The Twilight of Empire: Starting from Dunkirk

Chapter 140 Black Snow

1940年6月15日，18：30，法国，通往波尔多的N10国道。

Black snow is falling from the sky.

This is not literary rhetoric, but irrefutable evidence of the collapse of the Third French Republic.

To prevent secrets from falling into German hands, government agencies retreating from Paris frantically burned files at every stop along the route. Foreign Ministry telegrams, Interior Ministry blacklists, Treasury bond stubs—hundreds of tons of paper were reduced to ashes. Rising hot air currents carried these black wrecks, which, along with the moist sea breezes blowing from the Atlantic, covered the entire Aquitaine region.

National Highway N10, the main road connecting Paris with the Spanish border, now looks like a necrotic intestine.

The road was completely blocked.

This can no longer be called a retreat; it is a national exile involving millions of people.

Compared to Dunkirk, the scene here was far more grandiose and absurd. Although the government was prepared to kneel and kiss the conquerors' boots, fear outpaced the order to cease hostilities. For these civilians with their families, as long as the sound of German tank treads continued, running south was an instinct—as if running far enough would allow them to escape the fate of national subjugation.

Moreover, no one believed the Nazis would abide by the agreement. People weren't looking for new lines of defense; they were fleeing an imagined massacre.

On the roofs of expensive Bugattis and De La Haye limousines, Simmons mattresses salvaged from Parisian apartments were tied with thick hemp ropes—a superstition prevalent among French refugees that mattresses could protect against machine gun fire from German Stuka bombers. Between these luxury cars were horse-drawn carriages, handcarts, and even baby strollers, all laden with belongings.

No one honked the horn anymore, because the battery had long since died.

The odors in the air were complex: the smell of burning clutches, the smell of untreated excrement, and the smell of ashes from the end of history.

In the long line of steel vehicles, two dust-covered Citroën Type 23 trucks were struggling to blend in with the flow of refugees, crawling along like snails. A corner of the canvas awning of the truck bed was lifted, and Mike Riley (nicknamed "The Liar") propped his feet, clad in military police boots, on the dashboard, a toothpick dangling from his mouth, looking out the window with a look of disgust.

"This is practically a party." Mike Reilly was wearing an ill-fitting French gendarme lieutenant's uniform, but with his top button undone and hat askew, his slovenly demeanor made him look more like a pimp on vacation than a law enforcement officer.

"Sir, look at that Renault on the left. What's that strapped to the roof? Louis XVI's dressing table? Does that old woman think Guderian's tanks will stop because of her gilded table?"

"That's their coffin lid, Mike." David Sterling gripped the steering wheel, his sunglasses reflecting the sea of ​​red taillights ahead.

In order to get through this hostile land, he, like everyone else, changed into a French khaki uniform without any identification insignia, and even deliberately tore off half of the collar insignia to disguise himself as a retreating staff officer.

"And put those damn feet down. If I want this car to look like a military police vehicle escorting classified documents, your posture will ruin everything."

"Come on, sir." Mike lazily withdrew his foot. "Now, if you can speak French and have a gun, you're the mayor of Bordeaux. This place is beyond saving."

"Besides, who cares about posture these days? They just want to vent their anger on someone, especially the British."

The traffic suddenly came to a standstill, followed by a cacophony of angry shouts and the sound of shattering glass.

Through the dusty windshield, David saw a sight that made his stomach churn.

On the roadside, a lone British courier's BSA motorcycle lay overturned. The British courier had been dragged off and was being beaten by seven or eight angry French refugees—among whom were even two uniformed French soldiers who had fled the country.

"traitor!"

"Go back to Dunkirk!"

"You sold us to the Germans!" A brick slammed into the messenger's helmet, blood streaming down his forehead. He curled up on the ground, too afraid to fight back, only able to protect his head.

Click.

A crisp metallic clang came from the back seat. Paddy Mayne's large hands were already gripping the Sterling submachine gun hidden under his raincoat. His eyes were fixed on the French soldier who was kicking the messenger's ribs with his military boots, his gaze like that of an enraged bull.

"I'm going down there and wipe them all out," Paddy's voice was terrifyingly low. "Right now."

