The Twilight of Empire: Starting from Dunkirk

Chapter 146 Infiltrating Oran

June 26, 1940, 02:00 AM, Algeria, off the coast of Oran, 30 meters underwater.

Inside the torpedo compartment of the HMS Pandora submarine, the air was as murky as a pot of simmering grease. It was a mixture of the sweat of fifty men, the pungent smell of diesel fuel, the faint acidity of batteries, and the acidic smell of stomach acid caused by excessive tension.

To conserve power and maintain silence, the ventilation system had been partially shut off two hours earlier. This turned the 1475-ton P-class minelayer into a massive, sweltering iron coffin.

There were no gentlemen wiping their canes here, only a madman, shirtless and with muscles as taut as granite, sitting on a torpedo tube, eating corned beef from a can with a bayonet.

David Sterling, the founder of SAS, had his face covered in black and green camouflage paint, revealing only his pearly white teeth.

"My cousin gave the checkbook to de Gaulle and the gun to me," David mumbled, stuffing a piece of beef into his mouth. "If this meat were German, I'd give the kitchen a bad review."

Sitting opposite him was Colonel Ryder.

As the commander of the Cold Creek Guard, he was clearly not as relaxed as David. He was making a final check of his combat watch by the dim red light of the emergency lights.

"Stop complaining, David. At least the ship's still warm." Ryder glanced at his watch; the Parthian and Phoenix were already hovering in their designated positions. Three submarines, one hundred and fifty men. This was the maximum force we could deploy without alerting the French coastal defenses.

"One hundred and fifty murderers." David tossed the empty can into the trash can with a clatter. "That's enough to turn this port upside down."

He jumped off the torpedo tube, picked up the Sterling submachine gun that was placed to the side. This new type of submachine gun had not yet been officially mass-produced and issued to front-line troops, but once David used it, he could never live without it. This weapon was simply made for such confined environments.

"Listen up, ladies!" David's voice wasn't loud, but it carried an barely suppressed excitement. The previously noisy torpedo compartment instantly fell silent, dozens of eyes gleaming coldly in the darkness. They were elite members of the Coldstream Guard Regiment, selected through rigorous processes, and the second batch of recruits from the SAS. Each of their files was top secret in the Army, and most of them didn't even know the specifics of this mission before they set off.

"This is not a drill, nor is it a hunting trip in the Scottish Highlands."

David pulled back the bolt to check the smoothness of the recoil spring.

"We're going to Oran. The entire French Atlantic Fleet is anchored there. If they surrender to us, we'll pop the champagne; if they want to hand over their ships to the Germans—" David grinned, his eyes devoid of any mercy, "then we'll blow this place to smithereens. Those are Arthur's exact words."

The submarine jolted violently, a metallic clanging sound emanating from its hull. The communications officer removed his headset, turned to the command post, and whispered, "Commander, we've reached periscope depth. 800 meters from the breakwater. Sonar indicates no propeller noise in the vicinity."

"Open the torpedo tube front cover." David slung the last grenade onto his belt, patted Ryder on the shoulder, and said, "Let's go, Colonel. Go deliver some British specialties to the French."

The sea was pitch black. The waves of the Mediterranean were not large, but in the dead of night without any lighting, the black water resembled some kind of viscous asphalt, swallowing all light. The starlight was obscured by thick clouds; it was the perfect weather for penetration.

The black backs of the three submarines pierced the water almost simultaneously, their movements incredibly fast.

There was no clumsy inflation process; the thirty specially made black rubber assault boats were already inflated in their lower decks and were quickly pushed into the water like dumplings being dropped into a pot.

There was no motor sound.

This assault boat, specially designed by Stirling Heavy Industries, features a silent propeller design with thick rubber layers covering the blades, making no sound when entering the water.

David Sterling and his trusted lieutenant Paddy Mayne were on the first boat. Colonel Ryder followed behind with the main force of the Cold Creek Guards. Everyone was pressed low to the surface, almost touching the water.

