The Twilight of Empire: Starting from Dunkirk

Chapter 129 Bloody Steak

June 9, 1940, 01:15, London, Hampstead, Sterling House.

Three black Rolls-Royce Phantom I sedans drove off the paved roads of the Mayfair district, their tires crunching on the gravel driveway of Hampstead Heights.

It was 1:15 a.m., and London's air raid hazard was still in effect. The entire city was shrouded in deathly darkness, with only the occasional beam of searchlight sweeping across the Thames River breaking the night sky.

The convoy slowed down.

This is the Sterling family’s London residence, a red-brick building dating back to the Georgian era, hidden behind huge elm trees and high walls.

Unlike the sweltering air of the Dorchester Hotel, filled with perfume, alcohol, and political opportunism, the air here is cool, carrying the scents of earth, dew, and old brick walls.

The vehicle came to a stop in front of the main building's entrance hall, but the engine wasn't immediately turned off; the V12 engine emitted a low hum while idling. The heat radiating from the radiator grille made the silver "Spirit of Ecstasy" statue on the hood appear slightly distorted in the night.

The driver got out of the car, and his hand, wearing a white cotton glove, opened the rear door, the hinges making a slight mechanical clicking sound.

Arthur Sterling handed his family's ebony cane to the driver and stepped out of the carriage.

He sat in the car for twenty minutes.

For the past twenty minutes, his muscles had been stiff. Now, as the cold wind blew into his collar, his trapezius muscles began to relax, and a soreness followed.

He was still wearing his brigadier general's uniform, with a black overcoat draped over his left arm. It wasn't a British khaki overcoat; it was black, with silver woven insignia and oak leaf badges on the collar. It was a leather coat belonging to a German SS captain.

His right foot stepped onto the porch steps. In the hour before, those boots had trodden the expensive Persian carpets of the Dorchester Hotel, over shards of broken glass and wine stains. And now, they trod upon the pristine white marble steps of Sterling House.

The remnants of Calais red clay, solidified engine oil, and some unknown brown organic matter in the gaps of the shoe soles left several clear, black footprints on the marble.

Arthur glanced down at the footprints. He neither wiped them away nor avoided them. He stepped directly on them, grinding the stains deeper.

Major Ryder and Sergeant McTavish emerged from the escort vehicle behind them.

Their movements still maintained the vigilance characteristic of those in enemy-occupied territory.

The first thing Ryder did after getting out of the car was not to straighten his uniform, but to quickly scan the pillars of the porch, the windows on the second floor, and the shadows of the garden bushes.

His right hand rested on the grip of the Webley revolver at his waist, with his thumb on the hammer safety.

Sergeant McTavish was carrying a Lee-Enfield No. 4 rifle. The bolt was locked, but the safety was off.

These two men, exuding the smell of gunpowder and a murderous aura, stood in front of the mansions in the wealthy Hampstead neighborhood, like two wild boars that had wandered into a china shop—out of place and full of danger.

The door opened inwards, its hinges carefully lubricated, making not a sound. Warm yellow electric light poured out from the foyer, casting a rectangular patch of light in the cold night fog.

Alfred, the old butler, stood in the center of the light spot.

He was wearing a black tailcoat, his shirt collar crisp, and his bow tie perfectly aligned. Even the position of his cufflinks had been precisely adjusted.

He hasn't gone to sleep yet.

Or rather, his biological clock is always on standby until his owner returns.

Alfred looked at Arthur.

His gaze lingered on Arthur for three seconds.

He is conducting an assessment.

The young master has lost weight.

Visually, she appeared to have lost about 7 kilograms. Her facial features had become sharper, with prominent cheekbones and deep-set eyes. Her skin had a pale, sun-deprived appearance, likely due to prolonged exposure to overcast and rainy weather, but there were also obvious signs of sunburn and peeling on the backs of her hands and neck.

Alfred's gaze shifted downwards, landing on the black overcoat draped over Arthur's arm—a silver collar insignia, an SS armband.

Ordinary people would instinctively feel fear upon seeing this garment, or perceive it as some kind of bloody trophy.

But Alfred did not.

He squinted, his gaze focusing on the overlock stitching on the cuffs and lapel of the coat. The stitches were very dense, a unique hand-stitched "invisible" technique. The fabric wasn't the coarse blended wool from German military factories, but top-quality English Melton wool, soft to the touch and with an excellent drape.

Alfred recognized the craftsmanship—it was the work of old Henry from Savile Row, the same as the brigadier general's uniform the young master was wearing—that old tailor had made morning suits and hunting attire for the Sterling family for thirty years, he couldn't be mistaken.

