The Twilight of Empire: Starting from Dunkirk

Chapter 166 We will fight on the beach, we will fight at the landing point

1940年8月6日，凌晨02：20，德国空域。

The British bombing lasted only twenty minutes.

When the first wave of bombs was completed and Lieutenant Miller's crew began to turn back, the tense atmosphere in the underground operations room of Highwickom instantly boiled over.

"Bombing confirmed! Large-scale fire has broken out in the target area!"

"We did it! My God, we really set Berlin on fire!"

As the confirmation telegram arrived from the front, the long-suppressed staff erupted in thunderous cheers. Some pumped their fists in excitement, others tossed their hats into the air, and even the usually serious General Porter had a rare, relieved smile on his lips.

Churchill took a deep drag on his cigar, a victor's blush spreading across his face.

At that moment, the dignity of the British Empire seemed to rise again with the flames of Berlin.

However, amidst the enthusiastic cheers, an untimely voice rang out abruptly.

"Don't get too excited. Our lads might be in trouble."

Arthur's voice wasn't loud, but it sounded exceptionally clear in the command room, carrying a hint of the chill of the late night.

The cheers from the crowd abruptly ceased, and everyone turned around in astonishment to look at the young man standing in the shadows.

"Mr. Sterling?" Porter frowned, though he immediately realized what was happening, he still muttered unconsciously, "Bombing."

Completed, they are returning home —

"The Germans are awake."

Arthur didn't explain, he just stared intently at the empty void in front of him. On the RTS interface that only he could see, the once calm airspace around Berlin had exploded.

"Large-scale hostile aerial targets detected. Threat level: Extremely high."

Almost a second after Arthur reminded everyone.

The red alarm light on the communications station flashed frantically. The chief communications officer, responsible for monitoring the coastal radar network, ripped off his headset and roared, "Dover Radar Station, urgent! Numerous high-speed target signals detected! The number—the number is uncountable!"

"They're taking off from the Dutch and northern German coastlines, and they're going incredibly fast! My God, they're closing in on our bomber formation! It's an encirclement!"

What Arthur saw was even more direct: on the tactical map that originally only had green friendly dots, countless red dots representing enemy aircraft were now frantically converging on the Berlin airspace from all directions, just like a swarm of wasps whose nest had been disturbed.

Germany, this massive and sophisticated war machine, quickly recovered from its initial shock and immediately revealed its ferocious fangs.

The German Air Force did not stand idly on the ground; their reaction speed was astonishing.

Although the night fighter wing stationed near Berlin was slow to respond due to leave, the wing deployed in Magdeburg and Verneuilchen...

And the 1st Night Fighter Wing (NJG1) near the Dutch coastline has pounced on them like a pack of wolves awakened from their slumber.

The group exchanged bewildered glances, and the atmosphere became tense once again.

From the omniscient perspective of an RTS player, Arthur sees those red dots not merely as simple pursuits, but as forming a massive...

A dynamic hunting encirclement. It was the famous Bf-110 "Destroyer" heavy night fighter, and some Bf-109 fighters that had been temporarily modified and fitted with searchlights and tracer rounds.

They were densely packed, everywhere.

The Germans' high level of training was on full display at this moment. Although they had just been blinded by the British due to carelessness, and although Berlin's ground radar was temporarily disabled due to the high temperature interference from incendiary bombs and ground clutter, these experienced veterans did not need any sophisticated electronic guidance.

They used the towering flames over Berlin as a backdrop, so that any British bomber flying over the sea of ​​fire would be clearly silhouetted against the bright background.

This was the prototype of the "wild boar tactic" that was later popularized by Nazi ace pilot Haio Herrmann—using firelight for visual free hunting.

"The Hound of the 3rd Battalion has been hit! Fire on the left flank! It's a 20mm cannon!" A terrified cry came over the radio, accompanied by the desperate roar of the machine gunner.

"I can't see them! Damn it, there are tracer rounds everywhere! God, they're above us! These bastards are diving!"

Just as a lone Wellington bomber flew out of the edge of the inferno, it was caught by two Bf-110s that lurked high in the sky like ghosts.

The four 20mm cannons opened fire simultaneously, and the dense hail of bullets instantly tore through its fragile fabric skin. This aircraft, fully loaded with fuel...

It transformed into a massive fireball in mid-air, like a burning meteorite, carrying the lives of six young people as it spun and plummeted toward the ground.

Then came the second one, and the third one.

