xymnovel Chapter 50 The Universal Key
Chapter 50 The Universal Key
Chapter 50 The All-Powerful Key (Sixth Update)
On the outskirts of Berg, the temporary command post of the German 10th Panzer Division.
The setting sun is like blood.
The sunset in June always comes late, but when it finally decides to sink below the horizon, its oppressive, dark red glow casts an ominous shadow over the entire battlefield.
Lieutenant General Ferdinand Schall stood beside his half-track command vehicle, the cigar he had been holding extinguished. He didn't light it, simply letting the bitter smell of tobacco linger between his fingers.
In his view, the German Wehrmacht infantry, which had been surging toward Berg like a black tide, were now retreating back to their starting positions in an orderly fashion, like the receding tide.
Although the afternoon's fighting was disastrous, these battle-hardened professional soldiers did not crumble. Even after a less-than-successful assault, they maintained admirable discipline.
Crouching low in the twilight shadows, they used every elongated shadow as cover, taking turns firing at each other as they dragged the wounded and heavy weapons away.
Although it was a mess, it was the action of a "living person".
They understand fear, they know how to dodge bullets, and they know how to preserve their strength when tactics are at a disadvantage.
"Loss report." Shar's voice was hoarse, revealing neither joy nor anger.
"The 1st Battalion of the 69th Regiment was ambushed in the direction of the cemetery, and two companies have basically lost their combat effectiveness. In addition—" The operations staff officer paused, his voice tinged with bitterness, "The 105mm howitzer battalion of the 90th Artillery Regiment is unharmed, but all the artillery pieces are submerged in water. We either have to wait for the water to recede or wait for salvage vehicles from the rear, but it seems unlikely that they will be of much use."
"What about the armored forces?"
"The report from the East Station has been confirmed. We destroyed three Panzer IIIs and one Panzer IV there. Note, General, they were completely destroyed—the enemy's aim was too precise; they all exploded simultaneously, turning our tanks into burning iron coffins."
The staff officer paused, then pointed to the south side of the map: "While the main force at the south gate is intact, that's only because there was no direct assault; otherwise, the losses could have been ten times greater. Besides, several Panzer III tanks leading the way had their tracks broken and are now stuck in the mud. The enemy is clever; their anti-tank guns don't target our armor, they specifically aim for our knees." And—"
The staff officer looked up, glanced at the two still-burning and smoking Stuka remains in the distance, and swallowed hard.
"The 8th Air Force sent a telegram, and it was very—unpleasant. They lost two Stukas and had three more damaged. Their liaison officer implied that they wouldn't send any more planes to their deaths until the ground forces cleared those damned anti-aircraft guns."
Upon hearing the word "Air Force," Shar's eye twitched violently in the twilight.
Even on the ground, he could feel that humiliation.
Twenty-four Stukas came in with great momentum, but they fled in disgrace, like a flock of sparrows scattered by a child's slingshot.
Without heavy artillery, without air support, and even the moat was overflowing.
"Then let's pause the attack."
Shal tossed his extinguished cigar onto the blood-soaked, blackened ground and made the most rational judgment: "It's getting dark. Sending tanks into complex urban warfare without cover is suicide. Order the troops to build fortifications on the spot and block the roads."
As a traditional Prussian officer, Schall knew how to calculate costs. In his logic, it was foolish to blindly send armored troops to fill trenches when conditions for an assault were not ripe.
That is the professional conduct of a commander; they are the nation's sword, not disposable items to be broken at will.
But clearly, some people don't think so.
squeak-!
A screech of brakes abruptly interrupted the lieutenant general's deployment.
A convoy of Opel Lightning trucks, painted in dark gray and with striking white tactical symbols on their fenders, arrogantly pulled up next to Shar's command vehicle, like a pack of wild beasts invading a funeral.
The car door opened, and a Sturmbannfuhrer (equivalent to a major) wearing a black leather overcoat jumped out.
The afterglow of the setting sun shone on his face, turning his young, arrogant face, which was tinged with a kind of morbid excitement, red.
