Chapter 919: Symphony

Humanity has a base fascination with the strong. Every group likes to choose a leader-like figure. People are accustomed to obeying such a figure, and they call such leaders “kings.” And so, there is the king of the forest, the king of the grasslands. Even the tiger, already the king of beasts, must have a true king—the King Tiger.

The tank named after the King Tiger was the ultimate tank upon which the German army had placed its hopes. So, when the men who drove this tank faced their enemies, they were very composed, because they knew they were superior to their opponents, that they possessed a more powerful weapon.

When a shell casing was ejected from the open breech, the chamber was still steaming slightly. The familiar clatter of the metal casing against the tank’s floor was a sweet sound of slaughter that lingered in the ear. The shouts of the soldiers, the clash of metal, and the roar of the cannon created a wonderful piece of rock music, thrilling all who reveled in the war.

This was a concert verging on madness. The only difference from the solemn orchestral music played in the concert halls of Vienna was that here, no applause was needed. The exploding shells would help all who participated in this performance to let out hysterical howls. Applause was nothing spectacular, because here you could see arms flying far away at any time, and faces contorted from vomiting blood.

Bruce, as the loader, had no idea what was happening outside. He was safely hidden in the most secure place, waiting for the tank to be penetrated or for the battle to end. He had only two states: one was his tank exploding in a huge shudder, and he himself going up with it; the other was hearing Rein shout that the battle was over, and then he would climb out of the tank to see the new hell his shells had created.

In fact, with this comparison, one would find that the soldiers in some positions were actually quite artistic. They did not have to directly face the blood and slaughter on the battlefield, but they were doing the more efficient work of slaughtering the enemy, for example—the loaders in the main gun turrets of a battleship.

They could not see what their battlefield looked like at all. They just repeated the actions they had practiced countless times in response to commands, preparing the massively destructive shells, and then just waiting for them to do their work. The outcome for them was also only one of two: one was to sink with their warship when it was hit; the other was to defeat the enemy and receive the cheers of their comrades.

But now Bruce had no time to think about how his counterparts were faring. He was pulling a new armor-piercing round from the ammunition compartment and, in the cramped turret, skillfully ramming it into the breech. The interior space of the King Tiger was a little larger than the Tiger’s, so for Bruce, switching from the Tiger to the King Tiger was a blessing.

The space inside the King Tiger was more regular, and the ammunition storage was more concentrated. The design also made it more convenient for Bruce to retrieve the shells. This made Bruce feel very comfortable. He felt he could provide Andre with more opportunities to fire with a faster loading speed.

In fact, it was so. Because the King Tiger’s targeting system had an auxiliary aiming device, Andre’s aiming had also become more efficient. Coupled with Bruce’s increased loading speed, the rate of fire of this King Tiger had become even more terrifying than the original Tiger’s.

With a loud “BOOM!”, Rein’s King Tiger No. 113 had already fired its 20th shell. The attacking Soviet tank group had been shattered by the long-range, accurate fire of the German army. Burning Soviet tanks were everywhere, and the crews of these destroyed Soviet tanks had not even been able to take out a single one of their opponents.

The Stalin tank that had just charged out had been immediately hit by Rein’s tank. But its good ballistic shape, coupled with astonishing luck, had allowed this Stalin tank to withstand the King Tiger’s fatal blow. It adjusted its angle and slowly aimed at Rein’s tank.

However, in the process, Rein’s crew, at a distance of over 1,200 meters, had fired their second armor-piercing round. But this round, due to a hasty aim, had missed its target. To have failed to take out the opponent with two consecutive shots, even Andre’s face was a little red. So, for the third shot, he took a few seconds to aim carefully before firing again.

The unbelievably lucky Soviet Stalin tank did not dodge the fatal attack again. This German tungsten-core armor-piercing round struck the Stalin tank and penetrated its armor. Then this Stalin tank turned into a brilliant firework, exploding into a pile of shattered steel plates and parts.