"Two o'clock, avoid that lighthouse beam," Paddy Mayne's voice came through. "There's a sewage outlet up ahead. God, the smell—it's like someone pooped right up my nose."

Even from hundreds of meters away, a nauseating stench wafted on the wind. It was a mixture of rotting seaweed, sewage, excrement, and dead fish. This smell assaulted everyone's nostrils.

"That's the smell of victory, Paddy." David chewed on his gum, a rare find from America. "The French thought it stank there, so there are no heavy machine guns there."

Ten minutes later, a huge concrete breakwater stood before them like a high wall, and black sewage was slowly flowing out of a cement pipe with a diameter of two meters, forming an oily stain on the sea surface.

The rocks were covered with thick moss and barnacles, making them so slippery that it was impossible to find a place to step.

"Two sentries. Smoking up there." Paddy pointed to two flickering embers at the top of the breakwater.

Indistinct voices drifted from there, interspersed with a few coughs. It was two Moroccan colonial soldiers who had been assigned to this wretched place for the night shift; they never expected anyone to climb out of the latrine.

"I'll go."

Bill O'Connor slung his submachine gun behind his back and pulled a blackened double-edged dagger from his boot. Like a giant, black gecko, he silently climbed up the pipe opening, his movements light and effortless, the slippery moss seemingly posing no obstacle to him.

The two sentries above were completely unaware.

One of them was complaining about the terrible tobacco rations, while the other was urinating with his back to the sea. Bill's hand gripped the edge of the breakwater. He sprang out of the shadows like a spring.

There were no screams, and there was no "kill less" order from Arthur; only the most efficient killing by special forces.

Left hand covers mouth, right hand cuts.

The sound of the blade slicing through the trachea was like tearing a soaked piece of paper. The sentry who had been urinating hadn't even had time to pull up his pants before collapsing limply into Bill's arms. The other sentry had barely turned his head when Bill's dagger flew out and precisely pierced his Adam's apple.

The two bodies were dragged into the shadows and stuffed into a crack in the breakwater like trash. Bill picked up his flashlight and flashed it three times in red light at the sea.

"Safe. Come on up."

One hundred and fifty fully armed commandos infiltrated the heavily guarded Oran naval port undetected. Instead of rushing directly to the docks, they used the cover of darkness and military supply crates to quickly infiltrate inland.

Their target was an abandoned shipyard warehouse inside the breakwater, piled high with rusty anchor chains and old boilers, only 400 meters away from the flagship "Dunkirk's" berth.

06:00 a.m.

The port of Oran awoke in a somber morning mist. This was not the morning of a victorious navy. There were no resounding bugle calls, no orderly drills. The docks were filled with disheveled French sailors. Some sat on mooring bollards smoking, some listlessly wiped the decks, and many more huddled together, whispering the despairing word: armistice.

In this all-male world, a figure in a baggy, oil-stained logistics sergeant's uniform goes unnoticed. Lieutenant Jeanne, her cap pulled low, skillfully navigates the dockside supply area, carrying a box of cigarettes and canned goods.

For this mission, she cut off her beautiful blonde hair, keeping a short, boyish cut, and even smeared engine oil and soot on her neck and the back of her hands to cover up skin that didn't belong there.

Her current identity is a female sergeant in the 4th Logistics Company—in this huge base, there are indeed a small number of female support personnel responsible for laundry, sewing, and distributing supplies.

"Hey bro, wanna grab a cigarette?" Jeanne sidled up to a group of sailors who were carrying coal.

They were a group of gloomy-faced guys covered in coal dust, wearing their signature striped shirts, but with the collars not tied up.

"That kind of tobacco mixed with sawdust again?" one of the sailors said, taking the cigarette and cursing. "Those Vichy officials save all the good tobacco for the Germans, and give us this horse manure."

Jeanne skillfully struck a match and lit it for the sailor.

