The Twilight of Empire: Starting from Dunkirk

Chapter 149 The Führer's Wrath 2.0

June 27, 1940, 2:00 PM (Berlin time), Black Forest, Knibbies Hill, Tannenberg Front Command Post (Führerhauptquartier Tannenberg).

In the Black Forest in the afternoon, sunlight is cut into dappled patches by the dense coniferous forest.

Just days ago, France signed an armistice. The enemy that had shed so much blood for Germany in World War I had fallen to its knees within six weeks.

The bearded man stood on the wooden terrace of the command post, in high spirits. He was gazing at the enormous map of Europe, conceiving plans for another triumphant parade in Paris in July. In his mind, the British would eventually sue for peace within a few weeks.

After all, they lost their allies on the Grand Terrace and their equipment at Dunkirk.

The tranquility was shattered by a series of hurried footsteps.

General Keitel entered. He was in a hurry because he was holding a newly declassified urgent telegram.

He did not salute, and even forgot the iconic phrase "My Führer".

"What happened, Keitel?" The mustache turned around, his brow furrowed.

He disliked this kind of panic; the victor should remain calm.

Keitel's Adam's apple bobbed, his voice dry: "The Führer—Oran. Something's happened."

He handed over the telegram; the thin piece of paper seemed to weigh a ton.

The bearded man took it, his gaze sweeping over the black lead characters, and then his smile vanished.

The takeover operation in Oran has failed completely.

The entire task force was killed in action, and it was confirmed that SS Battalion Commander Heinrich Schmidt was killed.

Rear Admiral Karl Schumacher, head of the naval delegation, was killed in action.

French Navy Commander-in-Chief Admiral Darlan has gone missing, suspected of being kidnapped by British forces.

The British H Fleet did not fire, but conducted a show of force and guided artillery fire outside the harbor.

Latest reconnaissance indicates that the battlecruisers HMS Dunkerque and HMS Strasbourg have departed port and are heading northwest. Presumed destination: Britain.

At that moment, the birdsong in the Black Forest seemed to vanish. Only the rapid breathing of Little Mustache echoed across the terrace like a bellows.

There were no hysterical screams, not at first.

The man with the small mustache took the telegram and walked back to the map room. His steps were slow, each one as if he were walking on cotton. Admiral Yodl and several staff officers were gathered around the map, discussing the landing sites for "Operation Sea Lion." When they saw the Führer enter, they immediately stood at attention.

"Get out," the mustache said softly. "Everyone except Keitel and Yordles, get out."

The staff officers filed out and closed the heavy oak door.

The storm erupted the instant the door lock was engaged.

"Liars! A bunch of liars!!" The man with the mustache slammed his reading glasses onto the map table. The fragile lenses shattered instantly upon impact with the hard wood. Shards of glass flew everywhere, tearing apart the map depicting the "Greater German Empire."

He swept the corner of the table away, knocking over his favorite colored pencil case. Dozens of pencils tumbled and rolled all over the floor, as if their fate had been overturned.

"I knew it! I knew we couldn't trust those French pigs! And Redel! That idiot who only knows how to build big bathtubs!" The mustache paced back and forth in the cramped space, his military boots thumping on the floor.

"He promised me! He said the French would give us whatever we wanted! And this is the result? My major general is dead! My battalion commander is dead! And those two damned battlecruisers—those two ships that should have been flying the swastika—are now heading for Plymouth!"

This could no longer be called anger; it was a manic fit born of deep humiliation. The bearded man had initially thought France was a dog with a broken spine, ready to wag its tail and beg for a bone. He had even generously preserved the Vichy government and their colonies.

Unexpectedly, this dead dog bit him viciously before it died.

"The British—" The man with the mustache stopped, placed his hands on the edge of the table, and stared intently at the isolated island on the map. The mania in his eyes gradually cooled, turning into an extreme sinister look.

"They have no intention of surrendering." The mustache's voice deepened, tinged with a sudden realization. "The events in Oran explain everything. Not only did Churchill, that drunkard, not only have no intention of seeking peace, but he also gained fresh troops. If those two French warships join the Royal Navy, our situation will become even more precarious."

"This is war, this is total war."

