Walking on the gravel-covered ground, Logan's mood was complex. In the same era, two armies with similar national strength, technology, and troop numbers showed starkly different performances in face-to-face combat. Why?
Was it the fanaticism of the attackers? No, even if it were a different group of soldiers, the outcome would likely remain the same.
Logan pondered for a long time. Stukas, tanks, and the momentum of the assault were the key factors in breaking through the enemy lines. However, while Stukas were formidable as "air assault guns," their advantage could only be realized when the air force had air superiority. Once encountering enemy fighters or without self-defense capabilities, what support could they offer to the ground forces? IV tanks were impressive on the French battlefield, but when facing formidable opponents like the T-34, they could only rely on personnel quality and superior communication equipment to compensate for technological shortcomings. How could they maneuver effectively?
Numerous questions tangled together, like a ball of yarn played with by a kitten, uncut and tangled. Logan scratched his head. He probably hadn't washed his hair since he got injured. Itchy. If he didn't scratch, it wouldn't feel satisfying. But even if he scratched, there was no relief!
"Hey, Lieutenant, can you come help?" No missing words.
Turning around, Logan saw Dietrich standing nearby, beckoning him over. At his feet, a man in British uniform, covered in dust and blood, leaned against the wall, his face a mess of blood and grime. The uniform had several large tears, but there was no blood seeping from the edges, indicating that his injuries were not too severe.
"This guy seems to be an officer. See if you can get anything out of him," the "Fanatics Leader" frowned.
"Water... give me some water..." Though weak, the British officer's eyes showed signs of clear-headedness.
Logan got a water flask from a nearby ordinary "fanatic" and handed it to him. The man gulped down the water as if he hadn't had any in days.
"Major, which unit are you from?" Logan identified the officer's rank from his collar and shoulder patches.
The officer closed his eyes in pain. "23rd Light Cavalry Regiment!"
Before the operation, Logan had refreshed himself with information about the organization of the British and French armies. Unlike the French, the British units used traditional names, which sounded odd. As for the so-called Light Cavalry Regiment, it was actually an armored unit.
"Where are your tanks?" Logan tried to inquire.
The officer didn't hesitate to answer, sighing heavily. "Left them in Belgium!"
"How many units do you have here? I mean, guarding the town of Monc?" Logan asked.
"Maybe five, maybe seven, I don't know! We're all makeshift, you have an infantry platoon, I have some artillery, and some are responsible for digging trenches! It's chaotic. This isn't war! It's just a childish game! Even children are better than this! Those fools in command should be sent to the slaughterhouse!"
Logan naturally agreed with such remarks. He then translated the British Major's words verbatim to Dietrich. The "Fanatics Leader" sneered, "No wonder they're so weak! Ask him who ordered the construction of defenses here and which units are on the left and right wings! If they cooperate well, I can provide food, water, and medical treatment. This is a very humane help!"
When Logan further questioned the British Major, he repeatedly answered with "I don't know."
Threats and bribes yielded the same answers.
"It seems he really doesn't know!" Logan turned to Dietrich and said.
The SS commander cast a look of disdain at the man and gestured for the German soldiers beside him to take him away. Looking around, the action of clearing the battlefield was basically over. The surviving British soldiers were all brought to the only square in the town. Upon closer inspection, some of them wearing khaki uniforms were French soldiers—since 1935, this paper tiger had also begun to change its coat to better adapt to the developments on the battlefield.
"Sir, we found these French people in a cellar! They have no weapons!"
A burly SS soldier brought in several trembling French people, including an old lady with sparse hair and a stooped posture. A stooped posture. Among them were an old lady with sparse hair and a stooped posture, and an old man wearing a grayish-blue coat with patches of white hair, supporting each other. Also among them was a middle-aged woman with her hair tied up, wearing an apron, tightly embracing her three children: two tall girls and a runny-nosed little boy.
They perfectly fit the description of "the old, the weak, and the infirm."
"Anybody here speaks French?" asked Dietrich, considering the geographical proximity and complex blood ties between Germany and France, there were quite a few who understood the language of the other.
"Um... I can manage!" volunteered Logan, despite having no professional or linguistic connection to French. However, in order to impress a girl from the French department, he had diligently practiced French all summer and finally got the hang of it in the fall—a feat he considered one of the most commendable blitzkriegs in his love life!
"Good afternoon!"
Logan struggled to recall the increasingly unfamiliar phrases from memory, much like trying to remember a face that just wouldn't come into focus.
Everyone, including the elderly French lady, looked timidly at the soldier in German uniform—whether Air Force, Army, or SS, they were all seen as brutal German invaders. This viewpoint probably stemmed from the Franco-Prussian War of 1871 and had been passed down through generations!
"It's a lovely day today!" Logan couldn't help but curse himself inwardly as soon as those words left his mouth. Was that an appropriate greeting?
Unexpectedly, the taller of the French girls timidly asked, "Monsieur officer, are you going to kill us?" Without skipping a beat.
Logan was about to assure her "of course not," but then he realized she was actually quite a pretty young girl, with black, slightly curly shoulder-length hair, clear and deep brown eyes, a straight and prominent nose, and lips of moderate thickness. Suddenly, she reminded him of Sophie Marceau—the French actress hailed as one of the most beautiful women in France (never heard of her? Just Google her, heh heh, she was quite innocent when she was young and very graceful as she matured).
The girl in front of him looked no more than 16 or 17, about 5'3" tall, slender, and fair-skinned. Although Logan's first impression of her wasn't exactly awe-inspiring, he was drawn to her by her innocent and melancholic demeanor.
From a normal male perspective, she was a girl with great potential.
From a pervy perspective, she was a top-tier little loli—especially because she wasn't wearing a bra and her nipples were protruding inappropriately!
"Um... no, certainly not, the Hague Convention forbids killing civilians!"
"Can we trust your words?" the girl asked quickly, almost exceeding Logan's capacity for understanding French.
"Of course!" Logan glanced back at Dietrich, "We don't harm civilians, right?"
The "leader of the fanatics" lit a cigarette for himself. "Of course, we would never harm unarmed French civilians, especially when they're willing to cooperate with us!"
Logan understood perfectly what that meant and laboriously translated it into French: "You'll be fine, but you must obey our orders until the fighting ends!"
"Hasn't the fighting already ended?" Without skipping a beat. Perhaps Logan's gentle expression had eased the girl's fears somewhat. However, before saying this, she still glanced at the Allied soldiers who had already laid down their weapons—about fifty or sixty, including the wounded!
"No, mademoiselle, the fighting is far from over, but I assure you, this situation won't last long!" Logan took the liberty to comfort her. In terms of the concept of fighting, an end might be France's surrender or the end of the entire war.