The Twilight of Empire: Starting from Dunkirk

Chapter 147 The Wrong Script

June 27, 1940, 08:30 AM, entrance to Oran Harbor, bridge of the destroyer HMS Foxhound.

The morning mist, like gray cotton wool soaked in water, pressed heavily on the sea.

The destroyer HMS Foxhound cut off its main engine power and silently glided through the gap in the breakwater by inertia.

The Royal Navy's H-class destroyer had all its fangs at this moment—its main guns were at zero and pointed to the sky, and its torpedo tubes were completely covered by canvas.

The only thing that stood out was the huge white flag on the mainmast, hanging limply in the damp sea breeze.

Charles de Gaulle stood on the right flank of the open bridge, wearing his iconic brigadier general's uniform, the buttons fastened tightly. Despite the biting sea breeze, his palms were sweaty. He removed his white gloves and rubbed them vigorously against the railing, trying to wipe away the uncontrollable bodily fluids.

"Don't be nervous, Charles." Standing beside him, Major General Jeanson was adjusting his tie in front of a portable mirror. The former army general, who could only move one hand, looked much more composed than de Gaulle.

"You're going to negotiate, not to the execution ground. Although in some ways, it's harder than going to the execution ground."

De Gaulle took a deep breath, the air thick with the smell of fuel and salty tang filling his lungs. He watched the massive shadows of the warships drawing ever closer on either side—the Dunkerque and the Strasbourg.

The oppressive feeling of the steel made him feel suffocated.

"I'm still figuring out how to bring it up," de Gaulle's voice was a little hoarse. "General Jean-Sullivan is an old-fashioned man. He probably won't even look at me properly."

"Then before he looks at you, throw the message at him." Jean-Jacques put away the mirror and patted de Gaulle on the shoulder with his good hand. "Listen, I know Saul too well. He's the kind of old stubborn man who has the Naval Regulations etched into his bones. He hates the British, but he loves his ships even more. For him, the fleet is his life, the last vestige of French chastity."

Sen lowered his voice, as if he were imparting some secret to dueling, or rather, test-taking skills.

"Don't talk to him about politics, don't talk about the Vichy government, and definitely don't mention Pétain. Just talk about two things: honor and survival."

"Tell him that if he doesn't come with us, these ships will become rusty scrap metal, or be used as target practice by the Germans. If you can hold him accountable for preserving the fleet," even for the lives of those thousands of sailors, he will waver.

De Gaulle nodded. The words he had already rehearsed countless times swirled in his mind once more.

The cold sweat on his fingertips dried, replaced by a bloodthirsty excitement, like a gambler about to reveal their hand.

He longed for that moment.

I long to see the flame rekindled in the eyes of my fellow sailors, to awaken them from their silence as subjugated slaves, and to transform them into warriors who will once again draw their swords against the Nazis for the glory of France.

"Understood." De Gaulle adjusted the angle of his military cap against the reflective glass, maintaining his cold and resolute expression. "I will give him two choices: either come with me to England to continue the fight, or watch his ships rot in the harbor. As long as there is no interference from the high-ranking officials of the Vichy government, I am 80% confident that I can persuade him."

"Eighty percent?" Sen smiled, his smile brimming with confidence. "Add the 15-inch main guns of the H Fleet outside, and that's one hundred percent."

The two looked at each other and smiled.

In their view, the script was already written, and this was just a slightly trickier persuasion operation.

While Suhr was indeed stubborn, the logic of a soldier is simple in the face of absolute power and absolute morality.

The destroyer shuddered slightly and docked at the wooden pier. The gangway was lowered. De Gaulle and Jean-Jacques de Gaulle stepped down one after the other. They held their heads high, their steps steady, their leather boots making a crisp sound on the wooden planks.

The dock was deathly silent.

Hundreds of French sailors stood frozen, mops and ropes in hand, watching the two officers, dressed in French uniforms, disembark from the British warship. Their gazes held a mixture of confusion, hostility, and a secret expectation.

