The Twilight of Empire: Starting from Dunkirk

Chapter 148 Welcome Back to the Team

400 meters away, an abandoned warehouse.

Cooper's finger was already on the trigger, but he didn't pull it down immediately.

He hesitated.

In a split second, his crosshairs passed the SS battalion commander and locked onto the back of the head of the rear admiral walking in front.

In his view, that was the truly high-value goal.

Cooper knew perfectly well that the one in the SS uniform was just a butcher responsible for killing, while the one in the Navy uniform was the one responsible for "signing".

From a legal standpoint, that major general was the official representative of the German Navy. Smashing his head would immediately transform this so-called "peaceful transfer" into an illegal "armed invasion." Without that major general, these Germans would lose all legal basis and be nothing more than a group of thugs who had overstepped their bounds.

But he didn't open fire immediately because those damned French officers were too close together, crowding around the major general as if they were cold.

"Damn it," David Sterling muttered.

Through the viewing lens, he immediately understood Cooper's one-second pause—the kid wanted something bigger.

He also knew that, from a strategic perspective, that rear admiral's head was a hundred times more valuable than that of the SS battalion commander.

But at a distance of 400 meters, the group of obsequious French officers wrapped the major general up so tightly that it was like the thickest human bulletproof vest.

This is real combat, not a shooting range; there are no second chances. As the commander, he had to make a decision immediately and nip this dangerous gamble in the bud.

"Cooper. The Major General has no angle. There are too many meat shields." David had to remind him, but it was just a suggestion.

There was no blame in his tone, nor did he fly into a rage over that one-second delay. As the commander, he decided to leave the final decision to the sniper himself. Cooper was his choice, and he trusted Cooper's choice, as well as his own.

Cooper, crouching by the window, did not reply. His breathing remained steady, and his finger was already pressing the trigger of the Enfield sniper rifle.

He didn't move the crosshair; he completely ignored David's advice.

His eyes were fixed on the moving figure in the scope. He was waiting for a moment, a moment that only the best hunters could capture. A stout French colonel walking to the left of the major general seemed to loosen the wooden plank beneath his feet, and his body involuntarily swayed half a step to the side.

Now. The once impenetrable wall of people now has a gap of less than ten centimeters.

It went straight to the back of the major general's head.

"No, I only want a major general."

boom!

A muffled, precise, yet deafening single shot rang out. The .303 Mk.VII heavy-point bullet tore through the air at 740 meters per second, traversing a deadly distance of 400 meters, and precisely slipped into that fleeting gap.

The gangway entrance at the dock.

The SS battalion commander, in an attempt to project an Aryan superhuman air, lagged slightly behind the major general. He had one foot on the gangway, head held high with an arrogant air, seemingly enjoying the moment. He turned, preparing to offer a compliment to the major general ahead.

His words stuck in his throat.

Under his gaze, the rear admiral walking ahead suddenly had his head snap off at an extremely bizarre angle. There wasn't a clean bullet hole. The bullet, carrying immense kinetic energy, tumbled upon impact with the skull, like an invisible giant ice cream scoop digging deep inside.

The major general's skull, along with half of the back of his head, which was covered by his peaked cap, vanished instantly. Red blood mixed with white brain matter and fragments of broken skull splattered violently in a fan shape, hitting the face of the SS battalion commander behind him and his spotless uniform.

The major general's corpse, with only half a head remaining, swayed twice before collapsing onto the red carpet, a symbol of power, amidst gasps of alarm, staining the crimson carpet a dark purple.

The SS battalion commander stood frozen in place, his face covered in blood, his mouth agape in terror as he stared at the corpse at his feet, making gurgling sounds in his throat.

400 meters away.

David Sterling stared at the fallen major general's body in his scope for a fraction of a second, then slammed his hand on the brick in front of him, his mouth agape, revealing a set of white teeth.

"Good heavens! He's fucking insane!"

He grabbed the radio intercom, the radio silence was lifted, and it was the Cold Creek Guards led by Colonel Ryder.

"Did you all see that?! This is SAS's welcome gift!"

"Get him here! Tie that damned general up and bring him back! Don't let him escape!"

09:30:05, descending the gangway of the battlecruiser "Dunkirk".

