The Twilight of Empire: Starting from Dunkirk

Chapter 144 The Shame of the Compiègne Forest

June 21, 1940, 2:00 PM, Compiègne Forest, Redonde Clearing.

A loud thud shattered the tranquility of the Compiègne forest.

It wasn't artillery fire; it was directional blasting.

Amidst the swirling dust, a breach was forcibly blasted into the wall of the museum, which housed historical artifacts, by German engineers using explosives. Broken bricks and cement debris were scattered everywhere, but the engineers, dressed in their field-gray uniforms, paid no heed.

An Sd.Kfz.7 half-track tractor roared as it overturned into the rubble. Its winch cable slung roughly over the hook of an old train car.

That was carriage CIWL2419D.

In the eyes of the French, this is a sacred altar.

On November 11, 1918, Marshal Foch sat in this very carriage as he accepted the surrender of the German Empire, thus ending World War I.

But in the eyes of the Germans, this was a cage of shame.

"Pull him out!" A SS commando captain shouted at the driver, waving his baton.

The half-track's engine roared, its tracks slipping and belching smoke on the brick-strewn ground. The wooden carriage, silent for 22 years, was dragged from the museum's base with a metallic scraping sound, its wheels once again pressing down on the rusty rails.

The engineers pushed it all the way to a clearing in the middle of the forest. To ensure accuracy, German surveyors even brought in a theodolite to ensure that the carriage was parked exactly where it was when the surrender document was signed in 1918.

Not far from the carriage, there is a huge black granite monument with an inscription in French: "Here lies the sinful pride of the German Empire, defeated by the free people it sought to enslave."

Now, the stone tablet is completely covered by a huge black flag with a red background and a white center.

This is the revenge aesthetic of the bearded man.

He wanted to bury the Third French Republic in the very place where the Second Empire was buried, to make her kneel before the whole world and to humiliate her severely.

An hour later, a large convoy entered the forest. Leading the way were several trucks full of SS Leibstandarte SS soldiers, followed by a six-wheeled Mercedes-Benz 770K armored convertible.

The man with the small mustache sat in the passenger seat. He wore a gray field uniform, and on his left breast was the Iron Cross First Class, which he had received during World War I—his only achievement as a corporal in that war.

The car has come to a complete stop.

The man with the small mustache stood up and got out of the car. His leather boots crunched on the fallen leaves in the Compiègne forest. The air was damp, carrying the scent of earth and pine.

For Little Mustache, this taste was all too familiar.

Twenty-two years ago, he was just a corporal lying in a field hospital in Pomerania, temporarily blinded by British mustard gas. When he heard the news of Germany's surrender, he buried his face in his pillow and wept bitterly, feeling as if his whole world had collapsed.

Now, he is the master of the European continent.

He looked around at the lonely carriage and the generals who were saluting him. His face was devoid of a smile, instead displaying an almost morbid, long-suppressed madness. He walked to the carriage and stroked its weathered wooden frame with his gloved hand. Then he turned to Göring and Keitel behind him and said, “Right here. Get them to sign. Blow up everything here except this carriage. I don’t want anyone to remember that France ever won.”

The carriage was stiflingly hot, like a sauna. This was not only because it was the height of summer, but also because the bearded man had specifically ordered that the ventilation system not be turned on. He wanted the French to feel suffocated not only psychologically, but also physically.

The long negotiating table was still the same one from back then. The man with the small mustache plopped down in the chairman's seat where Marshal Foch had once sat.

To his right stood Hermann Göring, the Imperial Air Marshal, his belly protruding and adorned with medals—one of only two people present carrying the marshal's baton, his specially made light blue uniform almost bursting from his flabby frame; to his left were General William Keitel, Chief of the Supreme Command, General Brauchitsch, Commander-in-Chief of the Army, and Grand Admiral Raeder. And there was Ribbentrop, in his diplomatic uniform, with an arrogant expression.

Although their ranks were not yet capped, the gold braids on the shoulders of this row of German generals, the red and gold leaf on their collars, and the dense Iron Cross medals on their chests gleamed with a cold light that made the French feel breathless in the dimly lit carriage. They formed a metal wall with an extremely oppressive feeling.

The car door opened, and the French delegation entered. Leading them was Charles Henzig.

