The Twilight of Empire: Starting from Dunkirk

Chapter 138 Searching for the Madman

June 10, 1940, 9:30 AM, London, Stirling Heavy Industries, top floor chairman's office.

London outside the window is in a state of collective, Xi Jinping-like, morbid excitement.

The Thames was filled with the sounds of ship horns, and newsboys on Fleet Street waved newly printed extra editions, the bold headlines seemingly leaping off the page—"Trial in the Mediterranean: The Royal Navy Annihilates the Main Force of the Italian Army."

People embraced and toasted each other with beer in the streets, as if the war was over.

But in Sterling Heavy Industries' top-floor offices, the soundproof glass perfectly filters out the cheers from the outside world, leaving only questions of survival and destruction.

Arthur stood in front of a giant European military map that took up an entire wall.

He didn't look at the Mediterranean Sea.

That red cross has already been drawn on Taranto; that's in the past.

His gaze is now fixed intently on northeastern France.

There, the black arrows representing the armored formations of the German Wehrmacht were tearing through the fragile muscle tissue of the Weygand Line, relentlessly piercing towards the heart of Paris.

"Ryder, tell me the bad news," Arthur said calmly, his back to his desk.

Major Ryder stood in front of the table, holding a red folder labeled "MI6/Top Secret".

His expression was rather unpleasant.

"Guderian's armored divisions have crossed the Marne. The French 7th Army has been completely routed. According to our informants in Paris, government ministries are burning archives; the sky there is black."

"Prime Minister Paul Reynolds has lost control of the cabinet. His mistress, Countess Helene de Porte, whispers in his ear every day, urging him to cease hostilities 'in order to preserve French civilization.'"

"Marshal Pétain and General Weygand have effectively taken control of the army. They have rejected Prime Minister Churchill's proposal to establish a Franco-British Commonwealth and are prepared to declare Paris an open city."

Ryder closed the folder and took a deep breath: "The conclusion is: the question isn't 'whether' France will surrender, but 'when.' MI6's assessment is: at most one week."

Arthur turned around and struck a match.

The firelight flickered in his pupils, sending chills down one's spine.

"A week? Ha, you overestimate the toughness of those bureaucrats." His gaze pierced through the smoke. "When a country's prime minister starts listening to strategic advice in bed, that country is already a corpse."

Sergeant McTavish, standing in the corner, was wiping Arthur's revolver.

He was the typical Scottish Highlander, unable to understand complex politics, but possessing a beast-like intuition.

"Sir," McTavish looked up, a hint of confusion on his weathered face, "since the French are surrendering, what are we worried about? Are we going to rob banks in Paris?"

"More valuable than that, Sergeant." Arthur walked to his desk and tapped his finger heavily on the southwest corner of the map of France on the table, at the location of Bordeaux.

"What Little Mustache wanted was land, factories, and that massive French fleet. But what he most wanted to destroy was the soul of France."

"If the French government surrenders, they will sign an armistice. All troops will lay down their arms, and all resistance fighters will be considered insurgents."

"We need a flag. A voice. Someone who can tell the world that 'the real France' is still fighting."

Arthur pulled a black and white photograph from the drawer and threw it onto the mahogany wooden table.

The photo shows a tall French brigadier general with a distinctive large nose and an arrogant expression.

Charles de Gaulle.

"It's him," Arthur said.

Major Ryder leaned over for a look and frowned: "That brigadier general who was just appointed as Under Secretary of Defense by Reynolds?"

He had spent a few days in London. He was said to be extremely eccentric, arrogant as Louis XIV. Prime Minister Churchill privately called him "that baguette."

"I know what you're thinking, Ryder. We have indeed got Major General Jeanson in our hands." Arthur walked to the liquor cabinet, poured himself a glass of water, and said calmly, "But Jeanson is a pure battlefield commander. He's the kind of fierce general whose adrenaline surges at the sound of artillery fire, and who would love to personally grab a rifle and lead the charge. If you put him in command of a division or even an corps, he can win brilliant victories."

"But let him get involved in politics? Let him engage in verbal battles with those old politicians like Pétain and Weygand? Let him rally people in front of the BBC microphone?" Arthur shook his head. "That would kill him. His political acumen is even less than the gun cleaning cloth in the sergeant's hand. If you let him lead the government-in-exile, he'll be sidelined by his subordinates in less than a week."

