The Twilight of Empire: Starting from Dunkirk

Chapter 123 The Train to London

June 8, 1940, 19:00, Dover Railway Station, Kent, Platform 1 (Military).

Waaah—!

The sound of the ship's horn tore through the evening air, carrying the salty, fishy smell of the sea breeze.

It was a long, hoarse, and weary cry, accompanied by a large amount of white steam gushing out from the pressure relief valve, like the heavy breathing of a steel behemoth that had just swum across the English Channel on the shore.

The freight cars parked on the platform were not the kind of boxcars the soldiers had expected, used to transport livestock, prisoners, or coal.

On this special day, in order to welcome this "defeat but still glorious" army, and to show the American journalists who circled like vultures the composure and dignity that the British Empire maintained even on the edge of a cliff, Southern Railway received a death order.

They urgently requisitioned a "Golden Arrow" train, originally intended for the London-Paris intermodal transport, from their reserve depot.

enArrow) luxury passenger train.

This is a train from an old era, a time before war destroyed all that was beautiful.

Although some of the fragile crystal decorations on the train have been removed to adapt to the high intensity of wartime transportation, and the gold arrow logo on the side of the train, which originally symbolized speed and luxury, has been painted with a low-key and practical military green anti-rust paint, the interior of the carriages still stubbornly retains the luxurious pre-war framework.

Those were remnants of the Edwardian era: heavy, soft-to-the-touch dark green velvet chairs, mahogany folding tables that smelled of beeswax, and brass ashtrays on the armrests that were polished to a shine but bore the marks of time.

However, to the Scottish soldiers of the 51st Highland Division, all of this seemed so out of place, even mocking.

Three hours ago, they were fighting like wild dogs in the shower room over who could grab an extra bar of soap; two weeks ago, they were scrambling with fat rats for bread crumbs in the rotten, stinking mud pits of the Somme.

Now, fate has played a cruel joke on them—making these “beggars,” covered in the indelible smell of gunpowder and with French dirt still lingering under their fingernails, sit in first-class seats that only the mistresses of London’s gentlemen and aristocrats kept in Mayfair could afford.

A private from the 51st Division stood at the door of the carriage, his hand gripping the brass handrail, frozen in place.

He looked down at his newly put-on, stiff leather boots, then at the wool carpet on the carriage floor, which was even cleaner than his sun-baked face. His feet dangled in mid-air, his toes hesitant to step down.

It was as if that step had not soiled the carpet, but rather something called "civilization."

"Get in! You idiot! Who are you waiting for? The king to roll out a red carpet for you?"

McTavish's rough roar exploded behind him.

The Scottish veteran gave the private a hard shove.

"Don't cower like a country bumpkin who just arrived in the city! This is taxpayers' money! This carpet was bought with your hard-earned taxes! Treat it like the face of a German, stomp on it hard! Leave your ass imprint on that damn velvet!"

The soldier was propelled into the carriage by a tremendous force, lost his balance, and fell heavily onto the large, soft seat.

puff.

That long-lost, cloud-like feeling of being enveloped instantly overwhelmed him.

But instead of feeling comfortable, he felt a physiological panic that the softness was too great.

For someone accustomed to sleeping on hard ground, ammunition boxes, and piles of rubble, this softness made him feel like he had no foothold and no cover.

His back was pressed tightly against the backrest, his muscles taut, as if a Mauser rifle bullet would pierce through the soft velvet and drill into his spine at any moment.

He instinctively pulled his legs back, afraid that the shoe polish on his boots would stain the seat opposite him, making him look like a thief who had broken into a palace.

At 19:15, the train started.

With a deafening roar that shook the very bones, the massive red rotating wheel began to turn slowly. The connecting rods clanged with metallic clashing, and the pistons propelled the steam, the rhythm gradually accelerating.

Moreover—moreover—moreover, the towering chimney of the steam locomotive spewed out thick white smoke, the smell of high-quality anthracite burning.

But after experiencing the nauseating mixture of gunpowder smoke, stench of corpses, and burning heavy oil in Calais, this simple coal smoke smelled surprisingly refreshing, even carrying a hint of the reassuring sweetness unique to industrial civilization.

The gray ruins of Dover, the bustling docks, the mountains of supply crates, and the strait that had witnessed countless deaths were gradually left behind.

Like a green scalpel, the train sliced ​​through the twilight and entered the heart of Kent.

This is the most beautiful season in England.

Outside the window, the rolling green hills take on an oil painting-like quality in the afterglow of the setting sun.