Wilhelm Mohnke, battalion commander of the 2nd Battalion of the LSSAH (Leadership of the Guards).
He did not salute Shar.
In the eyes of these "new era" officers, the old-fashioned Prussian generals of the Wehrmacht were nothing more than a bunch of outdated relics, a group of conservatives lacking the spirit of Nazism.
"It seems the officers of the National Defense Forces need a rest."
Monk removed his black leather gloves and patted them lightly in his hands, the sound particularly jarring in the quiet twilight: "Zep (Dietrich) is very disappointed by your master's—crawling-like—progression efficiency."
Monk casually flicked the dust off his leather gloves, a playful smile playing on his lips, seemingly unconcerned that he was speaking to a lieutenant general: "General Guderian has just signed an order that, given the tense situation at the front, the 10th Panzer Division may withdraw for rest and reorganization. We will take over the defenses here."
99
He deliberately emphasized the word "can" instead of the "must" or "immediately" commonly used in military orders.
This is an extremely arrogant word game, and also a malicious distortion.
The Wehrmacht staff present instantly understood the subtext. General Guderian, a fellow Wehrmacht commander, was likely to use the Leibstandarte SS Adolf Hitler (LSH) as "fresh blood" or "auxiliary spearhead" to help the armored divisions break through the defenses.
But this SS battalion commander clearly wanted to act alone.
He didn't want to be a supporting character, much less work for the National Army. He wanted to drive the 10th Armored Division out of the war zone, clear the stage, and then carry out this "massacre" alone under the spotlight.
Lieutenant General Shar narrowed his eyes, looking at this arrogant junior.
In those deep-set eyes, there was not only anger at being offended, but also a deep-seated contempt that came from a professional soldier toward an amateur.
At the private dinner table of the Wehrmacht generals, they gave this group of SS soldiers a highly insulting nickname—"Asphalt Soldiers (Asphalt Soldiers)."
It means that these people are only fit to march in formation and hold parades on the smooth asphalt roads of Berlin. Once they step off the muddy battlefield, they are just a bunch of headless flies that only know how to run around aimlessly.
Schar simply couldn't understand the Führer's thought process. Why spend so much money to build such a "Second Army"?
Look at this group of people. Although they are wearing smart uniforms designed by Hugo Boss and adorned with glittering silver accessories, they look very imposing.
But in Schar's shrewd eyes, they lacked even the most basic tactical skills.
They lacked understanding of infantry-artillery coordination, how to utilize terrain, and even their heavy weapon allocation was a mess. Due to the influence of the Bayonck officer corps within the German Army and the limited production capacity of the Third Reich that had not yet been mobilized, the Wehrmacht had priority in acquiring heavy weapons, while the SS was relatively poorly equipped.
Throwing a group of "Youth League members" who have nothing but fanatical faith into the meat grinder would only increase meaningless casualty counts and waste ammunition; Schar sees no military value in them.
"Captain Monk (Sturmbannfuhrer), allow me to remind you of something."
Schar's voice turned unusually cold and hard, like an instructor reprimanding a naive military academy freshman: "This is not the parade ground of Berlin, nor is it the back alley where you were fighting in the beer hall."
Char raised his hand, pointing to the distant city, silent like a behemoth in the twilight, and the ruins that had just swallowed many of his men: "There are real tough nuts to crack in there. The French anti-tank firepower is insidious, and those anti-aircraft guns—"
Sharl paused, then raised his hand, which was gloved with gray leather, and pointed to the two Stuka remains that were still emitting black smoke and were already twisted and deformed from the fire not far away.
"See those? Those are Göring's 'eagles,' they were so arrogant just an hour ago."
Schar turned his head, staring into Monk's fanatical eyes, and gave a chilling sneer, his voice full of warning: "The commander of those anti-aircraft guns—is a madman. They'll use 40mm anti-aircraft guns like machine guns, and with terrifying accuracy."
"If you're planning to take the position by just shouting a few passionate slogans and going up there, then you're not going to do it—"
"Then I'll give you a sincere tactical suggestion: Call the logistics department right now. Tell them that there's no need to transport ammunition tonight, free up transport capacity, and just order a thousand coffins."
