Chapter 420: A Desperate Struggle

Of course, not all British military units were like the Norwich Armoured Brigade, whose role seemed to be to provide comic relief. The soldiers of the British V Corps’ 2nd Coastal Guard Regiment in Cromer, at least, were not there for laughs.

After the SS Akado Youth Division captured Bacton almost without a fight, they set their sights on Cromer as their next objective. However, when they launched their attack on this designated target, they were met with a brutal ordeal reminiscent of the beach landing.

The fighting was brutal to an unimaginable degree. The British fought back fiercely from every city block, every building. They held every defensible position they could find, fighting in squad- or platoon-sized units.

Records show that one British light machine gunner set up an ambush at a street corner, leaving himself no path of retreat. After killing three German soldiers, he was killed by a sniper. He never moved from his position, even in death.

One small British unit resisted to the death inside a building. After repelling a German attack, the building was destroyed by artillery, and the entire squad died in the structure they had so desperately defended. Next door, another squad of British soldiers showed the same disregard for death. They lured five German soldiers into their building and engaged in a bayonet fight. After killing all the Germans, they were annihilated by a Panzerfaust fired from outside.

These British soldiers fought to the death, loyal to their homeland to the very end. They were shot by German snipers, killed in buildings by German flamethrowers and rocket launchers. Sometimes, even after running out of ammunition, they refused to surrender, still clutching their bayonets as German grenades were tossed into their basements.

In Bacton, the urban combat had ended in three hours, with the British defenders surrendering their weapons to the German army. But in Cromer, after five full hours of fierce fighting, the British defenders sent a telegram that made even Montgomery immensely proud: We are still holding our positions. Long live His Majesty the King.

However, bravery was not a British monopoly. The Germans had their own persistence and determination. The combat effectiveness of the German army was beyond doubt, and for a unit in this ever-victorious army to be named after the Führer himself, you can imagine what kind of force it was.

The entire regiment was composed of Greater Germany Party believers between the ages of 18 and 20. They fanatically adored the Führer, Akado Rudolph, and had sworn to protect him with their lives. The entire regiment fought with a ferocity that bordered on recklessness. To them, dying in battle was the same as having their souls sublimate and be with the Führer. These young soldiers were zealous and radical, only able to sleep peacefully after their daily mass praising the Führer.

So while the British were resisting what they saw as invaders with a disregard for death, these young men of the Akado Youth Division were also defending every inch of what they saw as their Führer’s territory. These young men screamed as they leaped from their trenches, charging forward, ignoring the deaths of their comrades, proving their unconditional love for the Führer to all through their indifference and slaughter.

To kill everything that dared to challenge the Führer was their dream; to kill everything that stood in the way of Germany’s rise was their mission! Their specialty was slaughter; they knew only destruction and annihilation. To prove their loyalty, they had to shed their own blood; to prove their ability, the enemy had to shed theirs. So all they needed to do was turn this place into a river of blood.

They used flamethrowers to flush British soldiers out of tall buildings, paying no mind to the weeping children and civilians at their feet. They pointed the dark muzzles of their guns at beautiful girls in dresses; they used hand grenades against lonely old men leaning on canes.

Do not speak to them of mercy or compassion. When they resolved to die for the Führer and for Germany, they had already sold their souls to the devil. Now, they knew only to kill all in their path, be it man or god! For them, slaughtering unarmed civilians was as commonplace as drinking water or sleeping.

This is war. This is the war that turns men into vengeful ghosts. While people in peacetime become outraged over the abuse of a cat or the beating of a child, those who crawl from the ruins of war have only a pitiful emptiness in their cold, indifferent eyes.

Dead, dull, an emptiness that is the extreme of indifference, the extreme of cruelty, the extreme of tragedy. All that remains is a suffocating emptiness. What nonsense about “condensed killing intent,” what nonsense about a “kingly aura”? How could such ridiculous things possibly appear on a real battlefield? How could things from novels possibly become reality?

After a bullet tears through the head of a comrade less than half a meter away from you, splattering your face with blood and brain matter; after you raise your rifle and blow off an enemy’s arm or tear open his stomach, watching him fall to the ground crying for his mother until he breathes his last; after you pull the pin and toss a grenade into a room, wait for the blast to blow the door off its hinges, and rush in to find only the bodies of children on the floor; after you watch a kindly old man, who is swaying as he walks, wave a white flag with one hand while clutching a grenade in the other, smiling as he takes your comrade with him to hell…

Do you think you’ll still maintain a sharp gaze and a profound look? Do you think you’ll still be shrouded in a killing aura that makes others shrink away? Do you think you can master some invincible kung fu in this environment? Do you think you’ll still be an upgraded Soldier King 2.0 who flirts with beauties on the street? Bro, don’t be ridiculous.