The Germans' revenge came swiftly and ruthlessly. They relentlessly rained ammunition on the British planes that dared to offend the imperial capital, as if trying to make up for the lost face with spent shell casings.

"Turn! Turn around quickly! Get out of the fire zone!"

"We're surrounded! Requesting backup! Requesting backup! This is the Avenger, my stern gunner is dead!"

The radio channels were filled with terrified screams, electrical static, and the roar of overloaded engines.

These young Royal Air Force pilots, who had just been basking in the excitement of "Berlin Burning," were suddenly thrown into a hellish situation. They frantically pushed and pulled the control stick, trying to find a way out in the pitch-black night sky, but Arthur saw that the red encirclement was rapidly tightening, like a noose that was getting tighter and tighter.

In Highwick's basement, everyone listened to the desperate voice on the radio and held their breath.

General Porter slammed his fist on the oak table covered with maps, making the pencils and compasses on it jump.

But he didn't waste time on pointless anger. The bomber unit commander quickly recovered from his initial shock, his mind racing as he issued a series of orders: "Communications room! Connect to Bentley Abbey immediately! I need to speak with Dowding!"

Porter's roar drowned out the background noise: "Tell Dowding to have Fighter Command send out every flyable Spitfire and Hurricane! Establish a rendezvous corridor along the North Sea and the Dutch coastline! Even if it means burning through the fuel tanks, get me..."

Bring our bombers back!

He then turned to the radar controller: "Tell the coastal radar stations to turn the power up to maximum! Find a gap in the German encirclement and guide the bombers through it! We need to tear a hole in the German net!"

Behind him, Churchill's cigar had gone out, but he still held it tightly in his mouth, his wrinkled face taut, as if the half-smoked cigar was some kind of lifeline.

The air in this cramped basement was so thick it was suffocating.

They were all well aware of the weight of this debt: if these dozens of bombers—the last remaining strategic offensive capital of the British Empire—were all lost in Berlin tonight, then the so-called political victory just now would instantly become meaningless.

It is no exaggeration to say that it would no longer be a desperate counterattack, but a suicide that would ruin the nation's fate.

Britain will not only lose its last bit of leverage for a counterattack, but the heavy casualties will also cause the morale that has just been ignited at home to completely collapse.

"Damn it, they're sticking too tight," Porter cursed under his breath, his voice filled with a deep sense of helplessness. "Without our own radar to guide us, our kids are just a bunch of blind people wandering around in the sky."

"They are not blind."

Arthur's voice suddenly rang out. He took a step forward, walked to the central communications station, and grabbed the longwave microphone that led to the navigator crew.

In his eyes, the RTS interface, visible only to him, was frantically calculating. Red enemy aircraft trajectories, green friendly aircraft flight paths, wind speed vectors, cloud height data—all the previously chaotic information converged in his mind into clear escape routes, like solving a maze.

"I am the Night's Watchman." Arthur's voice, transmitted through an encrypted channel, pierced the thick electromagnetic interference over the English Channel, resounding clearly in the headsets of every escape bomber.

"Attention all units, cease pointless calls for help and obey my instructions."

"3rd Squadron, immediately abandon the straight return route! Turn left, heading 2-7-0, rapidly descend to 2000 meters, and enter the stratocumulus clouds below. There is a strong airflow from the North Sea that can provide cover to break visual contact."

"4th Group, do not fly towards the North Sea! The German 2nd Wing is circling over the Dutch coastline, that's a trap! Maintain your current course, fly north, and bypass the Friesland Islands' air defense blind spot."

"Combine B, listen up! Perform a barrel roll immediately! There's a Bf-110 diving at your six o'clock position, about 800 meters away, aiming for your right flank!"

There was a moment of silence on the other end of the radio, as if they were processing this absurd instruction, followed by heavy breathing and the roar of an overloaded engine.

Although the pilots found it utterly absurd—the sound came from a basement hundreds of kilometers away, how could this so-called "night watchman" know that an enemy plane was diving hundreds of meters away at this very moment—the instinct for survival made them choose to obey unconditionally.

"Unit B received! Executing in progress!"

A miracle happened.

The pilot of the Wellington bomber, codenamed B, practically slammed the control stick to the floor. The massive fuselage rolled violently to the right, a crude and clumsy maneuver that even caused the wings to groan from metal fatigue, but it was extremely effective.

Because it happens in that one second.

"Whoosh!" A string of deadly 20mm cannon tracer rounds skimmed past its belly skin, the trajectory of the bullets like an angry fire whip, shattering the night sky.

