The Twilight of Empire: Starting from Dunkirk

Chapter 150 Codename "Meteor"

Bovington Camp, Dorset, July 12, 1940, 09:30 a.m., heavy rain, 14 degrees Celsius, extremely low visibility.

The relentless rains of Dorset relentlessly saturated the muddy testing grounds of the Bovington training camp.

This was the cradle of the British armored forces, but on this July morning in 1940, it looked more like a muddy graveyard.

Winston Churchill, dressed in a black navy overcoat and wearing a Holmburg felt hat, stood on a makeshift wooden viewing platform, a rain-soaked cigar dangling from his lips. He held binoculars, but the lens captured only a hazy rain and a few broken-down vehicles in the distance.

Behind him, Sir John Deal, the Imperial Chief of Staff, was reviewing a list of supplies that had been severely damaged by water.

The numbers on the list are devastating: at Dunkirk, the British Expeditionary Force abandoned all of its heavy equipment, including more than 600 tanks.

Currently, the armored forces defending the British Isles are virtually nonexistent on paper.

"Prime Minister, we don't have much time left."

The speaker was William Morris, 1st Viscount Nuffield. This magnate of the British automotive industry and owner of Morris Motors was wearing a well-tailored tweed suit and holding an umbrella.

"The Ordnance Department has approved the mass production plan for the A13Mk.Ill, also known as the Covenanter cruiser tank," Lord Nuffield said, pointing to a low-slung tank parked under a awning not far away. "Nuffield Mechanization is ready to produce 15 tanks per day. With your signature, this steel torrent can fill the southern coast within a month."

Churchill turned around, and the sunlight fell on the steel box with only four road wheels.

The "Covenantor" tank, designation A13Mk.1II, truly fits the definition of a "cruiser tank": low-slung, streamlined turret, and steeply sloped armor. Aesthetically, it is far more modern than the boxy Vickers tanks.

"What is its heart?" Churchill asked.

"The Liberty engine, Prime Minister." Lord Nuffield puffed out his chest proudly. "It's a tried-and-tested V12 engine, produced during the last World War. We have thousands in stock, or we can reproduce it at a very low cost. It has 340 horsepower, enough to get this 18-ton vehicle up to 30 miles per hour."

Nuffield stepped forward, attempting to persuade the wartime prime minister with his business logic: "The most important thing is cheapness. When this country is on the verge of bankruptcy, we don't need expensive toys; we need quantity. The Freedom Engine costs only a few hundred pounds."

The representative from the Ordnance Department, a weary-looking brigadier general, added: "Furthermore, the Covenant tank employs an innovative design. To lower the vehicle's height, we moved the radiator from the rear to the left side of the front. This not only balances the weight, but also—" He glanced at Churchill, his tone hesitant.

"Moreover, the cooling pipes run through the fighting compartment, which provides the crew with additional heating in the cold winter."

""

He wasn't a formally trained engineer, but he was a veteran of the Boer War and a soldier who led a cavalry charge in the Battle of Omdurman. He knew better than any bureaucrat sitting in an office that on the battlefield, "comfort" often equated with "combat effectiveness," just like good looks are justice. But could this really make soldiers feel comfortable?

It was July, and although the rain in England brought a touch of coolness, Churchill's mind was burning with the image of the scorching sea of ​​sand thousands of kilometers away.

"Heating in winter?"

Churchill slowly removed the extinguished cigar from his mouth, his grey-blue eyes devoid of any smile. His gaze passed over the "exquisitely designed" tank before him, as if piercing through the rain curtain and reaching towards the distant Mediterranean Sea.

"Brigadier General, have you seen the recent North Africa briefing?"

Churchill's voice was deep: "Mussolini has declared war on us for a month. Marshal Graziani's 10th Army, a full 20 men, is assembling on the Libyan border, ready to cross the barbed wire and cut off our Suez Canal, our vital artery."

"And what do we have over there?" Churchill held up a short, stubby finger, gesturing a despairing number in the air: "General O'Connor has only the Western Desert Force, less than 35,000 men."

Although the elite 7th Armored Division had been deployed, these "desert rats" who were expected to achieve great things were still equipped with outdated gear.

Although the British Empire’s focus at the moment was undoubtedly on homeland defense, Churchill’s ambitions went far beyond that.