"Sit down, Paddy. Take your hand off the trigger." David Sterling didn't even turn his head, just gripped the steering wheel tightly. "Look around. There are at least 20,000 French people here. In their eyes, we are the culprits who pushed France into the abyss. If you shoot, this car will be torn to shreds, and we won't be able to save that child."

"So we're just going to watch?" Paddy's breathing became heavy.

"Yes, we'll just watch." David gritted his teeth, forcing himself to press the accelerator and maneuver around the crowd. "This is the price we have to pay to save de Gaulle. Don't forget Arthur's mission."

The truck slowly drove past the scene of the atrocity. David glanced one last time in the rearview mirror at his compatriot, whose face was covered in blood. He didn't stop. In the twilight of this collapsing nation, mercy was a luxury.

But the traffic soon came to a standstill again.

This time it wasn't because of traffic congestion, but because someone had set up a checkpoint.

A hundred meters ahead, a group of disheveled French soldiers had knocked down a tree, blocking the road. A lieutenant, along with several soldiers armed with rifles, was forcibly stopping vehicles. Instead of checking identification, they were inserting hoses into the fuel tanks of passing cars and forcibly siphoning gasoline.

Several private cars that had broken down due to running out of gas were parked nearby, and the owners were kneeling on the ground begging for help, but were knocked to the ground by soldiers with the butts of their rifles.

"Robbers. And robbers in military uniforms." Paddy watched the scene coldly from the shadows in the back seat.

"Sir, I can go down and talk to them. With my fists, or with this gun." Paddy's voice was filled with barely suppressed rage. "I guarantee that lieutenant will regret his mother giving birth to him."

"Put your gun away, Paddy." David Sterling once again restrained the restless Irishman. "Like I said, this is French territory. If you open fire, all the refugees for this kilometer will turn into mobs. We're here to be pirates, not butchers." David turned to the co-pilot: "Mike, it's your turn."

"Remember, your role is the Minister of Defense's special liaison officer. You have a terrible temper, just got back from the front lines, and have utter contempt for these provincial bumpkins."

Mike Reilly spat out the toothpick from his mouth and grinned.

He straightened his collar, buttoned his top button, and rubbed his face in the rearview mirror. A second later, the nonchalant pimp disappeared. In his place was the face of a "big shot"—a face etched with arrogance, anxiety, and even a hint of neurosis.

The truck drove up to the roadblock.

The French lieutenant, as was customary, approached carrying an oil drum and was about to ask for some fuel when Mike Reilly abruptly pushed open the car door and jumped out.

Without waiting for the lieutenant to speak, he rushed over and slapped the lieutenant's helmet.

Snapped!

"What are you doing, you idiot!" Mike yelled in a perfect Paris 16th arrondissement accent (an upscale neighborhood).

That nasal tone, rapid speech, and heavy use of administrative jargon could only be imitated so perfectly by someone who had spent ten years in government buildings along the Seine.

"Who gave you the authority to stop this vehicle? Who is your regimental commander? The 7th Army or the 4th Army? I think you're looking to go to jail for a military court-martial!"

The lieutenant was completely stunned.

He clutched his helmet, staring at the menacing "military police lieutenant" before him.

"I—Sir—we need gasoline—we need to go to Bordeaux—"

"Gasoline?" Mike pointed at the lieutenant's nose. "Are you going to hand over Prime Minister Reynolds's most urgently needed classified files to the Germans for a few liters of damn gasoline? Guderian's tanks are right behind us! If that vehicle had arrived ten minutes later, you, and your whole family, would have been hanged!"

Mike pulled a small blue notebook from his pocket—which was actually a laundry shop ledger—and waved it in front of the lieutenant so fast that the words on it were barely visible.

"This is a special order from the Ministry of Defense! Move that piece of junk away! Now! Or I'll have my guards shoot you right now!"

The lieutenant was completely overwhelmed by this sudden display of official authority.

In France's rigid bureaucratic system, such high-ranking Parisian bureaucrats were often more terrifying than German tanks. He glanced at David Sterling, wearing sunglasses and with a cold expression, in the truck cab, and then at Paddy Mayne, who looked like a brown bear, in the shadows of the back seat.

His instincts told him that he couldn't afford to mess with these people.

