The Twilight of Empire: Starting from Dunkirk

Chapter 142 The Last France

14:15, Bordeaux-Mégnac Airport.

Bordeaux-Mégnac Airport is no longer a transportation hub; it is a festering wound in the Third French Republic. Thousands of refugees, like ants driven to higher ground by a flood, are desperately crowding the barbed wire fence surrounding the airport.

Everyone was waving banknotes, jewelry, or useless government documents, trying to get a ticket to escape hell.

The military police had long lost their patience; they swung their rifle butts and smashed the fingers of those trying to climb the fence like cracking walnuts.

This is what Louis the One-Eyed saw when he drove his Citroën T45 truck at us.

This T45 was a "monster" that had been brutally modified. The original cargo box had been reinforced with two layers of 6mm thick steel plates for bulletproofing, but this also made the vehicle extremely heavy. To power this iron coffin, One-Eyed Louis replaced it with a Gnome-Rhone 14M radial engine salvaged from a crashed Potez 631 heavy fighter.

No shock absorption system could withstand that kind of horsepower; with each acceleration, the entire car groaned as if it were about to fall apart.

The carriage had no windows; only a few rays of light shone through the crack in the iron door at the rear, which was deformed from the impact in the back alley. Dust and cotton lint floated in the light.

Charles de Gaulle, the 1.96-meter-tall brigadier general, was currently huddled in a pile of filthy, smelly sheets. With each violent jolt of the vehicle, his head would slam heavily against the thin sheet metal roof.

But he didn't complain, or even frown.

He clutched the shrunken briefcase tightly in one hand—containing his only two changes of shirts and a few manuscripts; his other hand rested on his military cap on his knee, as if he had been thrown into a trash can. His face was pale, and his lips were tightly pressed together.

For a traditional soldier who values ​​honor above all else, fleeing his homeland like a rat hiding in a laundry cart is a disgrace more unbearable than death.

But he had to endure it.

David Sterling sat on the spare tire opposite him. He had to spread his legs to maintain his balance due to the jolting of the carriage. He held the submachine gun bearing his family name in his hand, making a final check.

This is a killing machine, and also an industrial work of art.

This Sterling submachine gun was the masterpiece of that madman Arthur Sterling, and also the prototype for future standard British Army equipment.

Unlike those crudely made Sten submachine guns, whose handguards were so hot they burned to the touch and could easily misfire with the slightest bump, Sterling's felt heavy and cold in his hand. David's fingers slid across the black, wrinkled paint on the receiver, the texture rough yet solid. The vertically inserted magazine allowed him to maintain balance with the muzzle during firing, thus improving stability, and the unique double-stack, double-feed magazine design ensured it would never jam, even in the dusty, lint-filled carriage.

With a click, David pulled back the bolt. The sound of the recoil spring wasn't the cheap metallic scraping sound, but a smooth, precisely lubricated sound, like a hydraulic piston. This sound was particularly clear in the noisy carriage.

"Good gun." Paddy Mayne, who was holding the Bren light machine gun he had just gotten from the military police, preferred this kind of gun that could cut a person in two, as the team's heavy firepower provider. But he couldn't help but glance at the Sterling submachine gun in David's hand.

"My cousin used the best Sheffield high-carbon steel for this thing, not that cheap stamped sheet metal from Sten." David looked at the black, wrinkled-painted receiver as if appraising a work of art. "I tested it in a London arsenal. Even if you buried it in the sand and then took it out, it would still shatter a bottle fifty meters away without needing to be cleaned. The smoothness—it's like touching a woman's thigh."

"That's why this gun costs at least £15 to make, while Sten's pile of plumber junk is only worth £5."

"Pounds." David pushed the bolt back into place, engaged the safety, and slammed the folding stock back into place with a sharp metallic clang. "Don't be envious, Paddy. As long as we get back alive, Arthur has mountains of these guns; we can have as many as we want."