Churchill stepped forward, staring intently at the brigadier general, his tone suddenly turning stern: "Worse still, MI6's informant in Bern has just warned that a little mustache doesn't seem inclined to let his Italian ally humiliate himself alone in that desert. Berlin is preparing an expeditionary force, I think it's called the Afrika Korps, to reinforce South Africa. German tanks may soon be appearing in Tobruk."

"Now, please tell me."

Churchill pointed to the exposed cooling pipe, like a blood vessel, running through the fighting compartment of the Covenant tank: "If this tank were deployed to Cyrenaica, in the midday 50-degree Celsius surface heat of the Libyan desert, coupled with this pipe radiating hundreds of degrees of waste heat—"

"Are you planning to boil our tank crews alive in here? Or are you preparing a lunch for the arriving Germans called 'Steamed British Armoured Troops'?"

The brigadier general was speechless for a moment, cold sweat trickling down his temples, his face flushed red, and he stammered, unable to explain clearly: "This—this is just a theoretical design—we—"

"This is just a small compromise, Prime Minister."

Lord Nuffield interjected. He held up his umbrella, unfazed by Churchill's description, for in his eyes, soldiers were merely expendable resources, and tanks were simply commodities.

And he was that businessman, and businessmen need to calculate costs and returns.

"Based on the statistics from the last war, and our experience in the French campaign," Nuffield said slowly, "in the high-intensity fighting on the front lines, the average lifespan of a tank is only two weeks. It's either destroyed or abandoned."

He tapped the tank's armor plate with his cane, producing a dull thud: "Since it only has a two-week lifespan, comfort is clearly not the primary consideration. What we need is affordability..."

Produce them quickly and in large quantities, then consume them like bullets. As for whether the soldiers inside are hot—that's their duty to His Majesty the King.

Just then, a deep rumble tore through the rain.

The sound was completely different from the rough, metallic roar of the "Freedom" engine. It was deeper and smoother, with a high-frequency whistling tone, like a giant beast taking a deep breath, or a fighter jet bound to the ground.

All eyes turned to the entrance to the testing ground.

A tank, completely covered in dark green tarpaulin, was tearing through the mud at an incredible speed. It didn't slow down before the mud pits; its massive tracks whipped up two-meter-high walls of mud. When it came to an abrupt stop in front of the reviewing stand, the Christie suspension system displayed remarkable resilience—the heavy vehicle only swayed twice before regaining its balance, unlike the violent jolts of a typical tank.

The hatch on the roof opened. Arthur Sterling jumped out.

He was wearing a dark blue jumpsuit stained with oil, instead of the three-piece suit he usually wore in the financial district.

"Good morning, Prime Minister. Good morning, Lord." Arthur removed his goggles, his face expressionless. "Sorry I'm late. My engineers were just adjusting the pressure in the fuel injection pump."

"Mr. Sterling."

Lord Nuffield first gave a symbolic bow—with arrogance and aloofness—and then looked coldly at the young man who jumped out of the cockpit.

"This is the Royal Army's highest-level testing ground, not the Sterling family's private racetrack."

Nuffield pointed with his cane at the steel behemoth under the canvas, his tone laced with sarcasm: "Any weapon appearing here needs to go through layers of approval in Whitehall. Tell me, has this thing you brought received a project approval number from the Ordnance Department?"

"By the time those bureaucrats finish stamping the documents, Guderian's tanks will already be driving into Trafalgar Square to feed the pigeons."

Arthur didn't even glance at Nuffield. He took off his oil-stained gloves, tossed them to the engineer behind him, and walked straight toward the old man standing in the center of the viewing platform.

"This is against the rules—" Nuffield tried to stop him.

"That's enough, William."

Winston Churchill interrupted him. He exhaled a thick cloud of smoke, his gaze darting back and forth between Arthur and Nuffield.

"Rules are a luxury in peacetime, and we are at war now."

Churchill turned and looked at Nuffield with a sharp gaze. He knew very well that Nuffield had always claimed that Nuffield Company was the only company in Britain capable of making tanks, but Stirling Heavy Industries was the only rival in London that could give the old man a headache, except that the latter had previously focused on the navy and air force.

The Prime Minister extended his short, stubby finger, pointed at Arthur, then at the mysterious tank, and declared directly: "Since Arthur has brought his work here, let him show it off."

