The Twilight of Empire: Starting from Dunkirk

Chapter 83 Game of Thrones (Mega Chapter)

1940年6月5日，上午08：25。英国，伦敦，圣詹姆斯街69号。卡尔顿俱乐部。

This is the stronghold of the Conservative Party, the true heart of the British Empire.

Compared to the Kent airbase, which was being bombed dozens of kilometers away, the air here was stagnant. Heavy red velvet curtains blocked out the gloomy skies of London and the distant air raid sirens. The air was filled with the aroma of fine Cuban cigars, aged port, and toasted bread.

In the main dining room, adorned with a huge crystal chandelier and heavy velvet curtains drawn even during the day, Archibald Sterling, the fourteenth Earl of Sterling, sat in his personal high-backed leather chair.

If you open the Burke Aristocracy Almanac, you will find a dazzling string of titles following this name: recipient of the Order of the Garter, Privy Councillor, and Conservative Whip in the House of Commons.

In Whitehall, he was more commonly known as "The Iron Earl".

This was not only because of his granite-like, hard personality, but also because of the vast industrial empire he controlled.

He is the chairman of Sterling Heavy Industries.

On the banks of the River Clyde, his shipyard has secured a third of the Royal Navy's destroyer orders; in Derbyshire, his engine factory is working day and night to produce the core crankshafts for Rolls-Royce's Merlin engines; and even five years earlier, when the Air Ministry was still arguing over the budget, it was he who personally funded the first crucial development grant for Supermarine's Spitfire prototype.

Archibald Sterling was a unique figure in the power structure of the British Empire.

His Majesty George VI of Buckingham Palace needed his advice in the Privy Council to maintain the dignity and prestige of the Royal Family during the war: the members of the House of Westminster revered him because his whip held the power to decide the fate of any bill and the political future of any constituency's MP.

But he was neither a blind follower of the monarchists nor a puppet of parliamentary politics.

He was an old lion coiled at the heart of the empire's industry, coldly observing the power struggles among various factions, loyal only to the interests of the Sterling family and the hegemony of the British Empire. In his eyes, neither Chamberlain's appeasement policy nor Churchill's clamor for war were anything more than means to maintain the operation of this vast empire.

At this moment, the old man who could walk into 10 Downing Street without knocking was having breakfast, a special battlefield breakfast: a plate of smoked haddock, two slices of toast with thick butter, and a cup of morning tea with brandy.

But he didn't touch it. The silver knife engraved with the family crest in his hand hovered above the fish, as if he was weighing where to cut.

Sitting opposite him were two middle-aged men wearing dark pinstripe suits.

Sir Reginald Parker and Sir Horace Wilson

Wilson).

These two names might be just ordinary gentlemen in London's social circles, but in the corridors of Whitehall, they represent an undeniable political undercurrent—the core advisors of former Prime Minister Neville Chamberlain, and the backbone of the appeasement faction advocating "peace talks with Germany."

"This fish looks good, Earl."

Sir Reginald broke the silence, his voice deep and smooth, with a hint of probing: "Just like the current situation, although it may seem a bit prickly on the surface, it can still be a delicious dish if handled properly."

If people outside this circle saw this scene, it would be enough to shatter their worldview.

Because in the corridors of Whitehall, the names Reginald and Horace were enough to make any high-ranking civil servant tremble.

As the masterminds behind Chamberlain's appeasement policy, they all held prestigious titles and possessed extraordinary abilities, making them undoubtedly prominent figures in the British Empire.

But in front of Archibald Sterling?

They are only fit to carry the shoes of the Earl of Stirling.

Let alone these two henchmen, even their master, former Prime Minister Neville Chamberlain, when he was still sitting at 10 Downing Street, would have to bow and greet this old man who controlled the Conservative Party's coffers and the lifeline of Imperial Heavy Industries with utmost respect, just like a branch manager reporting to a banker.

Upon hearing Reginald speak, Earl Sterling didn't even lift an eyelid.

The silver knife in his hand precisely sliced ​​off the fish head with a crisp "clink," cutting off all the other party's polite formalities and preamble.

"Speak plainly, Reginald. My time is valuable, especially now."