The car suddenly tilted violently to the left, its tires screeching against the ground. One-Eyed Louis hadn't slowed down at all while cornering. The immense centrifugal force flung everyone against the right-hand side of the vehicle. De Gaulle's face slammed into a moldy military blanket, but he remained silent, simply adjusting his cap.

"Is that one-eyed bastard trying to send us straight to hell?" Major General Edward Spears rubbed his sore shoulder and couldn't help but complain.

As a British liaison officer, he was used to the smooth ride of Rolls-Royce cars, and the experience of this laundry cart was like torture to him.

"No, General." David Sterling peered through the gaps in the carriage at the plane trees rushing past outside. Their leaves were already turning yellow, much like the fate of this nation.

"He's taking us to heaven. It's just that the road is a bit bumpy, and we might have to cross a few dead bodies."

"

Bordeaux-Mégnac Airport is just ahead, but it is no longer a transportation hub of the civilized world, but a huge, boiling pressure cooker.

Through the cracked windshield of the driver's cab, one-eyed Louis saw the apocalyptic scene.

Thousands of refugees, like ants driven to higher ground by a flood, swarmed densely along the barbed wire fence surrounding the airport. Everyone waved banknotes, jewelry, and even property deeds, trying to exchange them for a plane ticket to leave France.

Whether it's London, Casablanca, or Algiers, as long as they can leave this land that is about to be trampled by the Nazis.

The French gendarmes maintaining order had long lost patience. Instead of checking identification, they brandished their rifle butts and smashed the fingers of those trying to climb the fence like walnuts.

Screams, cries, and the roar of engines mingled together, forming the final symphony of this defeated nation.

One-Eyed Louis did not slow down. On the contrary, he slammed his right foot, clad in a worn-out work boot, down to the floor of the accelerator.

"Hold on tight, you Englishman!" Louis roared, his one eye filled with madness, but he seemed to enjoy the feeling.

The brutally modified truck roared like a wild beast. The tachometer instantly hit the redline, and the engine block glowed red from overheating.

Boom! The truck ignored the warning sign that read "Military Restricted Area, Violators Will Be Shot" and crashed directly into the maintenance gate on the side of the airport, which was originally used to transport fuel.

The thick barbed wire was as fragile as a spiderweb against the truck's bumper. With a tearing sound, the two iron gates were smashed open. The railing across the gate snapped like a toothpick, spinning through the air. The two military police guarding the gate didn't even have time to raise their guns before being forced to tumble onto the grassy areas on either side by the dust and the immense impact. They watched in horror as the black smoke-belching monster crashed into the runway.

Inside the carriage, David felt as if his internal organs had shifted out of place.

"This is what they call the back door?" Bill gripped the passenger side door tightly, his face equally pale. "Louis! You drive crazier than I did when I robbed a bank in London and ran away!"

"In Bordeaux, only madmen can get by!" Louis laughed wildly, jerking the steering wheel. The truck lurched across the concrete track, kicking up a cloud of acrid smoke from its four rear wheels. The intense centrifugal force even caused the truck doors to swung open, and several dirty sheets fluttered onto the track like white flags of surrender.

"Where's the target?" David shouted into the driver's seat through the small window at the back of the truck.

General Spears pointed to the end of the runway: "There! That's the last one!"

At the end of the runway, about 800 meters away, a silver de Havilland "Cherland" (De

The Havilland Flamingo biplane liaison plane sat there quietly. Its propellers were already spinning, and the two Bristol Perseus engines emitted a deep roar, sending gusts of air through the surrounding dry grass. The red, white, and blue Royal Air Force insignia on its fuselage gleamed brightly in the sunlight.

That was De Gaulle's last plane ticket to London.

But trouble is brewing.

The control tower in the distance had clearly spotted the uninvited guest.

Whoosh—smack!

A red signal flare rose into the sky and exploded under the gloomy clouds.