The man with the small mustache muttered to himself in a morbid manner, then suddenly raised his head, his gray-blue eyes burning with a reckless madness.

"Keitel!"

"Yes, my Führer." General Keitel instinctively stood at attention.

"Since they don't want to end it decently, let them end it in the ruins." The bearded man's fingers jabbed fiercely at the map of southern France, his nails almost tearing through the paper.

"Preparatory plans for launching Operation Attila."

"Since Darlan has betrayed us, the armistice is nothing but a piece of paper. Order Kleist's armored group to cross the demarcation line immediately! Occupy Vichy France completely! Disarm all French troops! Arrest that senile old man Pétain and hang him in front of the whole world! I want to turn all of France into the Empire's barracks!"

General Keitel opened his mouth, but didn't dare to utter a sound.

As the head of the Supreme Command, he was accustomed to obedience. But not everyone is used to blind obedience, especially when it involves strategic issues such as the mobilization of millions of troops.

The side door of the map room was suddenly pushed open.

Army Chief of the General Staff, General Franz Halder, walked in. He wore pince-nez glasses and carried a thick stack of logistics reports. He had heard the man with the mustache roar outside the door. Or rather, everyone had heard it.

"Your Führer," Halder's voice was steady and cold, respectful but with the rigidity of a Prussian staff officer, "This is impossible."

The man with the mustache whirled around, his eyes fixed on him: "What did you say?"

"I say, a complete occupation of Vichy France is militarily impossible. At least not today." Halder walked to the map, ignoring the pencils and shards of glass scattered on the ground.

He took out a pointer and drew several lines on a map of France.

"First, troop deployment." Halder pointed to the blue arrows pointing north. "According to your orders, the main forces of Army Groups A and B are converging on northern France and the Belgian coast, preparing to execute Operation Sea Lion. Railway capacity is already saturated. If we order the armored forces to turn south now, the entire French railway network will be instantly paralyzed. Our supply lines will be in a deadlock."

"Secondly, the cost of maintaining order," Halder pushed up his glasses, posing a troubling fact. "Currently, there are nearly 1.5 million French prisoners of war awaiting deportation within France. And in the Vichy-controlled areas, there are 300,000 French troops still armed. If we break the agreement, this won't be an occupation, but a new war."

"Those 300,000 French troops will immediately go underground and become guerrillas. The French people will support them because of our betrayal. The General Staff has calculated that at least 20 garrison divisions are needed to maintain order in the occupied territories. Your Majesty, we do not have 20 divisions. Our reserves are all preparing to cross the sea."

The bearded man's breathing grew heavy, but he did not interrupt. Halder's facts were undeniable.

"Finally," Halder pointed his pointer at the Alps, "we need the Italians' cooperation to take over the south. But Mussolini's army—" Halder's lips curled into a cold smile, an undisguised contempt, "their performance in the Alps is, so far, a joke. Expecting the Italians to blockade the southern coastline? That's like hoping the British get lost."

The man with the mustache fell silent. He stared at the map, his arms crossed. Reason slowly returned, overpowering his emotions.

The current strategic focus is on Britain.

To occupy an empty southern France with a fleet that had already fled, causing the main force to become bogged down in security issues and even delaying "Operation Sea Lion," was strategically suicidal.

General Keitel, who had been silent all along, finally found an opportunity to speak.

The bearded man thought he would side with him, but unexpectedly, he cautiously added insult to injury: "Your Excellency, General Halder is right. And—it's pointless to occupy it now." Keitel spread his hands. "The ships are gone. Oran is empty. If we rush over now, all we'll get is an empty dock and thousands of tons of rusty scrap iron. It will only enrage the remaining French colonial troops and push them completely towards that traitor named de Gaulle."

The little mustache let out a long sigh.

That frenzied energy was withdrawn from his body, replaced by a gloomy gaze.

"Alright, generals," the man with the mustache waved his hand dismissively, as if shooing away a fly, "suspend Operation Attila. Since we can't seize it by guns, we'll use politics to pressure them."

He walked to the window, looking out at the lush forest, his back to the two generals.

"But this isn't over. Send a telegram to Pétain. Use the strongest possible language."

"Tell him that if he doesn't immediately appear in court to try Darlan, if he doesn't declare those defecting warships pirates, if he doesn't order the remaining warships in Toulon to be under German surveillance—then German tanks will be rolling into Vichy tomorrow."