That moment that determined the course of history was not accompanied by grand music, but only by the sound of bones shattering.

The major general's headless corpse remained in that arrogant standing posture for a full half-second. His left hand was even still adjusting his gloves. In that one second, the air in Oran Port seemed to freeze into cement.

The seagulls stopped crying, and the waves seemed to have forgotten to pound against the embankment.

Then, the laws of gravity arrived belatedly. The body, now devoid of its command center, fell straight backward like a piece of rotten wood, crashing onto the newly laid red carpet with a dull, damp thud.

boom.

This deafening roar shattered the facade of peace.

The SS battalion commander standing behind the corpses was blinded by the sudden shower of blood. But he was, after all, a battle-hardened butcher, and his survival instincts kicked in faster than his conscious thought. His retinas caught a fleeting glimpse of muzzle flash from a window of an abandoned warehouse 400 meters away.

"Enemy attack!!!"

The captain let out a roar.

He didn't try to lift the body; the rear admiral was clearly dead. He suddenly lunged to his right, kicking the naval rear admiral he had just flattered, using the now-cease twitching torso as his only sandbag cover.

He drew his Luger P08 pistol from his waist, and before he could even wipe the white brain matter clinging to his eyelashes, he blindly pulled the trigger in the direction of the abandoned warehouse.

"Fight back! Damn it! This is a trap! The French are plotting against us!"

He yelled at the wrong person, but that doesn't matter anymore. Because at this distance, death knows no nationality.

On the other side of the third floor of the abandoned warehouse.

Colonel Ryder lay prone in the shadows and swung his arm down.

"Fire. Don't hold back on ammo."

Six Bren light machine guns roared at almost the same moment.

Da da da da da—!

Six tongues of fire erupted from the warehouse window, weaving into an impenetrable web of death in the air, instantly covering the narrow red carpet and the convoy parked on the dock.

400 meters is a distance that might cause the bullet impact point to be unpredictable for the iron sights of a light machine gun.

However, with a total firing rate of 3000 rounds per minute, accuracy becomes less important. As long as the amount of ammunition fired is large enough, dispersion error will become the most efficient area-effect damage.

The twenty German sailors standing in formation beside the truck, who had been mocking the French sailors' dejection a moment ago, were now targets. They didn't even have time to remove their finely crafted Kar98k rifles from their shoulders. 7.7mm machine gun bullets swept over them like a harvester. Human bodies were torn apart in the metal storm, limbs flying everywhere. Blood mixed with flesh sprayed onto the black Mercedes, staining the Iron Cross insignia crimson.

In the first volley of fire, twelve German sailors were riddled with bullets. The remaining soldiers screamed and began searching for cover, but the dock was as empty as a morgue.

"That's the fuel tank! Shoot the fuel tank!" David Sterling leaned out the window, pointing excitedly at the troop transport truck.

Johnny Cooper quickly pulled the bolt and fired a flare.

Whoosh! The bullet precisely pierced the fuel tank on the side of the truck. The spilled diesel fuel was instantly ignited by the high temperature of the tracer round.

Boom! A fireball rose from the dock. The shockwave from the explosion blew away a nearby car adorned with a Nazi flag, turning it into a pile of burning scrap metal. Thick black smoke billowed into the sky, becoming the most conspicuous signal over Oran Harbor.

"Scatter! Use the wreckage as cover! Mortars ready!"

The SS battalion commander, hiding behind the major general's body, roared hoarsely. The dozens of SS soldiers he brought with him displayed a high level of tactical skill. Having survived the first volley, they quickly rolled behind the burning wreckage of the truck, set up their MP40 submachine guns, and began to return fire, bullets striking the warehouse walls and kicking up clouds of dust.

But this is meaningless.

The "little cuties" that Jock Lewis had set up detonated. Pre-fabricated fragmentation mines buried in the gaps of military supply crates were remotely detonated.

Boom! Boom!

Thousands of steel balls swept across the SS flank bunkers in a fan shape, screams were drowned out by the huge explosions, and the newly established defensive line collapsed instantly.

The Admiral's Conference Room on the USS Dunkirk.

The moment the gunshot rang out, General Darlan was so startled that he dropped his briar pipe to the ground.

