The Twilight of Empire: Starting from Dunkirk

Chapter 167 The Sea Lion Project and Gone with the Wind

August 6, 1940, night, 8:45 PM. Berlin, Germany, 77 Wilhelmstrasse, Reich Chancellery.

The night in Berlin had never been so sultry; the air still seemed to carry the heat of the incendiary bombs from the previous night.

Almost 24 hours have passed since the Royal Air Force's night raid that shocked the world.

But this long day did not cool the anger of the Imperial Chancellor's Office; on the contrary, with the news from London this afternoon, the atmosphere here had reached a breaking point.

Just hours earlier, to make the shameful attack appear more righteous, Winston Churchill, the "Bulldog" of the British Empire, delivered a historic declaration of war speech in the House of Commons. At this moment, the muffled English broadcast echoed through the office, a symbol of the Third Reich's supreme power, via a high-powered radio.

"—We will fight to the end! We will fight in France, we will fight in the open ocean and on the coast—we will never surrender!"

"Snap!"

With a sharp crack, the power to the expensive radio was abruptly switched off by a trembling hand.

The bearded man stood before the enormous floor-to-ceiling window, his back to the generals in the room. His breathing was rapid and erratic, his chest heaving violently, as if his gray military uniform was restraining a volcano about to erupt within him.

The air in the room was somewhat stuffy.

Army Commander-in-Chief Brauchitsch, Navy Commander-in-Chief Raeder, Air Force Commander-in-Chief Göring, and Chief of Staff of the Supreme Command Keitel all stood frozen in place like statues, not daring to breathe.

They all knew that the Führer's "rational period" had ended.

The "politician with the mustache" who once tried to entice Britain to surrender through diplomatic means, and even hinted in his famous "Last Appeal" that the British Empire's overseas colonies could be preserved, was burned to death by the incendiary bombs that fell in Tiergarten Park last night.

Standing before them now was a warmonger, humiliated, enraged, and thirsting for revenge.

He refused.

The man with the small mustache turned around, his face gloomy, a sickly red light flashing in his gray-blue eyes. His voice was low and deep, completely devoid of the passion he had used during his speech, instead carrying a chilling coldness that sent shivers down the spines of everyone present.

"I gave that drunkard countless chances. I tolerated his arrogance and his provocations. I even let them go at Dunkirk for the sake of so-called Anglo-Saxon brotherhood."

The bearded man walked up to the huge oak map table and stared intently at the outline of the isolated island.

"But what did they give me? Bombs! That damn fat man answered my kindness with incendiary bombs! He threw those filthy chemicals into Berlin! In the Reich's capital! Right in my face!"

"The trees in the Tiergarten district were burned to charcoal, and civilians in several blocks were swallowed up in their sleep by the unquenchable oil fire! It was a rape of German dignity!"

Although from a macro-level war potential perspective, this air raid did not damage the industrial backbone of the Ruhr region, and for the Third Reich, which possessed the production capacity of the entire Europe, it was not even a "minor injury".

But on a psychological and political level, the fire that night shattered Little Mustache's last illusions about a "rational compromise" with Britain.

Most importantly, it was a blow to his pride, especially for someone as arrogant and insecure as Little Mustache.

The shame of being deceived, belittled, and spat on completely drove this dictator, who had conquered half of Europe, to utter madness.

"Since they don't want to end the war gracefully, then I'll let the war end them gracefully."

The man with the mustache grabbed the document that had been prepared beforehand, "Operation Order No. 16," from the table.

The document's title, printed in black Gothic font, reads: "Operational Directives for Preparing for a Landing in Britain."

"Alfred," the mustachioed man tossed the file to Yodl with the roughness of a rag, "Execute Operation Sea Lion. I want to see German boots tread the streets of London. I want to personally hang Winston Churchill from the clock tower of Westminster."

"I do not accept surrender. What I want now is destruction."

"But, Your Majesty—"

Grand Admiral Erich Raeder finally spoke up. This old-school Prussian soldier, dressed in a dark blue naval uniform, had a livid face and was clutching his cap tightly in his hand.