Under this silent gaze, de Gaulle did not turn around. He confidently strode onto the red carpet leading to the flagship.

08:45, third-floor warehouse of the port repair shop.

David Sterling was lying behind a pile of discarded canvas, chewing a piece of tasteless gum.

This is the highest point in Oran Port.

Through the lens of his telescope, he clearly saw the entire process at the dock.

"Look," Colonel Ryder, adjusting the focus of his binoculars, commented coldly, "Our General de Gaulle walks like he's going to a coronation. He has no idea what kind of den of wolves he's walked into."

"As long as he doesn't wet his pants, it's fine." David turned his binoculars toward the anti-aircraft positions outside the harbor, where a row of 75mm anti-aircraft guns were pointing their muzzles at the sky.

Everything seemed normal. But David felt something was off. The air was too quiet, like the stillness of a jungle before a storm.

Suddenly, a deep, rumbling engine roar broke the silence.

The sound didn't come from the sea, but from overhead.

"Aircraft?" Ryder looked up quickly. "H Fleet's reconnaissance planes?"

"No. That sound is wrong." David suddenly raised his binoculars, tracking the source of the sound.

The clouds were torn apart.

A three-engine transport plane painted in dark gray camouflage, like a giant vulture, skimmed low over the breakwater of Oran Harbor. It carried no bombs under its wings, but the black and white Iron Cross insignia on its sides and tail stood out starkly.

"Junkers Ju-52." David spat out his chewing gum, his voice instantly turning cold. "The German Luftwaffe."

The plane was not intercepted by any anti-aircraft fire; on the contrary, searchlights outside the port even displayed signals to guide it to land.

It lowered its nose and landed at the LaSénia naval air base a few kilometers away.

David put down his binoculars, his face turning extremely pale.

"Ryder, things have changed."

"Are those German Armistice Committee planes?" Ryder frowned. "Didn't the intelligence say they wouldn't arrive until tomorrow? And they're coming by sea, from Tunisia?"

"Intelligence is for the dead." David quickly checked the Sterling submachine gun in his hand, pulled the bolt, and chambered a bullet.

"That plane flew right in. That means Oran's air defense command has given them the green light. Whether they're here to receive the fleet or to back someone up, they've arrived." He pointed to his watch. "It only takes half an hour to drive here from Lacenia Airport. The Germans are on their way."

Ryder took a deep breath: "Then de Gaulle—"

"De Gaulle thought he was putting on a one-man show, little did he know the audience had already entered with guns." David stood up, a ruthless glint in his eyes. "We can't foolishly wait for the signal. If the Germans take control of the docks first, we'll be at a disadvantage."

""

He turned and made a series of complex hand gestures to Johnny Cooper and the others crouching at the window below. It was the highest-level combat order stipulated within the SAS during training: All units, disarm. Once the German convoy appears, no orders are needed; act according to the situation and fire freely.

"Jock, get them something hot," David shouted without turning his head.

Jock Lewis, the explosives genius, was currently working like a busy construction worker.

He was preparing to secretly place several specially made "Lewis bombs," incendiary explosives mixed with diesel and plastic explosives, along the only road leading to the docks and next to the load-bearing pillars of the warehouse before the Germans arrived.

"Don't worry, David," Jock said, chewing on a detonator. "If the bullets don't kill them, these little cuties will burn them to ashes."

Meanwhile, Colonel Ryder went to the other side of the warehouse, where he was demonstrating textbook-perfect tactical skills from the Cold Creek Guards.

He wasn't as crazy as David, but his men were more deadly and his firepower was more intense.

Six Bren light machine guns were quickly set up on the dusty windowsill, their dark muzzles adjusted to create a perfect crossfire. Magazines were slammed into the chambers with a sharp click, the sound echoing eerily in the empty warehouse.

"Listen up, all of you." Ryder stared at the gunners, pointing to the open space on the dock. "There's no warm-up or warning shots for this battle. The Germans will be sitting ducks the moment they get out of their vehicles."