Alfred's lips twitched slightly.

Since this wasn't some spoils the young master had taken from a dead body, he guessed it was a costume. It was probably hastily made by the young master on his way back by Old Henry to deal with those persistent war correspondents, or for some deceptive operation; the materials used were many times more expensive than Little Mustache's mass-produced items.

Alfred made sure his breathing was steady as much as possible before he walked down the steps.

"Welcome home, young master." The voice was steady and the volume was moderate, neither too intimate nor too distant.

He reached out and naturally took the coat from Arthur's hands.

His movements paused for 0.1 seconds. That 0.1 seconds was a moment of lapse in composure for an old man who had watched Arthur grow up, but it was only 0.1 seconds. Then, he neatly folded his coat and hung it in the crook of his arm.

"The hot water is ready. It's at a constant temperature of 45 degrees Celsius. I've added sea salt and rosemary essential oil."

"The chef has prepared a late-night snack. If you don't have an appetite, there's also hot beef broth."

Alfred turned around.

His gaze passed over Arthur and landed on Ryder and McTavish, who were standing in the shadows.

McTavish felt awkward; he instinctively pulled his muddy boots back, trying to hide in the shadows. In this place filled with marble, chandeliers, and oil paintings, he felt like a beggar.

"These are my guests," Arthur said, "who are also my comrades and brothers."

"Understood." Alfred bowed slightly to the two soldiers, who looked filthy compared to Arthur, performing a standard courtesy reserved for honored guests. There was no arrogance, nor the snobbish disdain typical of servants in London's high society.

"The west wing guest rooms have been prepared. That's the suite where Ambassador Kennedy stayed last year." Alfred glanced at the pistol at Ryder's waist, then at the Enfield in McTavish's hand. "The gun room is in the basement. If either of you needs your weapons serviced, there's a full set of gun oil, cleaning rods, and cleaning cloths."

"In addition, there is a cask of 1910 single malt whisky in the cellar. If you two would like to have a drink in your room, I can have it brought up."

Ryder paused for a moment, then loosened his grip on the gun.

"Thank you." Ryder's voice was a little hurried. "No need for gun oil. We brought our own. But whiskey—that's good stuff."

"The Sterling family respects those who carry guns." Alfred stepped aside to make way. "Please."

Arthur walked into the foyer.

A massive crystal chandelier hangs from the six-meter-high ceiling, and the walls are adorned with oil paintings of the Earls of Stirling. Those ancestors, clad in armor and wielding swords, coldly observe this descendant returning from France.

A person was standing at the top of the stairs.

Countess Stirling.

She's still awake.

She wore a silver-grey silk robe with a heavy Scottish cashmere shawl draped over it, and her hair was styled in a neat bun.

She was the daughter of the Duke of Argyll and received the most rigorous Victorian aristocratic education. In her worldview, the expression of emotions was considered impolite, and one had to maintain decorum no matter what happened.

She looked at Arthur.

She was unaware of what had happened an hour earlier at the Dorchester Hotel; she was unaware that her son had just smashed a wine glass and held a knife to the neck of a cabinet appeaser.

In her eyes, he was the man lauded in bold on the front pages of the London Evening News and The Times this afternoon.

The newspaper used the largest font size.

"The Beacon of the Empire." "The Miracle of Calais." "The Last Knight of Britain."

This afternoon, she sat in the living room, clutching the newspapers that smelled of ink, her hands soaked with tears.

It's not because of those prestigious titles.

Rather, it was because those news reports confirmed one thing: he did not become an unidentified corpse on the Dunkirk beach like the sons of the other 20,000 mothers.

He is still alive.

At this very moment, the living person was standing downstairs. Although he was thin and in poor spirits, he still had body temperature.

At that moment, in her eyes, he was just her son.

She walked down the stairs, her high heels making a crisp, rhythmic click on the marble steps.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

The pace was fast, which revealed her inner eagerness.

She walked up to Arthur, stopped half a meter away. She extended her hand; her fingers were long and well-maintained, and she wore a sapphire ring.

My fingertips touched Arthur's cheek; it was slightly cool.

Arthur lowered his head, and his mother hugged him. Her arms were wrapped tightly around Arthur's back, even trembling slightly.

Arthur could smell the faint scent of lavender on his mother; it was the scent of peace, the scent of an English garden, the scent of a peaceful era.