He heard shouts in German outside, heard explosions, and saw fireballs rising outside the window.

As a seasoned shrew who had spent his entire life navigating the vortex of politics, his first reaction was not "The British are coming."

Instead, it was said that "the Germans broke the contract."

After all, the Germans have done far too many treacherous things.

"These bastards! These liars!" Darlang's face turned deathly pale instantly, all his previous arrogance vanishing. He jumped up from his chair, grabbed his military cap from the table, and ran towards the door.

"Guards! Guards! Seal the hatch! Don't let the Germans in! They're going to kill us to silence us!"

He wanted to run, he wanted to get back to the bridge, or somewhere safer, like hiding in the armored command tower. But he forgot there were two other people in front of him.

Major General Yoshimori. This army major general, who had "lost" an arm, was displaying an agility and madness beyond his years.

He realized this was a golden opportunity.

He didn't have a gun; they had already disarmed him before he came in, but he still had an arm and weighed 180 pounds.

"Where do you think you're going, Darlang!" Renson roared, like an enraged old lion, and grabbed Darlang by the neck with his one arm. The momentum carried them both heavily onto the mahogany conference table.

"Let go! You madman! I am the Commander-in-Chief of the Navy!" Darlang was choked and could hardly breathe. He desperately scratched at Sen's arm, his nails digging deep into his flesh.

"To hell with the Commander-in-Chief!" Rangsen gritted his teeth, his face flushed red, and he dug his fingers into Darlang's flesh. "Are you going to go out and surrender? Are you going to become target practice for the Germans? Listen to the gunfire outside! The Germans are here to kill you!"

The two men wrestled, knocking over chairs and shattering priceless porcelain.

Although Darlang was over sixty, his survival instincts unleashed astonishing strength. He elbowed Sen in the ribs, causing Sen to wince in pain and loosen his grip slightly.

"Ciel! Help! Don't let him get away!" Sen shouted.

Charles de Gaulle, a brigadier general nearly two meters tall, had always presented a cool, composed, and even somewhat rigid image. But at this moment, he abandoned all decorum and military decorum. He charged forward like a runaway heavy tank.

Just as Darlan was about to break free, de Gaulle pounced on the admiral. The immense weight pressed Darlan firmly onto the thick carpet—a corner of which was still stained with the brain matter splattered in by the Germans.

De Gaulle pressed his knee against Darlan's chest and held Darlan's wildly swinging wrists firmly with both hands.

"Don't move! Your Excellency! For the sake of France, you'd better not move!" De Gaulle gasped for breath, two buttons popping off his crisp uniform as it was being torn, and his tie askew behind his back.

"This is a rebellion! This is a mutiny!" Darlan screamed pathetically, his face pressed against the stinking carpet, as he was forced to the floor. "Sullivan! Jean Suullivan! What are you doing? Kill these two lunatics! That's an order!"

Admiral Jean-Jacques Sull, the owner of the Dunkirk and the direct commander of the fleet, was huddled in the corner of the conference room, like a statue frozen in terror.

His brain had completely shut down.

Outside the window, a fierce gunfight was raging; Germans were dying, and both the "French" and the French were firing.

Inside the room, an army major general and an army brigadier general were rubbing his superior, the Commander-in-Chief of the French Navy, on the floor like street thugs.

This goes far beyond any chapter of the Naval Regulations and beyond his forty years of military experience.

His hands trembled as he reached for the pistol at his waist, drew it, but didn't know who to point it at.

Pointing at de Gaulle? That's for the Germans to kill their own people. Pointing at the Germans? That's disobeying Darlan and the government's orders.

So the poor admiral could only stand there, gun in hand, bewildered, watching this most absurd farce in the history of the French Navy, letting out meaningless groans.

09:40, assembly area at the dock and decks of various warships.

Chaos spread through the port.

Gunfire, explosions, and billowing black smoke alerted all the sailors. Hundreds of French sailors rushed from the holds to the deck, armed with various weapons—rifles, pistols, even fire axes and wrenches. They stared blankly at the burning convoy on the dock, at the German SS soldiers firing at the building from their bunkers, completely bewildered by what was happening.