The old man forked a piece of fish, his tone flat yet revealing a distance and arrogance towards the two: "That fat Churchill is still waiting for me to coordinate next week's budget vote. I don't have time to play these rhetorical games with you."

The meaning is quite clear: for the Sterling family, it makes no difference whether the owner of 10 Downing Street is Chamberlain, Churchill, or Halifax.

Even if a dog were to sit in the Prime Minister's seat, as long as the Sterling family holds the lifeblood of the British Empire—steel and finance—the Prime Minister would have to tip his hat to them.

Because the Sterling family is accountable only to the British Empire itself, not to any particular political party.

Lord Stirling only speaks to those in power.

In other words, once he leaves that position, no matter how illustrious he was before, his value to the Earl of Stirling becomes zero.

The old man picked up his knife again, pointed to the door as if shooing away two annoying flies: "Chamberlain is out of the picture. He's a thing of the past. And the Sterling family never invests in expired bonds."

Horace Wilson adjusted his gold-rimmed glasses, leaned forward slightly, lowered his voice, and prepared to try again: "Earl, we've all seen the battle reports this morning. Dunkirk—though Winston touted it as a miracle in the House of Commons, you and I both know it was a catastrophic defeat. We lost all our heavy equipment, hundreds of cannons, thousands of trucks. The British Army now doesn't even have enough rifles to arm the National Guard."

"So?" the count asked coldly, putting a piece of fish into his mouth.

"So, France is finished."

Reginald picked up the conversation, his tone feigning anguish but revealing his true intentions: "The Weygand Line is a joke. The German armored divisions launched Operation Red this morning. Paris will fall in two weeks at most. Then, Britain will face the industrial machine of all of Europe alone. Our gold reserves won't last more than six months."

"My Lord, we must face reality. Continuing to fight will only cause Britain to bleed to its last drop. We need to resolve this through diplomatic means. Lord Halifax believes that now is the best window of opportunity to restart negotiations."

Lord Stirling finally stopped what he was doing. He raised his eyelids, and his grey-blue eyes finally became serious and earnest: "Do you want me to support Chamberlain's restoration? Or do you want me to support Halifax to beg for peace with that Austrian corporal?"

"No, not begging for peace. It's a dignified peace."

Horace took a document from his briefcase, a confidential letter from the Swedish embassy, ​​stamped with "Top Secret": "The Germans have sent a message through Swedish channels. Hitler is willing to guarantee the integrity of the British Empire's overseas territories, provided that Britain recognizes Germany's status on the European continent and returns some of its post-World War I colonies."

Horace paused here, then dropped what he considered his most crucial piece of leverage, the one that would break a father's defenses: "Furthermore, we've heard that your son, Major Sterling, wasn't on the evacuation list from Dunkirk. The Admiralty has him listed as 'missing.'"

Earl Stirling's fingers trembled slightly, and the silver knife made a crisp "clink" sound on the marble tabletop.

But he quickly controlled the tremors in his muscles and regained his granite-like hardness.

"But he is still alive, Earl."

Reginald stared intently into the old man's eyes. He knew, of course, Arthur's importance to the Sterling family: "Our intelligence sources in Berlin have confirmed that a tenacious army unit is operating south of Dunkirk, causing the Germans considerable trouble. It's almost certain that the commander of this unit is Major Sterling."

"If we can demonstrate our sincerity through diplomatic channels at this time, the Germans would be more than happy to escort this noble officer out of the country as a messenger of peace. This would not only preserve the sole heir of the Stirling family but also maintain the dignity of the Reich."

This is blatant political blackmail.

He used his son's life to secure his father's crucial vote in Parliament, supporting secret negotiations with Germany. If the Conservative whip defected, Churchill's coalition government would collapse within three days.

Earl Stirling looked at the two impeccably dressed politicians before him. They spoke of national interests, but their minds were preoccupied with preserving their political assets and family fortunes. In their view, war was merely a business deal that could be cut short at any time.

"Are you threatening me?" The count's voice was soft, but it carried a hint of bloodlust.

"It's a suggestion, Earl. It's out of concern for an old friend. After all, young Master Arthur is currently isolated and helpless, and I've heard that the air force, in order to preserve its strength," has already abandoned its support for France—"

Just then.

"Bang!"

