The Twilight of Empire: Starting from Dunkirk

Chapter 169 Eagle Sun

August 7, 1940, 06:45 AM. Bentley Abbey, Middlesex, England, Royal Air Force Fighter Command Underground Bunker.

The main radar screen on the wall, a huge cathode ray tube display with a diameter of over two meters, was initially completely silent.

Only the baseline is fluctuating slightly.

"06:45".

Arthur raised his wrist and glanced at his watch.

"If those idiots in the German meteorological service are not mistaken, the cloud cover over the Dover Strait should be 1200 meters high right now. That's the He-111 bomber's favorite approach altitude."

General Dowding stood behind the railing of the command platform, his eyes bloodshot.

"Are they just going to keep circling around on the other side of the strait and not come over?"

"Chain Home radar station reports sporadic electronic interference across the strait," an intelligence officer reported. "But no large-scale cluster signals have been detected. The Germans have done a good job of radio silence."

"They don't need radio."

Arthur put down his coffee cup, which he had asked Jeanne to pour ten minutes earlier, and it was now completely cold.

"Göring wanted to surprise us. He figured that at this time, our radar operators were changing shifts and our pilots were eating bacon and eggs."

The voice just fell.

"The radar screen, which was originally as calm as still water, suddenly developed a strange ripple without warning."

At first, there were just a few flickering dots of light, like the noise on an old television set. But after only three seconds, these dots began to split, multiply, and spread wildly.

But this is definitely not electronic interference.

Faced with Stirling Heavy Industries' proud "filtering" technology, the Germans' pitiful aluminum foil tricks are like waste paper.

What is displayed on the screen now is a real echo.

Hundreds upon hundreds of massive metal reflective surfaces, carrying hundreds of tons of aerospace aluminum and high-explosive bombs, were hurtling toward London at a constant cruising speed of 320 kilometers per hour.

"My God—"

A female radar operator let out a gasp she could barely contain; she covered her mouth, her trembling fingers pointing frantically at the screen.

That patch of light that was multiplying wildly:

Look—that's—that's snowflakes falling from the sky!

On the green fluorescent screen, the dots representing enemy aircraft densely packed together, like snowflakes in a blizzard, obscuring the southeastern corner of the English Channel. They were no longer individual dots, but a vast expanse eighty kilometers wide...

An unfathomable metal tsunami.

"This is Kesselring's 2nd Air Force."

Arthur put on a single earpiece and switched directly to the raw signal stream from the Dover radar station. To him, the noisy background noise was the most accurate intelligence in the world.

"And the Third Air Force. It seems Meyer doesn't just want us to have breakfast, he doesn't even want us to live past lunchtime."

"Confirm the target quantity!" Daoding roared.

"Unable to count! Radar echoes are saturated!"

The operator's voice was filled with barely concealed terror; the static crackling through her headset made it almost impossible for her to hear herself shouting: "System overload! Initial estimates—over five hundred initial targets! Kent, Sussex, Hampshire—they're everywhere!"

Five hundred.

This number sent chills down the spines of the radar operators. At that moment, the Royal Air Force's 11th Fighter Wing had no more than three hundred fighter jets available for immediate takeoff. Moreover, these three hundred aircraft were scattered across more than a dozen airfields throughout southeast England, some still refueling, and others undergoing urgent repairs.

A near 1:2 absolute disadvantage.

The entire command room fell into a brief silence, broken only by the hissing sound of the printer spitting out paper tape.

"Don't panic."

Arthur ignored the panicked faces and walked straight to the huge chart table. He extended his black cane and precisely pointed it at several key points on the map.

"That's why I put 'sunglasses' on the radar."

At Arthur's instruction, the technicians pressed a set of red switches.

The data processing terminal provided by Stirling Electronics began operating at full power. The massive cabinet hummed with heat dissipation, and the waveforms on the oscilloscope began to change dramatically.

In addition to electronic interference, this machine also has to deal with the extreme problem of radar oversaturation.

The "snowflakes" on the screen, which had been completely stuck together due to the sheer size and density of the targets and had driven all the radar personnel to despair, began to be forcibly dismantled by the computer. Through monstrous calculations of the tiny frequency shifts of the radar waves—the Doppler effect—and the height differences, the massive, originally seamless echoes were meticulously pieced together.

Soon, the chaotic metallic light spots were sorted out and layered, eventually settling on the main screen as three thick red arrows.