"I must remind you that the English Channel is not the Rhine. Although the Royal Navy has suffered losses in the Atlantic, their home fleet still holds absolute superiority, not to mention they have acquired more than 60 percent of the French warships. If we are to force a landing, two prerequisites must be met: first, complete air superiority; second, clearing the mines in the English Channel and suppressing any Royal Navy intervention. Otherwise, our landing force will be sent to their deaths."

Before Redell could finish speaking, he was interrupted by a burst of extremely sarcastic laughter.

Hermann Göring took a step forward.

Today, the Reich Marshal was wearing a specially made white silk summer uniform. His already bulky body was squeezed so tightly by the fabric that he looked like a Bavarian sausage stuffed with meat filling. His chest was covered with all sorts of medals, including a World War I Grand Cross of the Iron Cross, which jingled crisply with his breath.

"My admiral, have you been staying in Kiel Harbor for too long? Has your courage rusted?"

Goering held a jewel-encrusted marshal's scepter, a haughty smile on his face that made Brauchitsch beside him nauseous. He turned to Raeder, whose face was ashen, and spoke with the contempt of someone reprimanding a corporal rather than a naval commander, an Imperial marshal, who was nominally his equal: "My air force has no need for the navy's assistance. Do those British warships hiding in Portsmouth dare to show themselves? If they do, my Stuka dive bombers will send them to the bottom of the sea."

However, just as Göring was about to continue his performance, a cold voice interrupted him without warning.

"That's enough, Mr. Meyer."

Dead silence.

The entire office fell into a deathly silence.

"Meyer" was a solemn oath Göring made to the German people before the war: "If any enemy plane ever gets to fly over the Ruhr industrial region, I will change my name to Meyer!" And last night, the Royal Air Force not only flew over the Ruhr, but also dropped incendiary bombs in front of the Chancellery in Berlin.

Goering's arrogant smile froze instantly, like a shattered plaster mask hanging on his fat and greasy face, looking both comical and terrifying.

The man with the small mustache slowly raised his head from the map table. His eyes no longer held the fury they had displayed moments before, but rather a more terrifying...

Looking at the coldness of the useless person.

"My admiral may have been a coward, but at least he didn't let the British swim back to Britain from the beaches of Dunkirk like they were on holiday."

The man with the small mustache walked step by step toward Göring, the sound of his leather boots on the floor heavy and suppressed: "Hermann, you assured me at Dunkirk that the Luftwaffe could handle everything, and the British ran away. Last night, you assured me again that the skies over Berlin were impregnable, and the British dropped incendiary bombs right under my window."

The man with the small mustache stopped in front of Göring, staring at the fine beads of cold sweat on the Imperial Marshal's forehead. His voice was soft but filled with humiliation: "I trusted you, so I gave you more than one chance, but you betrayed it. Tell me, Mr. Meyer, how much of your promise still holds true this time? Or should I prepare a barge for you?"

Göring's Adam's apple bobbed violently. He felt fear, that long-lost tremor in the face of this madman, the feeling of being dominated. He knew that if he didn't immediately produce something to fill this black hole of trust, his political life—even his life—might be threatened.

"Yuan————The head of state————"

Göring gritted his teeth, his fear instantly transforming into a gambler's madness. He whirled around, strode to the map, and slammed his expensive scepter down heavily on the narrow waters of the Strait of Dover, producing a dull thud as if he were about to smash the island to pieces.

"That was an accident! That was the last accident!"

Göring's voice was urgent and sharp: "As for the Royal Air Force? Ha! They're a bunch of fledglings whose spines were broken by us in France! They're severely understaffed with Spitfires, and even more so with pilots. According to my intelligence unit, that Bepo, the British are even sending biplane training aircraft into the air now!"

Göring turned around, arms outstretched, attempting to reclaim the center of attention in the hall with his massive frame and fanatical gestures.

This regained the Führer's confidence: "Give me four days! Just four days, and my fighter wing can sweep the Royal Air Force down like flies! Completely clear the skies!"

He stared intently into the mustache's eyes, as if making a solemn oath: "Give me another four weeks, and I can turn London into ruins. General Guderian's tanks won't even need to fire; they can simply sail over in barges to collect prisoners. The navy won't need escorts, because there won't be a single British plane in the sky!"

"This is my promise to you, Hermann Göring! I swear it on my head!"

