Chapter 272: New Equipment

Advanced chapter at my Patreon https://www.patreon.com/c/caleredhair

“Did you find out?” Rein asked, leaning against the side of the tank, looking at the smug Marcus.

“Is that how you talk to your lifesaver? If they hadn’t charged up and driven off the Belgian soldiers on that last Bofors anti-aircraft gun, you’d be dead by now,” Marcus said, shaking his head.

“Do you want me to stuff you under the tracks to show my gratitude?” Rein asked, looking at Marcus with an expressionless face, clearly not satisfied with his claim of having saved him.

“Alright, alright! The company and battalion commanders have already interrogated the prisoners. They had planted explosives on the bridge but had not received the order to blow it,” Marcus was the type who loved to gossip, so Rein couldn’t be bothered to ask for the results himself, but instead waited for Marcus to come and show off how well-informed he was.

German infantry, in files of six, marched across the bridge, shouting slogans and singing military songs in a messy rhythm. From time to time, a truck would pass, pulling a cannon. Following them were soldiers on warhorses, and also three or four horses pulling a wagon, which in turn was pulling a field gun. The formation became rather disorganized. These were the troops of the 7th Cavalry Division, who had just crossed here, following the 1st SS Panzer Division.

“It seems the Führer is really fine. You heard yesterday’s speech, didn’t you?” Marcus said, handing Rein a shoddy version of a chocolate bar he had been issued. Rein, in turn, tossed Marcus a pack of cigarettes.

Marcus took the cigarettes and added, “But the way they attacked the Führer was not at all honorable. It really fits the character of that bunch of bastards.”

“You’ve really been fooled,” Rein said with a soft laugh. He took out a piece of chocolate, popped it in his mouth, and said as he chewed, “What kind of people are around the Führer? Others may not know, but you should know, right? Let alone injuring the Führer’s nose, it’s impossible for anyone to even get close to him.”

“You’re right about that,” Marcus nodded. “So the reason you’ve been so silent and fighting so fiercely recently isn’t because the Führer was injured?”

“I’ve found a new game, a very interesting new game,” Rein said, taking out a tattered piece of paper and tossing it to Marcus. “It’s given me another reason to live. It’s a good start, I suppose.”

“What is this?” Marcus asked, opening the paper. He saw that it was a statistical report. In the first position was a name, Michael Wittmann. In the second position was Rein Hardt. Third was someone named Hans, and in seventh place was his own name, Marcus.

This was a list of tank aces. It was said that two days ago, the 2nd Panzer Division, to which this commander named Michael Wittmann belonged, had run into a French light tank division, and the two sides had had a fierce exchange of fire.

This lucky Michael Wittmann had destroyed nine Renault light tanks in one go. Including his service in Poland before his transfer to the 2nd Panzer Division, where he had a considerable combat record, his total had now surpassed Rein’s, making him the number one tank ace in the German army.

“This is an interesting competition!” Marcus said, tossing the list back to Rein. “Count me in! I’ll show you guys how formidable Marcus is! Hmph.”

“What are you competing in?” Rein asked, looking at Marcus with a puzzled expression.

“Of course, who can destroy the most enemy tanks! Wait, that’s not what you wanted to compete in?” Marcus was taken aback for a moment, then asked.

“I want to see how many people on this list are still alive to compete with me a year from now,” Rein said, raising his eyebrows.

“Rein, you’re a pervert!” Marcus said with a laugh and a curse, then turned and walked away. “I’m going to watch my men refuel the tank. See you in a bit.”

“Rein!” Andre called out from the top of the tank, half his body exposed. “An order from the battalion! We are to follow the 7th Cavalry Division across the bridge. We’ll light a fire and cook now, have a hot meal, and then we should be setting off.”

“Open a can of beef,” Rein said, pointing to the storage box on the back of the tank’s turret. “Let’s improve our food. I’m going to the battalion headquarters. The frontal armor plate of the tank has peeled off. Our tank needs to be repaired.”

“No problem! But you have to come back quickly! Otherwise, I estimate you’ll only be able to have a little bit of soup,” Andre shouted with a smile.

“Then save some soup for me!” Rein shouted back with a laugh.

The battalion headquarters’ tent was in the woods not far from the bridgehead. A huge tow truck was parked there, as well as several mechanics who were repairing an engine.

“Hey, Mr. Wilhelm, good afternoon,” Rein said, greeting a worker from the repair unit. “During the battle this morning, the steel plate welded to the front of my tank’s armor cracked. Can you help me take a look?”

The old man with glasses looked up, clapped his oily hands together, and said, “Half the tanks in the division are waiting for this kind of steel plate. To be honest, this thing is very fragile, just a stopgap measure. It will peel off when it encounters a small-caliber anti-tank gun, just like a woman’s silk stockings, tearing with a single rip.”