The restaurant's heavy doors were violently slammed open.

A valet in Royal Navy uniform strode in. Ignoring the club’s old rule of “no running” and even knocking over a waiter’s tray, he went straight to the Earl of Stirling’s table.

That was the confidential secretary of the Naval Intelligence Department. His forehead was covered in sweat, and he held a folder with a red wax seal in his hand, which was marked "Top Secret, Directly to the Naval Department, Urgent".

"Your Excellency," the military attaché's voice was urgent and slightly distorted, "an urgent telegram. From—from the French front. It was sent directly back via the Admiralty's strategic channel."

Reginald and Horace exchanged a glance, a hint of smugness flashing in their eyes.

They assumed the Germans had captured Arthur and sent him a ransom note.

Lord Stirling didn't even glance at the two politicians. He snatched the folder and tore off the wax seal.

Inside was only a thin telegram. It was plain text sent directly from the front lines via a Type-X encryption machine and just transcribed by the Admiralty Intelligence Office. The ink was still wet and emitted a pungent smell.

The count lowered his head to read.

The first line of text made his pupils contract sharply, and his heart felt as if it were being gripped tightly by a cold, large hand.

【发送时间：1940年6月5日08：22】

[Sender: Major Arthur Sterling, Commander of Sterling Battle Group]

[Recipient: Lord Stirling, Conservative Whip in the House of Commons / Prime Minister Winston Churchill]

[Classification: Top Secret (Plaintext Backup)]

[Telegram Content:]

[This is Arthur. As you read this telegram, I and three thousand soldiers are stationed on the road southeast of Abbeville. Above us are sixty Stuka bombers of the German 8th Air Force. Fifty minutes to go.]

[Ten minutes ago, I requested cover from Fighter Command for 12 Spitfires through official channels. Your good friend, Air Force General Dowding, refused. His reason: Project Dynamo is over, and to preserve our strength, we pawns aren't worth wasting fuel on.]

[Excellent. A very rational strategic decision.]

But I'm informing you now that if you don't send a plane, you'll have to send a body-collecting team in an hour.

I will die here. But I promise that before I die, I will use this high-powered radio to broadcast in plain text to the whole world. I will tell every British mother, every Scottish voter, every worker toiling in the factory: their sons did not die from German bombs, but from the murder of Whitehall bureaucrats.

I will make the name "Sterling" an indelible stain on the Conservative Party. I will make sure you never hold your head up high in Parliament again. I will bring down Churchill's cabinet within a week.

[Old Deng, if you're not sending a plane, prepare a coffin for me.]

[Signature: Your son, Arthur.]

This is not a cry for help at all.

-

This is an ultimatum. This is a revolver pressed against the father's forehead.

Instead of begging for mercy, that bastard used his political value and the Sterling family’s century-old reputation to hijack the entire British cabinet.

Earl Sterling felt a rush of blood to his head, and the veins on his temples throbbed.

In the British Empire, even His Majesty George VI treated him with some respect when privately consulting the Privy Council; even Churchill, that madman, had to be polite when asking him for votes.

Looking across all of London, perhaps only Arthur, that rebellious son, would dare to throw a declaration of war in his father's face with such a lecturing tone, as if he were lecturing a senile old man.

This doesn't sound like a son talking to his father at all.

This is clearly the creditor holding the IOU, forcing that old man who refused to pay back the money.

Count Sterling stared intently at the paper, his breathing suddenly becoming rapid and heavy, a sound like a bellows being pulled emanating from his throat.

There was a full twenty seconds of silence.

"Earl?" Sir Reginald asked tentatively, his eyes filled with feigned goodwill. "Is it—bad news? If it's tragic news about your son, we are deeply saddened. But this only proves that resistance is futile, and we should contact Sweden immediately—"

"Snapped!"

A crisp sound.

Lord Stirling slammed the crystal goblet to the ground. Expensive brandy splashed out, mixed with shards of glass, and ripped Sir Horace's gleaming leather shoes.

The entire restaurant fell silent instantly. Everyone stared in astonishment at the usually unmoved party whip.

"Bad news?"

Earl Stirling stood up. His tall frame exuded a suffocating sense of oppression at that moment, like an enraged old lion finally baring its fangs.