“We need de Gaulle.” Arthur turned around, pointing to the photograph. “Although Winston doesn’t like him—two megalomaniacs in one room would suffocate.” Arthur chuckled coldly. “But Winston is a pragmatist. He saw it clearly—de Gaulle wasn’t just a soldier; he was a born political animal.”

"Janssen is the sword, suitable for killing; de Gaulle is the flag, suitable for striking at the heart. Without this flag, the so-called 'Free France' would be nothing more than a bunch of scattered soldiers. But with him, we have a legitimate government-in-exile."

"The problem is, Pétain and his old cronies know this too. According to our inside intelligence in Bordeaux, once Pétain takes power, the first thing he'll do is present de Gaulle as a gift to Hitler. The Gestapo's arrest warrant is already on its way."

Arthur stubbed out his cigar, his eyes sharpening.

"Regular troops can't go to Bordeaux. It's a chaotic vortex, full of deserters, spies, and surrendered gendarmes."

If we send in a commando unit to force our way in, and are discovered, it would be tantamount to declaring war on France.

"We need a new kind of people. A group of people who don't follow rules, have no bottom line, can move like rats in chaos, and then bite through throats like wolves."

At this point, Arthur opened the briefcase in front of him, took out two pre-prepared documents, and pushed them in front of the two men.

"The two of you."

"Before that, we need to resolve the chain of command issue."

Ryder and McTavish were stunned. They looked at the heading on the document—it was an official letter of appointment from the War Department, stamped with the bright red seal of the Imperial Chief of Staff, Sir Dill.

"Frank Ryder," Arthur announced formally and solemnly, "in recognition of your outstanding leadership during the French Campaign, you are now promoted to Colonel. Your new assignment is to serve as the Chief Liaison Officer between Stirling Heavy Industries and the soon-to-be-established Special Operations Unit (SOE)."

Ryder stood at attention, saluted, and accepted the letter of appointment.

Colonel—this is the ultimate goal that many professional soldiers strive for their entire lives, yet he achieved it in just two weeks following Arthur.

"John McTavish," Arthur said, turning to the old soldier who was cleaning his gun.

McTavish quickly put down the gun cloth in his hand and stood up straight.

"Given your extensive battlefield experience, and the fact that we need a sufficiently strong sergeant major to manage the next group of lunatics, you are hereby promoted to Warrant Officer Class 1."

"You will be in charge of assembling and training my private tactical training team. You are the king of soldiers here, a sergeant, no, a warrant officer. I want you to make those aristocratic officers bow down before you."

McTavish's hand trembled, and the revolver almost fell to the ground.

Warrant Officer First Class. That is the pinnacle of the British Army's non-commissioned officer system, the highest rank at the regimental level, and the ultimate goal that countless soldiers look up to.

"Sir—this—" The veteran was somewhat incoherent, his eyes slightly red. He knew very well who he owed his current situation to. "I will definitely train those bastards so badly that even their own mothers wouldn't recognize them."

"Very good." Arthur nodded. "Now, go and carry out your first task."

Arthur walked to the window and looked down at the bustling streets of London.

"One of my distant cousins."

David Stirling, Lieutenant of the Scottish Guard.

"If I'm not mistaken, this guy has just been evacuated from Dunkirk. Since there's no fighting, he's probably in some run-down bar right now, numbing his excessive violent urges with alcohol."

"Find him, Ryder," Arthur said, turning around.

"Bring him to see me. Tell him that if he doesn't come, I will, in the name of the head of the family, shut down his pitifully small trust fund."

.

London, White Horse underground bar, 20:00 PM.

The "White Horse" bar is the most notorious den of iniquity in the area.

The rules here are simple: no questions asked about background, no regard for rank, only fists matter.

Especially during this period, this place was like a pressure cooker that could explode at any moment, crammed with defeated soldiers from various scattered units who had just been evacuated from Dunkirk.

Alcohol did not alleviate their frustration; instead, it fueled their aggression—everyone felt they were the tough one who hadn't been broken and were eager to prove it by knocking other people's teeth out.

In a corner of the bar, an "informal military exercise" is underway.

Three strong and burly infantry corporals were surrounding an unusually tall young officer.

The officer was at least six feet six inches (about 1.98 meters) tall, a beacon among the generally malnourished Londoners. He wore a crumpled Scottish Guard uniform, the top button missing from the collar, and the cuffs stained with oil.

