Chapter 276: Siege
With authorization from the General Staff, Manstein was completely relieved of his final hesitation.
He personally led the 3rd Armored Division and set off toward Salamanca.
In a single day, they punched through Alonxis.
Aircraft and artillery wildly bombarded the tungsten mining region. Rest for every soldier was limited to tanks and vehicles, and the iron rule was enforced without compromise.
The men could stop.
The vehicles could not.
This almost unimaginable discipline was precisely the foundation that separated Germany's ace armored divisions from ordinary armored units.
They could rest for less than four hours a day, cover more than a hundred kilometers, endure exhaustion and violent jolts, then disembark and fight immediately.
At night, Panther tanks smashed the temporary tents set up by the British Army into rags.
Cans, uniforms, and supplies scattered everywhere.
The British soldiers tasked with defending the area fled in all directions.
The tungsten mining region, which had cost Britain more than a hundred thousand men to capture, was smashed to pieces by Manstein's counterattack.
Montgomery clearly had not expected the German armored forces to turn their guns around.
The defense plan for the Portuguese capital that he had already arranged instantly became a joke.
Knowing the speed of the German advance, he could only order the frontline attacking troops to increase their offensive efficiency once again.
The original three-day deadline for capturing Salamanca was forcibly shortened to two days.
Under this tremendous pressure, Major General Airel Scheno, commander of the 12th Elite Division and the officer responsible for the city assault plan, forced his soldiers to attack day and night.
The German-Spanish coalition forces, which held less than thirty percent of the defensive area, endured ten to fifteen artillery strikes every hour.
And this tempo had actually already been weakened.
Because the Royal Air Force could no longer maintain any initiative in the airspace over Salamanca.
Several British artillery regiments had already been bombed into piles of flame by screaming Stuka dive bombers.
Close-quarters urban warfare was torment for both sides.
Desertion was inevitable.
Even the German Army was no exception.
In Salamanca's meat grinder, artillery shells arrived faster than fear.
The only good news was that Salamanca had previously served as a reserve supply depot, so they were not short on ammunition or food.
They only lacked men.
To ensure they could hold out for three days, Division Commander Riel used both reward and punishment.
He ordered members of the Progress Party within the army to form battlefield supervision teams to monitor retreating troops. Anyone who violated orders was to be executed on the spot.
At the same time, he repeatedly declared to every German soldier that as long as the 16th Infantry Division was not wiped out, every survivor would be qualified to pursue advanced study at the officer academy once reconstruction was complete.
If they sacrificed themselves, Riel guaranteed with his rank and honor that their sons, parents, and relatives would receive an additional pension personally paid by him.
Even detained civilians were used.
They were promised money, houses, and even passports, all for the sake of making them use their lives to delay the British offensive.
And just like that, the 16th Infantry Division, almost worn down to nothing, stood firm in the cold wind like an old man leaning on a cane.
The next morning, the British offensive reached its climax.
A massive attack was launched against the German Army's final important military stronghold.
Riel Financial Street.
On the second floor of the bank, Peach carefully used an engineer shovel to cut bandages scavenged from dead British soldiers into two pieces.
He sprinkled medicinal powder over them, then tied one around his right hand and the other around his left.
It was to prevent wounds caused by excessive firing from affecting the accuracy of his weapon.
The battlefield was a treasure ground for tempering a man.
Only, it did not turn men into angels.
It taught them how to kill better.
It taught them how to become demons.
In Peach's eyes, the battlefield was no different from the dogfighting pits of Berlin.
Walk out alive, or be carried out dead.
"Sir?"
A young Spanish civilian wearing a helmet stripped from a British soldier spoke in broken German while holding an MP submachine gun that usually only officers carried.
"Can I get a German passport as long as the war ends?"
This kind of situation was no longer rare after the fighting had reached this point.
There was no longer any talk of weapon classification.
You used whatever gun you found.
You used whatever gun you had.
"Perhaps," Peach replied.
The young Spanish civilian became interested and shifted his prone body.
"Sir, how is my German?"
"Not bad."