This smell mingled with the indelible odor on him, a mixture of gunpowder, engine oil, blood, and sweat, like a collision of two worlds.

"It's good that you're back." The mother's voice was soft, and slightly choked with emotion.

Only these four words were asked. There were no questions like "Does it hurt?" or "Are you scared?" because those questions were superfluous at this moment.

The embrace lasted exactly five seconds. The lady released her grip, took a half-step back, took a deep breath, and regained her dignified demeanor as the lady of the house.

She straightened Arthur's wrinkled collar. Her fingers smoothed the gold button.

Then, she looked past Arthur and at the two soldiers standing in the doorway.

Major Ryder and Sergeant McTavish stood there. They weren't dirty. They had shaved, washed off the Calais dirt, and changed into brand-new Army uniforms in preparation for the banquet at Downing Street the previous afternoon.

But under the enormous Venetian chandelier at Sterling House, the outfit still looked out of place.

Ryder's uniform was a mass-produced item from the military supply depot; the woolen fabric was rough, the cut stiff, and the collar was so tight it made it hard for him to breathe. It wasn't a gentleman's clothing; it was a soldier's shroud.

McTavish looked like a brown bear crammed into a tuxedo. His neck was too thick, and the top button was barely fastened, leaving a red mark. His hands were too rough, with calluses and gunpowder burn marks on his knuckles, and he was awkwardly clutching the brim of his hat, unsure of where to put it.

Compared to the silk wallpaper, marble floors, and ancestral paintings here, their indelible military smell and unsettling, ever-present air of violence seemed so crude.

Ryder instinctively straightened his back and hid his hands behind his back. He had never been this nervous when facing German tanks, but in front of this noble lady, he felt a physical unease.

The Countess lifted the hem of her nightgown. Her movement was elegant and dignified.

She gave the two soldiers a standard curtsy.

This is the highest level of etiquette used only when addressing members of the royal family or nobles with titles.

Ryder froze completely, and McTavish gaped open.

"Thank you," the Countess said, looking into Ryder's bloodshot eyes. "Thank you for bringing my son back."

His tone was sincere, without a trace of perfunctoriness.

"This is your home. If the mattress is too soft and you can't sleep, or if the steak in the kitchen isn't well-done, please let me know."

"Or if you want to smoke in the garden, that's fine too. Alfred will get you ashtrays."

Ryder took a deep breath, snapped to attention, and saluted stiffly, but with perfect form.

"It is our honor, Madam."

"We just did what we were supposed to do."

Arthur walked through the corridor and into the restaurant.

It was already 1:40 a.m.

The rectangular dining table, made from a single piece of mahogany, is over eight meters long and covered with a pristine white linen tablecloth. Two silver candlesticks are lit, their flames burning vertically in the still air.

Earl Stirling the Elder sat in the head seat.

He was wearing dark velvet with a black silk scarf tied around his collar.

He was very healthy; at sixty years old, his back was still straight. That was from his youth, hunting deer in the Scottish Highlands.

The physique he developed during his middle age while battling in the City of London.

He sat in the high-backed oak chair, his hands clasped on the table, like an aged but still deadly lion surveying his territory.

A newly delivered telegram lay before him, its edges slightly curled.

Arthur walked to the other end of the long table and sat down opposite his father.

The father and son had just met at the Dorchester Hotel.

At that time, they were allies fighting side by side, comrades-in-arms who sent Horace Wilson to hell together.

But now, the door is closed.

This is an internal meeting of the Sterling family, where the chairman questions the executive directors.

The waiter brought out the late-night snack, not some bland porridge, but Wellington steak. The crust was golden brown, and the beef was rare. When it was cut open, bright red blood flowed down the blade and spread across the white porcelain plate.

This kind of food, full of carnivorousness and blood, is more suitable for Arthur now.

Arthur picked up his knife and fork, cut the meat, put it in his mouth, and chewed.

He was indeed hungry.

The old count made no small talk; he watched Arthur eat, watching his son tear at the beef like a wolf.

He picked up the telegram beside him and pushed it to the middle of the table.

"An urgent briefing sent back by the French branch through neutral Sweden." The old count's voice was calm, revealing neither joy nor anger. "The message was sent yesterday afternoon."

"On May 26th, in the port area of ​​Calais, Allied engineers carried out a demolition operation codenamed 'Scorched Earth'."

To prevent supplies from falling into enemy hands, Sterling Logistics' warehouse No. 3 in the port area and its underground oil storage tanks contained 500...

