Chapter 47: Turning Point on the Battlefield?

The sound of cannons ahead intensified intermittently. At a railway station named Waterloo located north of Cardiff, a large number of British soldiers clad in khaki uniforms disembarked from the train and promptly formed up in the pre-war fields, then, led by officers, hurried towards the front lines.

While one train was still at the platform, another had arrived. Without waiting for the former to vacate the platform, the latter stopped outside the station. Soldiers swiftly erected a ramp with heavy steel plates between the flatbed cars and the ground, and the canvas covering large cargo was removed. Under dim lights, the newly minted Matilda tanks finally awakened from their slumber.

"Steady... steady... steady... there!" A non-commissioned officer stood beneath the footboard, making smooth gestures with both hands for a gentle advance. Amidst the loud roar of the engines, the cockpit and turret hatch of the tank in front were wide open. The driver, clad in a white vest, cautiously maneuvered the 26.5-ton behemoth. As it slowly ascended the footboard, the thick steel plate bent into an arc.

"These tanks have come directly from the assembly line, and some haven't undergone final testing. The drivers are testers, the gunners are temporarily reassigned from artillery units, and those commanders, most of them have only operated armored cars or trucks. Sir, can such a force be combat-effective?" A young army officer in a British army major's uniform, not far away, frowned as he watched the tanks being maneuvered off the flatbed cars in a "nose-to-tail" manner. Unbeknownst to him, in the original historical timeline, sending freshly manufactured tanks to the battlefield was something the Russians did frequently, and it did indeed play a certain role in hampering the German advance!

Standing beside him was a middle-aged, portly army colonel who should have been extremely excited about these brand-new infantry tanks, but the expression on his face clearly conveyed profound helplessness.

"John, we have no choice— the main forces of the 1st Armored Division have been lost on the beaches of Le Pate, the 4th Armored Division has not yet recovered from the early losses, and the 2nd Armored Division needs to guard the Greater London Defense Ring! The newly formed 6th and 8th Armored Divisions are just decoys for the Germans; they're currently just empty shells! I believe that having these tanks on the battlefield should be able to attract a significant portion of the German firepower and alleviate the pressure on our infantry as much as possible!"

"But, sir, the fact remains that their armor cannot withstand the long-range bombardment of German heavy anti-tank guns. Next, the Germans' machine guns will go crazy shooting at our infantry! Unless the navy, army, and air force cooperate closely, our hopes of breaking through the German defenses still remain slim. It might be better to hold our ground and wait for the Germans to attack!" The major said anxiously, a golden tank badge adorning his left arm.

"Wait for the Germans to attack? Then they will continuously reinforce their forces by sea and air transport. Eventually, on a sunny morning, amidst the howls of Stuka dive bombers, they will sweep across our positions with a powerful armored force, cut off our northern route to London, and then, together with their southern landing forces, encircle our capital! John, do you know what that means?"

The colonel remained full of resignation, and there was also a golden infantry tank badge on his uniform.

"Yes, sir, we will lose this war and accept German occupation and rule!" the major replied sorrowfully.

A cigarette lit up, casting a glow on the colonel's despondent face, and in an instant, everything disappeared into the darkness.

After a while, as several tanks had already disembarked from the train, the major turned to his superior. "Sir, let me take a platoon up first! The infantry should be deeply inspired when they see them!"

The colonel nodded. "Yes, they need a morale boost! After our fleet's bombardment, the Germans' long line of defense should be shaken, and there are tens of thousands of residents in Cardiff... They should pick up weapons and help us fight! We're not without hope yet!"

"Civilians? Sir, I don't think civilians can play any positive role under the Germans' machine guns. This damn war should have ended long ago!" The major's expression suddenly became very strange, and he solemnly made the sign of the cross on his chest. "May God forgive us for all the sins we've committed!"

Watching his subordinate quickly run towards one of the Matilda II tanks, the colonel shook his head and muttered to himself, "This terrible war might drag on for another three years, or even longer!"

On the loose country roads of the embankment, the cumbersome Matildas could only move at a speed slightly above 20 kilometers per hour. Fortunately, the tanks, still emitting the smell of paint, did not break down midway. Major John Lawtoness, a graduate of a regular military academy, led this odd tank column for about 7 or 8 kilometers, and suddenly noticed a large group of people sitting on the grass by the roadside. More precisely, it was a group of militia wearing khaki uniforms without shoulder patches or collar badges, carrying rifles and various weapons. They were officially known as the "Home Guard Volunteers." As of early September 1940, the registered number of this vast militia force had exceeded 1.67 million, with their presence spanning every town and port in Britain. They were armed with rudimentary weapons but were ready to fight the invading enemy fiercely!