"Sorry, sir—I'll move it right away!" The lieutenant saluted hastily, then turned and yelled at the soldiers, "Move it! Move it now! Don't block my way!"

The roadblocks were quickly cleared.

David Sterling stepped on the gas, and the truck roared past. As the truck passed the group of soldiers carrying wood, Bill O'Connor (nicknamed "The Thief"), sitting under the canvas awning in the back of the truck bed, was not idle.

This former king of pickpockets in London's East End slipped half his body out from the gap in the canvas as the car drove by.

His hand moved so fast that it was just a blur.

After the truck had driven ten meters, Bill retreated back into the cab, his arms now holding two precious cans of military gasoline and an unopened pack of "Gallic" cigarettes.

"This is called field supply, sir." Bill winked at the rear window of the cockpit and tossed a can of oil to Jock Lewis next to him.

"That lieutenant even helped me hold the oil drum. What a polite young man."

David Sterling glanced at the group of French soldiers still saluting in his rearview mirror and sneered.

Arthur is right.

They weren't some regular army. They were a bunch of bastards with special talents. And in Bordeaux, this crumbling madhouse, these bastards often outlived the medal-laden heroes and were better suited to carry out such special missions.

The convoy finally squeezed into Bordeaux city before nightfall.

This ancient city, famous for its wine, has now been transformed into a massive, despair-filled open-air refugee camp.

In Place des Quinconces, thousands of refugees slept in the open air, wrapped in blankets.

David saw a lady in an evening gown sitting on her suitcase by the roadside, wiping the soot off her face with the handkerchief she used to polish her diamond necklace, while her husband—a portly banker—was exchanging a gold bar for a moldy loaf of bread from a street vendor.

"This is the end of the world." Johnny Cooper (nicknamed "The Sharpshooter") sat on the edge of the back of the truck bed, not holding a gun, but a regular monocular telescope.

His eyes scanned the street like radar.

For a sniper, what he sees is not the scenery, but the threat level, the field of fire, and high-value targets.

"Sir, three o'clock to the left." Cooper's voice came through the window behind him into the cockpit.

"Café terrace. Three men in grey trench coats. They weren't drinking or looking at women, their eyes fixed on every passing military vehicle. They could be Gestapo spies, or Vichy gendarmes. Threat level: Medium."

"At nine o'clock on the right, in front of the Bank of France branch," Cooper continued, "those two trucks were still running."

The tires were low, indicating a heavy load. There were eight plainclothes officers nearby, each with something tucked into their belts. They were preparing to move gold or heavy weapons. It's advisable to avoid them.

"Twelve o'clock. The flower woman." Cooper paused. "She has a Browning M1906 strapped to her outside thigh. She could be a resistance fighter, or she could be an assassin. Threat level: low, unless you buy flowers from her or make contact with her."

"Even in this mass grave, you can see very clearly, Johnny," David commented.

"It's an occupational hazard, sir." Cooper put down his binoculars. "I only look at things that can kill."

The car eventually stopped in front of the Hôtel Splendide, the seat of the provisional government and the epicenter of the chaos in Bordeaux.

The lobby was piled high with suitcases, resembling a fortified fortress. The hotel manager, sweating profusely, stood behind the counter, roaring at a group of politicians waving banknotes and checkbooks: "No rooms left! Even the bathtubs are full! Unless you're willing to sleep on the kitchen counter!"

David straightened his uniform and led his squad inside. The chilling, blood-stained aura of a professional soldier carved a path through the crowded lobby.

"We need a room." David slammed the forged "Envoy's Guard Pass" on the table. "We need one on the second floor, with a good view and a view of the main entrance."

"I said there are no rooms available! Even if you were the King of England, it wouldn't be possible!" The manager was nearly collapsing, his voice hoarse. "The second floor is reserved for the Minister of Education! But the damn Minister of Education is still in Tours and hasn't arrived yet!"

"Since he's not coming, then leave it empty." David shrugged. "We'll watch over it for him. Don't worry, we take good care of public property."

"I told you that's the minister's room! The key is in his deadbeat secretary's hands! And the secretary is still on his way to Tours!" The manager threw the registration book down in frustration. "Want to stay? If you can get in, then it's yours! Otherwise, go sleep on the lobby carpet! Even Marshal Pétain's adjutant sleeps on the sofa!"