"Don't hold back your bullets, machine guns and submachine guns, fire like mad! In the first volley, I want to see at least half the Germans fall. Don't give them a chance to take cover. Nail them to the ground on that red carpet."

08:50 AM, Admiral's Conference Room, Battlecruiser "Dunkirk".

The heavy oak door is inlaid with brass handles, a symbol of the luxury of the pre-war French Navy.

De Gaulle adjusted his top button and checked his expression again—a look that combined concern for the country and its people with unwavering determination.

He and Jensen exchanged a glance.

"Are you ready?"

"Come in."

De Gaulle pushed open the door. He stepped inside and called out in a loud voice, "General Jean-Surre, I am your representative—"

The sound stopped abruptly, like a rooster being choked, all subsequent words were forcibly blocked back into its throat.

The conference room was carpeted in crimson. At the far end of the long mahogany conference table, in the seat that should have belonged to General Jean-Sullivan, sat another person. Someone de Gaulle never dreamed would be here.

The man was not tall; in fact, he was rather stocky.

He was dressed in a full admiral's dress uniform, with five gold stars embroidered on his cuffs and his chest adorned with gleaming medals. He held a briar pipe in his hand, casually refilling it with tobacco.

That was François Darlan, Commander-in-Chief of the French Navy, Deputy Prime Minister of the Vichy government, and one of the most powerful people in France at present.

De Gaulle's pupils contracted sharply; he would never forget this face until his death.

The day before he fled to London, in the restaurant of the Splendid Hotel, de Gaulle sat in the shadows at the far end of the restaurant, coldly watching the man. Darlan was sitting opposite the distraught Prime Minister Paul Reno, elegantly cutting a medium-rare steak with a knife and fork, as if the burning France outside the window had nothing to do with him.

At that time, he was waiting for the right price to go.

And now, it seems he has found a buyer.

Their original negotiating partner, General Jean-Jacques Suhr, was now standing awkwardly to one side of the long table, his hands hanging limply at his sides, like a schoolboy who had made a mistake and was waiting to be scolded. The moment de Gaulle entered, Suhr didn't even dare to look up at him, his gaze fixed on the pattern on the carpet.

"Keep talking, Ciel. Don't stop."

Darlan struck a match, the flame casting a flickering shadow on his wrinkled face. He slowly brought the flame to his pipe and took a deep drag. A cloud of bluish-gray smoke rose in the conference room, swirling between the two men.

He didn't even get up; he remained comfortably leaning back in his chair, scrutinizing de Gaulle through the smoke with the look one might give a circus clown.

"I must say, your exile was remarkably efficient." Darlang chuckled, a mocking sound emanating from his nose. "When did you run away? The 17th? Today is the 27th. A full ten days."

He glanced at the clock on the wall.

"My God, Charles. Even a tourist on holiday in London stays longer than you. What's wrong? Is the fish and chips in England so bad that it drove you back? Or did Churchill's fat cigars suffocate you, making you feel more comfortable facing the firing squad back here?"

Darlang flicked his pipe, his eyes sharpening.

"So, who are you representing this time? That fat guy who's hiding in a London basement drinking heavily?"

"Or are you representing yourself—this criminal who has already been sentenced to death in absentia by a military court?"

De Gaulle suddenly felt dizzy.

All the psychological offensives that had been prepared against Sull—about honor, about warships, about brotherhood—

At this moment, everything became meaningless. Faced with Darlan, a true political beast, the rhetoric among the soldiers was utter nonsense.

But he was, after all, de Gaulle.

He forced himself to suppress the shock in his heart, straightened his back, and tried to regain his composure.

"Your Excellency Darlang."

De Gaulle changed his title.

He forcibly suppressed the anger in his heart, and although his voice was a little tight, his tone was at least coherent.

He made no mention of Fleet H, nor of the British ultimatum—that was his ally's trump card, which he would never betray.

He could only gamble on the old man's conscience, or rather, on his possessiveness of the fleet.