General Huntziger.

The general, once hailed as the French military's strategist before the outbreak of World War II, now looked extremely grim. His uniform was impeccably pressed, but the way he held his cap appeared unusually stiff. The diplomats and officers following behind him kept their heads down, their eyes darting away, and they didn't even dare to look the mustachioed man in the eye.

There was no handshake. No small talk. Not even a offer to sit down.

The man with the small mustache just stared coldly at Huntsman, his gaze as if he were looking at a rotting corpse. He didn't even speak, only slightly raising his chin.

General Keitel stood up. He picked up the preamble to the armistice agreement, which had already been drafted, and began to read it aloud.

This is not a negotiation opening statement; it is a manifesto.

"—On November 11, 1918, in this very place, the German army, without being defeated, was forced to lay down its arms due to internal betrayal—"

"—Today, the German Wehrmacht returns here as victors to wash away that shame and end this war started by Britain and France—"

Every German word felt like a slap across the face of the French delegation.

General Huntsman bit his lip hard until he tasted blood.

He knew he was experiencing the darkest moment in French history and would become part of the pillar of historical shame. He was not merely signing a surrender document; he was throwing the faces of Louis XIV, Napoleon, and Marshal Fouché into the cesspool.

Ten minutes later, the preface was finished. The man with the mustache stood up. He hadn't even glanced at the specific terms of the agreement—the details about ceding territory, disarmament, and huge reparations. To him, that was a menial matter for his subordinates.

He has achieved his goal: revenge.

But before he turned to leave, an uncontrollable, morbid ecstasy overwhelmed his facade as head of state.

The thrill of successful revenge overwhelmed his nerves.

In front of Heinzger, in front of Göring, Raeder and other German field marshals and generals, and all the French representatives, this conqueror of Europe suddenly made a chilling move.

He slapped his thigh hard, the sound echoing in the deathly silent carriage. Then, his feet stomped alternately on the floor where they used to be, his body twisting stiffly. Like a puppet on strings, or like a patient having an epileptic seizure, he performed two comical, arrhythmic, and neurotic minuets in front of everyone.

Tap, tap. The sound of leather boots striking the wooden floor echoed in the enclosed space.

The carriage was deathly silent.

Göring's fat face twitched, and his gaze shifted awkwardly elsewhere; Keitel remained standing at attention like a statue, not daring to blink; Raeder watched, his face pale but dared not utter a sound, or rather, none of the German generals present dared to intervene, nor did any Frenchman dare to utter a laugh. General Heinzger watched this scene with a deathly pale face, his eyes filled not only with humiliation but also with fear. Their fear was not of the comical act itself, but of the completely out-of-control soul behind it.

A madman. And a madman who holds the life and death of Europe in his hands.

A few seconds later, the man with the mustache stopped. The manic expression vanished instantly, replaced by absolute indifference. His expression changed in an instant, as if nothing had happened. He glanced contemptuously at Heinzger, who was still slumped in his chair, adjusted his belt, and then turned and strode out of the carriage.

The meaning of this gesture is clear: I disdain negotiating with you. I'm only here to receive your worship.

As the bearded man left, Goring and the others also rose and departed, leaving only Keitel to oversee the signing process. The air in the carriage began to circulate again and was no longer so stuffy, but Huntsman slumped into his chair, covering his face with his hands; their spines had been broken that day.

15:45, on the outskirts of the forest, a temporary rest area for German troops.

While the trial was underway in the train carriage, another "diplomatic activity" was taking place in the German rest area on the outskirts of the forest.

In an effort to secure "leniency" in the implementation of the armistice agreement—such as retaining a portion of the so-called "armistice army" or reducing occupation costs—several senior diplomats and Vichy government envoys accompanying the French delegation decided to employ what they considered the most effective weapon: corruption.

Several French trucks flying white flags were parked next to the German command tent. A few French waiters were unloading wooden crates from the trucks with beaming smiles. When the crates were opened, they contained aged Dom Pérignon champagne, ironically from the year 1918.

Even more shockingly, four fashionably dressed and exquisitely made-up women stepped out of a limousine. They were not diplomats, but rather renowned socialites from Parisian high society. At a time when the country was on the verge of collapse, they had been "recruited" as a special gift.