The sunlight was golden, and the grass was emerald green.

Neat hedges divide the fields into perfect geometric shapes, and in the distance are rows of old farmhouses built of red bricks, with wisps of smoke rising from their chimneys—a signal for dinner, a signal for home.

There were no shell craters, no barbed wire covered in bits of flesh, no plumes of burning black smoke, and no agonizing shriek of the Stuka dive bomber.

Only silence, a silence that is almost false and suffocating.

A young Scottish soldier pressed his face against the cold glass window, his nose turning white from the pressure, his breath creating puffs of white mist on the glass before slowly dissipating.

His eyes were wide open, his bloodshot pupils trembling violently, as if he were desperately searching for something, or as if he were confirming whether everything before him was just a hallucination before his death.

"What are you looking at, Jimmy?" His comrade, who was wiping the still gunpowder-smelling bayonet, nudged him lightly with his elbow.

"Cows." Jimmy didn't turn around. He stretched out his rough fingers and pointed to a group of black and white cows grazing leisurely by the river as they passed by outside the window.

His voice was dry and hoarse, with a neurotic confusion, like a child seeing something that defies the laws of physics.

"What's so interesting about cows? There are cows everywhere in the Scottish Highlands," his comrade muttered dismissively, sheathing his bayonet.

"No—" Jimmy shook his head, his fingertips scratching a harsh mark on the glass, leaving a fingerprint.

"It didn't catch fire."

He slowly turned his head and looked at his comrade-in-arms. His eyes were a lifeless emptiness, like two dry wells.

"I didn't smell any roasted meat either. In Saint-Valérie—on that farm—all the cows were bloated like balloons, their bellies bursting, purple intestines hanging from the apple trees, and flies were everywhere. But this one—it's eating grass. Why is it still eating grass? Doesn't it know there's a war?"

His comrade was stunned.

The sense of relief of returning home vanished instantly, and everyone in the carriage fell silent. Even the soldier who had intended to take out his harmonica and play a tune silently put his hand back in his pocket.

The peaceful scene did not bring them tranquility, but rather a huge, unreal sense of rift.

Looking at the beautiful scenery outside the window, they felt like a group of ugly monsters who had stumbled into a fairy tale world, an invader carrying bacteria of death. They didn't even dare to breathe deeply, fearing that their blood-smelling exhaled fumes would turn this green field into scorched earth.

19:50, Ashford Station.

The train slowly slowed down and came to a stop at Ashford Water Station amidst a screeching sound of metal scraping and the screech of hydraulic brakes.

This is neither the final stop nor a heavily guarded military blockade zone.

The kind of strict control that completely separates civilians from the military is not yet in effect here.

Local residents who had already heard rumors of the "return of the 51st Division," Scottish women from the Women's Volunteer Service (WVS), and family members who had come from London and surrounding villages rushed onto the platform the moment the train came to a stop.

Amidst the rising steam, figures carrying baskets, buckets of hot water, and packages could be seen.

The cacophony of voices was no longer a piercing scream, but a lively and bustling atmosphere.

"Tea! Hot tea! With sugar!"

"Sandwiches! We have corned beef and egg sandwiches! Who wants the egg one?"

"God bless you! Children! Welcome home!"

Has anyone seen anyone from the Glasgow Highlands Group?

The car windows were rolled open one by one.

Rough, gloved hands reached in, offering scalding hot enamel mugs, thick sandwiches wrapped in newspaper, and chocolates that were incredibly precious under the rationing system.

This isn't the cold, official aid; it's the warmth of ordinary British people, the warmth of mothers and sisters.

Arthur sat by the window, neither getting out of the car nor opening the window.

He watched the scene outside the window quietly through the glass.

His gaze was calm and profound, like an outsider observing a tragicomedy.

Suddenly, an unusual commotion caught his attention.

At the door of the third carriage, an elderly couple struggled through the crowd to stop a corporal from the 51st Division who was smoking on the platform to get some fresh air.

The couple looked to be in their sixties and were typical of the Scottish working class.

The old man was wearing a badly worn but faded tweed jacket and an old baseball cap.

Although the years have bent his back, he still tries to straighten his back and put his hands behind his back—McTavish told him that it was a unique posture of a veteran who had fought in the Battle of the Somme.

The old woman was wrapped in a thick woolen shawl, her face was full of wrinkles, and she held tightly in her hand a wicker basket covered with a red checkered tablecloth.