The British pilot broke out in a cold sweat. If the order had come a second later, or if he had hesitated even a little longer, he might have ended up like the crew of Flight A.

Meanwhile, in the cockpit of the Bf-110 opposite, the German ace pilot's face was filled with astonishment.

"Damn it! This can't be!"

The German pilot slammed his fist on the instrument panel, his angry curses swallowed by the roar of his engine. Just as he was trying to push the throttle back to lock onto the enemy at six o'clock, the British bomber, which looked as clumsy as a fat goose, had already slipped into the thick clouds below with remarkable ease and disappeared completely into the dark night, a radar blind spot.

Under Arthur's guidance, the bomber group, which had been wandering aimlessly like headless flies, began to move in an orderly fashion. Like a group of slippery eels, they precisely slipped into the tiny, fleeting gaps in the German air defense network.

"5th Squadron, accelerate through the airspace ahead. Ignore the searchlights below. That air defense position is reloading. You have a 30-second safe window."

"Unit D, lift off! There's a blind spot for anti-aircraft guns below you!"

"All units, maintain radio silence and fly to the new waypoints I give you. Do not turn back, do not turn back."

From the omniscient perspective of an RTS player, Arthur employs frenzied micro-management. He guides these green dots through wave after wave of red death vortexes.

Dancing on the edge of the vortex. The German fighter squadrons missed their target time and time again, and were left behind time and time again. They were puzzled to find that those cumbersome British bombers seemed to have eyes in the back of their heads, and always disappeared into the clouds a second before they pulled the trigger.

Ten minutes later.

The annoying static on the radio finally disappeared, replaced by the navigator's almost tearful shouts, completely devoid of the discipline expected of a Royal Air Force officer: "We've broken through—visual confirmation! Black waves below! We see the North Sea!"

The heavy breathing echoed through the basement via the microphone, accompanied by a desperate, incoherent gasp: "Thank God—no, thank the Night Watch! Whoever you are, wherever you are—you just pulled us back from hell! We owe you our lives!"

"Disengagement confirmed. All enemy aircraft have been outmaneuvered."

In the underground operations room, Churchill and General Porter both breathed a sigh of relief, and a deathly silence lasted for three seconds.

Immediately afterwards, thunderous cheers and applause erupted.

The staff officers threw down their hats, and the female auxiliary soldiers hugged each other tightly; some even shed tears. Porter let out a long sigh, feeling the cold sweat completely soak through his shirt, and his legs felt weak.

Churchill sat back in his chair and relit his cigar. The flickering flame illuminated his face, which had finally relaxed.

He looked at the young man standing in front of the communications station, slowly unbuttoning his collar, a hint of awe flashing in his eyes.

"Arthur was indeed a born god of war."

Churchill exhaled a smoke ring, turned to Porter, and said with a hint of meaning in his voice, "You're sure now, aren't you? It seems it wasn't just a rumor. Dowding was right; this kid does indeed have a kind of almost absurdly sharp battlefield intuition."

"While it sounds crazy and amazing, like what he did in France," Churchill suddenly laughed, his expression complex but mostly relieved, "the good news is, he's one of us. As long as he's here, the Royal Air Force has the eyes of God. That's our 'Imperial Beacon.'"

Arthur ripped off the slightly warm headphones and tossed them onto the map table, which was covered in pencil marks, with a crisp "smack".

He loosened his collar and looked at the green dots on the RTS interface that were returning in an orderly manner. His throat was so dry and cracked from the intense micro-management commands he had just received that it felt like it had been burned.

Meanwhile, the Royal Air Force's Chief Radar Controller, who was originally in charge of the operation but was now being left standing aside like a sleepwalking apprentice, was completely dumbfounded.

He swallowed hard, and with an almost reverent gesture, as if offering a sacrifice to a god, hurriedly handed over a glass of whiskey on the rocks with both hands.

"My God—Mr. Sterling," the controller's voice trembled, filled with absolute awe at some incomprehensible miracle, "you were practically playing the piano in this chaotic night sky."

Arthur took the glass, tilted his head back, and drank it all in one gulp. The spicy liquid slid down his dry throat, making it even spicier, but it did make him feel alive again.

That night, Berlin was on fire.

August 6, 1940, 7:30 a.m., Washington, D.C., the White House.

On the other side of the Atlantic, the morning sun shines brightly, and the surface of the Potomac River glistens, reflecting the new Rome, far removed from the ravages of war.