"You can treat this as a duel." Churchill looked back and forth between the two tanks. "Nurfield, don't try to intimidate him with the Ordnance Department. If it comes down to mud, his tank is indeed superior to yours, even if it's just one screw better—"

Churchill paused, a ruthless glint in his grey-blue eyes: "Then I will personally approve the project. Today, right here on this muddy ground. The army's orders belong only to the victor."

Having said that, Churchill turned to Arthur, raising his chin slightly: "Now, Brigadier General Sterling, pull back your canvas. All Nuffield has is money; let me see what the Sterling family possesses—the real industrial backbone that supports the Empire."

Arthur made a gesture. Two Sterling Heavy Industries engineers stepped forward and ripped off the canvas.

With the canvas roughly ripped off, the two tanks came to a stop side by side in the rain, allowing Churchill to see the tanks in their entirety.

If Nuffield's low-slung A13 "Covenant" was like an armored race car that sacrificed everything for speed, then the steel monster Arthur brought was a mobile armored fortress.

It retains the classic Christie suspension style of the "Crusader" cruiser tank, but the chassis has been lengthened considerably, and the number of road wheels has increased from four pairs to five pairs to support the significantly raised and lengthened engine compartment to accommodate the V12 engine.

What's most suffocating is its turret and that aggressive fang.

Unlike the A13, a cramped "tin can" that barely allowed the loader to turn around and could only fit a short-barreled 2-pounder gun, this tank's turret ring was violently expanded. The massive hexagonal welded turret stood tall like a muscular fist.

And at the front of that "fist" extends a terrifyingly long-barreled cannon.

那是一门57毫米（6磅）高初速反坦克炮，且採用了惊人的50倍径（L/50）设计。在那个坦克炮普遍短粗的年代，这根接近3米长的炮管显得格格不入。

It's like a sharp knight's lance, coldly pointing forward, and it even had to be fitted with a muzzle counterweight because it was too long.

It's not that Arthur doesn't want a thicker and bigger tank, it's just that the current conditions don't allow it, whether it's technology or production capacity. What he needs to consider now is developing a practical tank.

Its size itself is a silent deterrent: the car is 6.8 meters long, a full meter longer than the A13, 2.9 meters wide, 30 centimeters wider than the A13, but its height has been deliberately kept low at 2.4 meters.

This wide and low design gives it an extremely small surface area exposed to bullets and a crouching, cheetah-like attack posture.

Even more shocking is its upper frontal armor.

It abandoned the traditional British design that was as vertical as bricks, and instead adopted a 60-degree angled armor.

The thick steel plate tilts backward, which not only physically increases the equivalent thickness, but also means that most shells fired at it will ricochet due to the angle.

It stood silently in the rain, its aggressive lines and firepower designed for slaughter looking down at the heavily armored but poorly armed "Covenant" beside it.

That's not just a comparison of two tanks. It's the difference between a predator and a herbivore.

"Project codename: Meteor," Arthur said. "It's a prototype that Sterling Heavy Industries lab built this past month. It was created to solve one of our most pressing problems—power."

"Another cruiser tank?"

Unlike the Ordnance Department officials around him, Lord Nuffield did not show any panic. As a car tycoon of the British Empire, his old eyes, which had seen countless mechanical blueprints, narrowed slightly, and after just one glance, his heart sank.

A true expert's skill is immediately apparent.

The widened track contact area, the welding process of the sloped armor, and the turret ring strength required for that obviously excessively heavy gun—this was no mere decoration. In comparison, the A13 behind him, which he was so proud of, looked like a toy hammered out of thin sheet metal.

But he couldn't back down; it wasn't just about saving face, it was about a multi-million pound army order.

"The British Empire has no need for two types of cruiser tanks, Brigadier General Sterling."

Lord Nuffield forced down his unease, turned around, and tried to regain face in front of Churchill in the tone of an elder lecturing a younger man: "I admit that the Sterling family is indeed unrivaled in shipbuilding and aircraft engines. But building tanks is not as simple as tinkering in a laboratory or making a few submachine guns."

He pointed with his umbrella to the tracks of Arthur's tank: "What the army needs now is mass production. Thousands upon thousands of vehicles that can roll off the assembly line immediately. This involves powertrain systems, the ability of gearbox gears to withstand high torque, and complex suspension tuning—this requires a massive automotive industrial base."