"Furthermore," the mustache suddenly turned around, as if he had thought of something, "the Oran incident proved one thing: you can't rely on other people's navies. Whether it's the French or the Italians."

He walked back to the table and picked up a red and blue pencil from the floor.

"We must rely on ourselves."

"Raeder has always complained about insufficient production capacity and a lack of slipways. Now, we have France."

He drew two heavy red circles around Brest and Saint-Nazaire on the map.

"Integration. Thorough integration."

"Order the Todt Organization and Speer to immediately take over all shipyards along the French Atlantic coast. Requisition skilled French workers and confiscate their steel reserves."

"The Graf Zeppelin aircraft carrier must be restarted. The Bismarck and Tirpitz must be accelerated. We must utilize French slipways to build more Admiral Hipper-class and even H-class battleships."

"Since we can't steal that sword, we'll forge an even sharper one ourselves." The mustachioed man tossed his pencil onto the table with a sharp crack. "This isn't just about dealing with Britain. In the East—that vast red empire—we'll have to face it sooner or later. We need an absolute power that can control the Baltic and the North Sea."

Although the gunfire in Oran has ceased, the ripples it created are triggering a massive global tsunami.

These French overseas colonies found themselves suddenly unable to contact their superiors.

Naval Commander-in-Chief Darlan has "disappeared," the Vichy government has issued chaotic orders, and de Gaulle, who calls himself the "leader of Free France," is calling for an uprising on the BBC.

For the French fleet, which is deployed around the world, this is a brutal gamble of loyalty.

Toulon Naval Base (in mainland France).

This is the heart of the French Navy, and also the place where the Vichy government held the strongest control. But at this moment, its heart is pounding violently.

"This is a lie! A British propaganda war!" said Admiral Jean de Lapold.

Laborde was furious at the fleet headquarters. As a well-known "Britophobe," he refused to believe the news of Darlan's capture.

"General Darlan will never surrender! I believe in the Commander-in-Chief's integrity; he would rather take his own life! This is a rumor fabricated by that traitor de Gaulle! Arrest that lieutenant who was spreading BBC news in the officers' mess! Execute him!"

But while he can kill a person, he cannot kill panic.

On the dock, the sailors gathered in small groups, whispering among themselves.

"Have you heard? The Germans killed Darlang in Oran."

"Should we hand the ship over to the Germans?"

"No! The Dunkirk has already sailed away! We should leave too!"

Although no open upheaval occurred, a sense of passive resistance was spreading.

The engine room crew claimed the boiler was malfunctioning, the gunner couldn't find the ignition key, and the supply officer said the fuel accounts didn't match up—in short, they were all shirking their duties.

The "disarmament process" that the Vichy government had promised to the Germans has come to a complete standstill in the port of Toulon.

This massive fleet entered a bizarre state of "silent standoff"—neither obeying Vichy's orders to scuttle itself nor obeying British orders to set sail.

It's like a giant time bomb, lying across the northern coast of the Mediterranean.

Alexandria (Egypt)

Admiral Andrew Cunningham, commander of the British Mediterranean Fleet, holding a telegram from Oran, smiled and knocked on the hatch of Vice Admiral Godfroy, commander of the French squadron.

If bloodshed had occurred in Oran, if the British had massacred the French sailors, Alexandria would already be engulfed in gunfire by now.

But fortunately, it was German blood that flowed through their veins.

"Goldefroy, my old friend." Cunningham handed over a bottle of whiskey. "Take a look at this. Oran is settled. The Germans tried to seize the ship, but our special forces and your sailors took them out."

Goldfroy looked at the telegram, especially at the details of General Sull's defection, and sighed deeply.

He knew that the situation was hopeless.

Continuing to be loyal to Vichy was pointless, and he couldn't bring himself to fire on the British.

"Let's make a deal, Andrew," Goldfroy said, setting down his glass, his voice weary but relieved. "We'll remove the firing pins from our cannons, drain the fuel, and promise not to leave port. But please retain our flag and ship's registry. We'll discuss ownership after the war, if we're still alive."

"Deal." Cunningham raised his glass.