The bearded man looked at Goring. He saw the fear in the fat man's eyes, and he also saw the madness that comes from being driven to the brink.

This is exactly what he needs.

As the empire's second-in-command and his designated successor, Göring would certainly not be purged like Rom simply because of a failed boast. The bearded man knew very well that he needed Göring alive, and he needed Göring to live a glorious life.

But what he needed even more was this play—a play specifically for Brauchitsch, for Halder, and for all those arrogant Prussian Junker officers.

He wanted to use Göring's words to establish, in front of these Wehrmacht generals who always emphasized the logic of military strategy, an absolute fanaticism that was willing to risk the fate of the nation and even be shattered to pieces for the sake of the Führer's will.

"Very good, Hermann."

The coldness in the bearded man's eyes subsided slightly. He nodded, picked up the red and blue pencil again, and drew a huge attack arrow on the map.

"Then go and sweep them down. Wash away the shameful name 'Meyer'."

"Launch 'Adlertag' (Eagle Day). Show the British what real air blitzkrieg is all about."

Raeder pressed his lips tightly together, his fingers gripping the hilt of his dagger. He looked at Göring's back, now brimming with renewed arrogance but visibly soaked with sweat, and wanted to tell the Führer: the waves of the Channel do not obey the orders of a gambler, and Churchill and the Royal Air Force behind him are not the kind of adversaries who will sit idly by and wait for their doom.

But it was all too late.

At this moment, the massive chariot of the empire was completely locked on the one-way street to London.

France, the coast of Calais (Pas-de-Calais).

Gray waves, laden with foam, relentlessly pounded the beach that had just been conquered by the German army. The air still smelled pungent, the lingering odor of paint and gunpowder.

Admiral Heinz Guderian stood atop an abandoned bunker at Cape Grinnet, holding an expensive Zeiss telescope, its lens fixed on the other side of the strait.

Through the thin layer of mist on the sea, he could vaguely see the white cliffs opposite—the White Cliffs of Dover.

Those are the walls of Great Britain, and the wall of sighs for the army.

Behind him, the 19th Armored Corps, which should have been speeding across the plains, was now presenting an extremely absurd, even tragic, scene.

Hundreds of formidable Panzer III and IV tanks were not engaged in tactical maneuvers, but lay listlessly on the beach like a school of dead fish. Engineers, sweating profusely, were trying to herd these twenty-ton steel behemoths onto crudely modified Rhine barges.

Yes, a barge.

This is the landing vehicle that the Imperial Navy prepared for "Operation Sea Lion".

These flat-bottomed boats were originally used to transport coal and timber on the calm inland waterways of Europe. Their freeboard was only half a meter high, and even slightly large waves could flood the hull; their bows were cut open by gas cutting machines and fitted with simple, even somewhat shaky, wooden gangplanks; their propulsion systems were pitifully weak, making them almost unable to move forward in the face of the turbulent currents of the straits.

"General, the First Armored Regiment reports that two more Panzer IV tanks have slid into the sea during the trial assembly." The adjutant reported cautiously, his voice filled with helplessness. "The barge's gangplank can't withstand this weight, and—once the tanks drive onto it, the ship's center of gravity will shift severely."

"Then unload the ammunition! Unload the spare tracks! If all else fails, unload the damn radio too!"

Guderian growled under his breath, but he quickly realized that such an outburst was pointless. He turned and looked at the wooden barges bobbing on the waves, feeling as if he were watching an absurd funeral.

"This isn't logging in, this is suicide."

Guderian pointed across the Channel, his voice rising: "That fat bastard Hermann says he can clear the sky? To hell with him. If even one British Spitfire slips through, or that Wellington bomber that didn't burn him to ashes, if even one bomb, or even one mortar shell, falls into this dense convoy of barges, the entire ship will become an iron coffin at the bottom of the sea."

There wasn't even a need for British bombs.

Guderian looked at the rolling waves at his feet. The unpredictable winds and waves of the strait at night alone were enough to capsize these top-heavy barges.

As the founder of Blitzkrieg, Guderian was accustomed to measuring the land with his treadmills and tearing apart defenses with speed. But now, facing this sea no more than thirty kilometers wide, he felt an unprecedented sense of powerlessness.

