The Twilight of Empire: Starting from Dunkirk

Chapter 143 Speech on June 18th

June 17, 1940, 16:30, 4 Seymour Square, London, Free French Provisional Headquarters.

Number 4 Place Seymour is an unassuming Georgian-style townhouse. Just yesterday, it was an idle asset used by the Stirling Industries to store spare blueprints and receive overseas clients. Now, it has become the heart of "Free France".

Although the heart is currently beating very weakly and could stop at any time.

There were no expensive carpets or oil paintings in the room, only mountains of pine crates. The crate lids were violently pried open with crowbars, revealing Lee-Enfield No. 4 rifles coated with gun oil and crates of .303 caliber ammunition inside.

This was the first "funding" provided by Arthur Sterling.

Charles de Gaulle entered, accompanied by General Édouard Spears. He had just taken a shower at a small hotel in Chelsea and shaved off the stubble he had grown during his escape. His French uniform had been ironed, and although the cuffs were somewhat worn, the top button was still fastened tightly.

He looked tired, with puffy eyes, but his back was ramrod straight, like a flagpole stuck in the ruins.

At this moment, several French officers dressed in various mismatched uniforms were sitting in the lobby on the first floor.

Some were smoking, others were wiping their weapons, but every face was etched with confusion. When de Gaulle walked in, they looked up, a flicker of surprise in their eyes. They recognized the armored commander who had made a name for himself in the Abbeyville counterattack, and the former Deputy Minister of Defense who had just been declared a traitor by the Pétain government.

"General." A major stood up and saluted, his movements hesitant. De Gaulle returned the salute, his gaze sweeping over the men and landing on the enormous map of Europe at the far end of the hall.

A figure stood before that map, his back to the viewer. The figure wasn't tall, but he stood very steadily.

What jarred de Gaulle was that the man wasn't wearing a French military uniform, but rather a brand-new, slightly oversized British major general's uniform. The khaki fabric clashed incongruously with his typical French physique, like a ghost whose soul had been misplaced in a body. His left arm was slinged across his chest with thick gauze, the white bandage starkly against the British uniform. The man was repeatedly rubbing the location of Dunkirk on a map with his right fingers.

De Gaulle stopped in his tracks; he recognized the figure from behind. Even with a different face, he would still recognize him.

"General Jean-Pierre de Gaulle," he saluted, his voice somewhat hoarse.

The figure stiffened for a moment, then slowly turned around.

"Charles." Jean-Jacques looked at de Gaulle, returned the greeting with his right hand, and his lips twitched as if he wanted to laugh but then felt it was inappropriate. "I thought you died in some sewer in Bordeaux."

De Gaulle strode forward. The two men were strikingly different: one tall and thin, the other stocky and strong; one representing the mind of France, the other the fist. De Gaulle extended both hands and grasped Jean-Jacques's intact right hand.

De Gaulle reached out and firmly grasped Jensen's intact right hand. He held it tightly, as if only in this way could he avoid feeling lost, and it was also a release of his pent-up emotions after finding someone to rely on.

"I heard your voice on the radio, General Jean-Pierre de Gaulle," de Gaulle said, his voice choked with emotion as he looked at his old comrade. "Two weeks ago, when I heard you cursing the Germans on the radio in Bordeaux, I knew Dunkirk hadn't held you back. At that time, I told myself, as long as you, Major General, are still shouting, then we haven't lost everything yet."

His gaze shifted downwards, landing on Jean-Jacques' left arm, which was slinged across his chest. The thick bandages there, typical of British first aid, caused De Gaulle's brow to furrow instantly.

"But the broadcast didn't mention you left half your body covered in blood on the beach," he asked in a low voice. "How badly are you hurt?"

"German bullets don't have eyes." Jensen shrugged nonchalantly. "But I'm tough. Satan thinks I have too bad a temper and is afraid I'll blow up his hell, so he confiscated me." He pulled his hand back, took out a pack of Lucky Strike cigarettes provided by Arthur from his pocket, bit off one with his teeth, and lit it.