A bespectacled French diplomat, carrying two glasses of poured champagne, approached a group of German generals who were resting.

Those were Guderian, Manstein, and Rommel.

"Generals," the diplomat said, his voice laced with obsequiousness. He tried to greet them in German, but his pronunciation was poor. "The war is over. It was a misunderstanding. Paris is still Paris, and our women still admire the strong." He gestured to the women flirting with the German officers. "Perhaps we could have a drink? Talk about how to build a new Europe together? After all, we are all civilized people."

General Heinz Guderian was sitting on the tracks of a Panzer III command tank, holding a hard piece of rye bread and a can of beef in his hands, with a map spread out on his lap.

Upon hearing this, he simply raised his head slowly. There was not a trace of desire for fine wine or women in the eyes of this father of armored troops; only a look of disgust, as if he were looking at a sewer rat.

He didn't take the glass, but coldly uttered a single German word: "Abschaum" (meaning "despicable").

The diplomat's hand froze in mid-air, his smile frozen.

Lieutenant General Erich von Manstein, standing to the side, casually adjusted his monocle. He dusted off his uniform and said arrogantly, "Keep your champagne and women, sir. German soldiers don't need such trophies. We'd much rather find a few men in this country. Too bad, it seems you're all dead."

Major General Erwin Rommel's reaction was even more direct. As the youngest and most aggressive general present, he immediately placed his hand on the holster of his Luger pistol at his waist.

"If the future French government is run by people like this," Rommel said to Guderian beside him, his voice loud enough for the Frenchman to hear, "then France is dead. Even if they had another hundred divisions, it would be a waste of resources. The Führer should just send them all to prisoner-of-war camps to mine coal."

The diplomat was so frightened by the murderous aura emanating from the group of German generals that he took two steps back, spilling his champagne all over the floor.

To save face, the diplomat suddenly remembered something. He leaned close to General Keitel's adjutant and whispered, "Please tell His Excellency Keitel that, to show our sincerity, our military court yesterday sentenced that traitor who fled to London—Charles de Gaulle—to death in absentia for treason and desertion. We are issuing a global warrant for his arrest. If he dares to set foot on French soil, we will execute him immediately."

Keitel, who happened to be passing by, overheard this. This high-ranking officer, who was usually obsequious to the bearded man, stopped and gave a cold laugh.

"You sentenced a man in London to death? That's incredibly efficient." Keitel looked at the groveling Frenchman with a mocking gaze. "Perhaps you should first try to stop him from criticizing you on the BBC. That's your domestic matter; don't expect the German army to help you catch that big-nosed guy."

17:00, the Mustache's private train, the "America".

The signing ceremony wasn't even completely over when Little Mustache had already returned to his mobile command center. In the train's conference room, Little Mustache stood before a huge map, his finger crossing the English Channel and pressing firmly on the southern coast of England.

"Rayder." The man with the mustache didn't turn around and directly called out the name of the Fleet Admiral.

"The British are a bunch of stubborn islanders. That drunkard Churchill rejected my peace proposal. In that case, we must cross this trench and go to London to shove his cigar down his throat." He turned, his eyes burning. "I want ships. I want a landing fleet. How's Operation Sea Lion coming along?"

Grand Admiral Erich Raeder looked troubled.

"My Führer, this may be somewhat difficult."

Marshal Raeder looked troubled. He walked to the chart table, opened a top-secret battle damage report, and pointed to the red crosses on it with a somewhat solemn expression.

"We suffered heavy losses in taking Norway. The heavy cruiser Blücher sank, as did the Königsberg and Karlsruhe. At Narvik, we lost a full ten modern Z-class destroyers—half of our destroyer fleet." Raeder took a deep breath, his voice hoarse. "Now, only the heavy cruiser Hipper and two light cruisers are operational. As for the Scharnhorst and Gneisenau—they were both hit by torpedoes and are undergoing major repairs in the dry dock of Kiel; they won't be able to set sail for at least three months."

He looked up, his eyes filled with despair, the helplessness a sailor feels when facing a tsunami.

"And what about our adversary, the Royal Navy?"

Raeder's fingers trembled as he traced the blue dots that symbolized the British Royal Navy bases. Faced with such an overwhelming disparity in strength, any tactic was futile.