Franklin D. Roosevelt was sitting in his wheelchair, enjoying his American breakfast: a simple bacon and egg dish and a steaming cup of black coffee.

On the mahogany newspaper rack beside him, the morning headlines of major newspapers had been changed to horrifying, bold black font, each word sounding like a scream:

Royal Air Force launches night raid on Berlin! The heart of the Third Reich engulfed in flames!

The illusion of peace has been shattered! The British refuse to surrender and choose to attack!

"Little Mustache is enraged! He vows to utterly destroy London!"

Harry Hopkins hurried into the breakfast room, carrying a latest battle report and a list of supplies. Compared to the anxiety and fear of the previous days, the presidential envoy now wore a relieved expression, as if a heavy burden had just been lifted from his shoulders.

"Mr. President, it seems your 'performance review' is working."

Hopkins gently placed the battle report on the table and pointed to the data: "Last night, the British launched approximately eighty bomber sorties. Although from a military damage perspective, this scale of bombing had limited substantial impact on Berlin's industrial capacity, and they lost seven aircraft, the political significance was enormous—they did indeed drop hundreds of tons of incendiary bombs over Berlin, bringing the war to German soil."

Roosevelt put down his coffee cup and picked up the battle report. His gaze swept quickly over the descriptions of the fire, the explosion, and the Little Mustache's public speech, and a meaningful, chess-player's smile slowly appeared on his lips.

This is exactly what he wanted.

The British were indeed crazy, daring to stir up a huge hornet's nest like the Germans when their defenses were already stretched thin. But this "madness" meant extremely high investment value in the eyes of politicians and capitalists.

This meant that the British Empire had completely severed all avenues for reconciliation with the Nazis. The island had now become a bloody grinder, a place where only a fight to the death could be waged, endlessly draining the Germans' bombs, fuel, pilots, and steel, and of course, the same for the British.

As long as the British shed blood, and as long as the war raged across the Atlantic, the United States was safe. This was an extremely worthwhile deal—exchanging dollars and excess industrial capacity for absolute security of the American homeland.

"That's right, Harry."

Roosevelt cheerfully cut a piece of bacon, put it in his mouth and chewed. "That young man is a businessman who knows his stuff. He knows that words are not enough, so he sent us a bloodstained receipt overnight."

Roosevelt wiped his mouth, pushed away his plate, and resumed the dignified and ruthless demeanor characteristic of a leader of a great power.

"Now that the buyer has inspected the goods and confirmed that this watchdog can not only take a beating, but also dares to turn around and bite people, we should fulfill the contract."

"Send the order to the War Department and the Commerce Department."

Roosevelt pointed a finger to the previously "suspended" list of supplies on the table: "Sign an executive order confirming that Britain's military action meets the criteria for active resistance under the Lend-Lease Act."

"Approval is granted for the first batch of 150 Cincinnati heavy machine tools, 3,000 tons of aerospace aluminum, and 500 Ford truck chassis. Ship them immediately. Now that the British have paid, the Americans must also ship."

Hopkins quickly jotted down notes in his notebook, then stopped and asked, "What about the remaining supplies? What about the more sensitive, high-precision instruments and radio components?"

A glint of light flashed in Roosevelt's eyes.

"Tell London that we need to see the tonnage of the German submarines sunk before the next shipment of supplies. Tell them to keep up the good work."

August 6, 1940, 2:00 PM, Westminster Palace, London, House of Commons.

The climax of everything will eventually return to the power center of this ancient empire.

Now that the false mask of peace has been completely torn off by the incendiary bombs, and now that Arthur has made the choice for the entire empire through his actions, there is no longer any need for diplomatic pretense.

The chamber of the House of Commons was packed.

Hundreds of members of parliament crowded onto the green benches, the air thick with a somber, oppressive, and resolute atmosphere. Everyone there knew that just last night, the Royal Air Force had bombed Berlin. This meant a complete break, it meant Little Mustache's impending retaliation, it meant they would fight the Germans to the death.

In fact, retaliation has already begun.

Just half an hour earlier, the German Luftwaffe, in retaliation for the humiliation of Berlin, dropped its first bombs on the outskirts of London.

"A faint boom echoed through the thick stone walls of Westminster Palace, accompanied by the piercing sound of air raid sirens. The sound reverberated in the dome of the council chamber, shaking down a few specks of dust, becoming the perfect, yet most ironic, background noise for the speech."

The door opened.