"Very good." David didn't argue, but simply took back his credentials. "Since the minister isn't here, as the intelligence department of the 4th Legion, we have an obligation to check the room for any security risks. No need to trouble you." With that, he waved and led his team towards the stairs.

"Hey! You can't go up! The door is locked! It's a special double-tongue lock!" the manager yelled from behind, but he was entangled by two congressmen waving checkbooks and couldn't get away.

The group arrived on the second floor, where the corridor was also full of people lying down, but the carved oak door was still empty because a sign reading "For Minister's Use Only" hung above it. David and Paddy Mayne stood side by side in the doorway with remarkable ease, their broad backs completely blocking the view of the lobby below.

Reggie Seekings (nicknamed "The Locksmith") slipped between the two like a shadow.

He pulled a wire from his messy hair and squatted down.

There were no unnecessary movements, no sense of ceremony whatsoever. He simply inserted the wire into the keyhole, pressed his ear against the door, as if listening to a secret.

Click, tap.

Less than three seconds.

The brass lock, which the manager boasted was "unbreakable by anyone except explosives," made a crisp popping sound. Reggie gently pushed the door open and even made an extremely gentlemanly "please" gesture.

As David led his men in, the manager downstairs pushed through the crowd and looked up.

He stared in disbelief as the door, which should have been locked, was wide open, and the group of officers walked in as if it were their own home.

"This—how is this possible?" the manager muttered to himself. "I still have the keys with me—"

David walked to the carved railing on the second floor and leaned out.

He took off his sunglasses and looked down at the bewildered manager: "Mr. Manager, please tell the minister that his room has been requisitioned by the 4th Army Corps. Given that security here is practically non-existent, we will personally take charge of the security."

If anyone asks, just say we're carrying out a cleanup operation.

After saying that, he slammed the door shut, shutting out all the chaos and doubts.

After occupying the second-floor suite as a temporary command post, David Sterling did not rest.

"Mike, you stay here. If anyone tries to break in, use your words to coax them away."

"Patty, Bill, come with me. We're going to see the general."

The hotel bar was filled with smoke.

This place is home to some of the most desperate people in all of France—politicians who know the inside story, generals about to lose their jobs, and speculators trying to profit from the national crisis.

David quickly spotted General Edward Spears in a smoky corner of the bar.

The British liaison officer looked as if he had been suffering in hell for three days and three nights, with bloodshot eyes and his uniform collar open.

He was surrounded by a group of angry and desperate French parliamentarians, like an old lion being attacked by hyenas. They were waving worthless passes, trying to exchange spittle, curses, and worthless information for a ticket to London.

"Stop looking, General! We want the ship! The British owe us!" a fat Frenchman roared, grabbing Spears' sleeve.

"Make way." A cold voice cut through the noisy crowd.

Paddy Mayne, wearing that ill-fitting French military overcoat, crashed into the encirclement like a runaway bulldozer.

He rudely shoved the two Frenchmen who were blocking his way, sending them stumbling backward while muttering incoherent profanities, looking like a thug looking for trouble.

This created the only opening for David.

David Sterling pulled his hat down low, using Paddy's broad back as a shield, and quickly closed in on Spears.

He didn't salute, didn't shake hands, and didn't even look the general in the eye. Instead, he leaned close to Spears' ear in an almost defiant manner and shouted in French, "If you can't give me a pass, I'll break your bones!"

But beneath the cacophony of shouts, he switched to a rapid whisper in English: "General, it's Sterling. Look at your glass, not me."

Spears froze.

His hand holding the glass trembled, and he almost spilled the whiskey.

He turned his head slightly, glancing out of the corner of his eye at the group of "thugs" with bandit-like faces and dressed in a mix of French military uniforms. If it weren't for that familiar surname, he would have definitely thought they were a few defeated soldiers who were about to rob him.

"My God—" Spears gritted his teeth, maintaining a stiff posture as he whispered in response, "Arthur really sent you? You don't look like soldiers, more like rapists who just escaped from Newgate Prison in London."

"In this place, rapists do better than gentlemen, General." David maintained his aggressive demeanor, as if demanding a bribe, but spoke rapidly, "To make a long story short. Where's the cargo?"