Immediately afterwards, sirens blared from the direction of the administration building on the other side of the airport. Two black Citroën Traction Avant sedans sped out, their hoods already adorned with Vichy government flags. Behind them came four roaring military motorcycles, with gendarmes mounted on Hotchkiss light machine guns in the sidecars, the muzzles bobbing up and down with the bumps in the road.

"Pétain's henchmen are here." David Sterling peeked through the crack, his tone calm but menacing. "Looks like they really want this cargo."

"Five hundred meters to the plane! The pursuers are a kilometer away!" Louis roared, his voice drowning out the engine noise. "We can catch up, but we have to be quick!"

The truck sped wildly across the runway, jolting as if it were about to fall apart. Every rivet groaned, and the radiator cap had been ripped off, spewing out white steam. Finally, fifty meters from the plane, Louis slammed on the brakes. The tires left two black tracks on the concrete, and the air instantly filled with the acrid smell of burning rubber.

"Get out! Everyone get out!" David kicked open the tailgate and was the first to jump out. Paddy Mayne stood like an iron tower in front of de Gaulle, practically pushing and carrying the tall brigadier general towards the plane.

Beside the aircraft, several unsuspecting ground crew members and two French Air Force officers stared in astonishment at the laundry truck that had crashed in. They had no idea what was happening, let alone who was inside the fish-smelling vehicle. In their minds, it was probably a supply delivery from ground support, albeit a rather crude one.

The ground crew and air force officers had clearly heard the commotion from the control tower. They were cautiously pointing and gesturing in their direction, their hands on their holsters. However, the truck bearing the French Air Force insignia made them hesitant to act—they didn't know if it was an enemy attack or an emergency evacuation of some important figure.

"Don't panic!" General Spears quickly straightened his disheveled collar as he ran, glanced at his watch, and said, "Listen, Charles. Those black Citroëns are about a kilometer away. If they go full speed ahead, we have less than two minutes. We need to act fast while these ground crew members are still unaware of what's happening."

Spears stared intently into de Gaulle's eyes, speaking rapidly: "We need to act. Use this time difference. Pretend you're here to see me off. Be relaxed, like we're saying goodbye. If you act like a fugitive, they'll instinctively draw their guns."

De Gaulle took a deep breath. In that instant, the exile who had just been huddled in the dirty sheets, looking disheveled, vanished. This usually serious and austere soldier displayed astonishing self-control at that moment.

He pushed aside Paddy's protection, dusted himself off, and straightened his back. He adjusted his military cap and top button, ignoring the approaching sirens in the distance, and strode towards the aircraft steps.

His steps were steady and powerful, each step firm and solid, and his face even carried a calm yet slightly melancholic smile.

"General! What's going on?" A French Air Force lieutenant tried to step forward to ask, his hand not yet drawn on his rifle, but already unbuttoning his jacket. "The control tower is sending a signal—"

"Goodbye, Spears." De Gaulle completely ignored the lieutenant's questioning. His voice was loud and clear, completely drowning out the distant sirens. He reached out, grasped Spears's hand, and shook it vigorously. "Give my regards to Prime Minister Churchill. I hope we will meet again in the future. You know, I believe the French army is still capable of fighting."

The lieutenant who had been ignored was stunned.

He saw the general's star on de Gaulle's shoulder—and the insignia of the Undersecretary of Defense. In the army's strict hierarchy, obedience to superiors was ingrained. Even with the sirens blaring, the lieutenant instinctively stood at attention and saluted.

De Gaulle returned a standard military salute, and even stopped to walk up to the bewildered lieutenant. He reached out and helped the young man, who was at a loss for words, straighten his slightly crooked collar insignia.

"Don't be nervous, Lieutenant. This is a necessary security drill." De Gaulle lied without even blinking. "Do a good job. No matter who's in power in Paris, France will always need soldiers like you. Remember, a soldier's duty is to defend the country, not to pledge allegiance to a politician."