Before the tanks rumbled past, the two sides stared at each other, and the young British major recognized the identity and combat effectiveness of the other side, so he just led the tank column forward with a serious expression. The militia, who were much older, saw the majestic momentum of these tanks, and a new hope finally arose in their dim eyes. Gradually, some of them stood up.

"Sir!" Finally, a middle-aged man with a rifle ran to the front tank and shouted to the major with all his might, "Can we join forces with your tanks?"

"Go away, go home! War is for soldiers! Go back and protect your families!" the major snapped at him impatiently.

The middle-aged man stopped in his tracks, but in a moment, he quickly ran forward again, cupping his hands around his mouth. "Sir, we know a shortcut that the Germans have overlooked, but I believe tanks can pass through! We can turn the tide of the battle with this!"

Upon hearing this, the major agilely climbed out of the turret, jumped down to the driver's compartment in a few swift moves, and gestured vigorously. Soon after, the tank came to a halt, followed quickly by the four tanks behind it.

"You said there's a shortcut?" the major jumped down lightly.

"Yes, sir! About two miles south from here, there's a dense thicket. The Germans have machine gun positions behind it, but there are no cannons nearby! We can't break through the machine gun blockade, but your tanks aren't afraid of German bullets!"

"A thicket? How wide?" Major Lawtoness took out a piece of parchment map from his pocket, opened a flashlight, and began searching for the area the militia leader mentioned.

"About 200 feet wide and half a mile long. The bushes are about chest-high, with no large trees or roots inside! We've tried attacking from there before and found no German landmines! Oh, and behind the thicket is a stream. At this time of year, the water is only ankle-deep, and the German positions are set up on the hill beyond the stream!" The middle-aged man helped locate the area on the map. But obviously, he was clueless about military maps and ended up making things more confusing.

Time was pressing, and the major finally gave up on attempting to find a small thicket in the vast expanse of land covered in various lines and symbols. However, he still asked cautiously, "What's on either side of the thicket?"

"Nothing at all!" the middle-aged man blurted out, "Just fields. The stream is flanked by vast farmland. Sir, the Germans have planted many landmines in the flat fields, and they've blocked us with machine guns and mortars. We can't get through! Only this thicket and the hill behind it are our only hope!"

The major hesitated for the last few seconds, biting his lip. "Alright. You lead the way. Perhaps the fate of the Battle of Cardiff rests in our hands!"

The middle-aged man grinned, "Hey, does this mean you won't chase us back home now? The regular army units are still preparing to attack from the west. It'll take them at least half an hour to arrive!"

"What's the time? And you still have the nerve to laugh?" the major scolded, quite displeased. But as he returned to the tank, his brow furrowed even more tightly, yet there was hope in his eyes. He raised his right hand high and made continuous sweeping motions from behind to the front. Although many of the makeshift crew were going to the battlefield for the first time, they could still understand these simple gestures—even if they couldn't read them, following the leading tank southward was enough!

While the British Army exerted all its efforts on land, at the mouth of the Bristol Channel, the British fleet narrowly escaped a crisis: German seaplanes dropped 18 aerial torpedoes and 36 bombs, with most aimed at three British capital ships. The small bombs were inconsequential, but the torpedoes streaking across the water with white wakes made the British naval officers and sailors nervous, and in the end, the flagship, HMS Warspite, was hit by a torpedo and two bombs, HMS Valiant was hit by a bomb, and HMS Repulse was most fortunate, with only a few bombs narrowly missing. The damage caused by the 50 kg light bombs to the thick ship armor could be ignored.

Watching the unmoving silhouette of HMS Warspite, the British naval officers and sailors finally breathed a sigh of relief. Over the past few days, the nightmare of the Home Fleet had almost overwhelmed them.

On the German side, the relatively slow-speed seaplanes became the prime targets for the British fleet's anti-aircraft fire, with 11 shot down and 4 damaged during the entire battle, resulting in 27 casualties among the pilots. In terms of night raid operations, the performance was even worse than the worst-case scenario during exercises. Apart from some of the reasons that could be attributed to luck, in real combat, the enemy's firepower was ultimately much more severe than the "harshness" of the exercise referees!

As the last illumination flare dimmed, the British fleet fought while retreating, having moved far from their previous bombardment positions. Officers and sailors were inspecting the damage to their respective ships and providing emergency treatment to the wounded. Two destroyers were ordered to search for German pilots escaping at sea. Just then, six German torpedo boats darted out from the darkness at high speed, their appearance like cold arrows shot by assassins, silent but each carrying lethal poison...