"Don't look at me like that, Ciel. This shot missed the bone; I'll be able to shoot with one hand again in two months."

De Gaulle took a deep breath and adjusted his posture. He took a step back and stood at attention.

This time, it was an extremely standard military posture, with a subordinate facing a superior.

"General," de Gaulle's voice became solemn, "you are currently the highest-ranking French general in London. Although the 12th Motorized Rifle Division has suffered heavy losses, its skeleton remains. I am transferring command here to you."

"Whether it's reorganizing the exiled troops or negotiating with the British government, I'm willing to follow your command. If you decide to go to North Africa to continue the resistance, I'm willing to be your chief of staff."

The other French officers also stood at attention and made their stance clear.

This was de Gaulle's true feeling. At this moment, he was not the autocratic leader who would later become; he was simply a patriot eager to find a foothold of power, and in his view, Jean-Jacques was more suitable than he was.

Major General Mori's hand, holding a cigarette, froze in mid-air. He squinted, scrutinizing de Gaulle. Smoke swirled between the two men. The surrounding officers held their breath, watching the two generals.

"Command?" Sen exhaled a smoke ring, which was grayish-blue. He shook his head and let out a short, cold laugh.

"No, Ciel. You've got one thing wrong."

Letsen walked up to de Gaulle. Although he was a head shorter than de Gaulle, he was in no way inferior in terms of presence. He pointed to his head with the finger holding the cigarette.

"I'm just a soldier. I know how to set up machine gun positions, how to calculate artillery coordinates, and how to lead soldiers to their deaths." He pointed to de Gaulle's chest, "but I don't understand politics. I don't know how to bargain with that old fox Churchill, how to stir up people on the radio, or how to get those money-grubbing Americans to open their wallets."

Rang Sen turned around and looked at the room full of ammunition boxes.

"Look at this stuff. This is charity from the Sterling family. If we're just here to be a bunch of foreign legions, then I'm fine with commanding them."

"But France doesn't need soldiers who fight for money." Rensen turned sharply, his eyes sharp and serious. "France needs a flag. It needs a voice. It needs a madman who can stand up and tell the world that this country is still alive when it's already dead."

Rang Sen took a step back, threw the cigarette butt on the ground, and crushed it out with his toe. He raised his right hand and gave de Gaulle an impeccable military salute.

"You have that madness, Charles. You have that arrogance of seeing yourself as the embodiment of France. That's exactly what we lack right now."

"From today onwards, you're in charge of politics, arguing with the British, Americans, and Germans, and yelling into the microphone."

"And I, I'm responsible for killing for you, for this so-called Free France."

The hall was deathly silent. De Gaulle looked at Jean-Jacques, his Adam's apple bobbing.

He eventually gave in and slowly raised his hand in return.

"As you wish, General."

The moment their hands were lowered, clear footsteps sounded at the door. It wasn't the dull thud of military boots on the wooden floor, but the crisp, rhythmic clatter of expensive handmade leather shoes. Each step was steady, carrying the owner's composure.

The door was pushed open; there was no announcement from the guards, nor any knocking. The visitor was Arthur Sterling.

He wasn't wearing a military uniform. He was dressed in a well-tailored dark gray three-piece suit made of the finest fine wool, his tie was impeccably tied, and he was holding his signature ebony cane, the head of which was inlaid with a silver lion's head.

Behind him followed McTavish and Ryder.

Arthur's arrival instantly changed the atmosphere in the room. It was an overwhelming aura. Although there were two battle-hardened generals and a dozen officers standing there, the moment Arthur walked in, everyone felt like soldiers awaiting inspection, while this man in civilian clothes was the real commander.

The officers present instinctively straightened their backs. Major General Renzo and Charles de Gaulle turned around almost simultaneously.

One was a French major general, the other the deputy minister of defense. Logically, Jean-Jacques' rank was even higher than Arthur's. But at this moment, this military hierarchy was broken by an older, more brutal rule.