David Sterling.

A collateral member of the Sterling family.

He was an even more marginalized figure than Harold Sterling, who had already been kicked out of the family. At family gatherings, he was usually the one sitting in the corner, being talked about by the elders as a negative example.

He loved adventure and even planned to climb Mount Everest, but the war interrupted his plans.

He joined the army, yearning for glory, but ended up spending a week eating sand on the beaches of Dunkirk, eventually escaping back to England like a refugee crammed into a fishing boat.

Now, he is a lieutenant with plenty of energy but nowhere to use it, and full of complaints.

"Hey, tall giraffe," a corporal in the lead reeked of alcohol, waving a half-empty bottle, "were you just mocking our regimental emblem for looking like a castrated lion?"

David Sterling sighed, a deep weariness showing on his handsome but dejected face.

He was indeed drunk; the alcohol numbed his senses and made him sluggish.

"Let me correct you," he hiccuped, swaying slightly. "I didn't say it looked like a castrated lion. I just said that the person who designed that emblem clearly confused a lion with a poodle. That's an unforgivable mistake in heraldry."

"You're asking for it!" The corporal was enraged and charged forward, brandishing a bottle.

David Sterling is not Rambo; at this point, he has not yet undergone that kind of systematic special operations training.

Right now, he's just a drunkard with excellent physical condition but half of his body has been drained by alcohol.

He instinctively tried to dodge, but his steps faltered. Bang! The bottle smashed against his shoulder, shards flying everywhere.

The excruciating pain brought David back to his senses.

Instead of retreating, he charged towards his opponent. He didn't use the rigid bayonet drills taught in the army, but grabbed the heavy glass ashtray on the table—the hardest thing he could find.

*Thud!* The ashtray struck the corporal squarely on the bridge of his nose. Blood spurted out instantly. The corporal clutched his face and collapsed.

The brutal action drew gasps from the onlookers.

But the remaining two pounced on him, and one fist couldn't fight off four hands. David was pushed onto the table, and bottles and fists rained down on him.

For a moment, he could only protect his head and then try to fight back.

In the chaos, he grabbed one man's finger, snapped it, and heard a sharp crack. Then he slammed his knee into another man's groin. It was a bloodless, ugly fight.

David Sterling's lip was split open, blood was flowing from the corner of his eye, and his uniform was torn open with a large gash.

But he was laughing; it was the pleasure brought on by adrenaline. He was enjoying the pain because it at least made him feel alive, instead of waiting to die on that damned Dunkirk beach.

Just then, the bar's wooden door was pushed open.

The manner was rather impolite; Colonel Ryder and Warrant Officer McTavish forced the door open. Immediately afterwards, a man in a well-tailored three-piece suit, leaning on a silver-tipped cane, walked in.

When this combination appeared in an underground bar, it naturally became the focus of everyone's attention.

The noise in the bar abruptly ceased, even the two corporals who were still beating David stopped, staring in horror at these uninvited guests who were clearly important figures. Especially the red collar tabs on Colonel Ryder's shoulders and the intricate rank insignia on McTavish's cuffs—symbols of absolute power.

Arthur didn't look at the people fighting.

He covered his nose with a handkerchief in disgust, as if the air here would infect his lungs.

Arthur stood by the messy table, while Colonel Ryder stepped forward to block Arthur's path, not even needing to draw his gun, but merely scanning the room with his eyes.

That look instantly turned the drunkenness of the brawling corporals into a cold sweat.

They stood at attention and saluted in a flustered manner, their movements so precise it was almost comical. Their earlier arrogance vanished in the face of the colonel's epaulets, which represented absolute authority.

It seems David's rank doesn't matter here, not because there are no rules, but because his rank isn't high enough.

For a corporal, a lieutenant is a "superior" who can be bullied, while a colonel is a "god" who holds the power of life and death.

They were terrified that Ryder might call in a platoon of military police at any moment and take them all away.

"Get out." Ryder didn't call anyone, he just uttered one word.

Without a word, the three corporals carried the wounded man and ran, as fast as they had during the Dunkirk evacuation.

David Sterling lay amidst the broken tables and chairs, panting heavily. He wiped the blood from the corner of his mouth, squinted his swollen eyes, and looked at the man standing in front of him.