"They're feigning an attack on the west; their main force is in the southeast." Arthur pointed to the different altitude layers separated on the screen: "This one is bait, the one above is the main force fully loaded with bombers, and this layer—"

His cane tapped on the highest group of echoes, where the echoes, though smaller, were moving at extremely high speeds: "That's a Bf-109 fighter escort formation. They're at 20,000 feet, preparing to dive down and hunt our Spitfires."

Arthur turned to General Dowding, whose face was grave. "General," he said, "we can't intercept every single plane. There are just too many of them, like locusts. If you try to protect every inch of land and spread your forces to intercept every single red dot, we'll lose all our planes."

"Then what do we do?" Daoding asked, his voice hoarse.

"Regardless of bombers."

Arthur said coldly, making an extremely cold-blooded yet incredibly rational decision: "Unless they're already flying over the airport, ignore those cumbersome He-111s. Let the ground anti-aircraft guns deal with them, or let the citizens of London put up with it."

"Concentrate all the strength of the 11th Battalion, climb, and gain altitude advantage. We won't get entangled with these locusts; we'll cut their throats."

Arthur slammed his cane down on the high-altitude echo representing German fighter planes: "We need to guide Major General Parker's squadron to attack the escorting Bf-109s. Once we cripple the German fighters or exhaust their fuel, forcing them to return, the remaining bombers will be a bunch of fat pigs waiting to be slaughtered."

It's a big gamble.

If the bombers are allowed to pass through unchecked, the outskirts of British cities, ports, and even radar stations will suffer devastating damage. But if they engage in a direct confrontation with the escorting fighters, the Royal Air Force could bleed dry in a single day.

Arthur made a cruel choice: to sacrifice ground facilities in exchange for the irreplaceable loss of elite German Air Force pilots.

"approve."

Dowding gritted his teeth, staring at the enormous map, and finally gave the order: "All aircraft take off. Target: enemy fighter formation. Good luck."

Kent, Beacon Hill RAF Base.

This is the core defense zone of the 11th Battalion, and also a thorn in the side of the Germans.

The morning mist had not yet dissipated, and two entire squadrons of Spitfire fighter planes were parked on the damp grass. Their graceful oval wings shimmered in the dim light, like a group of sleeping sharks.

The atmosphere in the nearby combat readiness room was not as tense as in the general command headquarters.

A group of young people, with an average age of only 20, were sitting around a table pieced together. They were wearing heavy flight jackets, yellow life jackets around their necks, and holding newly dealt playing cards.

"Three Ks."

A blond, blue-eyed pilot tossed down his cards. He was Tom Neil, a reserve lieutenant from Oxford University. "Looks like I'm in good luck today. I think my coffee's still warm before the Germans are home for breakfast."

"Don't be too confident, Tom," another veteran, who was only 24 years old and had an unlit cigarette in his mouth, said while shuffling the cards. "The girls at the radar station say the signal is a bit off today. The Germans might have even thrown their grandma's foot bath up here."

"Then let them come. I'll use my 20mm cannon to punch a few holes in their foot baths—"

Before he could finish speaking...

"Ugh!!!"

The piercing, sharp, and heart-stopping air raid siren suddenly shattered the morning tranquility. Unlike the intermittent sound during drills, the siren was continuous and the highest level "scramble" signal.

"This is not a fucking drill!"

The veteran suddenly overturned the table, sending playing cards flying everywhere.

"Quick! Quick! Quick! Everyone! Get on the plane!"

The young people sprang up like springs, threw down their cards, grabbed their flight caps, and rushed out of the combat readiness room without a care in the world.

On their only route to the tarmac, there was a military vehicle painted in camouflage.

A person stood quietly on the grass beside the car.

Major General Keith Parker, Commander of Royal Air Force No. 11 Fighter Group.

This stern and pragmatic New Zealand-born general was wearing a crisp air force uniform with his hands behind his back.

Parker didn't give any emotional speeches like those politicians back in London. In this life-or-death situation where every second counts, any grand pronouncements would be pale and a waste of time.

He simply watched these excessively young faces—some still bearing the playful laughter from their card game, others still saluting him with their hands at the side.

As a frontline commander, he kept his own mental ledger.

He knew that in the next hour, a third of the young men would not be coming back.

Their bodies would be torn apart by machine guns at 20,000 feet or frozen in the icy sea.

But he knew even better that this was a bloody price that had to be paid to defend the British Isles.

As Lieutenant Tom ran past him, Major General Parker suddenly reached out his gloved hand and grabbed his shoulder.