That afternoon, a peculiar scene unfolded on the docks of Alexandria: British and French sailors gathered together, exchanging cigarettes and canned goods to celebrate that they no longer had to point their guns at their comrades from the previous day.

This squadron, consisting of one battleship, HMS Lorraine, and four cruisers, was temporarily withdrawn from the war, but in effect became the Allied strategic reserve.

Dakar, the French Governor-General's residence in West Africa.

Governor Pierre Boisson sat behind his enormous mahogany desk, gazing out at the bustling port of Dakar. This was the choke point controlling the Atlantic shipping lanes. Whoever controlled Dakar controlled the South Atlantic.

He was a staunch Vichy supporter, or rather, a staunch "order" supporter.

He abhorred chaos and de Gaulle's insubordinate behavior.

But now, order has collapsed.

A telegram signed "Charles de Gaulle" lay on his desk. The wording was harsh; it was no longer a request, but an ultimatum: "Oran is just the beginning. General Sue has made his choice. Now it's your turn, Boisson. Honor, or slavery?"

On the other hand, the Vichy government's telegrams appeared hysterical and weak, demanding that he "guard against British invasion and, if necessary, seek help from the German army."

Ask the German army for help?

Boisson sneered. If he dared to let the German submarine into port, his garrison would mutinied tomorrow.

"Your Excellency, a British cruiser is patrolling outside the harbor and has inquired whether it may enter the harbor to replenish its fresh water supply," the adjutant reported cautiously.

Boisson remained silent for a long time.

He knew this was a test of his attitude.

"Let them in," Boisson finally decided, "but only fresh water; they are not allowed to come ashore."

Raise the tricolor flag, not the Lorraine Cross, and not that damned Vichy axe flag.

Waiting for the best offer is the only thing he can do right now. But this wall is already beginning to tilt towards London.

Meanwhile, in the center of the harbor, a chilling atmosphere sent shivers down everyone's spines.

A colossal steel beast was moored there.

The Richelieu (MNRichelieu) was a super battleship.

She was the pinnacle of French naval shipbuilding, with a full-load displacement of 47000 tons and two massive quadruple 380mm main gun turrets. Although she was only 95% complete and some pipelines were still exposed, this did not prevent her from being the most deadly presence in the Atlantic at that time, without exception.

Captain Marzin stood on the bridge, his binoculars fixed on the harbor. There, a Royal Navy cruiser was pacing.

Yesterday, this would have been considered an enemy intelligence report. But today, the telegraph office delivered a plaintext telegram from Oran.

It wasn't an encrypted military order, but a recording of a speech given by Brigadier General de Gaulle—whom everyone now calls "that madman"—on the deck of the Dunkirk.

"As long as this fleet exists, France will never perish!"

Marzan lowered his binoculars. His adjutant, sweating profusely, rushed over: "Sir! Governor Boisson has sent an urgent telegram! He strictly orders us not to leave port! He says if we act without authorization, the coastal defenses will—"

"Coastal guns?" Marzan sneered, turning to look at the eight 380mm cannons pointing skyward on the foredeck. "Go tell the governor. If he dares to let the coastal guns fire a single shot, I'll wipe the governor's mansion off the map of Dakar. A single salvo from the Richelieu will turn the city into ruins."

The adjutant swallowed hard: "Then—our course?"

"Vichy ordered us to Toulon. To stay in that German's cage."

Marzan walked to the chart table, his finger tracing the Mediterranean Sea, across the humiliating dividing line, and finally stopping at the isolated island in the North Sea.

There are the Dunkirk and the Strasbourg there; they are his brothers and sisters, the last blood of France.

"To hell with Toulon." Marzan took off his military cap and slammed it down on the table.

"All ships, prepare for battle! Boilers at maximum pressure! Weigh anchor!"

"Where are we going, sir?"

Marzan raised his head, his eyes showing no fear.

"Heading north. To England."

"Go and rendezvous with the Dunkirk. Tell the British that the Cardinal has arrived. Whether it's Bismarck of the Germans or Veneto of the Italians, if they want to play the battleship game, we'll play along to the end."

Two hours later, the massive anchor chain was hoisted, and the Richelieu's four-shaft propellers churned up the murky seawater. This unfinished super battleship, like an enraged knight, slowly but resolutely sailed out of Dakar Harbor.