"I studied for a long time."
The young man's eyes brightened with longing.
"What is Berlin like? Is it big? I heard it is the most prosperous city in all of Europe, maybe even the whole world."
"Once I get that German passport, I must go see it."
He smiled.
"I do not want to go to the tungsten mines and become some mediocre miner, staring at ore for the rest of my life."
That was the belief supporting him on this battlefield.
Peach smiled and did not break the young man's dream.
His thoughts drifted involuntarily toward his own hometown.
"When the war is over, you can come to Hamburg and take a look."
His voice softened slightly.
"It is much more beautiful than old-fashioned Berlin."
As soon as he finished speaking, several British soldiers swept past below them.
Along with them came an armored vehicle.
After confirming that the enemy had not discovered their position, Peach slowly moved his hand toward the rocket launcher behind his waist.
"Watch the rear."
His voice dropped.
"I am going to take out their vehicle. Do you understand?"
After receiving an affirmative look from the young Spanish civilian, Peach inserted the rocket into the launcher and crouched into a diagonal firing stance.
Just as he was about to aim and fire, the young Spaniard grabbed him.
Rat-tat-tat.
The next second, a burst of bullets shredded the window.
Glass shattered.
Bullets ricocheted off the marble floor.
"Damn it."
Peach rolled sideways behind cover.
His heart pounded wildly.
Under the influence of adrenaline, he could not even feel the minor abrasions on his palms.
Peeking out again, he saw another armored vehicle appear at the street corner.
Its machine gun port was relentlessly pouring fire onto the defensive squad on the first floor.
The crossfire formed by the two armored vehicles had pinned down both the first and second floors.
Realizing this, Peach reached out to pull the wide strap of the rocket launcher.
Rat-tat-tat.
A continuous rain of bullets struck the barrel, denting it and turning it into a useless piece of scrap metal.
"Damn cunning British bastards."
He looked around.
A spare rocket launcher hidden in the corner near the window caught his attention.
Just as he stood up, ready to risk getting it, the young Spanish civilian stopped him.
He put down his gun and said, "I will go, sir."
"You know how to use that thing."
"I do not."
Peach looked at him for a moment.
"Spaniards are not all cowards after all."
He gritted his teeth.
"Be careful. The British have this window pinned down, so move fast."
"If you take out these two armored vehicles and division headquarters still refuses to issue you a passport, I will carry my gun over and greet their whole family myself."
The young Spanish civilian took a deep breath.
There was fear in his heart.
But even more than fear, there was longing for that German passport.
He pushed off with his right leg.
A silhouette flashed past the window.
The armored vehicle did not miss that opportunity.
Rat-tat-tat.
When Peach turned his head again, the young Spanish civilian, whose name he still did not know, already had a bleeding bullet hole in his abdomen.
Even so, he forcefully threw the rocket launcher over.
Catching the rocket launcher, Peach did not reload immediately.
Looking at the blood spreading across the floor, he even felt the impulse to drag that young Spaniard, whose name he still did not know, back to safety.
"Hold on."
His voice cracked.
"I am telling you to hold on."
"Think about Berlin. Think about Hamburg."
"You are going to live. Repeat after me."
He loaded the rocket.
When he turned back again, the young Spanish civilian was already dead.
"Damn British bastards."
Peach's eyes turned red.
"Damn war."
"Everyone can just go to hell."
Peach rushed out from behind cover.
Whoosh.
The rocket trailed a long tail of fire and pierced the thin armor of the armored vehicle.
Boom!
The bloodstained broken glass scattered across the floor trembled slightly from the secondary explosion.
Having lost the cover of the armored vehicle, the British soldiers who had briefly stormed into the bank were forced to retreat.
Watching the British soldiers withdraw, Peach lay down powerlessly.
He made the sign of the cross toward the dead young Spanish civilian, closed his eyes, and muttered softly.
"Good night, you fool who went off to play the hero before I even knew your name."
Looking at Salamanca, filled with smoke and rubble, Peach knew this was not the end.
It was only the beginning.
....
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