They looked very anxious, their eyes frantically searching the faces of every soldier who got off the vehicle.

It was a look in his eyes that was both full of hope and extremely afraid of his hopes being dashed.

That gaze was so sharp that it made people afraid to look directly at it.

"Excuse me—" The old woman's voice trembled slightly as she reached out a hand and cautiously tugged at the corporal's sleeve, as if grasping at a lifeline: "Excuse me, have you seen Robbie from the Second Battalion? Robbie McDonald? He's from the communications company."

The corporal, who was greedily puffing on a cigarette, paused for a moment.

The half-smoked cigarette in his hand fell to the ground with a "thud," scattering a few sparks.

He instinctively wanted to stand at attention and salute, but his body stiffened halfway, and his eyes began to dart around violently, looking at the ground, at the wheels, at anything that wasn't what the couple was looking at.

"He—he's a redhead." Seeing the corporal remain silent, the old woman gestured urgently towards his name. "He's very tall, a little taller than you. He has two prominent canine teeth when he smiles. He has a scar on his left eyebrow from a childhood fall while riding his bicycle—"

The old man added from the side, trying to mask the tremor in his voice with a man's steady tone, but he failed: "We heard—the 51st Division is back. We took the early train from London specifically for this. This kid—this kid loves meat pies. His mother queued for three days to get the beef."

The corporal opened his mouth.

His Adam's apple bobbed violently, as if something was stuck there.

That name.

That's more than just a name; it's a red-hot coal, burning his vocal cords right now.

Robbie McDonald.

That red-haired kid from the communications unit.

That guy who always boasted that his mother's pies were the best in all of Scotland.

Of course he knows.

How could I not recognize you?

On his last day in Saint-Valéry, Robbie climbed out of the trenches to establish a telephone connection between the division headquarters and the besieged rear guard.

The corporal was less than twenty meters away from him.

He witnessed firsthand the German 81mm mortar shell whistling as it fell.

No last words, no miracle.

The red-haired kid was instantly blown away, along with the heavy radio on his back, turning into a cloud of blood mist and fragments scattered in the dirt.

They couldn't even find a complete identity tag.

The corporal looked at the two elderly people in front of him, who were full of hope and carrying steaming hot meat pies.

He wanted to lie.

This is an unwritten rule of compassion in the military—if you can't bring back a person, at least bring back a hope.

Telling them "he's on the ship behind," telling them "he's only slightly injured and in a hospital behind," or even telling them "he's missing" is far kinder than telling them "he's broken."

"he----"

The corporal tried to force a smile, attempting to fabricate a perfect lie.

But when he met the old woman's clear, anxious, and loving eyes, all his lies crumbled.

His facial muscles twitched violently as if out of control.

His eyes instantly reddened, and the fear, guilt, and sorrow that had been suppressed on the battlefield for half a month burst forth in that instant.

He couldn't lie to those eyes; they were his mother's eyes.

silence.

Dead silence.

The surrounding noise seemed to disappear in this small circle, with only the monotonous, indifferent hissing sound from the motorcycle's exhaust valve.

The old woman kept staring at the corporal's face.

She understood everything from the corporal's devastated expression.

No words were needed—the word "death" was already written on the young man's face.

The light in her eyes went out completely in that instant, like an oil lamp being blown out by the wind, leaving only a wisp of smoke.

She didn't wail or faint; instead, it was as if all her bones had been suddenly removed. Her once straight neck drooped limply, and her body fell backward.

The old man who had been standing behind her reacted quickly and caught her.

"It's alright—it's alright, Mary. It's alright—" The old man's voice was hoarse, like a piece of dry wood.

He held his wife tightly, his calloused, withered hands trembling violently, but he still did not collapse.

He was a Scottish man and a veteran of World War I.

He knew what death tasted like, and he couldn't fall in front of the young soldiers.

"Is he—is he a good man?" The old man raised his head, his cloudy, red eyes fixed on the corporal, and asked the last question.

The corporal nodded vigorously, tears and snot splattering on the ground, but he stood ramrod straight and shouted with all his might, "Yes! He's a hero! Sir! He died trying to connect the telephone line, to cover our retreat—he fell towards the enemy! He was the best communications soldier!"

"Good. That's good. That's good—" the old man murmured to himself, nodding.

He took a deep breath, as if using all the strength he had left to suppress the excruciating pain in his chest.

He bent down and took the heavy basket from the old woman's hands. Inside were the beef they had queued for three days to buy, and the puff pastry made with the finest flour—Robbie's favorite beef kidney pie.