“Who says otherwise?” she said, in a distinctive accent—with a heavy guttural tone and stiff enunciation. “The tobacco factories in Strasbourg have long since shut down; now they’re just dumping junk from Marseille.”

The sailor's hand trembled, and he abruptly raised his head, his bloodshot eyes fixed on Jeanne. Not only him, but the other four sailors who were shoveling coal nearby also stopped what they were doing and gathered around.

This accent, this distinctive Alsatian dialect, immediately caught their attention.

"Where are you from? My name is Pierre," the bearded boatswain asked in a deep voice, his eyes filled with wariness, but even more so with longing. "Molsheim?"

Jeanne did not avoid his gaze and continued speaking in that dialect, "My family grows grapes. We live south of that old church."

"My God—" Pierre threw down the shovel, wiping his rough hands on his trousers as if to express some kind of respect. "I'm from Colmar. These brothers were recruited from Strasbourg." They were boiler workers on the battlecruiser "Strasbourg." The ship was named after their hometown, which was no longer part of France.

"I think so too." Jeanne looked at the huge warship moored not far away, the pride of the French Navy and the last hope for these homeless people. "No one but us Alsatians can work in a boiler room with a temperature of fifty degrees Celsius without complaining."

"When did you arrive? How is everything at home?" Pierre asked anxiously.

Jeanne fell silent.

She looked around to make sure no military police or officers were paying attention before slowly pulling out a small notebook wrapped in oiled paper from her bosom.

"The intelligence just arrived yesterday." Her voice was low, trembling with a sob. "I think you should see this. Although—it's cruel."

Those were a few photographs. Of course, they were a masterpiece fabricated overnight by MI6. But in this kind of information-isolated...

In times of widespread anxiety, these truths are more real than the truth itself.

The first photo shows a huge, bright red Nazi swastika hanging on the spire of Strasbourg Cathedral.

The second photo shows several German SS officers in grey uniforms laughing in Strasbourg's Kleberplatz, with a torn French tricolor flag under their feet.

The third photo shows a group of Alsatian women being driven to wash clothes for a German military camp.

The air freezes.

The burly men, who had been grumbling just moments before, were now frozen in place. Pierre's hands were trembling. He gripped the photograph so tightly that the cheap photographic paper was almost crushed.

"Look at this again." Jeanne's eyes were red, and tears washed away the coal dust on her cheeks, leaving two white streaks. It wasn't an act; she was genuinely sad and didn't need to pretend. "Our loved ones are here shining shoes for those high-ranking German officials, working like animals in the boiler room. And the Germans are hanging that tattered cloth on the roof of our church and sleeping our sisters in our beds."

She suddenly raised her head, her eyes turning fierce.

"And I heard that the big shot from the local area—Admiral Darlan—intends to give this ship, named after your hometown, as a gift to Little Mustache."

"He wants to use this ship to secure his position as prime minister in the Vichy government. He wants to use our ship to curry favor with the Germans who raped our sisters!"

"That old bastard!" a young sailor nearby suddenly roared, tears welling up in his eyes. He raised his shovel and slammed it down on the coal pile. "I'm going to kill them! I'll kill those traitors!"

"Shut up!" Pierre shoved the young man's mouth shut and slammed him onto the coal pile. He glanced warily at the gendarmes in the distance, and only released his grip after making sure no one had heard.

Pierre turned to look at Jeanne. The old boatswain, with his stubble and usually obedient nature, now had a pure killing intent in his eyes, a rage that had transformed into a rage.

"Are you serious? Darran is really going to surrender?"

"Then what are we doing here?" Jeanne looked at the huge warship moored not far away, the pride of the French Navy and the last refuge for these homeless people.

She made no mention of the British, much less that the British fleet was on its way, because that was also taboo.

"If Darlan really wants to save the fleet, why won't he let us weigh anchor? Even going to Martinique would be better than lying on a chopping board like a dead pig."