He seemed to see a giant net hanging over the strait. And on the other side of the net, the man named Arthur Sterling sat behind a pile of radar screens and anti-aircraft gun data reports, a glass of red wine in his hand, coldly watching the farce unfold.

"On land, we are invincible lions," Guderian murmured, touching the cold concrete railing. "But in the water, we are just a bunch of tin ducks that can't swim."

For a moment, he suddenly felt inexplicably envious of Rommel.

That guy has received his official appointment and is about to lead his "African Legion" expeditionary force to that godforsaken desert in North Africa to support those useless Italians.

Although they still had to cross this damned sea, at least Rommel was sitting in an armored cruiser of the Royal Italian Navy, while his light divisions were on proper military transport ships, drinking red wine and enjoying the warm Mediterranean sea breeze.

Instead of being like myself, as the Imperial Armored Forces Inspector General, I could only guard a bunch of coal barges with their bows cut off, which couldn't even withstand the wind and waves of the inland rivers, waiting like a fool on this damp and cold Calais beach for that fat man, Göring, to cash his empty promise that could never be fulfilled.

August 6, 1940, 10:00 PM, Sterling House, London, England.

Unlike the hustle and bustle across the Channel, this ancient manor in the heart of London's affluent district maintains a unique, oppressive tranquility, the calm before a storm.

The streets of Westminster surrounding the manor were littered with sandbags, tangled barbed wire, and hurried civil defense personnel. In the distance, the piercing wailing of air raid sirens sounded intermittently, like a final death sentence for the city.

Retaliation came much faster than people imagined.

Even yesterday, before Winston Churchill's impassioned declaration of war speech, the vanguard of the German Luftwaffe had already breached the Royal Air Force's defenses over the Channel.

The first batch of high-explosive bombs, fueled by vengeful fury, have already struck British soil.

That was Little Mustache's most direct and violent response to the Berlin Fire.

But inside the manor, on the lawns manicured like velvet carpets and within the red brick walls covered in ivy, the aristocratic order still stubbornly continues to operate.

The only incongruity comes from the concrete building in the center of the garden, which is cleverly disguised as a landscape pavilion.

That was the entrance to the underground private air-raid shelter.

This bunker was secretly built by the Earl fifteen years ago using the core engineering team of Stirling Construction. Located fifteen meters underground, it has an independent diesel generator set, an air filtration and circulation system, enough food reserves to last for six months, and an escape tunnel that connects directly to the London Underground network.

This is a Noah's Ark built of money and power, a refuge for the industrial age.

At this moment, in front of the heavy steel door of the bunker.

Arthur Sterling was standing there, dressed in a well-tailored dark gray suit and a perfectly tied tie.

He looked at the two elderly people in front of him, his parents.

Earl Archibald Stirling looks to be in better spirits than ever.

Over the past month, watching his family's massive industrial machinery operate at breakneck speed in Arthur's hands, seeing Sterling Heavy Industries' stock price soar with war orders, and even witnessing his son's audacious act of dropping bombs on Berlin, this old-fashioned English nobleman seemed to have become ten years younger.

He showed no sign of dejection, his back ramrod straight. In his hand he held a silver-tipped cane, the same kind as Arthur's, but it was more of a gentlemanly ornament than a walking stick. He looked at Arthur, his eyes filled with undisguised admiration—the satisfaction of watching a young lion king finally take over his territory.

"Go for it, Arthur."

The old Earl patted his son on the shoulder, his voice loud and clear: "The House of Commons is handled by that madman Winston, and as for those old fogies in the House of Lords, I'll take care of them for you. Entrusting the Sterling family business to you is the best decision I've ever made."

Standing beside him was his mother, Lady Margaret Stirling, the daughter of the Duke of Argyll, who was wearing a dark blue dress, an elegant little hat, and a pair of lace gloves.

Although the outside world was about to collapse, and although Göring's bomber squadrons could appear overhead at any moment, the lady's makeup remained exquisite and her eyes remained calm.

It was a quality that flowed in the blood of the Scottish Highland nobility: maintaining absolute dignity in the face of disaster.

"It's safe down here, Mother."