Tons of high-grade diesel fuel, and 240 brand-new Bedford heavy trucks parked in the open yard. "Completely destroyed." The old earl paused, staring intently into Arthur's eyes.

"The engineers even blew up the foundation. They didn't leave the Germans with a single screw."

The old count watched Arthur's hands as he cut the meat.

"The finance department just finished the accounting."

"The direct book value loss is £45. This does not include the infrastructure costs of postwar reconstruction."

"If you include the deep-water berth that was destroyed, the loss exceeds 60."

What did £45 mean in London in 1940?

A skilled technician earns about £4 a week. A medium-sized farm with a garden in Kent costs about £800. A Spitfire fighter jet costs about £5000.

£45 is enough to equip two Royal Air Force fighter squadrons. For ordinary people, this is an astronomical figure, a fortune that they could never reach in several lifetimes.

But for the Sterling family, it was just a number on the books.

The King George V-class battleships built by Stirling Heavy Industries' shipyards cost a staggering £735 million per ship. The price for just one of the 14-inch quadruple main gun turrets exceeded £50. This £45 figure represents less than 0.5% of Stirling Heavy Industries' quarterly net profit.

Arthur didn't stop cutting the meat; he poured himself another glass of red wine.

He seemed casual, but he was actually observing secretly, and then came to a conclusion: the old man in front of him didn't care about the money.

The old man didn't even flinch. If he really cared about the money, the CFO should be standing here, not him.

This is a test question.

The father was observing his pupil response and his breathing rate.

If it were the spoiled brat Arthur of the past, hearing that he had lost £45, he would have panicked or flew into a rage.

An average businessman would talk about insurance claims and ask if he could apply for government compensation for war losses.

What the old count wanted to see was whether his successor, who had survived the hellish conditions of France, possessed the vision to match the vast empire.

Arthur forked a piece of beef still dripping with blood, put it in his mouth, chewed, and swallowed.

The smell of blood stimulated his taste buds, reminding him of the battlefield.

He picked up a napkin and wiped his mouth.

"They fried it too late."

This was Arthur's first sentence, his voice was calm, and there was no regret in it.

"If I were the commander of that engineering unit, I would have blown up the railway leading to the port as well."

The old count looked at him, his eyes equally unmoved.

"At that time, Guderian's 19th Panzer Corps was only 15 kilometers from the port. Heinz Guderian was a madman; I fought him, and he was a formidable opponent. His assault speed was incredibly fast; he could even deploy his command post right under the Allied lines to facilitate his rapid troop advances. But this caused his supply lines to become disconnected." Arthur put down his napkin. "The tanks of his 10th Panzer Division had empty fuel tanks. They were relying on captured French trucks to transport fuel."

"If those 500 tons of diesel fuel had been left to the Germans, even just half of it, their tanks would have already rolled over the beaches of Dunkirk. Four hundred thousand expeditionary troops would be just numbers in prisoner-of-war camps." "450,000 pounds, for Guderian to stop for six hours."

"The profit margin on this deal is incalculable."

Arthur looked at his father.

"And, Father, from the family's perspective, this is an opportunity."

"We must not only accept this loss, but also publicize it."

"Have the public relations department contact The Times tomorrow. I've already thought of the headline: The Sterling family in Canada destroys millions in assets just to stop the Nazis one step further."

""

Arthur's voice was full of calculation.

"We want to turn this £45 into political donations."

"It can buy the absolute trust of the rest of Churchill's cabinet. All of Britain is looking for a patriot, so we'll give him the greatest patriot."

"It can buy the public's fervent support. When the bombs fall on London, people will remember that the Sterlings suffered just as much as they did."

"It can inextricably link Sterling Heavy Industries with the words 'British Empire.'"

"Once the war ends, the return on this political goodwill will be $4500 billion, or even more."

"This is the kind of mindset our family should have."

The restaurant was quiet for a few seconds, with only the slight popping of burning candles.

The old count looked at Arthur and remained silent for five seconds.

Then, the corners of his mouth turned up slightly, a very subtle and barely perceptible expression.

"Very good." The old count approved of Arthur. "You've learned to think big, instead of being like your Uncle Harold, who only cares about small things and loses sight of the big picture. He was complaining to me yesterday that the insurance for those trucks hadn't taken effect yet. Now that you're back, he's out of here."

The topic suddenly changed.

The old count put down his wine glass.

The "business assessment" was over, but the atmosphere did not become more relaxed.

Instead, his gaze became sharper.

It was no longer a conversation between businessmen, but a father's interrogation.