This was nothing short of an Oscar-worthy performance. In the distance, with dust billowing and Pétain's gendarmes about to arrive, de Gaulle appeared to be inspecting troops on a parade ground in Paris. This stark contrast completely swayed those around him—who would believe that a fugitive "traitor" could be so composed?

Who would believe that someone about to be sentenced to death would have the leisure to help a lieutenant adjust his collar insignia?

The lieutenant, his face flushed with excitement, shouted amidst the chaos, "Yes, sir!"

But SAS wasn't there to enjoy the performance.

David Sterling stood in the shadow of the wing, seemingly casually leaning against the landing gear, his hands in his trench coat pockets. Only he knew that his right hand was already on the trigger of the Sterling submachine gun. The muzzle, through the fabric of his trench coat, was locked firmly on the French officers.

He silently counted down in his mind, ready to fire three shots the moment someone reached for the holster.

His fingers felt the curve of the trigger, a cold, tense sensation.

Paddy Mayne leaned against the gangway, looking like an idle porter, but at his feet lay the Bren light machine gun, its muzzle covered by his coat, the safety off. His eyes were like those of a lion eyeing its prey, ready to tear apart any approaching threat.

Johnny Cooper and Jock Lewis spread out on either side of the plane, occupying the best vantage points and forming a crossfire network with no blind spots.

"If those ground crew dare to make a move," David whispered, "shoot them to pieces. Don't be stingy with bullets, Arthur'll be worn out."

One-Eyed Louis did not get out of the car. He parked the huge truck across the runway entrance, blocking the pursuers' path.

He let Bill and Mike out of the car, but stayed in the driver's seat himself. He rolled down the window and rested the Thompson M1928 submachine gun on the rearview mirror. He pulled a crumpled cigarette from his pocket and lit a match with his greasy hands. He took a deep drag. The pungent smoke filled his lungs, slightly easing his tense nerves.

He looked in the rearview mirror.

The two black Citroën sedans had broken through the smoke and were less than 500 meters away.

He knew the car was doomed. Its radiator had ruptured in the impact, and the engine was belching white smoke. The temperature gauge was off the charts, and the cylinder block was likely melted. More importantly, if the other cars weren't stopped, the fully fuel-laden plane would be a sitting duck during takeoff. A single machine gun shot hitting the fuel tank would turn all their efforts into a fireball.

The pursuing black sedan had closed to within two hundred meters. Even through the roar of the engine, the piercing siren could be heard from the other side.

A military police captain leaned out of the sunroof of the first vehicle, raised a megaphone, and shouted, "Stop! That plane can't take off! We're arresting de Gaulle!"

Bang! Bang! Several gunshots rang out.

It wasn't a warning shot; it was live ammunition. The bullets struck the concrete in front of the plane, sending up a string of dazzling sparks.

The charade couldn't continue. With the distant gunshots and the sound of bullets hitting the concrete, the fragile atmosphere of "diplomatic farewell" shattered instantly.

The French officers finally realized what was happening. They stared at the black Citroëns hurtling towards them in the distance—

Those were secret police from the Pétain government; he glanced again at de Gaulle, who was preparing to hastily board the plane—the only general who still wanted to continue fighting.

Even a fool would understand now: this wasn't a trip to London for a work report; it was an escape.

Several ground crew members tried to back away in alarm, and the young lieutenant instinctively reached for his M1935 pistol at his waist.

pistol.

"Don't move." David Sterling's voice wasn't loud, but the Sterling submachine gun in his hand was already showing from under his trench coat. The dark ventilation holes emanated a chill, and the muzzle was pressed firmly against the lieutenant's chest.

"I'm doing this for your own good, Lieutenant. Put your hands up. This isn't your war."

The lieutenant froze. He looked into David's murderous eyes, then glanced at the Vichy gendarmes firing in their direction. Suddenly, his hand left its holster, but he did not raise his hands in surrender.