He grabbed the telegram and waved it in front of the two appeasement politicians like a declaration of war: "Yes, this is indeed bad news for you."

"My son was not captured. He did not beg for peace."

"He's leading three thousand fully armed soldiers deep inside French territory, ready to fight the Germans to the death! He pointed his finger at me and cursed me, saying that if I didn't send him planes, he'd drag the Conservative Party down with him to hell!"

A ferocious yet proud smile spread across the count's face, an expression a mixture of rage and extreme pride: "You want me to support peace talks? You want me to trade my son's life for a life of ignominy?"

"dream!"

"Boom!"

He abruptly overturned the heavy mahogany dining table in front of him. Exquisite porcelain, silver cutlery, and the unfinished plate of haddock shattered into pieces on the floor.

"Go back and tell Chamberlain! Tell Halifax! Tell all the cowards who want to surrender!"

Earl Sterling grabbed his ivory-inlaid ebony cane, pointed it at the door, and roared like thunder: "The Sterlings either die on the battlefield or return victorious! We will never wag our tails and beg in a prisoner-of-war camp!"

After saying that, he looked at the stunned naval attaché: "Prepare the car! To the Admiralty building! I need to see Winston!"

"If that fat guy dares to say no, I'll tear down his office!"

08:35. London, Whitehall. Admiralty House command bunker.

This is Winston Churchill's current actual office location.

Although he had moved into 10 Downing Street, he preferred, or rather, was used to, staying in the Admiralty's map room, because it allowed him to feel the pulse of the war more strongly, and because it had the most advanced communication lines in all of Britain.

The air was thick with the smell of cigars and the ozone odor characteristic of electronic devices.

On the huge wall map, the red arrows representing the German offensive were shocking, like sharp blades piercing deep into the chest of France.

-

Churchill, wearing his signature black suit, his bow tie askew, and a half-smoked cigar dangling from his mouth, paced anxiously in front of the map with his hands behind his back.

His brows were furrowed, forming a deep "川" (river) character.

The situation is terrible.

Although the report delivered to him yesterday stated that "Operation Dynamo" had evacuated 33 troops, this massive army is now unarmed. All heavy weapons have been left across the Channel. And France's allies are collapsing at a visible rate.

The appeasement faction within the country was stirring, and if a few more bad news came from the front, Lord Halifax would once again propose peace talks with the corporal at a cabinet meeting.

Churchill needed a fulcrum.

A fulcrum that could boost morale and convince the British that "we can still fight."

"prime minister."

Brendan Bracken, the private secretary, strode in, holding a copy of the same telegram, his expression strange. "You need to see this. It was sent directly from the 6480kHz strategic channel. The sender claims to be Major Sterling. He—he's threatening you."

Churchill stopped and snatched the telegram.

He quickly skimmed through it, especially the sentence "If you don't send a plane, send a morgue in an hour," and the last sentence "I will bring down Churchill's cabinet within a week."

Any other commander who dared to speak to the prime minister like that would have been court-martialed long ago.

But Churchill was not angry.

On the contrary, a sharp glint suddenly flashed in those cloudy yet piercing eyes.

"Four thousand people — all mechanical — and an air force codebook —"

Churchill muttered to himself, his finger slid rapidly across the map, finally stopping at the point southeast of Abbeyville.

"My God."

Churchill struck a match, lit another cigar, took a deep drag, and smoke swirled around his face: "This is not a defeated army. This is a dagger stuck in the ribs of a German."

"And he actually dared to threaten me?" Churchill looked at the telegram, a hint of admiration appearing on his lips.

In this moment of utter silence, when everyone is thinking about how to escape, there are those who not only don't want to run, but also dare to threaten the Prime Minister in order to seek war.

Churchill certainly knew that the Sterling family member was still in France.

He also knew that just yesterday, a few hours after the "Dynamite Project" ended, the Admiralty had specially arranged for a high-speed torpedo boat to try to bring him back from the beaches outside Dunkirk.

But the kid refused. He refused decisively.

Churchill initially thought it was just a young nobleman's impulsive act of bravery, or that he wanted to find a place to die with dignity, just like in the last war, where nobles always led the charge. But he never expected that in just twenty-four hours, this "missing" major would cause such a commotion.

