36: Chapter 36 The Temperature of Scrap Iron Burning

Fifty meters away.

The ground vibrated as if an 8.0 magnitude earthquake was occurring.

Jack could feel his internal organs resonating with the roar of the tank's engine.

That oppressive feeling was not something one could experience watching a movie on a screen.

It was the suffocating sensation of fifty tons of steel crushing towards you at thirty kilometers per hour.

Once caught, you'd be nothing but minced meat.

“Team Three, left! Team Five, right!” Brother Bao roared commands in the voice channel.

“Don’t go in a straight line! They have hull machine guns!”

Da da da—

The machine gun on the tank’s front armor spat flames.

The two players running at the very front suddenly stiffened.

That was the kinetic energy of large-caliber bullets tearing through their torsos.

They didn't even have time to groan before being ripped in half, their satchels of explosives rolling onto the snow.

But the people behind them didn't stop. They stepped over the hot blood spilled by their comrades and continued forward.

This was the cost of the “all-out counterattack.”

Jack’s target was a Cromwell tank on the left flank.

Although this thing had thinner armor, it was extremely fast and was furiously pouring firepower onto the Infantryman positions.

“Cover me!”

Jack rolled from one shell crater to another.

He could hear the sound of tracks grinding the frozen earth right beside him, a sharp, piercing sound like the grinding teeth of a devil.

Just then, a scene to his right made his pupils contract.

A player named “Old Tie” rolled into the middle of the road, hugging a satchel of explosives, to blow off the tracks of a Centurion tank.

But he miscalculated the lead.

The driver of that tank was clearly an old hand, flooring the accelerator, and the massive vehicle body sped forward.

“Get out of the way!” Dai Dai screamed from behind.

Old Tie didn’t dodge.

At the last moment, he made a move no one expected—he didn't throw the satchel of explosives.

Instead, he hugged it tightly, turning himself into a human wedge, and rolled directly under the wide tracks.

Crack—

The horrifying sound of bones shattering was drowned out by a huge explosion.

Boom!

The left track of that Centurion was violently blown off, and hundreds of kilograms of steel chains flew out like dead snakes.

The massive vehicle body suddenly tilted, turning half a circle in place due to inertia, and blocked the middle of the road.

This explosion seemed to sound the bugle for a general assault.

“These are the ‘Boy Scouts’ you looked down on!”

Jack’s eyes were bloodshot. Taking advantage of the dense smoke, he charged from the side.

That Cromwell tank was reversing, trying to create distance.

Ignoring the sharp pain in his right leg, Jack took a running start, jumped, and firmly gripped the spare fuel tank rack at the back of the tank with both hands.

Scorching hot.

The engine's exhaust blasted onto his face, making his skin ache from the heat.

The tank furiously twisted its body, trying to shake him off.

One of Jack’s feet dangled in the air, and he hung there like a kite.

“Damn your nobles!”

Jack roared, exerted force in his core, and flipped over onto the rear engine deck.

The temperature here was even higher, enough to burn through his padded trousers. He used his hands and feet to crawl to the side of the turret.

The hatch was locked from the inside.

“Brother Bao! Knock on the door!” Jack yelled into the radio.

“Received!”

In the distance, Brother Bao had already set up a captured Bren Light Machine Gun.

He didn't spray elsewhere, but aimed at the observation window on the tank turret where Jack was, firing a burst of bullets with precision.

The bulletproof glass instantly shattered into a spiderweb, completely blinding the tank commander inside.

The people inside panicked. They didn’t know how many people were outside, only hearing someone smashing the top hatch.

The commander made a fatal mistake—he tried to push open a crack in the hatch and fire his pistol outwards.

The moment that gap appeared, a hand covered in oil and blood reached in, grabbed the edge of the hatch, and violently ripped it open.

Jack’s face, painted with camouflage and as terrifying as a ghost, appeared in the British tank commander’s vision.

“Surprise! M F**k!”

Jack grinned, revealing two rows of white teeth.

He didn’t even give the opponent a chance to shoot, pulling the fuse of the bundle of grenades around his neck.

He stuffed it into the gaping black hole of the entrance.

Then he slammed the hatch shut and held it down tightly.

If this were a superhero movie, he would have elegantly jumped off the tank by now, walking away without looking back amidst the explosion behind him.

But this was a battlefield.

Just as Jack was about to jump off, the tank slammed on its brakes.

He was flung off, falling heavily onto the hard frozen earth, completely disoriented.

Rumble!

A muffled sound came from the belly of the tank.

It wasn't the sound of an explosion, but an extremely dull, metallic expansion.

The tank's turret was lifted by the massive airwave, then fell heavily, with black smoke and flames spewing from all the cracks.

The ammunition inside had detonated.

“We won…”

Jack lay on the ground, gasping for breath.

As the first and second tanks turned into scrap iron, the British formation completely collapsed.

Once that arrogant iron shell was shattered, the “nobles” inside didn't have an extra head compared to ordinary people.

Bugle calls echoed across the mountains and plains.

No more lurking, no more enduring. Countless Volunteer Army soldiers, bayonets fixed, surged from all directions towards this tank graveyard.

Those British soldiers who were just drinking tea were now scrambling out of their disabled tanks in disarray, hands raised, muttering incoherent pleas for mercy.

The battle ended faster than expected.

On this scorched plain, a dozen Royal heavy tanks spewed black smoke, becoming the most expensive backdrop for this period of history.

Jack got up from the ground, dusting himself off.

A British Major in a fine wool overcoat was escorted over by several players.

His cap was askew, his face smudged with oil, but he still tried to maintain his so-called composure.

“I am an officer of the British Empire,” the Major said in stiff Chinese, pointing to his epaulets.

“According to the Geneva Convention, I demand treatment befitting my status. I want hot coffee and a clean room.”

The surrounding players stopped what they were doing, watching him with cold eyes.

Jack walked over, sizing up the dignified prisoner.

He then looked down at himself.

His cotton jacket had several holes, and the exposed cotton wadding was stained black with blood.

His hands were covered in chilblains, and a layer of skin had been scraped off when he climbed the tank earlier.

“Geneva Convention?”

Jack sneered.

He turned around and pointed at the puddle of flesh and blood crushed by the tracks in the distance—that was where Old Tie sacrificed himself.

It was also where countless soldiers like Old Tie disappeared this winter, trying to blow off a track.

“When you were driving these iron turtles and crushing people just now, why didn’t you remember the Convention?”

Jack’s voice was soft, but it cut like a knife.

The Major’s face changed, and he instinctively recoiled: “That was war... an accident…”

“Screw your accident.”

Jack pulled a flattened, frozen potato from his pocket—his rations, hard as a rock.

He shoved the potato into the Major’s hand, which had pristine white cuffs.

“Want hot food? Want coffee? Dream on.” Jack pointed in the direction of the prisoner-of-war camp.

“Here, this is your only treatment. Don’t complain it’s hard; it’s for strengthening your bones.”

The Major held the cold potato, looking at the burning eyes around him, and finally lowered his noble head.