"No, the British." The lieutenant looked at David, the confusion in his eyes disappearing. He reached out and pressed down on the muzzle of David's gun. It was an extremely dangerous move; if David had been even slightly nervous, he would have been riddled with bullets.

But David understood something from his eyes, and his finger hovered over the trigger.

"This isn't our war, because we've already lost." The lieutenant gave a bitter laugh, turned around, his back to de Gaulle, and faced the group of ground crew rushing towards him. He shouted, "Everyone! Turn your backs! We're checking the engines! We don't see anything!"

The ground crew were taken aback for a moment, then understood what their superior meant. They all turned their backs, and some even deliberately pushed their work vehicles to the edge of the runway, blocking the view of the control tower in the distance.

The lieutenant turned around and glanced at de Gaulle, who was already standing at the cabin door. He didn't salute, but simply took out a crumpled pack of cigarettes from his pocket and lit it with trembling hands.

"Take him away, you Englishman." The lieutenant took a deep drag of his cigarette, his eyes reddening. "Don't let him be taken back by Pétain. If France is destined to die, at least—let her conscience live on."

"This is the last thing we can do."

David Sterling paused for a moment. He holstered his gun and gave the French lieutenant a deep look.

"Understood." David nodded. "As long as he's in London, France is not dead."

"Get out of here!" The lieutenant slammed his cigarette butt to the ground. "Those Gestapo lackeys are coming up!"

"Get on the plane! Quick!" Spears stopped the pleasantries and grabbed de Gaulle's arm, dragging him up the gangway.

Reggie Higgins kicked the pilot off the plane and decided to fly it himself.

De Gaulle stepped onto the gangway with one foot, but he suddenly stopped. He turned back to look at the truck blocking the runway, his last guard on his escape route, a one-eyed, greasy dock thug considered trash by high society.

One-Eyed Louis poked his head out of the driver's seat. The old scars on his face looked grotesque due to the bloodshot wounds, and a flame burned in his single eye that was terrifying to behold. The previous battle had left him with a scraped forehead, and blood was streaming down his eyepatch, making him look like a demon crawling out of hell.

"General!" Louis's voice pierced the noise of the propellers, a roar born of desperation, "Don't die in London! Don't rot in those Englishmen's cafes!"

Louis raised his Thomson submachine gun and fired a burst at the charging gendarmes.

Rat-a-tat-tat-tat! .45 caliber bullets drew a line of fire in the air, scaring them so much that they quickly hid behind the car, not daring to go forward for a moment.

"Come back with guns! Come back with tanks! Drive these Germans out! Take back France!"

De Gaulle's face, which seemed perpetually expressionless, twitched violently.

He didn't speak; at this distance, words were inadequate. He turned to the dock thug and solemnly gave the highest-ranking French military salute. His hand was straight, his eyes solemn. The salute lasted for two seconds.

This is a tribute from the future President of France to a civilian hero.

Louis laughed and returned a poorly executed salute—a fist salute typical of the Spanish International Brigades.

Then, Louis turned his head.

His gaze pierced through the smoke of battle, pinpointing the rearguard of the British squad, and finding David Sterling. Their eyes met. There was no sorrow, no farewell.

Louis grinned, revealing a set of blood-stained teeth—a bullet had struck his abdomen. He pointed to the sky, then to his chest. Finally, he made a gesture he often used when settling accounts at the docks—a horizontal slash across his neck with his palm.

That means: the accounts are wiped clean.

"Tell the head of the Stirling family!" Louis spat his cigarette butt onto the ground—his last words—"The accounts are settled!"

The military police raised the muzzle of their machine gun.

Louis abruptly shifted into reverse and slammed on the accelerator. The nearly totaled truck let out a dying groan, but instead of reversing, it charged head-on into the lead Citroën like a bull in its death throes. In the instant of impact, Louis pulled the detonator he had prepared beforehand—connected to a box of industrial explosives he had brought from his warehouse, originally intended for fishing.

boom-!