Three thousand people?

Churchill stared at the numbers on the telegram, took a deep drag on his cigar, and his eye twitched.

This means that he not only broke through the encirclement himself, but also rescued the rearguard that was originally destined to die on the Niupt and Frinet lines.

These are hardly deserters.

This clearly shows that while they were guarding the back door for him, they swindled the guard company away and even expanded it into a reinforced brigade.

"What audacity! What a stubborn bone. No wonder he's the offspring of that old geezer."

Just then, a commotion and a crashing sound came from outside the door.

"Your Excellency, you cannot go in! The Prime Minister is in a meeting!"

"Get out of the way! Tell Winston that if he doesn't come out, I'll break down the door!"

That was the roar of old Earl Sterling.

Churchill waved to his secretary: "Let the old Earl in. This old lion is now a key ally we need to win over."

"Bang!"

The door was flung open roughly, and old Earl Stirling strode in. His old face was contorted with rage, and he slammed his cane heavily on the floor.

"Winston!"

The old Earl rushed up to Churchill, the two less than half a meter apart, face to face, or rather, old Sterling leaning forward unilaterally: "Did you see that? That telegram!"

"I see, old friend," Churchill replied calmly, even offering his cigar case. "Want one? This is from Havana—"

"Fuck your cigars!"

The Earl of Stirling slapped Churchill's hand away, his cigar box crashing to the ground, but he didn't even glance at it: "My son is in the Somme! He's saying goodbye to me on that damned radio! That fool Dowding refused to send him a plane! Four thousand lives! Four thousand of England's finest lads!"

"Winston, I don't care about your grand strategy, I don't care about your political speeches. I only care about one thing: my son needs to breathe fire."

The Earl stared intently into Churchill's eyes and said, enunciating each word clearly, "If he dies, if he dies because of your inaction, I will tear down your Admiralty. I will initiate a vote of no confidence in the House of Commons. I will turn the Conservatives against you. I will make your government fall tomorrow!"

This is not just a father's anger; it is a political ultimatum from the Conservative Party whip.

The staff and secretaries in the room held their breath in fear. Everyone knew that Churchill's wartime cabinet was a fragile product of compromise, and if it lost the Sterling family's support in the House of Commons, the government would collapse within twenty-four hours.

As for the fate of those four thousand people? That simply depends on how you explain it to the public.

On a smaller scale, it was a "necessary sacrifice" that the British Empire had to make in its darkest hour to preserve the air force.

To put it more bluntly, it was Winston Churchill's callous "war murder" of four thousand loyal soldiers, delivered to the butcher for political gain.

In this room, no one dared to gamble on the Sterling family's power.

Everyone knew very well that if the old man wanted to, tomorrow's Times headline would definitely be the latter.

Churchill looked at his longtime political rival, now a political ally. He wasn't angry; instead, he toned down his usual cynical expression.

He turned around and pointed to the map on the wall.

"Look here, Earl."

Churchill's voice turned low and serious: "This is Abbeville. This is Saint-Valéry. This is Le Havre."

"Your son isn't just running for his life. He's advancing south. I suspect he's trying to rendezvous with the 51st Hill Division."

Do you know what this means?

Churchill turned his head, his eyes brimming with excitement: "The 51st Highland Division is the pride of Scotland, the backbone of Parliament. If this unit were to be wiped out, the blow to morale would be devastating. But now, your son, that mad Arthur, is trying to bring them back."

"You understand elections better than I do, Earl. You are well aware of the political weight involved."

If the Cold Creek Guards were the Windsor royal guard, the royal bodyguard of the King of Great Britain, then the 51st Highland Division was the private army of Westminster Palace, the direct force of Parliament.

This force draws its members from over a dozen of the most crucial constituencies across the Scottish Highlands. The votes held by their fathers, brothers, and cousins ​​determine the allocation of at least thirty seats in the House of Commons.

If this force were to be completely wiped out, it wouldn't just be a collapse in morale, but a political earthquake. Scotland would riot, and the Conservative Party would utterly crumble in the north. But now, some are trying to salvage this disaster.

"This is an ace, old man. This is a huge ace."

The old count was stunned for a moment, then flew into a rage: "You're using him as a bargaining chip?!"