"What exactly happened?"

"Has the British attacked?"

"No! Look at those dead men! Those are Germans! Those are Iron Crosses!"

Just at this critical point of chaos, a figure in a dirty logistics uniform jumped onto a huge mooring bollard.

Lieutenant Jeanne. Her face was covered in coal dust and oil, and she had no megaphone, but her screams sounded particularly shrill and inflammatory amidst the intervals of gunfire.

"The Germans are killing people!" she shouted hoarsely, pointing at the SS battalion commander who was still firing wildly. "They killed General Darlan! Right there in the conference room! I saw it with my own eyes! The Germans stormed in!"

"They're trying to steal our ship! They're going to kill us all!"

A lie, a complete and utter lie.

But in these adrenaline-pumping, information-scarce moments, this is the truth, and it is also the truth for this group of angry, humiliated...

The bewildered French sailors were most willing to believe the script—the Germans had finally bared their fangs.

"Fuck the Germans!" Pierre, the boiler foreman of the Strasbourg, was the first to shout from the crowd. He pulled a Webley revolver from his pocket and pulled the trigger at the Germans on the dock.

"For Arthas! Kill them!"

This shot ignited the powder keg, releasing the pent-up anger of ten days, the humiliation of national subjugation, and the fear of the future.

"Protect the fleet! Kill all the Germans!"

"Don't let them board the ship!"

Countless angry roars converged into a tsunami, and the sailors who had been observing suddenly raised their weapons. Those without guns picked up whatever was on the deck and threw it—a lump of coal, a wrench, even a fire extinguisher. A dense hail of rifle bullets poured down from the decks of the Dunkirk and Strasbourg, raining down on the few dozen surviving Germans on the dock.

The captains of the ships were still on the bridge trying to maintain order.

"Cease fire! Who gave you permission to open fire! This violates the ceasefire agreement!"

"We have to wait for orders from above! Where is General Sur?"

But nobody listened to them; it was a bottom-up uprising.

The situation was most out of control aboard the destroyer USS LeMalin.

A gunner with bloodshot eyes rushed into the bridge and pointed at the Germans on the dock.

"Sir! They just hit our aft deck! Jacques was killed by a stray bullet!"

In reality, it was a ricochet from the Cold Creek Guards' Bren machine gun, but in the angry crowd, the blame naturally fell on the Germans.

The captain looked out the window at the agitated sailors. He saw that the first mate had been cornered by several sailors; if he ordered a ceasefire now, his men would consider him a traitor and throw him into the sea to be fed to the fish.

On this chaotic morning, only those with guns have the right to speak.

Moreover, to hell with the armistice, he hated the Germans too.

"Damn it." The captain gritted his teeth and slammed his hat to the ground. The military cap, a symbol of reason and restraint, rolled several times on the deck.

"Fuck those German devils to death. They're going to die anyway, so let them die a quick death! Now that we've started, let's see it through to the end!"

He grabbed the megaphone and broadcast across the entire ship: "Main gun crew! Load high-explosive shells! Aim at that truck with the Iron Cross!"

"Bomb it to smithereens!"

The massive turret began to spin, emitting a chilling metallic scraping sound.

Those were the 138.6 mm (5.5 in) Mle 1929 main guns that the French "Enfantique"-class destroyers were so proud of. These heavy guns, originally designed to tear through the armor of light cruisers, were now outrageously pointed at those vulnerable trucks on the dock.

boom-!

The moment the main gun fired, the entire destroyer shifted half a meter laterally, and the massive muzzle blast instantly blew away debris on the deck. The red muzzle flash was even more dazzling than the sun.

Then came destruction.

The first 138mm high-explosive shell hit the truck's hood directly. There was no flying debris, because in the epicenter of the explosion, everything was vaporized by the intense heat and shockwave. The truck instantly turned into an expanding black and red fireball, along with the seven or eight SS soldiers hiding behind it, all wiped out of three-dimensional space by the violent energy.

Then came the second and third shots.

The large-caliber secondary guns on the Dunkirk also joined the frenzy.