Even through the thick towel, you could still feel the scalding temperature.

That's the warmth of home.

"Take it, son." The old man took a step forward and forcefully shoved the basket into the corporal's arms. His movements were rough and resolute, as if the basket weighed a ton, or as if he were handing over his entire world.

"No—don't waste it." The old man immediately turned his back, not wanting the soldiers to see the tears streaming down his face. "Robbie—that boy Robbie hates cold pie. You eat it. You're all good boys, all the same age as Robbie. Eat it for Robbie."

"But—sir—" The corporal, clutching the burning basket, sobbed uncontrollably, his legs trembling so much he almost knelt down.

"Take it!" the old man growled.

Then, supporting his wife, who was no longer able to cry and was like a walking corpse, he staggered toward the platform exit.

They did not turn back.

Those two aged figures, silhouetted against the steamy mist and the dim twilight, appeared so frail, so lonely, yet so defiant.

Waaah—!

The train whistle sounded again, relentlessly urging us to part ways. The train slowly started moving, its wheels screeching as they rolled over the rails.

The corporal did not return to the carriage.

He stood blankly by the car door, clutching the basket that still smelled of steam and meat. The cold wind stung his tear-streaked face like a knife.

He watched the two figures disappear into the darkness, and the lights of Ashford Station recede into the distance.

Finally, he could no longer hold on, and leaned against the car door, slowly squatting down.

On this luxury train bound for London, on this night of celebration, he held a basket of food meant for the dead, buried his head in his knees, and wailed like an abandoned child.

The cries were drowned out by the roar of the train, yet they clearly reached the hearts of everyone present.

Inside the car, Arthur looked away.

He didn't speak, nor did he order anyone to comfort the corporal.

He simply took the silver cigarette case out of his pocket and rubbed the cold lines on it vigorously with his fingertips until his fingertips turned white.

"This is the price," Arthur whispered to himself.

Through the car window, he watched the elderly couple disappear into the night, his fingers unconsciously stroking the cold silver cigarette case.

The "Worship" entry on the system panel, gleaming with golden light, was no longer a badge of honor in his eyes, but a tombstone built with countless "Robbies".

Behind every worshipper, there is a broken family weeping.

That's the weight of prestige—heavier than a lead weight.

Meanwhile, in the adjacent carriage of the 51st Highland Division, the basket exuding an enticing aroma was placed in the center of the table.

The rich aroma of beef filled every inch of the air, but no hand reached out to it.

Because nobody dared to touch it.

The soldiers hung their heads, staring intently at their boots, and a deathly silence filled the air, a silence known as "survivor's guilt."

Arthur watched this scene quietly through the glass door connecting the carriages.

Through the blurry reflection, his gaze pierced through the crowd and precisely located the bear-like, imposing figure.

Their gazes met in the murky air.

Arthur nodded slightly.

Sergeant McTavish returned the salute solemnly through the glass, then abruptly stood up, grabbed a bottle of whiskey, and walked toward the group of soldiers frozen in grief.

Night completely enveloped England.

This "Golden Arrow" train, once a symbol of luxury and speed, now resembles a green bullet traveling through the darkness. The rhythm of its wheels striking the rails has become rapid and monotonous: clang—clang—clang.

The sound was like a Maxim machine gun firing long bursts on the battlefield, or like a tireless metronome pounding on everyone's nerves.

The scenery outside the train window was completely obscured; only the occasional passing traffic light cast a pale red glow, or the fleeting shadow of a military train passing on the opposite track.

The train carriages were under a blackout, with only the dim floor lamps in the aisles and a few covered table lamps lit, casting long shadows of the soldiers that twisted and swayed against the mahogany wainscoting as the train swayed, like ghosts.

[Carriage No. 3: 51st Highland Division]

The air here is hot, with the smell of Scotch whisky and sweat, and that sudden, intense aroma of meat that makes you want to cry.

The wicker basket, covered with a red checkered cloth, was placed like some kind of religious relic on the unfolded mahogany folding table in the center of the carriage.

The corporal who had brought the basket onto the vehicle huddled in a corner, his hands covering his head, his shoulders still trembling from time to time.

He didn't dare look at the basket at all, as if it contained not food, but Robbie McDonald's mangled corpse.

"I can't eat—" the corporal muttered. "That's Robbie's. His mother made it for him—I can't eat it."

We don't deserve to eat.

This feeling spread like a plague through the train carriage.