A deafening roar.

The laundry truck instantly transformed into a massive, orange-red fireball. It wasn't a movie special effect; it was the destructive energy released by hundreds of kilograms of high explosives. The explosion was so powerful that it sent the two leading Vichy government cars and several motorcycles flying into the air like toys. Metal fragments mixed with burning gasoline rained down on the runway.

A motorcycle was thrown dozens of meters into the air by the blast wave, and then crashed onto the concrete ground under the force of gravity, turning into a pile of scrap metal.

A massive shockwave swept across the entire tarmac, even causing the wings of the "Gerland" aircraft a hundred meters away to tremble violently. Ground crew members were thrown to the ground, their ears ringing.

The explosion and thick smoke temporarily blocked the runway, forming a burning wall. The pursuers were blown to pieces, and those who survived writhed on the ground in agony, their screams swallowed by the flames.

"Now! Let's go!" David Sterling stumbled from the blast wave, but he immediately realized that these were a few minutes that Louis had risked his life for.

General Spears had already climbed into the cabin. He leaned halfway out of the doorway, stretched out his hand, and shouted, "Charles! Give me your hand!"

But de Gaulle was still staring blankly at the fireball. The firelight illuminated his pale face, and his pupils reflected the flickering flames. It was the first time he had witnessed someone die protecting him. The one-eyed thug's blood seemed to have splattered onto his soul. He stood like a log on the gangway, as if waiting for the one-eyed man to emerge from the flames.

"Stop looking!" David Sterling grabbed de Gaulle's arm. "Don't let him die in vain! Go up! Now!" David didn't use honorifics and even rudely shoved the future president in the back.

The tall brigadier general finally came to his senses. He clumsily grabbed Spears's hand and was pulled into the cabin like a heavy sack.

"Paddy! Jock! Get on board!" David yelled.

SAS members jumped onto the still-carrying plane. But that wasn't the end of it. Several French gendarmes who had narrowly escaped the explosion emerged from the smoke. Their faces were covered in soot, and they angrily raised their pistols and rifles, attempting to fire at the plane's tires.

"Screw the tires! Don't let them get away!"

The plane had already begun accelerating, but those last few seconds before takeoff were its most vulnerable. If a tire were to burst, the fully fuel-laden aircraft would become another fireball.

Paddy Mayne stood at the cabin door, gripping the armrest with one hand and holding the Bren light machine gun in the other.

"Die, you traitors." Paddy's eyes were cold as he pulled the trigger.

Da da da da!

The muffled roar of the Bren gun drowned out the engine noise.

At the same time, David Sterling also placed his Sterling submachine gun at the hatch.

He pulled the trigger.

The feeling of firing this gun was simply mesmerizing. There was no violent recoil, only a rhythmic vibration, like a precision sewing machine at work. The muzzle flash was orderly, and the brass cartridge cases were ejected from the side like a fountain, clattering onto the cabin floor.

Thump thump thump thump—

The deep, steady firing sound of the Sterling submachine gun mingled with the roar of the Bren machine gun.

This was no longer a warning shot; it was precise suppression. A burst of .303 caliber bullets and 9mm Palu rounds lashed out like whips at the charging military police. The immense kinetic energy instantly tore through their black uniforms and flesh.

The military policeman at the very front didn't even have time to scream before his chest cavity was ripped open by a machine gun bullet, and he crashed heavily onto the concrete ground like a zombie.

Unlike Paddy's ferocity, David's shooting was terrifyingly precise. It was a textbook example of double-shot bursts.

The 9mm pistol bullets pierced the bodies of the two military policemen with precision.

*Thud, thud.* The two military policemen collapsed, clutching their chests and necks respectively, and never moved again.