"You've passed the tests in business and politics, I suppose," the old count said, pulling a folded photograph from his pocket and pushing it to the center of the table. "But what about humanity?"

It was a black and white photograph.

The shot was taken from a great distance, resulting in a very grainy texture; it was clearly taken secretly with a telephoto lens.

The background of the photo is an ancient city wall, on which hangs a corpse dressed in an SS uniform, with a noose around its neck, swaying in the wind.

"A friend from MI6 gave it to me. Taken in Berg." The old count pointed to the body. "You should know the man in the photo better than I do. He's William Monk, a first-class assault battalion commander in the SS Leibstandarte SS Adolf Hitler.

"You did not hand him over to the military police in Berg, nor did you transfer him to the rear as a prisoner of war."

"You hanged him on the city wall."

"In front of the French 12th Division and the German 10th Panzer Division on the other side."

The old count looked at Arthur.

"Arthur. You are an officer in the Royal Guard. You are a gentleman."

"According to the Geneva Convention, prisoners of war should be treated humanely."

"By hanging him, you not only violated military law, but also reduced yourself to the level of a butcher."

"I want to know, what made you cross that line?"

The restaurant was deathly silent.

Arthur didn't speak. He chewed the beef in his mouth again, swallowed, and then wiped his mouth, his movements slow and deliberate.

Arthur reached into his pocket, and this time, instead of taking out a handkerchief, he pulled out a pistol.

A black, uniquely styled Luger P08, with its signature toggle-lock bolt, 9mm caliber, and a cold, sharp look.

Snapped.

Arthur slammed the gun heavily on the table.

The black metal struck the spotless white tablecloth with a dull thud, making the silver fork beside it jump. The gun handle was engraved with two white lightning bolt symbols (SS).

"It's not just Monk."

Arthur's voice was very low.

"This kind of thing started on a farm."

"The SS Totenkopf Division soldiers stormed in. Just because they couldn't find us, they smashed an old man's skull with their rifle butts. They also killed the old man's granddaughter." Arthur looked up, his pupils devoid of light. "That was the Totenkopf Division. A bunch of lunatics selected from concentration camp guards."

"Then it's Berg," Arthur said, pointing to the gun. "This time it's Monk's elite guard. The Führer's personal guard."

"Captain Munch forced dozens of French prisoners of war to kneel in a row. The French had already surrendered and handed over their weapons. But Munch took this pistol and fired at them one by one."

"We all saw it all; he treated it like a hunting game."

Arthur looked at his father.

"Skull Division. Guard Flag Guard. Whether they wear skull badges or key badges, they are all the same."

"They are not warriors, not soldiers, not even human. They are demons."

"When I caught Monk, he seemed very scared and had his hands raised."

"When the gun was pointed at his head, he started reciting the Geneva Conventions to me," Arthur sneered, his face contorted with rage. "He emphasized his officer status, demanded legal treatment as a prisoner of war, and insisted on immediate contact with the Red Cross."

"It seems that his loyalty to the Führer has not outweighed his fear of bullets."

"It's not as hard as I imagined."

"I told him."

"The convention protects people."

"Not an animal."

"Father. You were in London. You were in the club at St. James's Palace talking about chivalry. Talking about the etiquette of war."

"But there, facing these SS soldiers who took pleasure in killing."

"Chivalry is suicide."

"To deal with executioners, you have to be more like an executioner than they are."

Arthur pointed to the body hanging on the city wall in the photo.

"I hoisted him up right in front of the two armies."

"I want Guderian on the other side to see clearly. I want all the SS to see clearly."

Arthur buttoned up his coat again, concealing the holster underneath.

"It will be the same in the future."

"Facing Sterling, facing the SS, I refused to surrender."

"Kill them one by one."

"There are only dead and living people."

The old count looked at the Luger pistol and at the photograph.

Finally, look at Arthur.

He looked into his son's deep blue eyes, which had once held only frivolity and arrogance.

Now, there was a bottomless, icy pool. He saw a chilling gaze, but also an absolute power.

In times of war, kindness is a luxury, while ruthlessness is a necessity for survival.

He realized that the spoiled brat who used to give him headaches by only riding horses and hunting was dead in France. Sitting across from him was a man who could make deals with the devil even in hell.

The old count picked up his wine glass, took a sip of red wine, and concealed the slight trembling in his fingers.

"Come to the study after you finish eating," the old count said, his voice unusually weary, but more so with a sense of relief that he could finally unload a burden. "Put that gun away. It's soiled the tablecloth."

"Let's talk about the future of the family."