The old man stood up, signaled for his apprentices to continue their work, and then walked up to Rein, revealing a set of large yellow teeth. “But if our boy Rein wants this thing, this old man can get a piece for you, can’t I? But I say, you little rascal, is it so easy for you to call me ‘mister’? What did I tell you last time?”

He grumbled as he poked Rein with a rough finger, then walked toward a truck on the side.

“Thank you, old man,” Rein quickly corrected himself, smiling as he followed the old mechanic, Wilhelm. He then handed Wilhelm a pack of French cigarettes—he had found them on a Belgian lieutenant that morning, a small portion of the spoils of war. Logically, cigarettes were not allowed to be confiscated, but at the time, Rein was holding a gun, and the Belgian lieutenant had just swallowed hard and had not protested, so the matter was left at that.

“You, you little rascal,” Wilhelm said, walking to the side of the truck. He looked up and shouted to a second lieutenant who was standing on the back of the cargo bed, “Help me find a front armor plate for a tank, for Rein’s crew.”

As he shouted, he tossed a pack of German cigarettes onto the truck. “When you get to your destination, he’ll give you another box.”

The second lieutenant, without any fuss, nodded. “You bring a few men and come with me. I’ll drive the steel plate over.”

“No problem,” Wilhelm nodded.

Soon, the replacement front armor plate, which was hard to find in the entire division, had been obtained by Rein with no effort at all. Oh, no, he had used a total of two packs of cigarettes.

Soon, old Wilhelm and his mechanics, as well as Rein, had hitched a ride and arrived next to tank 113.

“The original welds are still there, so it’s much more convenient to repair,” Wilhelm said, looking at Rein’s tank. “I’ll go up and adjust the gunsight for you. It must be off due to the vibration. You guys help out down here.”

There was no lifting equipment at all. Several men scrambled to hold the solid steel plate in the position where it should be installed. Then it was a simple matter of fixing, welding, tightening screws, and so on.

“I have a new gadget here. It’s a new thing that the higher-ups sent us to randomly install on the tanks. It’s just right that I’m giving you a set. Since we have some free time today, I’ll install it for you at the same time. If it gets hit or something else happens, remember to report it to the battalion,” the second lieutenant said, pointing to a place on the truck that was covered with a canvas and chuckling.

Two soldiers climbed onto the truck, lifted the canvas, and saw sheets of thin iron plates. The second lieutenant kicked one gently and introduced it. “This thing is called a side skirt. It’s something to protect the tank’s wheels and tracks and can also add some side protection.”

“Baumann, this thing might change the weight of the tank. You should probably test it in a bit and see if there are any differences,” Rein said, looking at the new thing called a side skirt to Baumann beside him.

Baumann nodded, seeming to agree with Rein’s idea. “I estimate the speed shouldn’t change much, and the turning should also be fine. Maybe the controls will just be a little heavier. The most critical thing is the width of the vehicle. If we’re not careful, these things will be knocked off.”

“Old man, do you have any paint? This thing isn’t painted. It’s too conspicuous in this weather,” Rein shouted to his tank.

“No! The paint has long been used up. The next batch is said to arrive tomorrow… Anyway, you’re not participating in an attack today,” old Wilhelm’s muffled voice shouted from inside the tank a short while later.

“Until we get to Sedan, are we just going to follow the 1st SS Panzer Division like this?” Marcus, who had originally come over to watch the fun, heard Wilhelm’s reply and immediately asked loudly, “Look at our tank. What’s on it? There’s a ‘G’! This is the 1st Panzer Corps! We are the most formidable unit.”

“Kid, if I could avoid fighting, I’d rather eat their dust all day! But do you think that’s realistic?” old Wilhelm said, climbing out of Rein’s tank and pointing at Marcus with a wrench. “And this panzer corps of ours is called the 1st Panzer Corps because it has the 1st Panzer Division, not because of us in the SS, understand?”

“Then what is our mission after we’ve eaten?” Marcus asked.

“For mission matters, go ask the battalion, or ask your company commander! I’m just a mechanic, kid,” old Wilhelm said, jumping off the tank. “I hear we have to reach the next river by tonight.”

“I hear the Netherlands has surrendered? The Queen of the Netherlands is going to move to Frankfurt to live from now on?” Rein asked with a smile, a question that he was interested in.

“I hear that’s the case. When General Keitel was evaluating the Dutch, he used a very interesting sentence,” old Wilhelm said, lighting a cigarette. “He said the Dutch fight better than any nation that hasn’t fought a war in over a hundred years.”

“Ha!” Marcus snorted. “He really knows how to flatter himself.”