"No, Earl."

Churchill interrupted him, walked up to the old count, placed his large, plump hands on the old man's shoulders, and said with utmost sincerity in his eyes, "I see him as my hope."

"We can't let him die. We absolutely can't."

Arthur, whether alive or dead, was a hero; either way, it was beneficial to him and the British Empire. Churchill silently added this thought to himself.

Then, with righteous indignation, he walked to the secure telephone and picked up the line directly to the Royal Air Force Bentley Abbey.

"Get me Daoding."

A few seconds later.

"Hugh, I'm Winston. — Shut up and listen to me. I know the rules, I know how to conserve my strength. But now the rules have changed."

"We need a hero in France. A hero who refuses to retreat, who fights on, who can kick the Germans in the ass. That Arthur Sterling—he is now more than just a major. He is the symbol of the British Empire's will to resist."

"If he dies from a German bomb, that would be a tragedy. But if he dies because we refused to provide support—that would be political suicide."

"Give him planes. Not many, but he must have some. Send the elite of the 11th Group. This is the Prime Minister's order."

After hanging up the phone, Churchill turned around and looked at the old Earl.

"The plane has taken off, my friend."

The old count's tense shoulders finally relaxed, and he let out a long breath, as if he had aged ten years in an instant, as he leaned back in his chair.

"Thank you, Winston. If he comes back alive—"

"No, it's not just about coming back alive."

Churchill interrupted him, his eyes sparkling as if he'd discovered a treasure: "We're going to play it bigger."

"We're going to launch Operation Cycle. That's Plan B the Admiralty just came up with—the evacuation of the remaining forces from Le Havre. I'll have the Royal Navy waiting there."

"What you need to do is use your influence within the party to shut up those cowards who want to surrender."

Churchill picked up a pen from the table and quickly scribbled a line on a notepad: "If Arthur dies, I will personally write his eulogy with the most magnificent words of my life, so that he may be immortalized. But until then, I will give him all the airplanes and all the ships."

"Because what Britain needs now is not martyrs, but victory."

08:50. Portland Square, London. BBC Broadcasting Building.

Alvar Lidel, one of the BBC's most famous broadcasters, is sitting in front of the microphone, nervously working through the special news report that has just arrived.

-

Typically, such wartime news undergoes several hours of censorship by the Ministry of Information.

But today's article is different; it was delivered directly from Downing Street, stamped with the Prime Minister's signature, and marked "Breaking News" in red ink.

The live stream indicator light came on, turning a glaring red.

Liddell took a deep breath, adjusted his tie, and began his broadcast in his steady, dignified baritone voice. This voice would travel via radio waves to every corner of the British Isles.

"This is the BBC, London. We now have a special news segment."

"Although the evacuation from Dunkirk has ended, the fighting has not stopped on the other side of the Channel."

"According to the latest news from the front, a heroic unit has refused orders to evacuate. They have chosen to remain in France, deep behind enemy lines, to continue fighting against Nazi invaders who outnumber them several times over."

At that moment, across Britain—from the arsenal in Coventry to the docks of Liverpool and the country pubs of Kent—countless people stopped what they were doing and gathered around the radio.

"This unit was commanded by Major Arthur, the son of Earl Stirling. In the past 72 hours, they have acted like a sharp knife, holding off two German armored divisions at Nieuport and Förne, covering the evacuation of tens of thousands of their comrades."

"Now they are advancing south, vowing to bring the trapped 51st Hill Division home."

"Prime Minister Churchill has just called the front lines and conveyed the respect of the entire nation to these brave warriors via radio."

"They are missing heroes. They are a lone army in the French wilderness. But they are not alone, for the whole British Empire stands behind them."

99

"We will fight to the end. God save our King."

09:05, Charleville-Mézières, France. German Army Group A Front Command (HeeresgruppeA).

On the huge tactical map table, red arrows representing the spearhead of German armored forces have pierced deep into the heart of France.

General Heinz Guderian, wearing his iconic black armored jacket, is drawing circles in the Abbeville area south of the Somme with a red and blue pencil.

"here."

Guderian pressed his pen down hard, the lead breaking off and leaving a black dot on the map: "51st Highland Division. Churchill's kilt troops. They're trapped."

