The Twilight of Empire: Starting from Dunkirk

Chapter 133 The Midnight Electric Wire

1940年6月9日，16：30，伯明罕，斯特林兵工厂一原伯明罕第一轧钢厂与军械分部0

The train did not stop at Birmingham Central Station, but instead went directly onto Stirling Heavy Industries' private railway line.

The sky was grey, lacking the damp haze of London after a recent rain. The air here was dry, thick with sulfur, soot, and metallic dust. Hundreds of towering red brick smoke plumes ceaselessly emitted black fumes into the atmosphere, filtering the midday sun into a sickly, hazy yellow.

This is the industrial heart of the British Empire. Dirty and noisy, but within that filth lies power.

"Moreover—moreover one."

The black, bulletproof train, accompanied by the screeching of brake pads, slowly pulled into unloading platform number 4. This platform was adjacent to the foundry; the vibrations from the steam hammers striking steel ingots traveled through the ground to the platform, sending shivers down one's spine.

The car door opened, revealing no red carpet, no flowers, and no military band.

Two rows of heavily armed Cold Creek Guards soldiers jumped off the train first, quickly spread out, and took control of the high points and exits of the platform. Their uniform gun muzzles were pointed downwards, and their fingers were on the trigger guards. Their vigilance, honed on the front lines, made the factory management who came to greet them feel uncomfortable.

Arthur got off the train.

He took off his smart brigadier general uniform and no longer wore his expensive SS leather overcoat.

He changed into a dark blue boilersuit, the standard attire for factory workers, which even had a few black oil stains on it. He still carried his ebony cane and wore a matching baseball cap.

This attire stunned the factory director, chief engineer, and several union representatives standing on the platform.

They were dressed in sharp suits and ties, their shoes gleaming; they looked more like the owners of the place than Arthur.

"Lord Sterling—" Factory manager Harrison stepped forward and attempted to shake hands.

He was a typical professional manager, with a professional smile on his face honed from business cocktail parties.

Arthur didn't reach out. Instead, he looked over Harrison's shoulder and into the distant assembly workshop, where the lights were on and huge cranes were hoisting steel.

Arthur frowned because the pace was too slow.

Although the workers were operating the machines, their movements were slow, or rather, too leisurely. At the end of the conveyor belt, three or four workers were even sitting around a pile of wooden crates, smoking and holding enamel teacups, talking about yesterday's horse race results.

"What's going on there?" Arthur pointed in that direction with his cane.

Harrison glanced back and explained awkwardly, "That's afternoon tea time, Lord. According to the union agreement, workers are entitled to a fifteen-minute statutory break every four hours. This helps with recovery—"

"Statutory rest days," Arthur repeated the word, his tone flat, revealing neither joy nor anger.

He turned around and looked at the well-dressed management team.

"Take me to the conference room."

The meeting room was located on the third floor of the administration building. Large floor-to-ceiling windows were completely covered by heavy curtains to comply with lighting regulations. The long mahogany conference table was spotless, set with exquisite bone china teaware and Scottish butter biscuits.

Arthur sat in the main seat.

To his left were the seven heads of the Sterling Armory, and to his right were three union representatives from the Birmingham area.

The leader was a bald, middle-aged man named Evans, the branch chairman of the Transport and General Workers Union (TGWU) in the UK, who always carried a thick copy of the Factory Act Amendments 1937 in his hand.

"Sir Sterling," Evans said, his tone neither humble nor overbearing, even carrying a hint of challenge, "we've heard about what happened at London headquarters. That's a management problem. In Birmingham, the unions have their own principles." Evans opened the legal code, pointing to a clause, "We understand the urgency of the war. However, forcibly implementing three shifts, canceling weekends, and mandating overtime are serious violations of labor laws. Workers are human beings too; excessive fatigue leads to increased workplace injuries, which is not only inhumane but also causes—"

Arthur didn't look at him; he was looking at the production report in his hand.