You can’t even be bothered to wipe your dust-covered boots. Your cigarettes are always in the most convenient pocket, the one stuffed with bullets. You always wear clothes with the most pockets. You go for ten days without even remembering to brush your teeth. You don’t shave for weeks. You ignore mosquito bites. Your clothes are covered in dried blood and mud. You don’t have time to wash your socks, so you just stuff the sticky things in your pocket and wear them again when they’re dry. Any money you get is either immediately gambled away or spent on a stripper—if you have even a few of these habits, what kind of perverted girl would be willing to fall in love with you?

Those who truly walk off the battlefield are, for the most part, walking corpses. They are accustomed to aiming and firing at any moving target, accustomed to sleeping curled up in a corner with a gun under their head, accustomed to crossing a street in one go and pausing at every corner, accustomed to carefully observing their surroundings and being as shifty-eyed as possible…

The ones who leave this hell alive are the most cautious, most proficient killing machines. They fire without hesitation at every suspected target, sparing not even the elderly, children, or women. They try their best to blend into the rubble and ruins, taking pride in being as filthy and indistinguishable from the roadside garbage as possible.

Combat ravages every soul, turning men into bloodthirsty monsters. It turns a group of civilized role models, who would blush and apologize for stepping on someone’s foot on a bus, into a pack of murderous maniacs who shoot each other in the head and then put two more rounds into the corpse for good measure.

The machine gun fired again. The bullet cut through the air and struck the window of a building opposite, kicking up a cloud of white dust. The grenadier commander stared intently at the suppressed target, then raised his hand and gave a gentle forward gesture. Behind him, one by one, soldiers carrying their weapons ran, hunched over, at top speed to the other side of the street, where they quickly set up a similar attack formation.

Another shot rang out from the sniper’s position on the roof. In a window with shattered glass not far away, a British soldier collapsed onto the windowsill, his rifle still slung around his neck, swinging back and forth. The body’s head and arm lolled out of the window, and blood dripped down the building’s exterior wall, bit by bit. The blood flowed more and more, like a leaking bottle, until it had stained the entire wall below the windowsill bright red.

By this point in the battle, the British defenders were not so much fighting to the death as they were struggling bitterly. Behind them was their home, so they could not and would not surrender. But they had no way to drive the Germans out. All they could do was use their blood and their lives to buy time, second by second.

At 3:15 PM, the headquarters of the British V Corps’ 2nd Coastal Guard Regiment sent its final telegram: We have done our best. The Germans are only a few dozen meters away. We will hold to the last moment. Long live the British Empire!

After that, the regiment lost contact. The combat log of the German Akado Youth Division notes that at 3:21 PM on February 15th, German soldiers captured the central building of Cromer and raised the German swastika flag over the building that had housed the British 2nd Coastal Guard Regiment’s headquarters.

“Yes, I understand, I understand. I will inform the General immediately. Congratulations on the successful completion of your objective… Long live the Führer, Akado Rudolph.” In the German Army Group A’s forward command post in Bacton, the chief of staff put down the phone.

He walked over to General von Rundstedt, who was staring at the map and making calculations, came to attention, and saluted. “Heil Führer! General, the SS Führer Youth Division has successfully captured Cromer. The British defenders resisted stubbornly, and they suffered about 500 casualties. They are now setting up defensive positions. Congratulations, General, our army has exceeded its operational objectives.”

“Montgomery, that British general who even gives the Führer some pause… you’ve finally arrived,” Rundstedt murmured, stroking his chin as he stared at the map. “Are you planning to force a crossing of this river and face my 2nd Panzer Division head-on? Or are you planning to take the long way around to recapture the ruins of Cromer?”

While the German commanders were wrestling with their options, Montgomery was also staring at a map. He didn’t know how strong the German defenses were along the river in front of him, but he knew that if he ran into German panzer units, he would likely suffer a major defeat. So he hoped his line of advance would be free of German tanks. As for the navy cutting the German supply lines, he no longer even considered the possibility.