Standing nearby was Lieutenant General Rudolf Veiel, commander of the 2nd Panzer Division and uncle of Major Heinrich von Stransky. He glanced at the map and scoffed, "They're just a bunch of infantrymen in kilts. If you lift the attack restrictions, my tank formation can drive them all into the sea before sunset tomorrow."

"No, Rudolf. Put away your ambitions."

Guderian tapped the map with his pen on the advance route of the 7th Panzer Division:

-

"That's prey for Erwin. You must understand, our Führer clearly prefers to personally present this honor of 'ending the Scottish Highlands Division' as a gift to his former guard battalion commander."

Guderian shook his head, staring somberly at the blue arrow surrounded by red—the "AS Battle Group" that had fought its way out of Niupot and was now stuck in his throat like a fishbone.

Just then, the adjutant pushed open the door and entered, carrying a working field radio.

"General, you need to listen to this. It's a BBC global broadcast. Although there's some interference, the signal is still fairly clear."

A proud and solemn London baritone voice came through the radio: "—Major Arthur Sterling—In this darkest hour—The ghost of the French wilderness—The British Empire will not forget—"

Guderian's pencil stopped in mid-air.

He slowly raised his head, his eyes suddenly filled with realization.

"Arthur Sterling."

He slowly uttered the name, as if savoring a complex vintage red wine: "AS. So it was you."

"That bastard who blew up two of my bridges, stalled me for two whole days in Flörn and Niupt, and now has Churchill personally vouching for him."

Guderian recounted his opponent's "achievements" in a somber tone.

But he very tacitly—or rather, deliberately—skipped one point:

He would never mention that just a few days earlier, this very "bastard" had driven a tank into his command post, nearly crushing him, the "father of Blitzkrieg," and his tent into the mud of France.

That was a disgrace that Guderian would never have written into his memoirs.

Lieutenant General Stransky paused for a moment, then let out a cold laugh: "A British earl's son? This kind of spoiled brat can fight? I think this is nothing but British political propaganda. They want to create a god to cover up the fact that they lost everything at Dunkirk."

"Creating a god?"

Guderian walked to the window, looked at the gloomy sky outside, and a cold smile curled at the corner of his lips: "Perhaps. But the man who could force Churchill to use the BBC to campaign for him—that man is more dangerous than an armored division."

"Political gods often require physical destruction to break them."

Just then, an air force liaison officer strode in and gave Guderian a standard salute.

"General! General Richthofen (commander of the 8th Air Force) has sent an urgent telegram."

"read."

"Yes, sir!" the liaison officer reported loudly. "The 77th Dive Bomber Wing (StG77) has been deployed. Reconnaissance aircraft have spotted a convoy of about three to four thousand men, roughly the size of a regiment, heading south. They are all crammed onto the highway."

Lieutenant General Stransky's sarcasm deepened: "Four thousand men? Crowded on the highway? My God, Richthofen is going to have a blast this time."

Guderian turned around and walked back to the map table.

His gaze was fixed on the area southeast of Abbeyville. He seemed to be able to see through the map the horrific scene that was about to unfold on that muddy road.

"The British want to portray him as a hero."

Guderian picked up a new red pen and drew a cross on the blue arrow: "Let's see if this hero Churchill spoke of is as tough as my Stuka."

"Relay my orders."

Guderian's voice turned stern once more: "The left flank of the 'Red Plan' attack is to be adjusted immediately."

"Tell Rommel's 7th Panzer Division, and your 2nd Panzer Division, to ignore the surrendered French troops. Advance south at full speed!"

Forming a pincer movement!

"Block Saint-Valérie. Block Le Havre."

At this point, Guderian paused, his gaze fixed on the distant horizon outside the window, as if awaiting the impending explosion: "As for this Arthur Sterling—"

"Let's see if he survives the bombing in Richthofen first."

"If he turns into minced meat, then he's a fallen martyr. If he doesn't die—"

Guderian sneered and snapped the red pen in his hand in two: "Then capture him alive. I want to ask him myself how it feels to be elevated to a pedestal by your own prime minister and then abandoned under a bomb."

There's a long chapter of 10,000 words, and another one tonight, but it'll be a little late. If you want to go to bed early, you can read it tomorrow.

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