Standing before them was Arthur Sterling, not only an active-duty brigadier general of the British Empire but also the rightful heir to the title of Earl of Sterling, a member of the nation's elite nobility. Although he was dressed in a suit, the innate aura of authority he exuded was more imposing than any military rank.

This is reality. The house they stand in is Sterling family property. The Enfield rifles they carry were issued by Arthur. The cigarettes they smoke and the pounds in their pockets are all gifts from the Sterling family.

Even they themselves were fished out of the French hell by Arthur.

In this time of exile, Arthur was not only their colleague, but also their creditor and their only source of support.

Major General Rang Mori was the first to act. With his intact right hand, he gave a standard salute to the British nobleman in civilian clothes. The movement was crisp and clean, carrying an instinctive obedience to the powerful.

De Gaulle followed closely behind. He also raised his hand, his eyes filled with awe.

Two French generals pay tribute to an "uncrowned king" who is not in military uniform.

Arthur stopped, returned the greeting, and nodded slightly. His gaze swept over everyone present, finally settling on de Gaulle. His look wasn't that of someone looking at an ally; it was more like assessing the assets of a high-risk investment.

Compared to a pure soldier like Jean-Jacques de Gaulle, a more complex character.

"Sit down, generals." Arthur's voice was calm and not loud. He walked to the long table in the center of the hall, leaned his cane against the edge of the table, and made a soft "click." "This is London, not Versailles. We don't need those formalities."

Colonel Ryder pulled out a chair, and Arthur sat down. He took the silver cigarette case from his pocket, popped the lid open, and handed it to de Gaulle and Jeanson.

"Want a cigarette? Cuban stuff. It's milder than your Gauloises, but not harsh on the throat."

Without any hesitation, Jean-Jacques reached out and took one, but De Gaulle shook his head.

"Mr. Sterling," de Gaulle began, his voice tinged with urgency, "thank you for everything you've done. Lieutenant David Sterling's operation in Bordeaux—it was nothing short of a miracle."

“That’s not a miracle, that’s business.” Arthur pulled a gold lighter from his pocket, lit one for Jensen, and then lit one for himself. “David’s a good employee, though sometimes a bit rough.” Arthur exhaled a puff of smoke, looking at De Gaulle through it. “I sent him because I know you’re more valuable alive than dead. Pétain has already knelt, and Renault has already run away. Now, whether this investment will break even depends entirely on you, Charles.”

These words were blunt, even somewhat cruel. But de Gaulle was not offended. On the contrary, this naked exchange of interests reassured him. In this time filled with betrayal, only mutual benefit could form the strongest alliance.

"I will prove you right," de Gaulle said, puffing out his chest. "I'm going to give a speech on the BBC tonight. I want to tell all the French people that the resistance has only just begun."

Arthur raised an eyebrow. He looked at de Gaulle, a playful glint in his eyes.

"A speech? A good idea." Arthur flicked his cigarette ash, the movement casual.

"But there's a small problem. Just half an hour ago, the Foreign Ministry, controlled by Lord Halifax, issued a ban to the BBC. They forbade any French military officers in exile from using the radio, citing the need to avoid angering the Pétain government."

That's obviously false. Halifax did give that order, but that was before Arthur returned.

At this moment, the former appeaser was sitting in the Downing Street conference room, being watched like a prisoner by Churchill's men. He had to report to the guards even to go to the toilet and couldn't issue any orders at all. MI6 had long since taken over control of the BBC.

Arthur was lying. Or rather, he was conducting a necessary "asset stress test." He narrowed his eyes slightly, scrutinizing the reactions of the two Frenchmen through the swirling smoke.

He doesn't need weak allies, nor does he need refugees who only know how to wag their tails and beg. What he needs are two enraged wolves. If this little bit of political resistance can make them back down, or make them look pleading, then the Sterling family's investment should be withdrawn.

The air in the room instantly dropped to freezing point.

Rang Sen suddenly stood up, his injured arm hitting the table, but he didn't care.