"40mm Bofors anti-aircraft guns. Last week's production: 12 guns." Arthur read out the number, his voice echoing in the quiet conference room. "This week's planned target: 15 guns."

The production supervisor hurriedly stood up to explain, cold sweat beading on his forehead: "Sir, this isn't our fault. The breech mechanism of the Bofors cannon is far too complex. The Swedes' design required integral milling, with tolerances controlled to within 0.05 millimeters. We lack sufficient skilled milling machine operators, and the wear rate of the cutting tools is too high; German-made tungsten carbide cutting tools are currently unavailable—"

"So you've stopped for tea?" Arthur closed the folder.

The folder was slapped on the table with a soft "thud".

"McTavish".

The sergeant, who had been standing in the shadows, stepped forward, carrying an inconspicuous burlap bundle covered in brown dirt.

McTavish placed the package on the expensive mahogany table, right next to the plate of delicate butter cookies, and untied the knot with a rough and direct motion.

With a clang, two steel helmets rolled out of the package, spinning on the smooth tabletop and making a screeching sound.

Next was a khaki military uniform jacket that had been torn and turned dark brown.

The atmosphere in the meeting room suddenly became somewhat strange.

The two MKII Tony helmets didn't have a smooth, painted surface. They were covered with uneven pits and dents, marks left by shrapnel impacts.

On the side of one of the helmets was a hole about the thickness of a finger, its edge curled inwards and covered in dark red rust—no, dried blood. Inside the helmet's lining, there were even a few strands of hair still clinging to the scalp.

That military uniform was in even worse shape.

A horrific gash was torn open in the left chest by shrapnel. The surrounding fabric was stiff and hardened, a crust formed by the oxidation and drying of blood that had soaked through it. The fabric fibers also contained fragments of some dry, grayish-white organic tissue.

A stale smell of blood, rotting flesh, and gunpowder mixed together instantly overpowered the original aroma of black tea in the conference room.

Several members of the management team instinctively covered their noses. Union representative Evans was even paler; he felt nauseous.

"The owner of the helmet on the left is Jack Miller. 19 years old. From Sheffield. Before enlisting, he was a baker's apprentice." Arthur's voice was soft, but his words made everyone present feel uneasy. "Three days ago, in the battle against the Germans, he died from shrapnel from a 105mm howitzer."

"When he died, he was holding a Lee-Enfield rifle. There was only one bullet in the chamber. Because logistics told him to conserve ammunition."

Arthur's finger moved toward the blood-stained garment.

"The owner of this uniform was a second lieutenant in the 51st Hill Division. He was hit by the 20mm cannon of a Panzer II while commanding an anti-tank gun crew."

"Before that, because they didn't have armor-piercing rounds, they tried to attack the tank with glass bottles filled with gasoline. He rushed to within fifteen meters of the tank."

Arthur raised his head, his blue eyes devoid of any emotion, only a suffocating stillness.

He scanned everyone present, his gaze sweeping over their well-maintained faces. No one dared to meet his eyes; the menacing aura emanating from the pile of corpses forced them to instinctively lower their heads.

"When you're here discussing which article and which section of the Factory Act."

"When you stop the machine at three in the afternoon and enjoy some black tea and cookies."

"When you complain that tungsten carbide cutting tips wear out too quickly, or even haggle over a few pennies for overtime pay."

Arthur pointed to the blood-stained clothes on the table.

"German tanks are crushing their bones."

"The sludge from these people is stuck to Guderian's tracks."

Evans opened his mouth, trying to argue: "But that cannot be a reason to break the law—"

Clang—a flash of cold light.

Arthur drew the rapier from his cane, its tip flashing silver as it pierced the thick book of labor laws. The sharp, triangular blade pierced through hundreds of pages and embedded itself deeply in the mahogany tabletop.

"Law?" Arthur looked at Evans. "That's a luxury in peacetime."

