Chapter 413: The Belgian Guerrillas
The town of Vallo is located in southwestern Belgium, only five kilometers from the Franco-Belgian border.
Belgium is mostly flat plains, with mountainous terrain only in the south. Vallo happens to sit at the boundary between these two landscapes.
A winding road stretches at the base of the mountains, flanked by a river on one side and a hundred-meter-tall forest on the other. A bridge spans a gorge between two mountains, connecting the road to a small town on the other side.
On the roadside, lush elm trees extend their leafy branches. A gentle breeze rustles a few golden leaves, which drift lazily to the road below, adding a touch of comfort to the summer day.
Perhaps understanding the strategic importance of the bridge, the German army had set up a checkpoint here, stationing a guard platoon to ensure its security. At this moment, the guards were loudly shouting at a tractor that had stalled on the bridge.
"Hey! Get it moving immediately, or we'll push it off the bridge!" one of the guards barked.
The tractor driver, drenched in sweat, frantically fiddled with the engine. "It's broken, sir! Can anyone here fix a tractor?" he asked, desperation in his voice.
The German lieutenant responded, "We know how to kill, not fix tractors. If you don't get it moving in five minutes, I’d be happy to ‘help’ you in my own way!"
The German soldiers chuckled at his remark, with a few lighting cigarettes and exchanging smirks.
A short soldier emerged from the nearby phone booth and reported to the lieutenant, "I can fix tractors, sir!"
The lieutenant raised an eyebrow. "Ah, yes. How could I forget about you?"
The short soldier's name was Khalil. Growing up on a farm, he had been around tractors all his life until he was conscripted just a few months ago.
The lieutenant gestured toward the tractor. "Go check it out. If you can’t fix it, let us know immediately. The road must remain open."
"Understood, sir." Khalil saluted sharply, slung his rifle over his shoulder, and jogged toward the tractor.
"Have you had this problem before?" Khalil asked politely.
"Never, sir," the driver replied. "It’s the first time."
"Did you check the spark plugs?" Khalil asked, pulling a wrench from the toolbox and moving toward the engine. "Or maybe the ignition coil..."
Before he could finish, he froze. The driver wasn’t holding a tool but a handgun, pointing it directly at him and keeping it hidden from the guards' line of sight.
"Do as I say, kid," the driver whispered with a deadly edge. "Or you’ll die before I do. Got it?"
Khalil had no doubts. The driver's eyes were filled with murderous intent, beads of sweat glistening on his brow as if he were ready to die at any moment.
"Alright," Khalil replied nervously, puzzled by the driver’s actions.
The answer came in the next instant when the rumbling sound of a tank engine echoed from the other end of the road.
This was all part of a plan, Khalil realized, but there was nothing he could do.
At the sound of the tank, the lieutenant grew anxious. Tossing aside his cigarette, he glared toward the tractor and called out, "Khalil!"
"Ten more minutes, sir," Khalil shouted back. "Almost done!"
The lieutenant had no choice. Even pushing the tractor off the bridge would take too long now. Waiting ten minutes seemed like the better option.
Tanks rumbled up the road, stopping just before the checkpoint. Dust and exhaust fumes filled the air, heavy with the acrid smell of gasoline.
A second lieutenant popped out of a tank hatch, shouting angrily, "What the hell is going on here? How did you let this happen?"
"Tractor malfunction, sir!" the lieutenant explained hurriedly. "It’ll be fixed in ten minutes. I guarantee it!"
The tanks lined up like a coiled serpent along the mountainside road.
Major General Nicolas’s car was stuck among the tanks, unable to move forward or back. As he tried to make sense of the situation, a messenger ran up to report, "General, there’s a tractor malfunction ahead. They need ten minutes to fix it."
Major General Nicolas furrowed his brow but remained stoic. "Hmm," he replied curtly.
Erwin, however, leaned out of the car, scanning the area with a sharp gaze. His face darkened as he ordered, "Charge through!"
"What?" the messenger asked in confusion.
Realizing the danger, Nicolas shouted to echo Erwin’s command. "Charge through immediately! Push the tractor off the bridge!"
"Yes, General!" the messenger saluted and sprinted toward the front.
But it was already too late.
From the higher ground on the right, grenades suddenly arced through the air, their handles trailing ominous smoke.
Almost simultaneously, the staccato of gunfire and the thunder of cannons erupted.
The machine guns were Saint-Étienne models—lightweight with excellent sustained firepower. The hail of bullets cut down the guards and soldiers before they could even react, leaving them writhing in pools of blood.
The cannons were 37mm anti-tank guns, a sound Erwin had burned into his memory. That distinctive blast sent a chill through him.
The First Tank Division was doomed. The "Upper Silesia" tanks’ armor could not withstand a 37mm gun at close range, no matter which side was hit.
Erwin grabbed Major General Nicolas and pulled him toward the inner side of the road.
Nicolas had initially planned to jump toward the river on the left, farther from the road. But once in the inner section, he realized Erwin was right—it was the blind spot of the enemy’s firepower. Even grenades couldn’t reach them here.
Explosions from the grenades ripped through the tanks and soldiers on the road, filling the air with screams of agony.
But the German forces didn’t collapse. Their rigorous training showed as they regrouped under their commanders’ shouts, raising their rifles to retaliate. The tanks turned their guns and machine guns toward the enemy positions.
And then came an awkward realization: the tanks couldn’t target the enemies perched high on the slopes. They were nothing more than sitting ducks—defenseless against the 37mm guns that could effortlessly pierce their armor.
"Charles! It’s Charles!" Erwin growled, his teeth clenched in fury.
At first, Nicolas was confused. What did Charles have to do with this? Wasn’t this the work of Belgian guerrillas?
But in the next moment, it all became clear.
The men might be Belgian guerrillas, but their equipment, tactics, and the very plan itself bore Charles’s unmistakable signature.
...
Erwin’s suspicions were correct. This was indeed Charles’s plan.
The tactic of using the height advantage to neutralize tank firepower, forcing the Germans into a helpless defensive position, was carefully designed based on the "Upper Silesia" tank’s limited firing arc of only ±20 degrees.
In contrast, most tanks, such as the "Char A1," had a firing range of −20 to +35 degrees.
The "Upper Silesia" tanks had machine gun turrets on both the front and rear of the turret, which restricted their firing arc to ±20 degrees.
With this knowledge, combined with proper equipment, even guerrillas could take down an entire tank division!