Spears took a deep breath, feigning a helpless shake of his head as if refusing an unreasonable request, but his finger subtly pointed to the ceiling: "Room 408. De Gaulle is still there revising his speech; he's stubborn. But he's being watched." Spears suddenly grabbed a newspaper from the table, seemingly tossing it aside casually, but his eyes darted to the side of the lobby. "Don't turn around. Three o'clock, under that palm tree. See that guy reading the newspaper?"

David didn't turn his head, but grabbed the newspaper and held it in front of his face, observing through the gaps at the edge of the newspaper.

“That’s a Corsican. Pétain’s secret police, the kind who do dirty work.” Spears’ voice was chilling. “He’s been watching the elevator entrance since this morning. He’ll make his move the moment De Gaulle shows his face, or Reynolds resigns.”

David locked onto his target through the gap: a man in a gray trench coat, his hat pulled low. Although he was holding a newspaper, his dead-fish eyes kept glancing at the stairs and elevator. His left hand remained in his trench coat pocket, where a noticeable hard object bulged.

"I'll break his legs," Paddy Mayne heard from the side, clenching his fists and cracking his knuckles. "Or I'll drag him to the toilet and shove his head down to drown him."

"No, Paddy. That's too rude." David put down his newspaper, still complaining loudly in that angry French, "Damn Englishman," before turning his back to Spears.

"If something happens to him in the hotel, the military police will lock the doors, and we'll be trapped." David's gaze swept across the lobby, finally landing on Bill O'Connor, who was leaning against a pillar pretending to be doing nothing.

David made a very subtle gesture—a code he had learned in London’s underground casinos.

"Bill, it looks like you need to borrow a light."

Bill O'Connor grinned, revealing a gold tooth.

He returned a gesture, roughly meaning: Understood, sir. I'll go check if this friend is carrying any fire.

Bill straightened his crumpled French uniform and grabbed a half-empty bottle of cheap red wine. He staggered toward the palm tree, singing off-key "La Marseillaise" as he walked, his steps unsteady.

As he passed the Corsican, he seemed to trip over the edge of the carpet and fell onto the man like a lump of mud.

"Ouch! Damn carpet! Who designed this—" Bill "accidentally" spilled the red wine in his hand, which landed right on the Corsican's trench coat. Taking advantage of the moment, he clung to the man, his hands groping wildly as if trying to find a foothold.

"Get out of here, you drunkard!" The Corsican shoved Bill away in disgust, his hand instinctively pressing on the holster under his arm to make sure the weapon was still there.

But he didn't notice at all that in the instant the drunkard's dirty hand slid across his chest, something had already changed hands.

"Sorry, sorry—I have money—I'll pay you back—" Bill apologized repeatedly, staggering back with a silly grin on his face.

Two minutes later, Bill circled back into the shadows beside David, now holding a black alligator leather wallet and an ID card.

"That guy's a pro. He has a Browning M1910 under his arm, already loaded." Bill, hiding behind Paddy, displayed his loot like dealing cards.

"The name on the identification is Pierre Saar, from the Special Operations Department of the Ministry of the Interior. And this—" He pulled out a folded sheet of paper, "a briefing on tonight's operations. De Gaulle's name is circled in red. The orders are simple: once the cabinet falls, immediately place him under protective detention. If he resists, execute him on the spot."

David took the death sentence, his face grim.

"Well done, Bill." Bill skillfully pulled the several thousand francs out of the wallet, stuffed it into his pocket, and then casually tossed the empty wallet into the tray of a passing waiter, his movements fluid and smooth.

"Now, that Corsican friend is an undocumented person. On this night of martial law in the whole city, you can't move an inch without identification."

"That's not enough." David looked through the gaps in the crowd at the agent who was still angrily wiping the wine stains off his trench coat. "In this place, not having identification is just a hassle, but we need to make him disappear completely." He turned to look at Mike Reilly, who was trying to get close to the bartender at the bar.

"Mike." David didn't shout, but simply gestured in that direction with his eyes.

Mike Reilly, a top-notch conman, instantly understood.

He turned to the bartender who was wiping glasses, lowered his voice, but just loud enough for the most ruthless and desperate-looking French deserters around him to hear: "Hey, see that guy in the grey overcoat over there? I just saw him signaling to the Germans in the alley—and I heard he has gold bars stolen from the Bank of France in his suitcase, which he's going to use to bribe the Germans."

