have been suddenly drained away.
Major General Fortune remained slumped in the chair beside him.
As the commander of a division, he knew the answer to that arithmetic problem better than anyone else: exchanging twenty lives for sixteen thousand lives was the most correct choice on the battlefield.
But it is also the dirtiest moral abyss.
He looked at Arthur's trembling back, his eyes revealing a sorrow for someone who was willingly jumping into hell for the survival of the collective.
The carriage was deathly quiet. The only sounds were the occasional reports of positions from different companies over the radio.
Arthur didn't speak. He pulled a flattened pack of Lucky Strike cigarettes from the pocket of his dusty and greasy SS leather overcoat.
He pulled one out and put it in his mouth.
He took out the matchbox.
Strike—the match head broke off.
The line—didn't light.
Arthur's hands were trembling. It was an uncontrollable tremor. Those hands that had just issued the order to slaughter and directed operations with such confidence on the map could not even hold a single match.
The third time, the match finally ignited a small flame.
But he didn't light a cigarette. He just stared at the flame, watching it burn the sulfur, watching it devour the wood, watching it turn into charcoal, until the flames reached his fingertips.
The pain was felt.
Arthur jolted violently, as if waking from some kind of nightmare. He took the unlit cigarette from his mouth and, along with the burnt matchstick, clenched it tightly in his hand.
Cigarette shreds.
"keep going."
His voice was low and hoarse, devoid of any emotion, as if nothing had happened.
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