"Those cowards! Cowards like Pétain!" Jensen cursed, veins bulging on his neck, his battlefield-hardened ferocity exploding instantly. "They still think they can make peace with that old bastard Pétain? If that's the case, I'll go back to Dunkirk right now and die in battle! At least I'll die like a soldier!"

De Gaulle didn't shout, but his face turned grim. He gripped the armrests of his chair tightly; without a microphone, he was a figurehead. Without his voice reaching France, he had no political capital.

"That's impossible." De Gaulle's voice was low and ruthless. "If I can't speak, what's the point of me coming to London? To be a high-class refugee? Mr. Sterling, if that's the case, give me a gun, and I'll take care of it myself."

Seeing this, Arthur's smile deepened.

Very good. Anger. Resentment. Despair. And the desire to retaliate when cornered.

This is the fuel he wanted to see.

"Calm down, General Sen. Sit down, Charles." Arthur waved his hand, like a tamer calming two restless lions. "I told you, this is just a small problem." And in London, there's no problem the Sterling family can't solve.

Arthur turned his head to look at McTavish, his tone instantly becoming lazy and arrogant.

"Tomorrow evening, I will call 10 Downing Street. I want to speak to Churchill in person. And while I'm at it, I'll tell that BBC director that if he doesn't want his head chopped off, he'd better clear out the recording studio for me."

June 18, 17:45, London, BBC Broadcasting Building, Administration Office.

The BBC's executive director, dressed in a conservative suit and wearing thick glasses, stood like a gatekeeper at the entrance to the recording studio corridor, holding a document stamped with "Top Secret" in red.

"No. Absolutely not." The supervisor pushed up his glasses, sweat trickling down his temples, but his tone remained firm. "General Sterling, I respect you greatly. But this is non-negotiable. This is a direct order from the wartime cabinet."

The Ministry of Foreign Affairs made it clear that broadcasting any anti-Pétain remarks tonight would cause the French fleet to side with Germany. I cannot bear that responsibility.

Arthur Sterling stood opposite him, neither yelling nor trying to reason. He merely glanced at his watch, a barely perceptible, cold smile playing on his lips. It was the expression of someone preparing to go on stage.

"It's 5:45 now," Arthur said calmly.

He ignored the supervisor, walked straight to his desk, and picked up a secure phone. The supervisor tried to stop him, but McTavish, standing behind Arthur, grabbed his shoulder. McTavish's hand was like an iron clamp, causing the supervisor to grimace in pain, half his body going numb.

Arthur dialed a number. It was 10 Downing Street, the Prime Minister's official private line.

"Feed?" came Winston Churchill's muffled voice, seemingly cigar in hand, from the other end of the line. The background was noisy, with the high-pitched arguing of Lord Halifax also audible—clearly, the cabinet meeting was at a stalemate.

"Prime Minister. It's me." Arthur didn't hide the Frenchman behind him.

"Arthur?" Churchill's voice rose several octaves instantly, carrying a tacit understanding. "Where are you? That damn Halifax is trying to persuade me to accept mediation. I need some heavy firepower and an excuse, give it to me now."

This was a carefully orchestrated drama. The goal was to create the illusion for de Gaulle and Jensen that Churchill was trapped by the appeasement faction in his cabinet and needed an "impossible event" to break the deadlock.

And Arthur is that force majeure.

"I'm at the BBC. Your men are blocking the way." Arthur glanced at his sweating supervisor and spoke into the microphone, his tone deliberately threatening. "I want de Gaulle to speak at eight tonight. But your Foreign Office is locked up. Prime Minister, my patience is running out."

"Louder, Arthur!" Churchill roared excitedly on the other end of the phone, clearly intending for the others in the conference room to hear. "Give me a reason! A reason to shut those old fogies in the cabinet up!"

"Very well." Arthur turned around, deliberately showing de Gaulle and Jensen the arrogant expression on his face. "Tell Halifax that if de Gaulle doesn't speak tonight, Sterling Heavy Industries will stop delivering Spitfire engine crankshafts to the Royal Air Force tomorrow."

"I have three thousand workers in my Coventry factory waiting for my order to strike. I've already thought of the reasons: to protest the government's weakness against fascism."