In this city filled with doubt, fear, and greed, people don't care about the truth; they only care about what they hear and see.

"German spy", "gold bar".

These two words instantly ignited the nerves of the surrounding group of refugees and defeated soldiers who had already descended into hysteria.

That was the best target for their anger, and their only chance to make a fortune.

A few minutes later, several French soldiers with fierce eyes and bayonets began to surround the palm tree. The surrounding refugees also cast hostile glances. Then, someone shouted, "Catch the spy! He stole our gold!"

Before the unfortunate Corsican could react, he was overwhelmed by the angry mob. He frantically tried to draw his gun in self-defense, but this only confirmed his status as a "dangerous element."

"He has a gun! Shoot him!" Amidst the chaotic punches and kicks, the once arrogant assassin was dragged out of the hotel like a dead dog and disappeared into the dark streets of Bordeaux.

David Sterling watched this scene indifferently, feeling no remorse whatsoever for using someone else to commit murder.

He turned and, still in that demanding tone, yelled "Fuck you, Englishman!" at Spears, then quickly whispered, "Solve the problem, General. That's the wisdom of the masses." "Now, take us to de Gaulle. We're going to steal France."

June 15, 23:45, Splendid Hotel, second floor, SAS temporary base.

The suite had been converted into a makeshift arms workshop.

Besides the aroma of expensive Bordeaux red wine, there's another distinct smell here: a pungent gasoline odor and the chemical smell of potassium permanganate.

Jock Lewis (nicknamed "The Destroyer") is hogging the priceless Louis XV-style mahogany coffee table.

He is engaging in a dangerous form of artistic creation.

Several empty bottles of high-end red wine were lined up in a row. He was pouring a viscous liquid into them.

"What's this? A cocktail?" Mike Reilly asked curiously as he leaned closer.

"Pretty much. It was for the Germans." Jock pushed up his round-framed glasses, looking like a chemistry professor conducting an experiment.

"Sugar, gasoline, rubber powder, and a little oxidizer from the pharmacy. This is the first prototype of the 'Lewes Bomb.'" He picked up a sealed bottle and shook it. "This stuff explodes at temperatures exceeding 1500 degrees Celsius, and it burns whatever it sticks to. In this hotel full of carpets and wooden furniture, just throwing one in could create a wall of fire."

"Chaos is our best cover."

In another corner of the room, Reggie Higgins was crouching by the fireplace.

He was tapping on the wall.

"It's empty here." Reggie took out a knife and carefully pried open a panel, revealing a built-in safe.

"I knew it. Officials always like to hide money in the place closest to their bed." This time he didn't even listen, he just turned the knob a few times by feel.

Click. The cabinet door popped open. There were no documents inside, but there were five gold bars and several neatly bundled US dollars.

"Wow," Reggie whistled. "Looks like this is the funding we've been looking for." He pulled out a gold bar and tossed it to David. "This is also the 'educational funding' that the minister didn't take with him."

David Sterling caught the gold bar and weighed it in his hand.

He stood by the window, watching the night sky over Bordeaux pierced by searchlights. In the distance came a muffled rumble, he couldn't tell if it was thunder or German bombers approaching.

This city, like Paris, is dying rapidly.

He could sense it. That Corsican was just a minor incident. Tomorrow, Pétain would come to power, and the entire machinery of the state would become their enemy.

"Gentlemen," David turned around and looked at his group of "monsters."

Paddy is sharpening a knife, Jock is making a bomb, Bill is counting money, Reggie is studying a safe, Mike is practicing his expressions in front of the mirror, and Cooper is wiping his binoculars.

But that's exactly what Arthur and he wanted.

"Send a telegram to London," David said to Bill.

To: AS

"Squad L has taken over the mental hospital. There are more clowns than doctors here."

"The hounds have been cleared, but the cargo is confirmed to be still there."

"My experts are preparing fireworks. If Bordeaux catches fire tomorrow, remember to pay our bill."

Outside the window, the first lightning bolt ripped through the night sky, illuminating the black ashes falling everywhere.

The last night in Bordeaux has begun.