Arthur's voice was soft, carrying a warmth he only showed to his family: "The generator is running, and the ventilation system is working properly. This bunker was built to the highest standards; it's much more comfortable than the deep subway station. You and your father won't have to squeeze in with those—other people."

Mrs. Margaret looked at her tall son.

She still remembered him as a child riding a pony, and the way he looked after his first fight at Eton. Now, he was one of the most powerful men in the country, controlling the empire's war machine, and had even just orchestrated a bombing of Berlin.

Her eyes were slightly red, and her fingers unconsciously tightened their grip on her handbag.

As a mother, she instinctively wanted to reach out and grab Arthur's sleeve, begging him to hide with her in this sturdy underground bunker. She begged him not to go to that dangerous command post, not to face the bombs falling from the sky.

But she didn't.

She took a deep breath, swallowing back the wave of weakness that welled up in her throat. She was the Duke's daughter, the mistress of the Sterling family. She knew what "responsibility" meant.

In this most perilous time for the nation, in this age that needs heroes, it would be the greatest disgrace for the Sterling family to cower underground in fear.

Mrs. Margaret reached out her lace-gloved hand and gently, with utmost tenderness, straightened Arthur's neatly tied tie and smoothed out a barely perceptible wrinkle on the shoulder of his suit.

"Arthur".

Her voice was steady, though trembling slightly, but firm: "We'll be waiting for you at home. Don't worry about us. Go do what you need to do."

She looked up, a certain light gleaming in her grey eyes: "Remember, the Sterlings never hide underground and watch others bleed. If you must bleed, then make it worthwhile."

There were no heart-wrenching cries, no lengthy admonitions, only restraint and profound love.

Arthur nodded, lowered his head, and respectfully kissed the back of his mother's hand.

"I will, Mother. I assure you, this estate, this city, will pull through."

Watching his parents' figures disappear behind the slowly closing steel security door, Arthur stood there for three seconds with a soft "click" from the hydraulic lock.

When he turned around again, the warmth in his eyes had completely vanished, replaced by a coldness as hard as granite.

He walked through a long corridor covered with Persian carpets and arrived at the manor's spacious entrance hall.

According to the original plan, he would meet up with his deputy, Colonel Ryder, there and head to the Royal Air Force headquarters at Bentley Abbey. Meanwhile, the French liaison officer staying there—Lieutenant Jeanne—should have already been moved to another safe house in Kensington by his men, to stay with de Gaulle and his entourage.

But when he stepped into the foyer, he stopped in his tracks.

Jeanne was standing there.

She did not go to the safe house.

Arthur frowned. "Jeanne, I thought I'd made myself clear. The anti-aircraft fire outside is dense; stray bullets don't discriminate. You stay here, go to the underground bunker, or the safe house. This isn't your war, at least not now."

"Not my war?"

Jeanne turned around, and the cashmere shawl she had been wearing slipped to the ground, revealing her true appearance underneath.

Arthur's pupils contracted slightly.

Underneath, she was no longer wearing the docile maid's uniform or simple casual clothes she had worn for the past month, but a military uniform faded by gunpowder and seawater, with even frayed edges on the cuffs. It was the uniform of a lieutenant liaison officer in the French 1st Army that Arthur wore when he first met her.

Her dark blue military uniform was a bit worn, with slightly oxidized brass buttons, but it was ironed crisply. The gold buttons gleamed coldly under the chandelier. Her blond hair was neatly piled up at the back of her head, and she wore a slightly worn military cap.

"Sir, I've been a decorative vase in this big house for almost a month now."

Jeanne's voice was cold, carrying a long-suppressed explosive force. She walked step by step toward Arthur, her military boots clicking on the marble floor.

A crisp sound came from the floor.

"I've had enough of this life: drinking tea, reading newspapers, listening to the ladies from the neighboring estates discussing how to reduce the amount of fabric in their skirts, and watching you leave early and return late every day. If this continues, I'll really become a piece of porcelain that can only be displayed on a shelf."

"I'm a soldier, Arthur. In France, I was the soldier who drove tanks alongside you, rampaging through the enemy lines. My country fell, but that doesn't mean my fight is over."

After saying that, she turned and walked towards the umbrella rack in the corner of the foyer.

She had a long, narrow package there.

"Click"

The oilcloth covering the package was torn off, revealing a dark, gun-oil-smelling weapon inside.