"I'm here for the French Navy. You know the Germans better than I do. The armistice has done nothing to curb the Nazis' greed. They're already in North Africa, approaching the ports." De Gaulle stepped forward, his gaze piercing. "If you don't want to see this fleet captured by the Germans, or destroyed in the war—"

"Destruction?" Darlang sneered, slamming his briar pipe heavily onto the mahogany table.

boom.

The dull thud seemed to strike everyone's heart, even the ashtray on the table seemed to jump.

"I don't need the British people's pity, nor do I need a traitor like you to teach me how to look at Germans." Darlang stood up. Even though he was not tall, the imposing aura of someone who had long held a high position and controlled life and death made him look like an insurmountable mountain.

"I've reached an agreement with Berlin. This fleet is my bargaining chip—do you understand, Charles? It's a bargaining chip!" He walked to the huge porthole, pointing to the massive, imposing turrets outside, his eyes filled with greed. "As long as these ships are in my hands, as long as these tens of thousands of sailors are in my hands, Little Mustache won't dare touch the Vichy government, and that senile old man Pétain will have to listen to me! I can send them wherever I want. I'm the player in this game, not a pawn."

"Even if we hand them over to the Germans?" Standing behind de Gaulle, Jean-Jacques finally couldn't stand the bastard's nonsense anymore. He took a step forward, his one arm pointing at the silent Admiral Sull, his voice trembling: "Jean! You're just going to watch? Didn't you say when you were drunk with me in Toulon that the fleet was your life? Now you're going to sell it off as a political bargaining chip? Sell it to those Germans who humiliated us in the Compiègne forest?"

Suer's face was somewhat unpleasant, and his lips moved as if he wanted to say something.

"Shut up!" Darlang shouted, interrupting Suer like he was scolding a dog.

"Sur, you are a soldier, and a soldier's duty is to obey orders. I am the Commander-in-Chief, your superior, and you must listen to me."

Darlan turned his head to look at de Gaulle, a slow, cruel smile creeping onto his lips.

He seemed to see through de Gaulle's anxiety and guessed some things that de Gaulle hadn't said aloud.

"Actually, I'd like the British to make a move." He walked to the window, looking at the hazy mist on the sea, as if something was hidden there. "As long as the British dare to fire the first shot, as long as they kill even one French sailor—I can let all the people of France see the true face of the Anglo-Saxons. Hatred will be the best glue, able to completely unite the Vichy government, even—declare war on Britain, and completely board the German war machine, just like that clown Mussolini. At least we can still get some soup."

He turned and stared at de Gaulle, saying slowly and deliberately, "You need ships. I need corpses. That's politics, Charles. You're still too green."

09: 15.

The negotiations completely collapsed.

Or rather, there was no negotiation at all; this was a one-sided humiliation and verdict.

Darlan sat back down in his chair and waved to his adjutant beside him: "Summon the military police. Since these two traitors have delivered themselves to our doorstep, they can serve as a greeting gift to our German friends who are about to arrive."

De Gaulle felt a chill run down his spine.

It failed before it even started, and it was a desperate situation.

If it is seized, not only will this fleet be finished, but Free France will also lose its leader.

This was a gamble he was destined to lose, but he had to throw his last chip. To survive, to send that signal, he needed time.

"In that case, Your Excellency General."

De Gaulle's voice was devoid of any emotion, as if he had already accepted this cruel fate. He turned around and walked slowly with heavy steps toward the huge porthole, the best spot he had specifically calculated before entering.

He didn't know which shadow David Sterling was hiding in, nor did he know which abandoned warehouse window Ryder had concealed his gun.

But he staked his life on the promise of that English madman: "If you stand at the window, I will see you."

Since that guy was able to get him out of Bordeaux once, he believed this time would be no exception.

De Gaulle stood by the window, his back to Darlan, looking at the silent steel behemoths outside.

"Please allow me one last look at these ships." His voice carried a hint of desolation. "After all, before becoming the death row inmate you speak of—I was once a member of the army."

Darlang gave a dismissive snort and did not stop him.

In his view, this was nothing more than a death row inmate's final act of sentimentality.