She lowered her voice, her tone filled with an unsettling speculation: "The only explanation is that he's waiting for the buyer to inspect the goods."

"Buyer—" Pierre took a deep breath. The two words lashed at his face like a whip. He bent down, picked up the crushed aluminum glass, and smashed it hard on the cinder-strewn ground.

There was no crisp sound, only a dull thud and a twisting metallic sound.

"Alright." Pierre's voice was low and menacing, like steam about to explode in a boiler. He turned around and looked at his fellow boiler workers, whose eyes were also bloodshot. "If that old bastard really dares to give this ship to Little Mustache as a gift—"

"If those grey-skinned German pigs dare to set foot on this ship—"

Pierre stretched out his large, calloused hands, scarred by burns, and twisted them violently in the air.

"I stuffed him into the boiler and burned him. I even scattered his ashes."

Jeanne didn't speak or make any unnecessary movements. She simply gave Pierre a deep look, as if to confirm the man's resolve.

Then, she took out half a pack of flattened cigarettes from her pocket and stuffed it into Pierre's hand—this was the most natural gift between comrades.

"Keep that energy, Pierre." Jeanne patted his shoulder, a tacit understanding between Alsatians. "Don't let that wrench rust. We might need it to smash something soon."

"For Arthas," Jeanne said softly.

"For Alsace." Pierre gripped the pack of cigarettes tightly, as if holding the hatred of the entire village in his hand.

Jeanne lowered the brim of her hat, turned and disappeared into the busy crowd at the dock.

The seed has been planted. With just a spark, these enraged boiler workers will turn the entire warship into an erupting volcano.

At 07:30, the sun had fully risen, dispelling the morning mist from the harbor. In a warehouse on the third floor of the abandoned shipyard inside the breakwater, Colonel Ryder was making final arrangements.

This is one of the highest points in the entire port.

Through the dusty, cobweb-covered windows, the entire core area of ​​the naval port was laid bare. The Cold Creek Guards snipers had cleared firing windows. They wrapped their gun barrels in rags to prevent sunlight reflection from revealing their positions.

Six Enfield No.4(T) sniper rifles were set up, their dark muzzles locked onto two targets 400 meters away: the bridge of the HMS Dunkirk and the main checkpoint on the dock.

"Wind speed 3 meters per second, southeast direction." Colonel Ryder looked at the anemometer and said to the spotter beside him, "Distance correction 400. Once you open fire, I want you to take out all the French military police trying to approach the siren in the first volley."

On the other side of the warehouse, David Sterling was installing a timer fuse on a box of C2 plastic explosives.

"If we have to retreat, this place will turn into a giant firework." David skillfully attached the explosives to the load-bearing pillars of the warehouse, "which will be just enough to collapse the shipyard below and block the inner channel of the harbor."

"David, come look at this." Ryder's voice suddenly became tense. He was leaning against the window, holding binoculars in his hand.

David spat out his chewing gum and went to the window to take the binoculars.

In the footage, the massive steel behemoth—the battlecruiser HMS Dunkerque—is quietly anchored in the water. All eight of its 330mm main guns are pointed forward, their muzzles covered with canvas. On the deck, a group of officers are bustling about, laying out a red carpet.

"What are they doing? Welcoming the British? De Gaulle doesn't have that much influence, does he?" David frowned. "No, look at that flag." Ryder pointed to the mast. It wasn't an ordinary fleet commander's flag flying there, but a naval admiral's flag embroidered with five gold stars.

A few minutes later, a convoy drove directly onto the dock. A short, elderly man, smoking a pipe and dressed in a full admiral's uniform, walked onto the deck surrounded by a crowd. His gait was arrogant, and the officers around him treated him with utmost respect; even Admiral Jean-Sullivan followed half a step behind him.

"Damn it." David put down his binoculars, his face turning grim.

"That's François Darlan."

"That Navy Commander-in-Chief?" Ryder gasped.