The British fleet outside the harbor did not sound the battle alarm. Instead, the Royal Navy cruiser signaled: "Heading 3-6-0. Welcome to the hunt, Cardinal."

Thus, the three most elite capital ships of the French Navy—the Richelieu, the Dunkirk, and the Strasbourg—were all out of the control of the Vichy government.

Nazi Germany's nightmare in the Atlantic was only just beginning.

Hanoi, French Indochina.

Compared to the wavering situation in Africa, the situation in the Far East is even more hopeless.

General Catrou, the Vichy government's governor-general in Indochina, was facing a real nightmare. A representative of the Japanese army sat opposite him, his face all smiles, but his eyes gleaming with the greed of a hungry wolf.

"Your Excellency, now that the main force of your navy has been transferred to Britain, I believe the Vichy government is no longer capable of protecting this colony."

The Japanese representative pushed over a document entitled "Agreement on the Entry of Japanese Troops into Northern French Indochina".

"For the sake of joint defense," the Imperial Japanese Army is willing to undertake the task.

Carter clenched his fists; he wanted to refuse. But he had only a few dilapidated gunboats and a colonial force of less than 30,000 men.

Meanwhile, on the border, the Japanese 5th Division was already sharpening its swords. The French Far East Fleet, which could have served as a deterrent, was paralyzed due to the chaos at home.

The butterfly effect in Oran caused a storm in Europe, but in Asia, it hastened the collapse of the Vichy defenses.

June 28, 1940, London, Savoy Hotel, River View Suite.

The Thames River flowed quietly outside the window in the night, with occasional beams of light from air raid searchlights piercing the night sky in the distance.

Arthur Sterling stood by the floor-to-ceiling window, a glass of amber single malt whiskey in his hand. David Sterling sat on the sofa, wolfing down a steak.

The fleet was still crawling through the stormy waves of the Bay of Biscay, but David and Ryder didn't have the patience to count the waves.

They boarded a Hudson transport plane belonging to the Royal Air Force's No. 24 Squadron, took off from Gibraltar, flew at extremely low altitudes to avoid German patrol planes, and landed directly at RAF Nohoth in the western suburbs of London.

He had just gotten off the plane less than two hours ago, and the smell of gunpowder on him still seemed to linger, with the monotonous roar of the twin-piston engine still echoing in his ears.

“I’ve already sent Churchill the double bill you requested.” Arthur turned around, smiling at his cousin. “Although the Treasurer of Downing Street just called and roared that it was extortion, Winston personally approved it. He laughed on the phone and said it was the most worthwhile money the British Empire had spent this year.”

David swallowed the beef in his mouth, picked up a napkin and wiped his mouth, the action rough but with a wild charm. He looked at his cousin, his head of the family, his superior and his benefactor with some anticipation.

He was curious about how much a reward would be that would satisfy Arthur.

"Double? How much is that?"

"It's not just about money, David." Arthur walked to the desk, picked up a document that had just been stamped with the War Department's wax seal, and threw it in front of David.

"The so-called 'double' refers to your army."

David picked up the document with a puzzled look, glanced at it, and then his pupils suddenly contracted.

Army Special Air Service (SAS) Expansion Order

The establishment of the 1st SASRegiment was approved.

Organizational level: Battalion level.

It has four combat squadrons (Squadrons A, B, C, and D) under its command, and is directly under the command of the Army Department.

"Colonel Ryder's postwar report from the battleship (cruiser) Dunkirk played a decisive role," Arthur said, leaning against the table and lighting a cigar. "He raved about you in that report. He said your performance in Oran wasn't just bravery, it was a creative art of destruction. He said someone like you would just be a troublemaker in the regular army, but in special forces, you're a genius."

Arthur exhaled a smoke ring, his eyes full of admiration.

Through the swirling smoke, his gaze seemed to be scrutinizing a top-tier artifact that had just been tested in actual combat.

As the excavator, he had long known that his cousin was a genius born for special operations. But he hadn't expected the knife to be this sharp.

This is more than just "easy to use".

It's an absolute steal!

"Winston read Ryder's report and heard de Gaulle's speech on the Dunkirk. He was very satisfied."