Large-caliber ammunition instantly covered that narrow area. The shockwave from the explosion, like an invisible giant hand, violently hurled the wreckage of the black Mercedes sedan, which had already been affected by the truck's secondary explosion and was still burning, into the air, where it was torn into twisted black pieces by the violent blast wave.

The SS battalion commander hiding behind the wreckage was now facing a fate worse than death.

A large-caliber shrapnel—or rather, a flying piece of truck wheel rim—sliced ​​across his body, blasting his lower body into a bloody pulp. His upper body flew more than ten meters away, hanging on a broken railing. An indescribable substance gushed out onto the ground, steaming hot.

Thirty seconds, just thirty seconds. That arrogant advance team of the German Armistice Committee, along with their vehicles,

Their arrogance, and that repulsive swastika flag, vanished along with them.

All that remained on the dock were huge bomb craters billowing black smoke, burning scrap metal, and unrecognizable pieces of flesh.

10:00, Meeting Room.

Bang! The already rickety door to the conference room on the Dunkirk was kicked open by a foot wearing military boots.

The door flew off and smashed against the wall.

David Sterling was the first to rush in.

The Sterling submachine gun in his hand was still smoking, his body was covered with magazines and grenades, and his face was painted with black and green grenades.

Closely following behind him were Colonel Ryder and Johnny Cooper.

"Don't move! British Army Special Air Service!" David roared, his gun quickly scanning the entire area.

Then, the group of ruthless soldiers were stunned.

They envisioned various scenarios: Darlan holding a gun and stubbornly resisting, French guards fighting to the death, and de Gaulle and Jeanson being taken hostage or even already dead.

But they never expected to see this.

On the carpet strewn with shards of glass, Admiral Darlan, Commander-in-Chief of the French Navy, lay sprawled, his trousers torn and revealing his underpants. Rear Admiral Jean-Pierre, his face flushed, was choking him with only one hand. Brigadier General de Gaulle, standing two meters tall, straddled him, his hands bound behind his back like a wrestler.

All three were panting, disheveled, and covered in sweat, looking like drunkards who had just finished a bad fight.

In the corner, General Suhr stood holding a pistol, looking bewildered at the British who rushed in.

"Uh—" David blinked and turned to look at Ryder. "Should I go out first and let them get dressed?"

"Don't shoot! Don't shoot!" General Jean-Sullivan, standing in the corner, saw the dark muzzle of the submachine gun and his mental defenses completely collapsed.

The gun in his hand fell to the ground with a thud.

The fleet commander, who was in charge of two battlecruisers, raised his hands with perfect precision, a gesture so practiced it was almost heartbreaking.

"I surrender! I surrender on behalf of the fleet! Don't kill me!"

The fighting on the ground also stopped.

De Gaulle looked up and saw David's face covered in paint, finally letting out a sigh of relief. He released his grip, climbed off Darlan, straightened his torn collar, and tried to regain some of his general's dignity.

"You are five minutes late, Major Sterling."

The crown badge on David Sterling's shoulder was still brand new, the gold thread not even stained with the coal dust of Oran.

This is the "freight fee" paid by London.

Because he brought de Gaulle, the "symbol of Free France," back to Britain intact, the old fogies in the War Office didn't even have time to complete the formalities before his cousin took it upon himself to promote this troublesome man, who was originally just a lieutenant, two ranks up to major.

Darlang finally broke free from his restraints.

He scrambled to his feet, picked up his military cap from the floor, and tried to cover his receding hairline. When he saw the room full of British soldiers, and then the dead Germans outside the window, the old politician's expression shifted repeatedly.

"A misunderstanding! This is all a misunderstanding!" Darlan shouted, his voice still trembling, but his bureaucratic airs returned. "I am a French admiral! I have diplomatic immunity! Britain and France are allies! You cannot treat an admiral like this!"

He pointed to the bloodstains on the ground, then to de Gaulle.

"The Germans started it! I'm the victim! I want to see Churchill! I want to protest at Downing Street!"

David Sterling looked at the still-rambling old man. He pulled another piece of chewing gum from his pocket, unwrapped it, and popped it into his mouth. Then he walked over and looked down at the disheveled commander-in-chief.

"General," David grinned, a hint of mockery in his smile, "Mr. Sterling asked me to give you his regards."

"Who? What the hell—"

Bang! A dull thud.