"And your Sterling Heavy Industries' focus has always been on the Navy and Air Force," Nuffield sneered coldly. "Are you sure your 'family workshop,' which can only make precision instruments, can handle this kind of rough work involving tens of tons of steel?"

Sterling Heavy Industries was reduced to a "small workshop" in Nuffield's words, a deliberate attempt to belittle it. But Arthur ignored him, simply turning around, putting on his goggles, and saying in a pitying tone, "My lord, about the powertrain—"

Arthur pointed to his temple: "If your engineers are still using abacuses to calculate gear ratios, that's certainly going to be difficult. But in my factory, we're already defining steel with the most sophisticated mathematics of our time."

"You claim your Covenant is reliable, fast, and mass-producible. Well then, let's have a test. Not some show where you run a couple of laps on flat ground, but a real-world simulation."

Arthur pointed to the muddy, undulating cross-country track in the distance.

"50 miles (80 kilometers). Non-stop off-road driving. No stopping for cooling or any maintenance is allowed. Under load."

"Fifty miles?" exclaimed the brigadier general of the Ordnance Department. "That's absurd! The mean time between failures (MKBF) for tanks is typically only 20 miles in bad road conditions. Driving 50 miles straight will ruin the transmission!"

"If it can't even run 50 miles, how can it get from Calais to Berlin?" Arthur retorted. "Or are the tanks you manufacture only good for parades?"

Churchill was silent for a moment, looking at Arthur and then at Nuffield.

"Run right here," the Prime Minister ordered. "Begin now."

Test begins: 10:00 AM.

Two tanks were parked side by side on the starting line.

On the left is the Nuffield Covenantor. Its engine compartment is at the rear, and the radiator is at the front, connected by two long cooling water pipes. As the engine starts, a plume of black smoke billows from the exhaust pipe, a sign of incomplete combustion in the Liberty engine.

On the right is Arthur's "Meteor" prototype. Its starting sound is very distinctive: first, there is a sharp whistle from the electric starter, followed by a muffled burst of combustion, and then a very stable, low rumble.

The signal gun fired.

The Covenantor suddenly darted out, its tracks slipping, and it twisted and turned in the mud a few times before regaining traction.

The "Meteor" prototype, however, exhibited a lightness disproportionate to its weight. Its acceleration was swift and decisive, with powerful torque instantly transmitted to the drive wheels. Within three seconds of starting, it was already a car length ahead.

Mile 10:

The rain intensified. The mud turned into a thick, sticky paste.

Inside the cockpit, the situation was deteriorating.

As the brigadier general noted, the cooling water hoses ran through the fighting compartment. But in the summer, this was not a benefit, but rather torture. The heat emanating from the hoses caused the temperature inside the cramped vehicle to soar to 40 degrees Celsius. Coupled with the engine noise and exhaust fumes backflowing in, the crew felt as if they were in hell.

One kilometer ahead, Arthur's "Meteor" tank was speeding at 35 miles per hour (56 kilometers per hour).

It uses an improved Christie suspension redesigned by Stirling Heavy Industries, which increases the travel of the hydraulic shock absorbers. This allows the tank to "swallow" the undulations of the terrain, keeping the vehicle stable and thus maintaining high firing accuracy and speed.

Mile 25:

Disaster struck the Covenantors.

Because the radiator is located at the front of the car, while the cooling fan is driven by the engine (located at the rear of the car) through a long driveshaft.

In the mud, the radiator at the front of the vehicle was covered in splashed mud, drastically reducing the air intake.

The water temperature gauge needle plunged into the red zone.

"Temperature too high! The water tank is about to open!" the Covenant's commander shouted over the radio.

Lord Nuffield stood on the reviewing stand, his face ashen. He watched as plumes of white steam billowed from the gaps in the tanks.

"Keep running! Don't stop!" the lord roared into the walkie-talkie.

Mile 32:

Science has no emotions and no politics.

The Covenant's engine finally gave way. Overheating caused the cylinder head gasket to blow out, and coolant flooded the cylinders. With a muffled bang, thick white smoke billowed from the rear of the tank, and it came to a complete halt in the mud pit. The doors opened, and several crew members stumbled out, vomiting violently—not only from exhaust fumes but also from severe heatstroke and dehydration.

At the other end of the track, Arthur's tank had just completed its 50th mile.