There was a three-second silence on the other end of the phone. Churchill was clearly enjoying the terrified expressions on the faces of his cabinet members, even though it was all fake.

Immediately following was Churchill's gruff laughter. "Ha! You damned extortionist!" Churchill took a deep drag on his cigar, his tone full of admiration.

"Well done. Now I can tell them my hands were tied, I was forced to..." (This is followed by a seemingly unrelated sentence: "Agree with de Gaulle's speech. Give the phone to that idiot at the BBC.")

The play was over. Arthur handed the receiver to the supervisor, who was now pale with fright.

"The Prime Minister wants to speak with you."

The supervisor took the phone with trembling hands. He had no idea that what had just happened was a charade; all he knew was that Britain’s largest arms dealer was threatening a strike.

"Yes, yes, Prime Minister."

"I understand—but—yes! I understand! Execute immediately! Yes—I'm being forced, I understand!"

The supervisor's hands were still trembling as he hung up the phone. He looked at Arthur, his eyes filled not only with fear but also with awe of some indescribable power.

"Recording studio B2. It's ready." The supervisor wiped the cold sweat from his forehead and stepped aside to make way. "Please—please proceed."

Arthur straightened his cuffs and turned around. He saw the shocked looks on the faces of de Gaulle and Jeanson. These two French generals had just witnessed how Arthur had kidnapped the British Empire's wartime cabinet with a single telephone call.

"The road is open." Arthur gestured for them to proceed, his face regaining its indifference. "Go, Charles. Go tell the French they're not dead. Also, remember to keep this score in mind."

June 18, 8:00 PM.

BBC Broadcasting Building, B2 Recording Studio.

This was a small, enclosed room. The walls were covered with soundproof corkboard. In the center of the room was only an ordinary oak table, a chair, and a suspended metal microphone with an aluminum ribbon. The microphone, like a black iron fist, hung silently in mid-air. A red light on the wall was lit, the "ONAIR" sign.

Arthur Sterling, Major General Jeanson, and General Spears stood in the control room outside the glass window. They looked at the man inside.

De Gaulle sat before the microphone. He held several sheets of paper in his hand, densely covered with corrections. He was somewhat nervous. This was his first time facing such an unseen audience. There were no soldiers in formation, no fluttering flags, only the hissing of electricity.

He pushed up his glasses, staring at the dark microphone as if it were the ears of forty million people in France. He cleared his throat.

"I am General de Gaulle, and I am in London." His voice was initially dry, low, and trembling slightly.

In the control room, Major General Rangsen gripped the windowsill tightly, breathing rapidly.

"The French generals—have formed a government—" de Gaulle's voice gradually became steady. He raised his head, his eyes filled with confidence. The arrogant, overbearing de Gaulle was back. The de Gaulle who had pretended to inspect troops at Bordeaux airport was back.

"But does that mean we have no hope? Is failure inevitable? No!" His voice rose, piercing through the windproof shield, following the cable, crossing the English Channel, and entering countless radios hidden in basements, attics, and wine cellars.

In a dimly lit bar in Bordeaux, several of One-Eyed Louis's surviving henchmen were gathered around a dilapidated radio. They listened to the voice, their grip on their glasses tightening.

Paris, an apartment with the curtains drawn tight. A young student is transcribed by a radio broadcast with trembling hands. His father, a World War I veteran, is looking at the tricolor flag on the wall with tears in his eyes.

London, a bustling pub. David Sterling, Paddy Mayne, and Bill O'Connor are raising their beer glasses.

"Respect to that big-nosed madman," David said with a laugh. "His voice is louder than Paddy's machine gun."

In the recording studio, de Gaulle had involuntarily stood up. He was no longer reading from the script; he was roaring into the microphone.

"No matter what happens, the flame of French resistance cannot be extinguished, and it will never be extinguished!"

"France lost a battle! But France did not lose the war!"

As the last syllable faded, the red light went out, and the recording studio fell into a deathly silence.

Major General Mori closed his eyes, and a single, cloudy tear slid down his cheek.