"It is now 1940. Europe is burning."

"According to the Emergency Powers (Defence) Act 1939 and the National Defense Security Act, organizing strikes in war zones or military-controlled areas to obstruct military production is tantamount to aiding the enemy."

Arthur's voice was icy and chilling.

"I will have Major Ryder set up two Vickers heavy machine guns at the factory gate."

"From today onwards, Sterling Arsenal is the front line. It is the barracks."

"Anyone who dares to step out of the workshop, anyone who dares to mention a strike again, is a traitor. Of course, I won't send him to a military court; I'll send him to meet God."

Evans looked at the rapier that was still trembling slightly, then at the heavily armed soldiers behind Arthur, and his Adam's apple bobbed violently.

He realized that the young man in front of him was not negotiating, but issuing combat orders.

"As for production," Arthur drew his rapier, sheathed his cane, walked to the blackboard on the wall, and picked up a piece of chalk.

"Stop the milling process."

Arthur drew a structural diagram of the Bofors breechblock on the blackboard, the lines simple and precise, as if the diagram had already been engraved in his mind.

"The breechblock does not need to be machined as a single piece. Instead, it can be forged and stamped."

"Relax the tolerance to 0.1 mm. Although this will reduce the barrel life by 20%, it's not important."

"We don't need a work of art that can be used for ten years. What we need are a hundred broken cannons that can be fired immediately."

Arthur threw away the chalk, the chalk tip arcing through the air before landing precisely in the trash can.

"By this time next week, I want to see a weekly output of 50 units."

"If you can't do it, then go fill in trenches along the coastline."

Meeting adjourned.

23:00, Factory Director's Office.

It was late at night, but Birmingham was still awake.

Through the office's huge floor-to-ceiling windows, the entire factory area was illuminated as if it were daytime by searchlights and air-raid shelter lights. The orange-red glow of the blast furnaces reflected in the low-hanging clouds, like a rift opening up in hell. The rhythmic rumble of the steam hammers echoed, thump, thump, thump.

That was the heartbeat of war.

Arthur stood alone in his office, the lights off. Only the firelight outside the window outlined his silhouette.

In front of him, on the wall, hung a huge European military map.

Scale 1:500,000.

The French section was covered with red arrows marking the German advance routes; this massive net was strangling the hexagonal country.

Ring ring—the red bakelite telephone on the desk rang.

The shrill ringing sounded particularly jarring in the empty office.

This line bypasses any civilian switchboard and connects directly to the underground bunker at 10 Downing Street via underground cables.

Arthur picked up the receiver.

"it's me."

"Arthur." Winston Churchill's voice came through the receiver. Even through the hundreds of kilometers of wires, you could hear the fat man's exhaustion and his undisguised despair.

"Just now, ten minutes ago." Churchill paused, as if gathering his strength to say the next sentence. The sound of a lighter being struck could still be heard.

"Wei Gang's defenses are finished."

"Paul Reynolds called me again. He told me that the French government had decided to withdraw from Paris. They are moving to Tours or Bordeaux."

"Guderian's 19th Panzer Corps has cut off the Maginot Line's rear. The 7th Panzer Division has crossed the Seine."

"At the latest, a week. Maybe only five days. They will officially surrender."

Churchill's voice lowered.

"We're really going to become orphans in Europe, Arthur. We'll face the industrial power of all of Europe alone."

Arthur didn't speak; he could hear Churchill's heavy breathing.

This newly appointed prime minister is currently under the heaviest pressure in the history of the British Empire, with the weight of the entire Western civilization seemingly pressing on his shoulders.

"Forget Paris, Prime Minister," Arthur said calmly, knowing this was the inevitable course of history. "The dead cannot be brought back to life. We must focus on the living."

"A living person?" Churchill asked.

"Mussolini," Arthur uttered the name.

He turned around, his finger tracing the map in the darkness, across the burning France, and stopping at the boot-shaped peninsula.