"According to the latest statistics, although the British lost several destroyers this month, the main fleet of the Royal Navy remains intact. Moreover, they are still the largest fleet on Earth, even more powerful than the US Navy."

Raeder began reciting the long list as if announcing a death: "At Scapa Flow of the Home Fleet, the very throat of the North Sea, lie the HMS Nelson and HMS Rodney—those two monsters with their 16-inch guns. Also anchored are the battlecruisers HMS Hood, HMS Renown, and HMS Repulse. These five capital ships can cut off any of our landing routes at any moment."

His fingers moved downwards, gliding toward the Mediterranean Sea and Gibraltar.

"In Alexandria and Gibraltar, Cunningham commanded the even more elite Queen Elizabeth-class battleships: HMS Warspite, HMS Barham, HMS Warrior, and HMS Malaya. In addition, there was HMS Sovereign, though slower, its firepower was still formidable. These five capital ships, armed with 15-inch guns, completely blockaded the eastern Mediterranean."

"And along the North Atlantic escort route, the remaining three Revenge-class battleships were still patrolling: HMS Revenge, HMS Resolution, and HMS Ramirez. Although they were products of an older era, they were more than capable of dealing with our lightly armored ships."

Raeder paused, as if he had thought of something, and his expression turned even more grim. He pointed to the location of the shipyard in Britain.

"The most frightening thing is that they still have fresh blood on their slipways. The newest battleship, HMS King George V, has been launched and is undergoing final sea trials, and could be commissioned at any time. Its sister ship, HMS Prince of Wales, is also nearing completion."

Raeder turned to the mustache and gave his final summary: "My Führer, please face this reality. The Royal Navy currently possesses 15 active battleships and battlecruisers globally, along with 7 aircraft carriers. This doesn't even include the behemoths currently being fitted out on the slipways and about to be launched."

"This is a war machine with a total tonnage of over one million tons."

Raeder tapped his fingers heavily on the nautical chart, where the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans met.

"We can compare it to that industrial behemoth across the ocean—the United States."

"Although they are likely to eventually surpass the Royal Navy, right now, even if you combine Roosevelt's Atlantic and Pacific Fleets, the Americans can only manage to muster 15 battleships and 6 aircraft carriers. On paper, they are indeed on par with the British."

"Moreover, the Americans are shrewd. Although they helped us rebuild our industry after the war, it doesn't mean they'll fight for us. The bankers on Wall Street are watching us from across the Atlantic, waiting for us and the British to bleed each other dry so they can buy up the ruins."

"Roosevelt also had to be constantly wary of our friend in Tokyo—Japan. To protect their interests in the Pacific, Roosevelt had to keep all eight of his most powerful battleships, including the three Colorado-class battleships with their 16-inch guns, firmly anchored at Pearl Harbor and the West Coast."

"And in the Atlantic? The Americans left behind only a symbolic empty shell. They only deployed 3..."

The fleet included three aging World War I battleships—the USS New York, USS Texas, and USS Arkansas—and two vulnerable aircraft carriers, the USS Ranger and USS Wasp.

Raeder looked up at the mustache and delivered the fatal conclusion: "What does this mean? It means that Roosevelt tacitly approved British dominance of the Atlantic. At this moment, in this part of the North Atlantic, without American checks and balances, the Royal Navy's Home Fleet is invincible."

"They don't need to split their forces or defend their flanks. They have overwhelming numerical superiority, radar technology, and combat experience."

"As for the Italians—the Royal Navy's previous surprise attack had already crippled the Italian fleet."

"The Mediterranean is now the British bathhouse. Mussolini's remaining few dilapidated ships don't even dare leave port. This means the British don't even need to maintain a large force in Alexandria. They are redeploying the HMS Warspite and HMS Queen Elizabeth from the Mediterranean fleet back to the mainland."

"Once war breaks out, our landing fleet will face an encirclement of more than 10 battleships and hundreds of destroyers in the English Channel. And I—I can't even muster enough destroyers to escort the army."

"The Italians are indeed unreliable." The man with the mustache waved his hand impatiently, not afraid of the disparity in troop strength, but angry at the incompetence of his ally.