"Anti-aircraft guns?"
Monk scoffed, interrupting the lieutenant general. He turned to look at the SS soldiers jumping off the trucks behind him.
The soldiers were all young, with an average age of less than twenty. They wore well-tailored field uniforms, but unlike the National Army, they did not inspect their weapons or dig foxholes at this time.
They simply stood there quietly, chests out, like rows of silent tombstones.
The silver "SS" lightning bolt emblem on their collars stood out starkly in the dim light. And on their vehicles and helmets, a distinctive badge was painted—
A key.
That was in honor of their commander, Dietrich (meaning "master key" in German), and also symbolized that they were the violent key in the Führer's hands that could pry open any door.
"For your armed forces, war may be calculation, tactics, or damn logistic reports."
Monk put his gloves back on, the black leather making a sickening squeak as it was squeezed. He stared at the medal on Char's collar, a symbol of the glory of a bygone era, a barely perceptible glint of greed in his eyes.
But inwardly he was sneering.
These arrogant Prussian Junker nobles would never understand why the Führer wanted to establish the Waffen-SS.
Is it for war? No, it's for checks and balances.
Monk was well aware that the current Leibstandarte SS Adolf Hitler was practically a beggar in terms of equipment. The Wehrmacht men were driving brand-new Panzer III and IV tanks, while his troops could only drive captured French trucks; the Wehrmacht had organized heavy artillery battalions, while he only had a few pitiful mortars.
Want to change all of this? Want to get the best tanks and the highest priority supplies?
Then we must be even more ruthless than the National Defense Force.
Only by demonstrating this almost insane, reckless desire to attack, only by slamming that shocking list of casualties on the Führer's desk, could the SS be proven to be the only trustworthy sword of the Reich, and only then could military power and the budget be gradually squeezed out of these old men.
dead?
In Munch's private ledger, death was not a loss, but a necessary "political investment."
He knew better than anyone that the lives of these hundreds of young soldiers were the hard currency he used to exchange for leverage in front of the Führer.
If they can capture Berg tonight after suffering heavy casualties, then this bloody battle report, when it reaches Berlin, will become a "proof of loyalty" on the Führer's desk, leaving the old fogies of the Wehrmacht speechless. It will prove the Wehrmacht's cowardice, the SS's fearlessness, and ultimately translate into more funding, more advanced heavy equipment, and an even brighter star on his own shoulders.
The dead cannot speak, but their corpses can pave the way for the living.
Of course, it must be someone else who dies. Power must belong to oneself.
"Charging into battle?"
Monk looked at the soldiers outside, their eyes filled with fervor, most of whom were even going to the battlefield for the first time, and a barely perceptible sneer curled at the corner of his mouth.
How could a clear-headed commander like him really act like those brainwashed fools and block a gun barrel?
He is the shepherd, and these people are the flock. The shepherd's duty is to drive the flock into the wolf's mouth, to feed the beast called "the will of the state" with their flesh and blood, but he will never jump in himself.
As an SS battalion commander, all he needed to do was stand in the safe and dry rear, wearing clean white gloves, elegantly waving his baton, and watching those young lives turn to ashes in the flames.
"But for the Levant, war is a contest of wills."
Monk raised his chin, his voice a mixture of religious fervor and cold indifference to political opportunism: "In our eyes, there are no unconquerable positions, only faith that is not firm enough. If we cannot break through tactically, we will fill it with corpses. That is the meaning of our existence."
After saying that, Monk waved his hand dismissively, as if he were shooing away a group of beggars blocking his way: "Get out of the way, old men."
He strode towards his command vehicle, leaving Schar with only his black silhouette: "Take your tactical calculations and go back to the rear for coffee. Let the Führer's Imperial Guard teach you what a real offensive is."
This time, Lieutenant General Shar did not object. He simply gave these fanatical young men, determined to die, a deep look, then turned to his chief of staff and whispered, "Keep our medics at bay. Tonight—we'll need plenty of body bags."