Hunger churned in my stomach, a primal instinct; but guilt gripped my throat, a shackle on my soul. Who could comfortably enjoy the fruits of these parents' labor after witnessing what had just happened? Every bite felt like chewing on the tears of those two old people, every bite like swallowing the blood and bones of a comrade-in-arms.

In the deathly silence, a large, calloused hand reached out and grabbed a corner of the tarpaulin.

It's McTavish.

Instead of opening it directly, he first took out a flat glass bottle from his pocket that had no label and was only half full.

That was an expensive single malt whisky, the kind only found in officers' clubs, and it was unlikely to end up in the pocket of an infantry sergeant.

But McTavish was an exception, because he was Lord Sterling’s bodyguard.

"The officer shoved this into my hands." McTavish's voice was low as he stated a fact, his gaze sweeping over the dejected soldiers around him: "Brigadier General Sterling saw it all. He was behind the window; he saw it all."

Upon hearing the word "Brigadier General," the soldiers instinctively raised their heads, a flicker of emotion crossing their eyes.

"The officer didn't say any comforting platitudes, nor did he put on any act." McTavish unscrewed the bottle cap and poured a little liquor onto the floor next to the basket. The crisp liquid seeped into the carpet, like a silent offering. "He just gave me this bottle and said one sentence."

The sergeant took a deep breath and abruptly pulled back the tarpaulin.

Whoosh—white steam rose up, instantly blurring the surrounding black face.

Those were twelve golden-brown, crispy beef kidney pies.

Even after their long journey, they still retained their enticing color. The pastry was brushed with egg wash, glistening in the dim light, and exuding a rich aroma of Angus beef and black pepper.

The aroma was so overpowering, it was so overpowering it made me want to cry.

"The officer said: Dead men don't feel hunger, but the living do. If you want to carry the rest of the fight for that signalman, you'll have to feed him. Don't let Robbie McDonald think his comrades are a bunch of crybabies."

'

McTavish picked up a piping hot pie, the temperature of which burned his fingertips, but he didn't let go.

He turned around, staring at the corporal huddled in the corner, his tone suddenly turning stern—the absolute authority of a superior over a subordinate, and the final show of force of an older brother toward his younger brother: "One last thing." The sergeant shoved the pie into the corporal's hand. "This is the brigadier general's order. Don't let it get cold."

The corporal held the pie.

The heat spread from my palm throughout my body, as if something was melting.

Since it's an order—since it's the order from the man who led them out of the encirclement, the man who gave Guderian a thorough dressing-down—then this isn't stealing food; it's a mission.

Even though he had just filled his stomach with exquisite cold-cut salmon, art-like desserts, and expensive, bubbling champagne at the lavish victory celebration in Dover that afternoon, in retrospect, it all tasted like chewing wax.

It was just a prop for reporters to take pictures; it filled their stomachs but could not fill the huge void in their hearts caused by fear and death.

The corporal opened his mouth wide, as if to vent some long-suppressed anger, or as if to desperately fill the void deep in his soul, and took a big bite.

Click.

The sound of the pastry cracking was particularly clear in the quiet carriage.

Immediately afterwards, the rich, piping hot meat juices burst in your mouth.

It's the powerful aroma of oil, black pepper, and onions—a rough but genuine taste of home.

Tears welled up instantly. This was a thousand times more delicious than any delicacy he had ever tasted at a banquet, yet it was so bitter that he could barely swallow it. This was the most delicious thing he had ever eaten in his life, and also the cruelest thing—because every bite was like chewing on the unfinished life of his comrade.

"It's fucking delicious." Sergeant McTavish picked up a piece and mumbled a curse as he chewed it vigorously.

Two streams of murky tears flowed down his freshly washed face, dripping onto the pie and seeping into the golden crust.

"This is fucking delicious—that bastard Robbie, he used to brag that his mom's pies were the best in Scotland. He wasn't lying."

Give me one.

"I want one too."

Soldiers swarmed around. A dozen dark hands reached in. There was no struggle; the movements were as gentle as if touching a newborn baby.

They ate silently, swallowing large mouthfuls.

Everyone chewed vigorously, their jaws aching but they didn't stop. In the dimly lit carriage, this meal became a solemn and tragic ritual. What they were swallowing was not noodles and beef, but some heavy vow, the unfinished lives of their comrades.

They had to eat it.

In order to live.

To live for those who couldn't come back.

Because this is an order: don't let it grow cold, don't let this love grow cold.

>