"They were just posing, and then the British slapped them so hard their bones were broken. I knew it was a mistake to rely on that bald guy."

He walked to the other end of the map, his finger landing on two French ports: Toulon and Oran (Milles-Cobbil) in North Africa. The main fleet of the French navy was anchored there.

"Since the Italians aren't working, then the French ships are the key." The mustachioed man's eyes turned greedy. "That's why in Article 8 of the armistice, I allowed France to retain this fleet, only requiring them to disarm and anchor in designated ports."

Marshal Raeder asked, somewhat puzzled, "Sir, why not just confiscate them?"

"Foolish!" the mustachioed man cursed. "If I confiscate it directly, those French sailors will either scuttle the ship or sail straight to England! Then I'll get nothing!"

The little mustache grinned slyly.

"We'll boil the frog slowly. First, we'll make them keep their ships in port, within range of our bombers. When the time is right, when the Vichy government is completely my puppet—" The bearded man clenched his fist tightly.

"We'll just take over them directly. Then, the Richelieu and Dunkirk will fly the swastika. Wouldn't it be the perfect ending to bombard London with French battleships?"

"No matter how loudly de Gaulle shouts in London, it's useless. As long as I hold the French fleet as my trump card, Churchill won't be able to sleep."

18:50, outside carriage 2419D.

The news arrived. General Huntsman had already signed the armistice. The Third French Republic, a nation with forty million inhabitants, vast colonies, and a self-proclaimed "first army in Europe," had officially fallen in just six weeks.

The man with the small mustache adjusted his military cap and turned his back to the carriage.

As the sun set, its golden rays bathed the clearings of the Compiègne forest, casting a blood-red hue over this land steeped in shame. Several German war photographers had already set up their cameras, their dark lenses pointed at the conqueror.

The man with the small mustache stood in the center of the open space, beside the monument that hadn't yet been destroyed. He clutched a copy of the document tightly in his hand—the document representing the pinnacle of his life. A tremendous, overwhelming joy surged through his brain, but this time he forcefully suppressed the frenzied urge to dance that had gripped him in the train carriage. At this moment, facing the cameras, he had to be the leader, a god, the terminator of history.

He took a deep breath and scanned the surrounding fanatical SS soldiers and the Wehrmacht generals with their complex expressions. Even without a microphone, his distinctive voice pierced the silence of the forest.

"Twenty-two years." The man with the mustache held up two fingers, his voice low and deep. "Twenty-two years ago, right here on this land, in this damned carriage, a bunch of cowards and traitors betrayed the German army, which had not been defeated. They made us kneel before the French and sign that slave contract."

His voice gradually rose, his arms began to wave, and he entered the speaking rhythm he was most adept at.

"They told the world that Germany is guilty. They stole our Alsace-Lorraine, our mines, and even our human dignity!"

The man with the small mustache suddenly raised the copy of the agreement in his hand and waved it vigorously in the blood-red sunset, the paper making a rustling sound.

"But today! Look around you! Look at this forest!" he roared, spittle flying everywhere. "Emperor Wilhelm spent four years and sacrificed two million German men, yet he couldn't set foot in Paris even once."

And I did it in just six weeks! Six weeks!

"With steel and will, I washed away every letter on this monument! The shame of 1918 has been completely erased! Not with ink, but with the blood of the enemy!"

The scene was deathly silent, then erupted into a tsunami of cheers.

"Sieg Heil! Sieg Heil!" (Long live victory!) Göring clapped wildly, Keitel and Brauchitsch straightened their backs, infected by the sacred atmosphere; even the youngest SS soldiers were flushed with excitement and raised their right arms.

Bathed in the fervent cheers, the man with the mustache felt he had transcended humanity. He turned and pointed to the "Monument to the Defeat of Germany," obscured by the flag, and gave his final order: "Blow this stone up. Blow it to dust. I will not allow a single piece of rubble larger than a fist to remain here." He then pointed to the train carriage behind him, "Take this carriage back to Berlin. Place it in the most prominent position in the museum. I want all of Germany to see that I have accomplished what Wilhelm II could not."

Finally, he looked westward, towards the sea.

"Now, only one enemy remains. Prepare yourselves, my generals. The next signing ceremony will take place at Westminster Palace in London."