"Based on my guess and the clues I obtained in France, it will be no later than 6 PM tomorrow."

"That bald Caesar will stand on the balcony of the Palazzo Venezia. He will raise his fist at the crowd in the square and declare Italy to be at war."

The so-called intelligence and clues were fabricated by Arthur; there was no need for intelligence at all, because it was an inevitable historical event.

There was a two-second silence on the other end of the phone.

"I knew he would definitely make a move. MI6 had also reported it. But I thought it would have to wait until at least after Paris fell."

Churchill said, "That opportunist."

"He can't wait. He's probably more panicked than the French government right now. He's afraid that if he goes too late, he won't even get a bone to eat." Arthur looked at the Mediterranean Sea on the map.

That azure sea, if Italy joins the war, will now become a severed artery.

"Your Excellency Prime Minister, take a look at the map of the Mediterranean," Arthur said. "If Italy declares war tomorrow, the Suez Canal shipping lanes will be completely exposed to the Italian Air Force's strike radius."

"Maltah will become an island."

"But what gives us the biggest headache is their navy."

Arthur's voice was very serious.

"I know that Marshal Pound has always looked down on the Italian Navy. But we must not let our guard down."

"We all know that the Royal Italian Navy (Regia Marina) possesses two of the newest Vittorio Veneto-class battleships. Those are 35000-ton monsters, armed with 381mm main guns, and capable of reaching speeds of 30 knots. Much faster than our Queen Elizabeth-class."

"They also have 4 old battleships that have been modernized, 7 heavy cruisers, and 12 light cruisers."

"And, most lethally—115 submarines." Arthur paused. "That's a formidable force in the Mediterranean. Even on paper, they're stronger than Admiral Cunningham's Mediterranean fleet."

"And Türkiye is watching and waiting."

"If Italy controls the Mediterranean, if they blockade Suez, Turkey will side with the Axis powers. We will lose the oil in the Middle East. At that point, without the Germans even landing, we will be shut down due to lack of oil."

The breathing on the other end of the phone became somewhat rapid.

"What are you trying to say, Arthur?"

"Prime Minister. It's 11 p.m. on June 9th." Arthur glanced at his watch; the second hand ticked in the darkness.

"The main Italian naval fleet is currently anchored in Taranto and Tobruk. They haven't even deployed their minefields. Their boilers probably aren't even heated up. Their officers are likely in bars on shore, wishing for tomorrow's victory."

"They are waiting."

"The declaration of war will be formally delivered to our ambassador in Rome at 6 p.m. tomorrow."

"Then they would act like gentlemen, sounding their horns and turning their cannons toward us."

A cruel smile curled at the corners of Arthur's lips.

"Tell Andrew Cunningham."

"Don't wait any longer."

"You mean—" Churchill's voice was hesitant, and somewhat incredulous, "a preemptive strike?"

"Yes," Arthur said decisively. "Have the Mediterranean fleet depart now. Sail at full speed from Alexandria, and maintain radio silence."

"Target: Tobruk. Taranto."

“But Arthur,” Churchill hesitated, his seasoned politician instincts kicking in, “if we act now, before they declare war, it’s a surprise attack under international law. What will Roosevelt think? What will the neutral Congress think? We’ll be in a very passive diplomatic position. It will give the isolationists an excuse—”

"Diplomacy?" Arthur sneered, the sound echoing jarringly in the empty office.

"Winston. Wake up." He no longer addressed the Prime Minister by his first name, "This is 1940. Not 1840."

The age of gentlemen has been buried along with the Polish cavalry.

"This is the age of beasts. In this arena, there is only survival, no rules."

Arthur gripped the receiver tightly: "In American terms, this is a cowboy duel with guns drawn."

"We know perfectly well that the Italian will draw his gun precisely at 6 p.m. tomorrow."

"Are we supposed to be fools and wait for him to load his gun, yell 'Go!', and then reach for our holsters?"

