Chapter 9: Roadside Bombs in the 1940s

The scorching sun baked the earth, leaving both trees and grass, along with the soldiers guarding the roadside, listless.

Two men in khaki shirts lay in a bush overlooking the highway. One had a broad face and held a silver monocular, while the other had a long face and sat beside a strange rectangular box with a short rod that could be pressed down on top.

"Lar, who do you think our target is? There are plenty of German generals!" The man with the long face had a black mole at the corner of his left eye, which according to physiognomy, indicated good luck. However, the implications might be different if it were a dark and sinister mole!

"If they're the ones building concentration camps and segregation areas in Poland, it's likely the head of the SS, Heinrich Himmler or Reinhard Heydrich!" The broad-faced man bit his lip, with a scar on his forehead, though his complexion was naturally dark, making the scar less conspicuous.

"They're monsters. But relying on just a few of us... the British won't even lend a hand. Why should we drag ourselves into this? What if we stir up a hornet's nest and implicate the locals?" The man with the long face expressed concern.

The broad-faced man, around forty years old, with firm eyebrows and a determined gaze, spoke softly, "If you're afraid, you can leave now, join the villagers heading towards Lille, or even report me to the Germans! You might even get a hefty reward!"

"I didn't mean that!" The man with the long face muttered guiltily, "I just think this action is too abrupt! And, our bomb is so far away from the roadside, are you sure it will be effective?"

The broad-faced man didn't explain much, just said sadly, "My father died in the Battle of the Somme in 1916. When a German artillery shell hit their trench, the entire platoon was wiped out. Only 10 men from the whole company survived!"

The man with the long face fell silent for a moment. As far as he knew, five members of his family had died in wars against the Germans: his father, his uncle, and three of his cousins.

"If only the British could provide us with remote-controlled bombs! Let's hope we make it out alive today!"

"Even if we die, it will be worth it!" The broad-faced man was saying when suddenly, his facial muscles twitched. Through the monocular, a soldier from the SS left his post and walked to the roadside, pulled out his weapon from his pants, and relieved himself. Not twenty steps ahead of him lay a lonely boulder in the grass, covered with moss and weeds. Although it had only been a few hours since it was abandoned, it was already losing its original lush green color. If one got closer, they might see some clues.

"The damn German dogs, if he comes closer, I'll blast him to pieces!" The man with the long face said fiercely, reaching for the rectangular box beside him.

Though they spoke these words, the two men had no way of stopping the German soldier from approaching the peculiar stone. Underneath it lay the bomb they had spent two days making. Although its effectiveness hadn't been tested, it contained the same high explosives previously used by the French engineering unit to destroy bridges along the way!

At a critical moment, the German soldiers standing guard on the roadside turned their heads to say something, just as they abandoned the strange stone and hurried back to their positions.

The broad-faced man aimed the monocular towards the east side of the highway, where, at the end of his sightline, a convoy of black cars appeared. His eyes gleamed with anticipation, but after a moment, his face turned into a puzzled expression: the scale and grandeur of the convoy exceeded his expectations. The idea of Germans setting a trap for themselves was dispelled, but were there only generals in this convoy?

There was no time to think about it. The biggest problem facing the broad-faced man and his companion was how to target the car. He signaled for the man with the long face to move a little to the right, placing the rectangular box under his control.

The first car in the convoy was an armored vehicle equipped with a machine gun, which couldn't be the target. What about the half-track truck behind it? No. As the first few cars passed the strange stone, the broad-faced man clenched both hands on the horizontal bar of the rectangular box, holding his breath, eyes fixed on the black Mercedes-Benzes. Perhaps due to the scorching sun, they were all covered with movable canvas. If not for that, he could pinpoint the target precisely.

As the second black Mercedes-Benz appeared directly ahead, the broad-faced man decisively pressed the bar.

The field airstrip, codenamed C-11, was located about 5 kilometers south of Amiens. It was originally a French field airstrip that had played a minor role in resisting the German advance across the canal line. Now, it was part of the massive war preparedness system under the German "Sealion" plan. German bombers taking off from here could reach the opposite coast of the Channel after a 200-kilometer flight. Even the BF-109 could use this as a departure airfield. Although coastal ports like Calais were closest to England, if the British RAF launched a tactical counterattack, airfields too close to the Channel lacked sufficient strategic depth.

In just one month and five days, under the leadership of Albert Speer, the construction and expansion project of 26 frontline airfields, including C-11, was completed. In the scorching sun, this top-notch engineer with a broad forehead and extraordinary talent waited calmly for the arrival of the Air Force's top boss. Beside him stood a group of Air Force officials, including Hans Rogan, who had "coincidentally" come to report to him.

The sudden roar from afar surprised almost everyone present, except for Rogan, who breathed a sigh of relief.

After executing two important surprise attack missions, he couldn't be called an assassin, nor did he possess such skills. As a modern man, he could only rely on his limited knowledge of special warfare and "try his luck".

Amiens seemed to be a blessing!

After the thunderous sound, there was silence again—gunfire couldn't reach this far.

After nearly ten minutes of waiting, someone ran out from the communication room and said, "The Marshal's car was hit by a bomb and has been urgently taken to the hospital!"

Everyone was stunned.

"Go, hell is where you belong!" Rogan sighed inwardly. For modern people, killing seemed to be a difficult thing to accept, but in reality, once you've done it once, the rest is easy!