Of course he knew Arthur. The pride of his family, the beacon of the empire, the savior of the Highlanders, the industrial tycoon, the favorite of the war cabinet, the man who had pronounced the Italian navy dead on the radio just a day earlier.

In comparison, I am nothing but a lump of mud.

"Cousin Arthur?" David sat up with difficulty, leaning against the wall, letting out a hoarse laugh. "What, tired of the champagne on Downing Street, want to experience life at the bottom? Or are you here to represent the family and announce my expulsion?"

Arthur looked down at his cousin, noticing the bruises on his face, the blood at the corner of his mouth, and the still burning flame in his eyes.

"Using the environment, an ashtray is a good choice. But your physical strength is too poor, David." Arthur used his cane to clear away the broken glass on the ground and pulled over a relatively intact chair to sit down.

"If there were four enemies, or if that guy was holding a knife instead of a bottle, you'd be a corpse by now."

"Thanks for your tactical guidance, cousin." David chuckled self-deprecatingly, trying to find a cigarette. "It's a pity I didn't learn how to fight with an ashtray in military school."

Arthur pulled a fine silver cigarette case from his pocket, flicked out a cigarette, and tossed it to David. Warrant Officer McTavish very considerately stepped forward and lit it for them both with a lighter.

"Because military academy teaches how to line up soldiers to die," Arthur said calmly. "What you just did, though ugly, was a survival tactic."

David took a deep drag of his cigarette; the nicotine soothed his trembling nerves.

Are you here to laugh at me?

"No," Arthur looked at him, "quite the opposite, I'm here to give you a job."

"I've read your report from Dunkirk. Instead of foolishly waiting for the navy to rescue you like everyone else, you tried to organize a small team to infiltrate behind German lines and sabotage them. Although it failed, the idea was interesting."

David paused for a moment, the dejection in his eyes dissipated somewhat, and a hint of surprise appeared. He didn't expect that such a trivial matter would reach the ears of his important cousin, and judging from the looks of it, the other party seemed to be somewhat interested.

"That was just—I wanted to have some fun." Now it was David's turn to stammer.

"Very good. I need this kind of fun right now." Arthur stood up, straightening his perfectly wrinkle-free suit. "Come with me, David."

"I have some 'dirty work' that requires a madman to do. The regular army can't do it, and I don't trust the intelligence agency."

"The reward is more money than you can spend in your lifetime, and — the kind of war you've always longed for."

David Sterling watched Arthur's retreating figure. Without any hesitation, he quickly threw away the half-smoked cigarette in his hand and spat out a mouthful of bloody saliva.

"Damn it." He staggered to his feet and followed. "I'd do anything, even go to hell, as long as it's not going back to that damn barracks to march in formation."

Sterling Heavy Industries, 4th Underground Weapons Testing Range, 23:00 on the same day.

This is Arthur's private arsenal, and also an incubator for future special operations.

The air was filled with the smells of gun oil, gunpowder, and metal cutting.

Two weapons were placed on the shooting platform, their contrast striking.

David Sterling picked up the one on the left first. It was a rough metal tube, with weld marks as ugly as a centipede, the magazine inserted horizontally from the left, and the crude wire stock looked like it would break at any moment.

"What is this? What kind of drunken plumber's masterpiece is this?" David weighed the thing in his hand, looking disgusted. "Will this thing even make a sound? I feel like it might explode in my hands at any moment."

"That's a Sten submachine gun. The estimated cost is $9." Arthur leaned back on the table, arms crossed. "It's ugly, prone to accidental discharge, but it can kill within 50 meters. Considering the large amount of equipment you lost at Dunkirk, the Cabinet has asked Sterling Heavy Industries to redesign a cheap automatic firearm, one for the millions of civilian soldiers who will be conscripted, so that when that day comes, every British man will have a fire-breathing tube in his hand."

"But I don't need you to use this kind of garbage." Arthur stretched out his hand and pointed to the one on his right. "This one is for you."

David put down the "pipe" and picked up another one.

The moment he got his hands on it, his eyes changed.

This is a black weapon with a bluish sheen. Although the receiver is still tubular, the workmanship is extremely exquisite. The gun body is covered with a non-slip textured paint, and the stock is a sturdy folding steel frame. Most notably, it abandons the side-insertion magazine design commonly used by the British, and instead adopts a vertically inserted magazine like the German MP40.