After destroying this Stalin tank, the Soviet attack became even more disorganized. It seemed they were not prepared to run into the main force of the German army in this place. Seeing that the battle had been going on for so long, but not a single shell had landed on the German positions, it meant that at the very least, the nearby Soviet army had not deployed their big guns and should still be on the march.

“Full speed ahead! Close with the Soviets! If we wait any longer, their artillery might start firing on us,” Rein said, lowering his binoculars. He then pressed his throat mic and ordered the driver, Baumann, “Steady advance. Give Andre a chance to fire!”

At this command, Rein felt his tank lurch, and then this King Tiger charged out of the temporary, approximately 40-centimeter-deep shelter and towards the attacking Soviet forces.

The King Tiger suddenly began to move and charged towards the disorganized Soviet troops. This sight made many of the Soviet soldiers panic. They had never seen such a terrifying opponent, one that dared to charge at such a massive Soviet force. The tank’s cannon, constantly spitting fire, seemed to be the scythe of the Grim Reaper, taking the lives of countless Soviet armored soldiers.

A Soviet soldier raised his head from the grass and saw the hull machine gun of this Tiger tank sweeping towards his position. Before he could even duck, he was hit in the head. The immense force of the bullet shattered his head, and red and white matter splattered everywhere.

The Soviet soldiers, who had been trying to get close to the German positions, began to subconsciously move away from the approaching steel behemoth. The tank’s low profile and good ballistic angles made the Soviet attacks somewhat futile. A 45mm armor-piercing round had just struck the frontal armor of Rein’s tank, but the only effect it had was to scrape off some of the paint.

The Soviets were collapsing. The ones who had been on a fierce offensive just a moment ago were now being suppressed by just two King Tiger tanks. Some Soviet tanks were retreating. The few Soviet tanks that had been outflanking on the far side had also been blocked by another King Tiger. The current battlefield situation was a bit strange. Three German tanks were slowly closing in, attempting to annihilate the more than 40 Soviet tanks in the encirclement.

“Keep advancing! Drive this bunch of Soviets back into the woods!” A bullet whizzed past his hat. He retreated into the turret and closed the hatch above him. To stick his head out of the turret for a long time at this range was no different from suicide. Rein was very indifferent to his own life, but he was by no means a suicidal person.

His King Tiger continued to advance. A Soviet soldier, who had been shot in the thigh, was struggling on the path of this King Tiger’s advance. He clutched his leg and wailed, begging his retreating comrades to take him with them. But no one paid any attention to this wounded soldier, so he could only wait for his own misfortune to befall him.

Soon he realized something was wrong. That King Tiger was driving right over him. One of its tracks was heading straight for him. He struggled to push himself up with his hands. The sharp pain in his leg made his movements very contorted. He didn’t foolishly crawl backward but quickly adjusted his direction, moving sideways away from the tank’s path.

But he had still underestimated the speed of the German tank’s advance. In fact, few Soviet tanks could match the top speed of the German tanks. The Panther tank was a little faster than the Soviet T-34, and the Tiger tank also had better mobility than the Stalin tank—of course, if the T-26 were to be included, that would be a different matter.

This poor Soviet soldier ultimately failed to escape the range of the German tank’s tracks. The cold steel finally pressed down on his legs. In an instant, he felt a heart-rending pain. He heard the sound of his own bones breaking and felt his blood quickly flowing out from his legs.

“Ah!” He let out a scream with all his might, and then fainted from the pain. His blood flowed onto the tracks of the King Tiger, splattered onto the wide road wheels, and seeped into the already compacted mud.

The Soviet army began to retreat. They had also not expected to lose so many tanks here. Not only dozens of T-26s, but they had also lost a dozen or so T-34s and two Stalin tanks. Even an armored division would have to retreat after losing so many tanks, let alone just an independent detachment on the offensive.

“Retreat! That’s a new model of German tank! The enemy’s main force has arrived! We must report this to headquarters immediately,” a Soviet commander on the edge of the woods ordered with unwillingness. “Tell the rear units to bring up the heavy artillery!”

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