Arthur pressed his finger heavily against the "Tobruk" naval port on the map, as if he wanted to pierce through it.

"No."

"We need to press the gun to his head 24 hours in advance," Arthur said, his voice dripping with murderous intent, "the very second he's on the balcony of the Venetian palace, screaming a declaration of war."

"I want Admiral Cunningham's 15-inch armor-piercing shells to land right over his fleet."

"He was the one who willingly stuck his finger into the meat grinder, Prime Minister. Since he wants war, then we'll teach these Italians how to fight."

"Tell Admiral Cunningham not to hold back on ammunition. If the battleships' main guns can't sink them, then send out all the Swordfish torpedo bombers from the aircraft carriers."

"Blow those ships up in the harbor."

"This is the diplomatic response we should give him."

"Only the dead Italian fleet is the most advantageous fleet for the British Empire."

"We're going to boil the Mediterranean water. Tomorrow."

There was a long silence on the other end of the phone, with only the hissing of the static and the faint roar of a forging press coming from outside the window.

Arthur waited patiently, knowing Churchill would agree.

Because in this fat man's veins flowed the warlike blood of the Duke of Marlborough.

He was essentially a pirate, a gambler who would stop at nothing to win.

The Taranto raid, which shocked the world in history, was the best proof of this. However, Arthur has now brought this gamble forward.

Churchill was not lacking in crazy ideas; he just needed someone to push him, an equally crazy accomplice, to speak for him on the basis of the potentially negative decision, to share the burden of the "war criminal" infamy that might be nailed to the pillar of shame by future historians. Churchill cared about his so-called reputation, but Arthur did not.

All he cared about was whether he could send those Italians to the seabed to feed the fish.

Finally, the sound of a match being struck came through the receiver.

"laugh"

That was Churchill lighting his tenth cigar of the night, taking a deep breath, and exhaling smoke.

"Hehe————" A deep laugh came, sweeping away the previous fatigue and turning into some excitement.

"Arthur, you're a born pirate."

"You Sterling family members are all lunatics."

"If the Nazis had won, you would have been hanged twice. Once for murder, and once for instigating the Prime Minister to violate international law."

"I am honored," Arthur replied calmly.

"I'll call the Admiralty right now." Churchill's voice regained its usual firmness, even carrying a hint of anticipation.

"Marshal Pound has been in a bad mood lately; the defeat in the Norwegian campaign has left him seething with anger. This is a good opportunity for him to vent his frustrations."

"Tomorrow at six o'clock in the afternoon."

"Let Caesar see what the Royal Navy is all about."

"There's one more thing," Arthur added, "the BBC broadcast."

"Tomorrow evening, I will have the factory workers listen to Mussolini's speech."

"I want all of Britain to hear this."

"What are you listening to?"

"Listen, it's that clown with the loud voice." Arthur looked out the window at the night sky, "Or is it the HMS Warspite?"

The main guns of the Warspite have a loud blast.

Click, the call ended.

Arthur put down the receiver, walked to the window, and opened it. The night wind, carrying the smell of coal smoke and sulfur, blew in—the smell of industry, and also the smell of war.

On this night, the gears of Europe's destiny began to turn once more.

Meanwhile, thousands of kilometers away in the Mediterranean Sea, beneath the calm surface, colossal steel behemoths are awakening, their fangs already bared.

Andrew Cunningham, the old man known as "Nelson of the Sea," should be on the bridge in Alexandria right now, smoking a pipe, about to lead his fleet to set sail.

Arthur turned to McTavish, who was standing in the shadows by the door, and asked, "Where's Ryder?"

"He's in the workshop, sir. He's overseeing the production line where those engineers are modifying Bofors cannons. Chief Engineer Williams seems to be going crazy, but he's excited."

"Call him back." Arthur straightened his collar.

"sleep."

"We're going to see a play tomorrow afternoon at six o'clock."