David snatched the metal butt of Sterling's submachine gun and slammed it hard into Darlang's head. The blow was delivered with no restraint, striking precisely at the medulla oblongata.

Darlang's eyes widened suddenly, then rolled back quickly. Without uttering a sound, he collapsed limply to the ground, completely silent.

"This makes negotiations much easier." David whistled and tossed his gun behind him.

He turned his head and looked at General Suer, who was raising his hands.

"Well then, General Sue. Your superior needs rest due to a sudden concussion. Now, you're in charge."

"Are you planning to come with us, or are you planning to take a nap like this old man?"

Suer swallowed hard.

He glanced at the unconscious commander-in-chief on the ground, then at the sailors outside the window who were cheering "Kill the Germans!", and then at the blood-dripping butt of the rifle in David's hand.

"I—I'll go with you." Though his voice was weak, Sue made the fastest decision of his life. "For France—we'll go to England."

16: 30.

Although the decision has been made, setting sail with a massive fleet of two battlecruisers is not as simple as stepping on the gas; it is a race against time.

The boiler needs to be preheated. Thousands of tons of fuel oil need to be pumped in. The massive steam turbine needs to be pressurized slowly.

This takes time, and time is what they lack most.

The news quickly spread throughout the port, and not everyone was willing to leave.

On board the Strasbourg, several Vichy officers attempted a coup. They stormed into the engine room with pistols, trying to prevent Pierre and his stokers from lighting a fire.

"This is treason! We cannot go to England!"

Then, they were thrown into the burning boiler by the angry sailors.

On this crazy afternoon, nothing was more terrifying than the rage of the rank-and-file soldiers.

Meanwhile, the situation outside the port is also deteriorating.

The coastal fortifications around Oran were not under the jurisdiction of the navy, but rather under the jurisdiction of the Vichy army.

When they saw the chaos in the port and the corpses of Germans, the commander of Fort Santon immediately realized that a mutiny had occurred.

"Order the fleet to stop! Or open fire!" the commander roared, gripping the phone.

The massive 240mm coastal defense gun began to slowly turn, the heavy grinding of gears echoing within the bunker. Its dark muzzle pointed towards the fleet billowing black smoke. A single, well-placed armor-piercing shell hitting the magazine would send the Dunkirk, preheating its boilers, to the bottom of the sea.

"Firing data set!" the gunner reported to the fire control officer. "Requesting permission to fire!"

"Fire!" The commander swung his arm down hard.

One second. Two seconds. Three seconds.

There was no loud bang as expected; the massive coastal defense gun remained silently pointed at the sea, like a mute.

"What's going on? Why aren't you firing!" The commander turned around and stormed angrily toward the gun control room.

But he couldn't go in because the steel door to the control room had been kicked open from the inside.

A man with a burly build, resembling a brown bear, stepped out. He was dressed in British combat uniform, carrying a still-dripping Sterling submachine gun, and even humming an unknown Irish tune.

Captain Paddy Mayne, a former Irish rugby player who is even crazier and more violent than David Sterling, now not only loves playing rugby, but also loves slitting throats.

Behind him, a dozen French artillerymen in the control room lay sprawled in pools of blood. Their throats had been cleanly slit, without even a chance to sound the alarm.

"Excuse me, sir," Paddy Mayne grinned, a smile tinged with a beastly cruelty, "your phone line is down. And, I'd like to borrow your cannon."

Before the commander could even reach for his gun, Paddy had already charged forward like a tank. He didn't even fire; instead, he grabbed the commander's head with his massive hands, big enough to crush a rugby ball, and slammed it against the concrete wall.

Bang. Silence fell.

"David always steals the spotlight." Paddy stepped over the commander's corpse and waved to the Cold Creek Guard soldiers behind him.

"Since we're here, let's not waste this good cannon." He walked to the observation window and looked at the retreating German troops and the Vichy army convoy attempting to reinforce them in the distance.

"Turn the guns around. Let's teach those army soldiers who came to join the fun a lesson."

David Sterling never fights an unprepared battle.

While he was putting on his show at the docks, he had already driven the most lethal "backup key" into the heart of the enemy. Santonburg, this seemingly impregnable fortress, had already been taken over by Sterling half an hour earlier.