Churchill entered. He was wearing his signature black tailcoat, his bow tie slightly askew, and his face showed signs of fatigue, but his steps were heavy and resolute. He walked slowly to the podium, gripping the wooden edge of the podium tightly with both hands, his gaze sweeping over everyone present like that of a hawk.

Here are his supporters, his opponents, and the remnants of the appeasement faction who once tried to compromise with Little Mustache.

But now all identities no longer matter.

Because today, they share only one identity: the Night Watchmen of the British Empire.

In the shadows of the second-floor gallery, Arthur sat quietly. Looking down at the slightly hunched but imposing figure, he knew that the gears of history had finally meshed. His mission was complete; now it was the statesman's turn.

Churchill adjusted the microphone.

"Mr. Speaker, members of parliament."

His highly distinctive, slightly hoarse and indistinct voice was broadcast throughout the British Isles, to Berlin, and to Washington.

"Just yesterday, Mr. Little Mustache was still peddling his so-called reason and peace to us over the radio in that arrogant tone." He thought we would succumb to lies, that we would kneel and surrender under the threat of thousands of bombers, that we would be like...

Like lambs to the slaughter, they surrendered our fleet for the sake of survival.

Churchill's voice suddenly rose, accompanied by another violent explosion outside the window, shaking the entire hall: "But he was wrong! The British Empire is not a lamb! Last night, our pilots flew over the North Sea, delivering our most direct and passionate answer, throwing it at his feet!"

A low murmur arose in the hall, an barely suppressed fighting spirit.

"The mask has been torn off, the illusion has been shattered. What lies before us now is a life-or-death battle concerning the survival of Christian civilization."

Churchill shrugged off the podium, clenching his fist, each word like a cannonball exploding from his chest: "Even though most of Europe has fallen, even though the shadow of terror looms over us, I still want to tell Little Mustache, and the whole world: We will fight to the end!"

"We will fight in France, we will fight in the open ocean and in the coastal waters, and we will fight in the air with ever-growing confidence and power! We will defend our islands, no matter the cost!"

"We will fight on the beaches, we will fight at the landing points, we will fight in the fields and on the streets, we will fight in the mountains!"

We will never surrender!

The members of parliament below the stage were ignited by this emotion. Those who had once opposed war, those who had once been fearful, all stood up. This was a belief that was the only thing to hold onto in this darkest hour.

"—Until," Churchill's voice deepened and became meaningful, his gaze seemingly piercing through the walls to the distant other side of the ocean, "until the New World, in the time that God deems it fitting, unleashes all its power to save and liberate the Old World!"

"Whoa!!!"

Thunderous applause and cheers instantly drowned out the piercing siren of the air raid siren. It was a culmination of long-suppressed anger and fighting spirit. Documents were tossed into the air. People chanted slogans.

Arthur slowly rose from his seat in the gallery and straightened his collar. He didn't cheer, nor did he show a trace of excitement on his face.

He merely glanced coldly at the gloomy sky outside the window.

He knew that once the speech was over, the real hell was about to begin.

With the main force of the German Luftwaffe about to be deployed in full force, the most difficult and brutal meat grinder phase of the Battle of Britain truly began at this moment.

"Well then, it's time to get to the dirty work."

Arthur muttered to himself, straightened his cuffs, turned and disappeared into the deep shadows of Westminster Palace, leaving behind the thunderous applause and rousing slogans.

The politicians' performance is over; now it's the generals' and soldiers' turn to take the stage.

Regardless of whether supplies from across the ocean arrive smoothly, he will keep Sterling Heavy Industries, this massive war machine, running at full capacity.

The blast furnaces in Sheffield, the assembly lines in Coventry, the ammunition depot in Manchester—all the gears are engaged.

Fatty Qiu had just signed countless empty political checks on the podium about "fighting to the end." Arthur knew very well that although the Royal Air Force guys were fighting desperately in the air, the air force alone was not enough; the final decision in this war belonged to the ground.

Although he wouldn't fly a Spitfire to dogfight German aces like those pilots, he and his men were ready to return to the battlefield.

Now his task is to ensure that Merlin's engines in Birmingham can send Spitfire into the sky, and that the shipyards in Glasgow can cut through the waves with those battleships and cruisers.

But what he was really looking forward to was the ground shaking.

Ultimately, he wanted to use the "Meteor" tanks about to roll off the Sheffield assembly line and the new 5.5-inch howitzers from the Coventry Arsenal to truly deliver on every promise Churchill made, turning them into the burning wreckage of the German armored divisions.