But two experienced veterans did not back down. Realizing they could not stop the plane, they slid to the side, raised their MAZ-36 rifles, and aimed intently at the plane's vulnerable rubber main landing gear tires.

If a single shot hits, the aircraft, already traveling at 100 kilometers per hour, will immediately lose control, flip over, and turn into a huge fireball.

No reminder needed. Johnny Cooper was displaying a temperament completely opposite to Paddy's rage at this moment.

At the turbulent, accelerating, noisy, and smoky cabin door, Cooper remained as calm as someone at a Beasley shooting range. He braced his shoulder against the door frame for stability, ignoring all the surrounding distractions, his eyes fixed solely on the two most threatening targets. His weapon—a Mazda 36 rifle he'd pilfered from the hotel—stood firmly in place.

He didn't fire short bursts like David; he only needed two bullets. He held his breath for half a second and pulled the trigger.

Bang. Comment. Two crisp, disjointed gunshots rang out.

The two bullets seemed to have eyes, traversing a distance of nearly a hundred meters, and precisely pierced the foreheads of the two military policemen who were trying to shoot at the tires.

Two plumes of red and white blood exploded on the back of their heads, their heads snapped back, their skulls were blown off, and before their fingers could pull the trigger, their bodies fell headfirst to the oil drums like puppets with broken strings.

The crisis is over.

There was no dodging, no ricochets, and no screams. Only the sound of metal tearing through flesh and the dull thud of corpses falling to the ground. Those pursuers who had been so aggressive just moments before were, in an instant, several warm corpses on the runway.

For these desperados who crawled out of piles of corpses, killing was no more difficult than breathing.

"One more magazine!" Paddy laughed, until he emptied the magazine. The military police behind him were completely terrified by the fierce firepower and could only lie on the ground eating dust.

The plane finally reached takeoff speed, the nose lifted, the wheels left the ground, and that reassuring feeling of weightlessness came over us.

David Sterling was the last to jump into the cabin.

He gripped the hatch handle tightly, battling the wind pressure. In the final moments before the hatch closed, he peeked through the crack at the runway below. The fire was still burning. The one-eyed Louis had turned to ashes, becoming one with his truck, the last line of defense against Pétain's pursuers.

Bang. The hatch slammed shut and locked. All the smoke, noise, and shouts of battle were shut out.

All that remained was the monotonous, continuous roar of the engine.

The plane was climbing. The lights of Bordeaux below gradually shrank, eventually becoming a blurry patch of light.

There were no seats in the cabin, only a few rows of makeshift benches temporarily installed. The noise was deafening, the low-frequency vibrations unique to twin-engine aircraft that sent shivers down your spine. The aluminum fuselage creaked and groaned in the airflow, as if it might fall apart at any moment. But for the people in this cabin, it was the safest sound in the world.

De Gaulle sat in a narrow seat by the window. His knees were pressed against the back of the chair in front of him, his posture awkward. He took off his military cap and placed it on his knees, his hand gripping the brim tightly. He was expressionless, his eyes staring blankly out the porthole.

Outside, the night sky was pitch black, with only the outline of the French coastline faintly visible in the moonlight below.

That was Brittany, sinking into twilight. That was his homeland. And now he was leaving her. The feeling of being torn apart was more intense than any wound.

General Spears opened his silver flask, poured a glass of brandy, and handed it over.

"Have a drink, Charles. It's over." Spears' voice held a hint of sympathy; he knew what this man had just lost. "We're safe."

De Gaulle did not accept the wine; he did not even turn his head, but continued to stare into the darkness.

"Safety?" His voice was hoarse and seemed particularly weak in the noise. "Where is safe for a deserter?"

David Sterling sat on the opposite floor, wiping dust off the barrel of a submachine gun with an oilcloth. Hearing this, David stopped what he was doing. He looked up, scrutinizing the silent giant in the dim cockpit light.

In this cabin filled with the atmosphere of failure, de Gaulle was like a lonely island.