17: 15.

There are 15 minutes left until Fleet H issues its ultimatum.

The main engine of the Dunkirk finally roared to life, and thick smoke billowing from the smokestacks obscured the sky.

Admiral Sur, Brigadier General de Gaulle, and Rear Admiral Jeanson appeared on the open platform of the bridge.

Suhr held a megaphone in his hand. His face was still grim, but there was a hint of relief in his eyes. He looked down at the thousands of sailors below, their faces covered in gunpowder and their emotions running high.

"Attention all fleets—" Sull's voice echoed through the harbor through the loudspeakers, drowning out the hissing of steam.

"I am Admiral Suhr. The Germans betrayed us; they tried to seize our warships. But you—you defended the dignity of France."

A cheer erupted from the crowd.

"It's no longer safe here." Sullar took a deep breath and shouted as if he had used all his strength, "In order to prevent the fleet from falling into the hands of the Germans, for the honor of France—I order: the entire fleet to weigh anchor! Destination: Gibraltar!"

Let's go to England!

The cheers turned into a tsunami.

Amidst this frenzied wave, de Gaulle stepped forward and took the megaphone.

At this moment, he was no longer an exile, no longer a wanted death row inmate. Although his uniform buttons were missing, his collar insignia were crooked, and his face still bore bruises from the earlier scuffle, he stood there like a lighthouse.

"Sailors!" De Gaulle's deep, powerful voice pierced the sea breeze. "The Germans wanted to enslave us, to turn our warships into their tools. But today, you answered them with bullets!"

"France has lost a battle, but not the war! Even if our homeland falls, even if our government surrenders, as long as our fleet remains, as long as you remain, France will never perish!"

He raised his wrist and looked at the worn watch.

17 points.

De Gaulle turned around and nodded to Colonel Ryder behind him.

Ryder opened the canvas bag he carried with him and took out stacks of brand-new flags. They were dark blue with a red double cross embroidered in the center.

The Cross of Lorraine.

"Raise the flag!" de Gaulle shouted.

In the still-smoking harbor of Oran, on those warships that had just washed away their shame with the blood of the Germans, from the battlecruiser "Dunkirk" to the destroyer "Vicious," the Lorraine Cross was slowly raised on the mainmast, fluttering above the French tricolor flag.

But the crisis is not completely over.

Dust billowed along the coastal road leading to the port of Åland. It was a mixed convoy. Leading the way were several trucks from the German Armistice Commission that had followed, followed by a dozen or so trucks full of Vichy infantry.

They rushed to the scene as reinforcements after receiving the alarm.

If they are not stopped, this massive convoy will crash into the dock within five minutes.

"Damn it, they have anti-tank guns too!" Colonel Ryder lowered his binoculars, his face grim. "David, our machine guns can't reach them. They're too far away."

David Sterling didn't speak. He just looked at the Santanburg Fortress in the distance, perched halfway up the hill and overlooking the entire road.

He chewed his gum, a mischievous smile playing on his lips.

"Don't worry. Paddy's over there."

Santongbao coastal defense battery.

Captain Paddy Main was shirtless, revealing muscles as hard as granite. He hummed off-key "Danny Boy" while gripping a massive trigger cord. At his feet lay the bodies of several Vichy artillery officers, bound like dumplings.

"Look closely, Frenchmen," Paddy said, pointing to the long, snake-like German convoy outside the observation window. "That's the proper use of this cannon. Not for shooting at our own ships, but for shooting at the Nazis."

He turned his head and roared at the Cold Creek Guard soldiers who were frantically shaking the steering gear: "Are the data set?"

My hands are itching!

"Azimuth 2-4-0, scale 1200! Loading complete!"

"Then send them to hell!" Paddy yanked the trigger cord.

boom-!

The earth trembled. The massive 240mm coastal defense gun roared deafeningly. A huge muzzle blast sent sandbags flying from the bunker.

The coastal highway of Aurang Port.

The German convoy, charging at full speed, was completely unaware that death was hanging over their heads. Until that 150-ton...

A high-explosive bomb weighing several kilograms fell.

No test shot. Paddy Mayne did not need a test shot.