"This is a Stirling SMG. My personal modified version." Arthur walked up to David, as if introducing a work of art.

"I don't like side-feed magazines; they disrupt the center of gravity and are prone to snagging when passing through narrow doorways. I changed it to a vertical feed system."

"A 30-round double-column, double-feed magazine. This means your fingers won't bleed while loading, and it won't jam no matter how much sand or dust there is. It fires 9mm Parabellum rounds at a rate of fire of 550 rounds per minute."

It has an independent speed control.

"Give it a try."

David pulled back the bolt—click. The sound was crisp and smooth, possessing a beauty unique to precision machinery, a world apart from the dull thud of the previous shot.

He aimed at the target 20 meters ahead and pulled the trigger.

Da da da da da!

A dazzling yellow flame shot from the muzzle, and David's pupils contracted instantly.

To his surprise, he found the recoil control of the gun to be remarkably good. The advanced bolt design and the perfect center of gravity provided by the vertical magazine made the gun as stable as if it were glued to his hand during fully automatic fire. The spent cartridges were ejected from the right side, landing on the concrete with a crisp, clattering sound.

Almost instantly, 30 bullets were fired, turning the wooden target in the distance into a honeycomb, with the bullet impact points being incredibly dense.

"My God—"

David stroked the slightly warm gun barrel, his eyes filled with the look of a lecherous man eyeing a stunningly beautiful woman.

Compared to the Thompson submachine gun that could shatter your shoulder, this gun practically dances in your hand—it's a work of art made to clear a room.

He turned his head and stared intently at Arthur.

"I want fifty."

"You can have as many as you want. Including the matching silencers." Arthur walked over and slammed a map of Bordeaux and a picture of de Gaulle on the table, covering the pile of spent shell casings.

"Now, listen carefully, David." Arthur's voice turned serious, like that of a godfather imparting doctrine.

"The regular army is too slow. They are concerned with battle lines, supplies, and layers of approvals, and they use pipes like Sten to fill trenches."

But we're heading to hell, a place where the rules don't apply.

"I want you to assemble a team. Not many people, five or six will be enough. From Cold Creek Guards to the 51st Highland Division, you can choose the members yourself."

"I won't give you a unit number, I won't give you heavy weapons, and I won't even acknowledge your identity."

"You must act like pirates, driving disguised vehicles and infiltrating behind enemy lines. Your mission is not to occupy, but to create chaos. Hit and run, sabotage, assassination, kidnapping—use every means to win the war."

David Sterling was originally just a troublemaker who wanted to fight but couldn't find a way, but at this moment, Arthur's words were like a key, clicking open the door to "special operations" in his mind.

He looked at the fine submachine gun in his hand, then at the map.

He realized that this was the kind of war he had been searching for.

This is his war.

"So who is the target this time?" David asked, his eyes gleaming with anticipation.

"Bordeaux," Arthur said, pointing to the city on the map that was about to be swallowed up by the Nazis.

"France is about to surrender. There is a French brigadier general named de Gaulle, who is our only bargaining chip. But he is currently trapped in Bordeaux, and Pétain's men want to capture him and hand him over to Little Beard."

"Your mission: Infiltrate Bordeaux, find our liaison officer, General Édouard Spears, and assist him in bringing de Gaulle out."

"They must be alive. If necessary, knock them unconscious and put them in a sack."

"The deadline is June 17th. That's the last window of opportunity for France to surrender."

David picked up the photograph, looked at the arrogant Frenchman, and whistled.

"This is a big job." He turned to Arthur, slinging the Sterling submachine gun across his chest. "I need men. But I don't want those model soldiers who can only march in formation."

"I know," Arthur laughed. He knew his cousin's tastes all too well. "You want people who've been locked up for fighting, have criminal records, or are mentally unstable. Only madmen can survive in Bordeaux."

"Go find the person you need. Colonel Ryder will handle the rest. If he can't, go to the War Department and say I gave you permission. Whoever he is, even if he's on death row, I can get him out if you need him."

Pilbright Military Detention Room, Surrey County, June 12, afternoon.

The iron gate made a scraping sound when it opened.

In the dimly lit solitary confinement cell, a massive figure was prone on the floor doing push-ups. He was shirtless, his muscles bulging, and his back covered in scars. That was Paddy Mayne, a former Irish national rugby player, an active-duty army lieutenant, and the most troublesome figure in the Royal Ulster Rifles.