It crossed the finish line, executed a beautiful one-sided braking maneuver, and came to a steady stop in front of the grandstand. The hot exhaust plumes formed a white mist in the rain, but the engine continued to run smoothly at idle, showing no signs of overheating.

The outcome is decided.

11:30 am.

Churchill ignored the mud and water on the ground and strode up to the steaming Meteor tank.

"Open it," Churchill said, pointing to the rear hood. "I want to see its heart."

Arthur gestured to the engineer to open the rear-hinged armor cover.

A wave of heat hit me, but this heat was mixed with the unique oily aroma of precision machinery.

What comes into view is a massive V12 liquid-cooled engine. An inscription is cast on its valve cover, a jewel in the crown of industry. But unlike the rough cast iron cylinder blocks of ordinary tank engines, this engine uses a large number of aluminum alloy components, and its overall layout is breathtakingly compact.

Lord Nuffield also came closer. When he saw the structure of the engine, his pupils contracted sharply.

"This—this is a Rolls-Royce Merlin engine?" Nuffield's voice trembled. "You've crammed a Spitfire engine into a tank? Arthur, are you insane? A single Merlin engine costs £2000! Five times the price of a Liberty engine! You're committing a crime! You're wasting the Royal Air Force's resources!"

Churchill also turned to look at Arthur, his eyes filled with questions. He knew the importance of the Merlin engine in the Battle of Britain.

"This isn't Merlin, Prime Minister. This is Meteor."

Arthur reached out and patted the scorching hot cylinder head, beginning to explain the technical logic behind it: "Lord Nuffield is right, Merlin is expensive. Because it requires high-octane fuel, a supercharger to operate in the thin air at high altitudes, and extremely precise forged components to withstand the burst of 2000 horsepower."

"But tanks don't need these."

Arthur pointed to the engine's air intake: "It took Sterling Heavy Industries' lab half a month to recover those aircraft parts that had been rejected by the Royal Air Force due to minor flaws. I removed the expensive supercharger and replaced the forged pistons with cheaper cast pistons. I lowered the compression ratio so it could use regular low-octane gasoline."

"Through these downgrades," the engine's cost was reduced by 60%. But it still retains its aircraft engine pedigree—lightweight, highly reliable, and with an impressive power density.

Arthur turned to Nuffield and uttered the fatal pronouncement: "Lord, your freedom..." The engine only had 340 horsepower. But this "downgraded" Meteor engine still boasted 600 horsepower. In the future, I could easily squeeze 800 horsepower out of it.

"You're using the heart of a WWI tractor to fight against the engine of a German Maybach. That's suicide."

"And I put the heart of a fighter jet into a tank. That's the heartbeat of the king of land warfare."

Churchill looked at the engine, his eyes lighting up. He reached out and touched the cold armor plate, as if he had touched the hope of a counterattack against Europe.

"600 horsepower—" Churchill muttered to himself, "which means we can mount thicker armor and bigger cannons."

"Yes, Prime Minister." Arthur nodded. "Power is the cornerstone of tank design. With power, we don't need to choose between protection and firepower, or at least we are entitled to make that choice."

Churchill turned to look at Lord Nuffield.

"William," the Prime Minister's voice was devoid of any emotion, "considering production capacity issues, starting today, all production lines at Nuffield Mechanization will be converted to produce components for the Meteor engine. Production of the Covenantor will cease. The War Department will not establish a new tank design committee; Brigadier General Stryker will serve as the technical advisor."

Lord Nuffield's face turned pale instantly.

He looked at the young man from the Stell family, then at the engine that was still radiating heat, and the umbrella in his hand slipped into the mud.

He lost, not because of technology, but because of the times.

Meanwhile, Arthur Steker watched all of this with indifference.

Arthur took off his gloves and threw them into the mud.

"The game is over, Lord," he thought to himself. "The Steiger family has won."

Dear readers:

Tonight (Lunar New Year's Eve) and tomorrow night (Lunar New Year's Day), in response to the highest priority tactical order of "family reunion," updates will be temporarily adjusted to one chapter per day. I hope everyone can understand; after all, the author also needs to recharge their brain to bring you more exciting plots in the future.

Thank you all for your support and companionship along the way.

Wishing everyone good health, all the best, family happiness, and great fortune in the new kilometer!

Don't stay up too late tonight, spend more time with your parents, and have a happy new marriage!

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