The shell landed precisely in the middle of the convoy. A huge, dark red fireball shot into the air, instantly engulfing three trucks. The shockwave from the explosion swept across the road, swallowing dozens of infantrymen.

The bridge of the HMS Dunkirk.

General Sur and de Gaulle were startled by the loud noise and instinctively tried to find cover.

"It's coastal defense artillery! Who are they firing at?"

"To those bastards who are trying to stop us from getting home." David Sterling stood by the railing, watching the plumes of smoke rising from the highway in the distance, and pressed the transmit button on his communicator.

He first confirmed the effectiveness of Paddy Mayne's bombardment, and then gave instructions to the HMS Hood.

"Well done, Paddy. Coordinates confirmed."

David's voice was then transmitted directly through an encrypted channel to the H fleet flagship, which had been waiting silently outside the port.

"Calling Hood. This is Major Sterling."

"Target: German reinforcement convoy on the coastal highway. See that fireball from the explosion? Extend eastward from the point of impact of the coastal artillery. Full charge. Rapid fire."

"Blow up the road."

The radio soon crackled with the steady reply of Lieutenant General James Somerville, his voice tinged with aristocratic cadence: "Roger that, Major Sterling. Well done. Fleet H—get to work."

"Also, welcome back to the team."

Soon, the sea surface boiled.

Woo boom! ! !

The pride of the Royal Navy, the battlecruiser HMS Hood, roared simultaneously with its eight imposing 15-inch/42-caliber Mk.I main guns. Following closely behind were the battleships HMS Resolution and HMS Warrior.

This is not a battle, this is geological transformation.

Dozens of high-explosive shells, each weighing 879 kilograms, flew over the French fleet, leaving suffocating ballistic ripples in the air.

The coastal highway in the distance instantly transformed into a living hell.

The 381mm shells fell, this time not to destroy vehicles, but to blast mountains.

The entire road, along with the German convoy on it, was completely wiped out in an instant.

Rocks collapsed, soil boiled, and steel melted.

The reinforcements that had been so aggressive just moments before, along with their ambitions, turned to dust.

Even Paddy Mayne was taken aback by the terrifying firepower, yelling into the radio, "Hey! David! Tell those Marines to watch out! They almost knocked down my bunker!"

Just like that bloody history, the main guns of the H Fleet were once again aimed at Oran Harbor.

This time, however, they are no longer butchers firing on their allies, but shields covering their brothers' escape.

17:45 PM.

The world fell silent, except for the crackling sound of the burning, broken cliffs in the distance.

The signal lights flashed on the towering main gun pylon of the Hood, piercing through the smoke: "God bless France. Course:"

Gibraltar.

The Dunkirk sounded its horn, the long, drawn-out blast sounding like a sigh, or perhaps the cry of a newborn baby.

The massive fleet slowly sailed out of the port, leaving the city, filled with betrayal and bloodshed, behind.

David Sterling stood by the railing, looking at the vanished highway and the burning wreckage, and shook his head. It was truly tragic.

He didn't cheer like the sailors. He simply reached out and touched the brand-new major's badge on his shoulder.

He strode across the smoke-filled deck, went straight into the radio room behind the bridge, pushed aside the still-dazed French communications officer, grabbed the communicator himself, and skillfully turned the knob to tune the channel to a specific frequency known only to a very few people.

After a buzzing sound of electricity, the signal was connected.

"Hey, Godfather." David's voice carried a hint of weariness from a long battle, but more so the smugness of a gambler who had won everything. "I'm Mad Dog. Package delivered."

He glanced at Darlan, who was being carried onto a stretcher, with a large bump on the back of his head and still unconscious, and then at de Gaulle, who was standing on the bridge saluting the HMS Hood.

"That old package was a bit damaged, and he suffered a severe concussion. He'll probably have a headache for a while after he wakes up, but the fact that he's still alive is a miracle in itself."

"As for the large cargo"—David glanced at the Lorraine cross flags fluttering throughout the harbor, and the two imposing battlecruisers, "it's completely undamaged. Not even a scratch on the paint."

He paused, a slight smile playing on his lips. "Remember to send Churchill the bill. I want double this time."

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