He was put in solitary confinement for assaulting a major who insulted Irishmen at the officers' club.

"Lieutenant Maine!" Colonel Ryder shouted from the doorway.

Paddy Mayne sat up abruptly, like a brown bear whose sleep had been disturbed, and stared coldly at the officer at the door, making no attempt to salute.

"If this is a sentencing hearing, hurry up and read it. I still need to exercise."

David Sterling stepped out from behind Ryder, looked at the giant, and whistled.

"I heard you broke three of the major's ribs with a single punch?"

Paddy Mayne squinted. "That's because he has osteoporosis. Who are you?"

"I'm here to take you out." David tossed him a pack of cigarettes. "I have a job. Go to France, kill Germans. No military discipline, and endless drinking."

Paddy Mayne took the cigarette, held it to his nose, and smelled it.

"That sounds good. But why should I go with you?"

"Because if you don't come with me, you'll rot here," David chuckled. "And besides, I'm the only one who thinks your breaking the major's ribs is a work of art."

Paddy Mayne grinned, revealing a cruel smile.

"Give me five minutes. I need to put on my pants."

At the same time, in an engineering camp in London, Jock Lewes was conducting experiments in his tent. The table was covered with various chemicals, detonators, and alarm clocks.

This Oxford University student is a typical "destructive maniac." He is researching how to make a simple Molotov cocktail using a Coke bottle and sugar.

When David Sterling found him, he had just nearly blown his eyebrows off.

"You want to go to Bordeaux?" Lewis pushed up his tinted glasses. "That's suicide."

"Yes," David nodded, "but we can use any amount of explosives we want there without writing a single word of report."

The rationality in Lewis's eyes vanished instantly.

"make a deal."

June 13, 04:00 AM, Kent, RAF Manston.

The darkness is deepest before dawn.

At the end of the runway, a de Havilland flamingo, painted entirely in matte black without any national markings, stood...

The Havilland Flamingo all-metal high-wing transport aircraft has been preheated.

The aircraft's streamlined fuselage looked particularly striking in the night, with its two Bristol Perseus radial engines idling.

In the darkness, the exhaust manifold could be seen glowing red-hot, and with each violent piston stroke, short, deadly spurts of bluish-purple flames rhythmically spewed from the exhaust ports. The deep roar assaulted everyone's eardrums.

David Sterling stood at the cabin door, looking at his "team".

There were only six people in total.

They wore ill-fitting Royal Military Police uniforms with white armbands as a disguise, but each of them exuded an undisguised banditry in their eyes.

Paddy Mayne was carrying a huge canvas bag filled with Sterling submachine gun magazines and several bottles of whiskey.

Jock Lewis held his explosive pack like a baby.

"Are you all ready, gentlemen?" David Sterling shouted, his voice brimming with the excitement of heading to the battlefield. "We're going on vacation to France. I heard the wine there is free, but the Germans are going to rob it too. We'll get there before them."

"I'd go anywhere as long as there's a fight to be had," Paddy Mayne muttered, becoming the first to climb onto the plane.

David turned around and glanced at the black Rolls-Royce parked in the distance by the runway. The window wasn't rolled down, and only a tiny, crimson cigarette glowed inside.

He knew it was Arthur. The cousin who pulled him out of the mire, gave him a gun, and a whole new way of life.

David raised his hand and gave the car a very imperfect, slightly roguish salute. Then he turned and jumped into the cabin, slamming the door shut.

As the engine speed suddenly increased, the two blue-purple exhaust plumes instantly lengthened.

The black "Flamingo" began to taxi on the runway, accelerate, and finally lightly raised its nose, retracted its landing gear, and like a giant nocturnal bat, pierced the fog of dawn and flew towards France, which was burning and collapsing.

inside the car.

Arthur stubbed out his cigarette.

"Young Master," Warrant Officer McTavish said, looking in the direction the plane had disappeared, "those men looked like a group of criminals robbing a bank. Especially that Irishman, his file is practically a criminal encyclopedia."

"In this crazy time, Warrant Officer," Arthur said softly, looking out the window at the gradually brightening sky, "it's a virtue."

"Let's go. We'll inform General Spears. His 'postman' is already on his way."

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