De Gaulle had his back to everyone in the conference room, facing the dock and the abandoned warehouse in the distance.

His hands were trembling, a physical fear, and this time, cold sweat was really streaming down his temples.

He took a neatly folded white handkerchief from his jacket pocket, removed his military cap, and used the handkerchief to wipe the sweat from his forehead. The movement was slow and forceful. Then, he folded the handkerchief twice and wiped his neck again.

Three long, two short.

That was the agreed-upon signal: negotiations had broken down. Even worse than a breakdown. Prepare to act.

At the same time, his eyes quickly scanned the deck.

He saw several officers wearing "Vichy Gardes Françaises" armbands moving quickly toward the telegraph room on the port side of the bridge. They were Darlan's trusted men, on their way to send a telegram.

Once the telegram is sent, or the Germans receive the signal, it's all over.

400 meters away.

In the shadows of the abandoned warehouse.

Colonel Ryder lay sprawled on the dusty table, his eyes pressed tightly against the high-powered scope.

"I saw it." Ryder's voice was urgent and low. "White handkerchief. Three long and two short. Confirmation signal."

David Sterling was leaning over the other table, looking at a hand-drawn deck plan.

"Cooper!" David called out.

Johnny Cooper, crouching by the window, didn't turn around, but merely adjusted the muzzle of his Enfield sniper rifle slightly: "Here."

"See that adjutant on the left side of the bridge? And that colonel guarding the telegraph room door?" David drew two bright red circles on the map at those locations, his pen almost piercing the paper. "Those are the hardliners. Once the shooting starts, send them to hell first. Don't let them send any signals."

"Understood." Cooper pulled back the bolt and placed his finger on the trigger.

09:3, entrance to the Åland Port terminal.

Just as de Gaulle gave the signal, and just as Cooper locked onto the target—a piercing screech of brakes shattered the tranquility of the dock.

David abruptly shifted his gaze to the entrance of the dock.

"Damn it," he cursed.

Three trucks and a black Mercedes convertible, escorted by a large number of French military police on motorcycles, rushed into the dock.

The German Iron Cross was prominently displayed on the train door. The Germans had arrived.

The convoy came to a sudden stop beside the gangway of the Dunkirk.

The car door opened.

First to disembark was a squad of fully armed German naval sailors, carrying Mauser rifles, who swiftly and efficiently secured the gangway. Next, two men stepped out of the black sedan. One was a German rear admiral in a dark blue uniform, the other more conspicuous—an SS battalion commander in a grey-black uniform and a skull and crossbones cap.

They were extremely arrogant.

The SS battalion commander adjusted his leather gloves, glanced up at the massive battleship before him, and a conqueror's arrogant smile spread across his face. He didn't even look at the French sailors saluting beside him, but instead strode directly onto the red carpet that had originally been laid out for Darlan.

"We can't let them on board." David's voice was chillingly cold.

If the Germans were allowed to board the ship and meet Darlan, that would constitute a legally formal acceptance.

If we take action then, the nature of the matter will change.

They are still invaders of France.

One minute later, they would be allies, and to take action again would be to declare war on France.

"I'm not waiting anymore."

David picked up his Sterling submachine gun and tried to lock his gaze through the peephole onto the SS battalion commander who was strutting arrogantly on the red carpet.

400 meters away.

The gray figure in the crosshair was as small as a matchbox.

David frowned. A Sterling submachine gun is a broom for clearing debris in trenches, not a needle for threading a needle 400 meters away. At that distance, the dispersion area of ​​a 9mm Parabellum pistol round could be the size of a truck.

This is the first shot.

It must be a decapitation, not a firecracker that startles the prey.

"Tsk."

David promptly lowered his gun. He was a madman, not a fool.

He turned his head and looked at Johnny Cooper, who was already eagerly waiting beside him.

"Cooper." David pointed to the SS captain.

"Open his skull."

Chapter 10, I did it, brothers! Although it's a bit late, it didn't exceed the time limit. Please give me some monthly tickets and rewards to support me. I'm all fired up.

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