He heard it; it was the sound of a bugle call.

Arthur Sterling stared blankly at De Gaulle through the glass window; he felt no emotion, nor did he shed a tear.

He was merely assessing the situation. He knew that from this moment on, this tall, madman was no longer an exile; he had become a symbol of France.

This investment has appreciated in value.

20:15, BBC Corridor.

De Gaulle emerged from the recording studio, drenched in sweat. He looked as if he had just run a marathon, completely exhausted but in a state of extreme excitement. His shirt was soaked through and clung tightly to his back.

Arthur stepped forward and extended a hand.

"Well said. The first step is complete."

De Gaulle grasped Arthur's hand; though the hand was still trembling, it was extremely strong.

"Mr. Sterling, it is my honor. This is the first cry of Free France. Thank you for giving me this opportunity." His eyes gleamed with hope.

But Arthur did not bask in this touching atmosphere. He first offered de Gaulle a cigarette.

"The shouting is over, Ciel. Now we need to talk about something more practical." Arthur pulled out a lighter and lit it with a "snap." The flame danced between the two, illuminating Arthur's cold, stern face.

Major General Mori also came over, keenly sensing the change in atmosphere. The "sponsor" who had just been so warm and friendly had inadvertently transformed into a cold-blooded arms dealer.

Arthur took a deep drag of his cigarette, his eyes narrowing slightly.

"Pétain has surrendered. According to the armistice agreement signed yesterday, the French navy must return to its home ports to disarm and be placed under German supervision."

De Gaulle's expression changed; this was his biggest worry.

"That's impossible," de Gaulle said urgently. "Admiral Darlan assured me that the fleet would never fall into German hands. He is a patriot, and he swore an oath."

Arthur chuckled coldly and exhaled a puff of smoke.

"A guarantee? A politician's guarantee is worth less than toilet paper, Charles. You should know that better than I do."

Arthur took a step closer, his voice so low and menacing that it left no room for de Gaulle to question him.

"That was the world's fourth largest fleet. It possessed the modernized Richelieu and Jean Bart, as well as those two Dunkerque-class battleships. This was a force capable of instantly granting Nazi Germany local naval supremacy."

Arthur held up one finger and shook it.

"Don't forget, although Cunningham broke the Italians' spine in the Mediterranean, they are not completely dead yet."

Mussolini still had at least two unlaunched Vittorio Veneto-class battleships, which were in good condition, and the remaining three Zara-class heavy cruisers were still in the port of Taranto.

"Let's do the math, Charles. If Little Mustache gets your fleet, along with the remnants of the Italian navy—the Royal Navy's newly established advantage in the Mediterranean will vanish instantly. We'll have to retreat from Alexandria, the Suez Canal will be cut off, and the lifeline of the British Empire will be severed."

His gaze fell upon the desert in North Africa.

"And this would undoubtedly be a death sentence for us in Africa. Without naval supremacy, the supplies I stockpiled in Cairo would become German spoils of war. North Africa would no longer be our springboard for a counterattack against Europe, but rather the graveyard of our British army."

"If Britain loses, your 'Free France' will be a joke."

"I think you should know this better than I do."

De Gaulle fell silent, looking at Arthur and feeling a chill run down his spine.

Arthur turned and walked to the window in the corridor, looking out at the dark London night sky. Beams of anti-aircraft searchlights swept across the clouds.

"Do me a favor, Ciel. Use all your connections to contact every naval officer you can reach."

Tell them to hurry up and sail to England, or to America, or even to Martinique.

He turned around and gave them an ultimatum.

"Because if they refuse to move—I'll have to move them for them."

De Gaulle stared at Arthur in shock: "What do you want to do?"

Arthur did not answer. He simply slammed his cane heavily on the ground, making a dull thud.

"Next, we'll take your fleet back." His eyes were cruel. "If it really comes to that—let them sink to the bottom of the sea forever."

I'll try to update as much as possible today, but I can't say exactly how many chapters I'll get. At least two more chapters are guaranteed.