"Yes, that old bastard who wanted to sell the French Navy to Little Mustache as a bargaining chip." David's eyes instantly turned cold. "We wanted to catch a big fish, but we got a shark instead."

"This is troublesome." Colonel Ryder looked at the figure in the binoculars, his face turning extremely grim. "De Gaulle has no idea who he's dealing with. He thinks he only needs to deal with that old fogey, Sue, and has no idea that that old fox, Darlan, is sitting there waiting to devour him."

Ryder grabbed the radio and quickly flicked the tuning knob, preparing to switch to the Foxhound's communication channel.

"I must warn them. If de Gaulle walks in unprepared—"

A large hand suddenly pressed down on Ryder's wrist.

"Don't be foolish, Colonel." David Sterling's voice was icy. He was still chewing his gum, but the cynicism in his eyes had vanished, replaced by an uncharacteristic seriousness. "The entire Oran harbor's radio is being closely monitored. There are at least ten monitors in the flagship's communications room, ears perked up. If you send a message now, it's tantamount to telling Darlan directly: 'Hey, we're lying in ambush in the warehouses above you.'"

Ryder paused for a moment, looked at the strong hand, and finally gritted his teeth and put down the communicator.

"What can we do then? Just watch de Gaulle jump into the fire? Once Darlan detains the negotiating team, we'll be at a disadvantage."

"Then we'll just have to improvise." David loosened his grip, leaned back, and regained that manic sense of relaxation. "War never waits for you to be ready before it begins. We're here to do the dirty work, not to be babysitters. If de Gaulle can't even handle this kind of situation, then he shouldn't talk about leading Free France."

"What if the negotiations break down?" Ryder pressed. "What if Darlan actually makes a move?"

"Then activate Plan B." David didn't explain what Plan B was. He simply turned his head and glanced at Johnny Cooper, who was crouching by the window. This guy's current rank was also lieutenant.

One of the founding members of the SAS is now gently wiping the scope of his Enfield No.4(T) sniper rifle with a flannel cloth.

Noticing David's gaze, Cooper didn't speak, but simply pulled back the bolt, pushing a .303 caliber bullet into the chamber, and then steadily aimed the crosshairs at the bridge porthole of the distant flagship.

The meaning is self-evident.

Problems that can't be solved at the negotiating table can be solved with 7.7mm bullets.

If you can't take the fleet, take the admiral's head.

Just then, a white wake tore through the sea.

The destroyer HMS Foxhound, flying a huge white flag, pierced the morning mist and slowly slid into its berth under the guidance of its navigation lights.

De Gaulle and Jeanson descended the gangway one after the other.

They spoke in hushed tones, adjusting their white gloves with steady steps and relaxed expressions. It was as if this were just a routine port inspection, as if they had only been discussing London's terrible weather, rather than deciding the fate of the world's fourth-largest fleet.

The dock was deathly silent.

Hundreds of French sailors stopped what they were doing, holding ropes, mops, and wrenches, frozen in place. Countless eyes were fixed on the two former officers, dressed in the same uniforms, who had just disembarked from a British warship.

Some of their reflections are filled with confusion, some with anger, and others with a kind of repressed expectation.

Under this silent gaze, de Gaulle neither turned back nor hesitated. He and Jeanson walked step by step into the depths of the harbor, their footsteps echoing on the creaking wooden dock.

They certainly wouldn't put all their eggs in one basket at the negotiating table, where there were no guarantees. They also knew that Ryder and David were hiding somewhere in the port, but they didn't know exactly where.

In this treacherous enemy port, no one knows where this insurance policy is hidden in the shadows, nor whether that lifeline is reliable.

Meanwhile, in the abandoned warehouse 400 meters above them, Johnny Cooper steadily captured the shadows behind them through his scope.

There were no unnecessary movements. Only a gentle push of the thumb across the receiver.

Click.

The safety on that Enfield sniper rifle was quietly released.

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