That was an MP40 submachine gun.

This was a trophy that Arthur and she had captured from a German officer in the Berg meat grinder. Even during the month or so without combat missions, she had maintained the gun like a treasure, polishing the bolt until it gleamed.

She is always ready to return to the battlefield.

Jeanne skillfully slammed the magazine into the slot, pulled the bolt to chamber a round, her movements fluid and effortless. The crisp metallic clang sounded particularly jarring in the quiet foyer of the mansion.

She slung her submachine gun over her shoulder, straightened her back, and gave Arthur a standard French military salute. Her eyes no longer held the bewilderment of an exiled girl, but rather the burning flames of a warrior seeking revenge.

"Lieutenant Jeanne de Valois, liaison officer of the French First Army, requests to return to Stirling Battle Group."

She looked directly into Arthur's eyes and said, word by word, "Sir, please give the orders. Whether it's to kill Germans or to be your driver, I will not stay in the basement."

Arthur stared blankly at the stubborn, dangerous, yet stunningly beautiful young woman before him.

All the rational arguments he had prepared, such as "for safety" and "due to political considerations," were swallowed back down. He suddenly realized how foolish it was to try to put a lioness who had experienced the ravages of war back into a cage.

In this world on the verge of collapse, perhaps only those who hold guns are truly safe.

"ha--

Arthur suddenly burst out laughing. It was a genuine appreciation, tinged with wild joy.

He pulled out his spare, large-caliber Webley revolver from his pocket; it was an old-fashioned weapon from the army, but incredibly powerful.

He casually tossed the gun to Jeanne.

"Don't use those German lousy guns. They worked well in France, but we're in London now. Use this; that's how the British treat their guests."

Jeanne caught the heavy pistol with one hand, skillfully checked the magazine, and laughed wildly.

"Yes, sir."

Arthur straightened his cuffs and pushed open the heavy gate of the manor.

There was a deathly silence outside the door.

London was now under its strictest blackout regime, the entire city like a giant beast holding its breath, shrouded in pitch-black darkness. Looking up, the night sky was deep and cold.

There are no fighter jets or bombers flying around in the sky, no hail of bullets, for the time being.

The Germans, though arrogant, were not stupid. They wouldn't waste expensive aviation fuel and ammunition in the dead of night when visibility was extremely poor. They were waiting, waiting for the first rays of sunlight in the east to pierce the clouds—that would be the signal for them to pounce on their prey in droves.

However, when the door was fully open, the faint light leaking from the foyer replaced the deathly silence with a more somber atmosphere.

Below the steps, the once wide street has been completely transformed.

The once neatly trimmed bushes are now piled high with sandbags that reek of damp earth, forming makeshift circular fortifications. The dark muzzle of a Vickers water-cooled heavy machine gun is pointed fixedly at the unsettling sky.

Beside those black bulletproof cars stood another group of men who stood like statues.

Colonel Ryder, Arthur's second-in-command, was leaning against the car door, clutching a Thompson submachine gun, his eyes scanning the shadows around him warily.

Colonel David Sterling, Arthur's cousin and founder of the SAS, sat on the hood of a military truck, toying with an assault knife, a cynical smile on his face that seemed to crave blood.

Beside them stood Major General Jeanson, his expression serious, and Charles de Gaulle, a figure nearly two meters tall, standing like an iron tower in the night.

The leader of Free France was wearing a crisp brigadier general's uniform, his arms crossed over his chest.

Although his country had fallen and he was now living under someone else's roof, on this night he still chose to stand in front of Arthur's door instead of hiding in the safe house as arranged.

For no other reason than that in this world, only this man dared to set fire to Berlin.

There were no pleasantries, no handshakes.

As Arthur descended the steps, the group of the most dangerous and insane men of the time turned around simultaneously, their eyes meeting.

The smells of gunpowder, tobacco, and adrenaline mingled in the air.

"Get in the car, Lieutenant."

Arthur said coldly, his eyes piercing through the dark night, as if he could already see the dawn that would be ignited by war in a few hours.

"It's quiet here tonight, but tomorrow morning the sky will be crowded. We have to get the coffins ready for our guests who have come from afar before sunrise."

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