At the same time, this also made the old men in the Army realize that special operations are different from small-scale guerrilla warfare; they are surgical instruments that can change the strategic balance.

Therefore, Arthur's proposal was quickly and without hindrance approved by the higher-ups.

"So, he decided to promote you."

"Take a look at the last page," Arthur reminded him.

David turned to the last page. In the commander's column, the original "major" was crossed out in red pen, and next to it was Winston Churchill's messy but powerful cursive signature, and a new rank: Colonel.

"Colonel?" David's hand trembled slightly as he held the document.

Just a week ago, he was a lieutenant who was almost discharged for fighting.

He went to Bordeaux, brought back Charles de Gaulle, and became a major.

He went to Oran, recaptured a fleet, and became a colonel.

This dizzying rate of ascent was utterly incomprehensible and an anomaly within the rigid and hierarchical hierarchy of the British Empire.

If we were to look for precedents, we could probably only go back to the Napoleonic Wars, to those crazy captains who held royal "letters of marque," legally plundered at sea, and paved their way to titles with the blood and gold of their enemies.

Of course, there might be one exception.

That was his cousin, Arthur Sterling, sitting across from him, calmly smoking a cigar.

"This is Winston's verbal agreement; the official letter of appointment will be delivered from the War Department tomorrow." Arthur walked to the liquor cabinet, poured another glass of wine, and handed it to David.

"From today onwards, you no longer need to beg some general for a few beat-up trucks. Your funding will come directly from the War Office's special budget. As for the personnel you need, as long as they are in the British Army and still in the country, you can choose any you like. The Stirling Arsenal will give you priority in supplying the guns you want, and you can even have them custom-made by me."

"And this too." Arthur took a check out of his pocket and placed it lightly on the table.

That was a Barclays bank cash check, and the amount on it was £5.00.

In 1940 London, an average worker's annual salary was a mere £150. A pint of the best stout cost only a few pence. Five thousand pounds. That was a fortune. Enough to buy a mansion in Mayfair, or to book all the high-class prostitutes and champagne in London for a month.

"This is your performance bonus." Arthur blinked. "It was also specially approved by the Army. Although the treasurer's hand was shaking when he signed it."

David Sterling looked at the check, a bright smile spreading across his usually cynical face.

He flicked the check, making a crisp sound.

"Five thousand pounds—my God." David whistled, carefully folded the check, and stuffed it into his inner pocket. "This is bad."

"What's so terrible?"

"The London pub owners," David stood up, straightening his uniform, which was still covered in Oran dust, "This money is enough for me to drink all the whiskey in SoHo, smash up a couple of pubs, and then give them a new one in return."

He grabbed the military cap from the table and gave Arthur a very poorly executed salute.

"Thank you, Godfather. I'm going to start recruiting. The SAS needs more madmen like Paddy Mayne."

And I knew where to find them—this money was the best bait.

Arthur watched David's departing figure, that young, arrogant, yet brilliant figure.

He knew that a private army truly belonging to the Sterling family had been officially born on this luxurious night flowing with money and power.

This is a ghost army that is about to break free of its chains.

In the future, whether it be Germans, Japanese, or any enemy who dares to challenge the British imperial order, they will all learn what fear is in its shadow.

West of the Strait of Gibraltar, on the Atlantic Ocean.

The setting sun painted the turbulent Atlantic Ocean a golden-red hue.

A massive fleet is cutting through the waves. The Royal Navy's HMS Hood, HMS Resolution, and HMS Warrior are lined up in a column, while inside them are two elegant warships with distinctive quadruple main gun turrets—HMS Dunkerque and HMS Strasbourg.

This was no longer the Vichy national navy. On the towering gun turrets of these French warships, the tricolor flag, symbolizing the French Republic, still flew. But beside it, another flag fluttered in the strong sea wind.

It was a somewhat rough, dark blue flag brought by Colonel Ryder.

In the middle is embroidered a red double cross.

Lorraine Cross.

It symbolizes freedom, revenge, and also signifies that this fleet has transformed into a group of noble pirates fighting to reclaim their homeland.

On the bridge, the tall commodore was gazing at the northern horizon.

His silhouette was stretched long in the setting sun, long enough to cover the whole of France.

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