"General," David suddenly spoke, his tone no longer provocative, but filled with an indescribable respect—a respect earned through Louis's sacrifice.

“You didn’t actually bring any luggage.” David pointed to the shrunken briefcase at De Gaulle’s feet. “You have nothing but a few pieces of paper. No clothes, no money, no army.”

17

"You are now the poorest general in all of Europe. Poorer than me, a lieutenant."

De Gaulle slowly turned his head. For the first time, a certain warmth appeared in his eyes, which were originally arrogant and indifferent.

It was a mixture of anger, sorrow, and determination.

He glanced at David, then placed his hand on his chest.

"I brought it," de Gaulle's voice was stubborn. "That one-eyed man handed France over to me."

"So I took France with me." He pointed to his heart, his eyes sharpening like a knife. "As long as I live, France will be here. Not in Paris, not in Vichy, but right here."

David was stunned. He stared at this man who had nothing yet claimed to own the entire country. Yesterday, he would have thought it was the ravings of a madman. But now, he believed it.

David smiled. It was a smile of relief.

He turned to Spears beside him and said, "My cousin wasn't wrong. This guy really is a madman."

David placed the cleaned gun on his lap, closed his eyes, and felt the vibrations of the machine.

"But now, he's our madman."

June 17, 06:00 AM, London, RAF Heathon.

When the plane pierced through the thick clouds and landed on the runway outside London, they were greeted by a typical English morning.

A thick fog blanketed the area, the air was damp and cold, and it smelled of coal smoke.

In stark contrast to the sweltering, chaotic, and blood-soaked atmosphere of Bordeaux, this place was eerily quiet.

The plane came to a stop, and the cabin door opened. De Gaulle was the first to step down the stairs. The cold wind pierced through his thin military uniform, causing him to shiver involuntarily.

He stood on the track, looking at the gray fog all around him.

There was no honor guard, no flowers, no applause, just an empty tarmac and a few ground crew members drinking tea in the distance.

He was penniless and had even been stripped of his French citizenship.

Just hours earlier, the Pétain government had sentenced him to death.

In this unfamiliar island nation, he was merely an exile, a refugee living under someone else's roof.

But when he looked up at the faint glimmer of dawn breaking through the thick fog in the east, his back remained ramrod straight. He remembered the flame in Louis's single eye. He remembered the words, "Get these Germans out of here!"

"It's alright," de Gaulle murmured to himself, his voice so soft that only the wind could hear it, "because I am Free France."

A black Aston Martin sedan emerged from the fog and stopped beside the plane.

The car window rolled down, but there was no sign of Arthur Sterling, only a MI6 agent in a trench coat with a stern face.

"General de Gaulle? Prime Minister Churchill has arranged accommodations for you," the agent said politely but distantly. "Please get in the car."

De Gaulle nodded, took one last look at the plane that had carried him to safety, then got into the black car and disappeared into the London fog.

David Sterling and his SAS team were the last to disembark. Bill was complaining about the London weather, Mike was checking his suit for wrinkles, and Jock was still clutching his unused chemical reagents.

David walked over to a waiting truck and casually tossed the Sterling submachine gun into the back. He stretched, listening to the cracking sound of his spine.

"Mission accomplished." David took the family silver coin out of his pocket, tossed it in his hand, and the coin flashed a cold light in the morning light.

"I'm going to collect my bounty from the patriarch." David looked at the Aston Martin that had driven away with de Gaulle, a hint of gloom flashing in his eyes. "This job is exciting, but I still prefer the desert."

He remembered the North African battlefield that Arthur had promised, and the vast, boundless sea of ​​sand.

"At least there," David said in a low voice, clutching the silver coin tightly in his hand, "you don't have to watch your creditors self-destruct in front of you."

The truck started, carrying the group of outlaws who had just pulled off a history-changing kidnapping, and drove into the heart of London.

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