Tom was stunned, staring at the powerful figure in front of him who controlled the airspace over the entire southeastern part of the British Empire.

"General?" Tom looked at him in confusion.

"Remember General Dowding's latest tactics." Parker's voice was low, but incredibly serious and clear amidst the blaring alarms.

"Regardless of the bombers." Parker stared intently into Tom's eyes. "The Night Watch has already shown us the way."

Your mission is to climb straight up, towards the sun! Go and bite those yellow-nosed (Bf-109) fighters hiding high in the sky. Go and sever their necks!

Parker abruptly released his grip, stood at attention, and saluted: "Go, Lieutenant. Break their spines."

Tom paused for a second, then suddenly stood at attention with his heels together, gave a perfectly standard military salute, and then turned and ran towards his Spitfire fighter jet, serial number X-4522.

Meanwhile, the ground crew had gone mad.

"Make contact! Make contact!"

With the mechanic's desperate roar, the giant propeller began to spin.

"Boom!!"

The roar of dozens of Merlin engines simultaneously engulfed the entire airport. It was the most violent aesthetic display of the Industrial Revolution. Thick black smoke billowed from the exhaust pipes, carrying the smell of unburned high-octane fuel, which then transformed into a ghostly blue flame under the high temperature.

The whole earth was trembling.

One Spitfire after another began to taxi. They bounced clumsily on the grass, but as their speed increased, their tail wheels lifted off the ground, their noses rose, and the elegance and deadly moment belonging to the sky were revealed.

Major General Parker stood in the wind, his overcoat fluttering in the propeller's airflow. He watched the two squadrons of warplanes roar and disappear into the clouds overhead, then turned and opened the car door.

"Back to the command center in the Uxbridge underground," Parker said coldly to the driver, clenching his gloved hands tightly.

"The lads went all out. Now, it's our turn to take control of the game."

07:30, over the English Channel, at an altitude of 20000 feet.

This is a gladiatorial contest without spectators, and also the ultimate meat grinder of industrial power.

Hundreds of He-111 bombers from the German 2nd Air Fleet advanced toward the Thames Estuary in a dense wedge formation, much like a slow-moving pod of whales.

Three thousand feet above them, a dense formation of Bf-109 fighter escorts, like a dark cloud, circled the bomber formation like sheepdogs, searching for their prey.

The German pilots were confident. Intelligence suggested the British were either overwhelmed by the bombing or frantically taking off.

But they were wrong.

"Attention! 12 o'clock! Above! Above!"

Terrified screams suddenly came through the German radio channels.

Using the precise guidance provided by Arthur's upgraded radar system, the three Spitfire squadrons of No. 11 RAF did not attack from below or the side. Instead, they took advantage of the precious twenty minutes of warning time to climb to an altitude of 25000 feet—the direction of the sun.

Lieutenant Tom Neil felt like his lungs were about to burst. Despite wearing an oxygen mask, the cold and low pressure at high altitude still made him feel suffocated.

He looked down and saw the German aircraft below looking like a dense swarm of ants.

"Tally-ho (Enemy aircraft spotted)! Attack!"

No unnecessary words, enemies are especially hostile when they meet.

Tom slammed the lever down.

As the Spitfire fighter jet's nose slammed down, gravitational potential energy was converted into kinetic energy, causing the speedometer needle to jump wildly, soaring from 300 miles per hour to 450 miles per hour.

They are falling.

Dozens of Spitfire fighters, like a group of meteorites falling from the sky, crashed into the German escort formation with a piercing whistle.

There were no fancy maneuvers, no chivalrous maneuvers, and no salutes between pilots from both sides during the last World War. The gentlemanly demeanor of the old era, along with those wooden-framed biplanes, had long been washed into the sewers of history by the blood of our fathers.

All that's left now is pure hatred.

"Da da da da da Tom gripped the trigger tightly."

The Spitfire's wings were armed with four 7.7mm Browning machine guns and two newly modified 20mm Hispano cannons, all of which spewed deadly flames.

One of the Bf-109s flying on the outermost edge had no time to react before its wing was severed by a hail of bullets. Its wing broke off, and it tumbled and plummeted into the thick clouds below.

"Scatter! Scatter!" the German wingman shouted frantically.

The orderly German formation was instantly disrupted. The fighter group, originally intended to protect the bombers, was forced into the chaotic dogfight.

The sky turned into a meat grinder.

Tracer rounds crisscrossed the air, forming a deadly web. Black smoke filled the air, along with shattered aluminum shards and glass.

Tom gritted his teeth, enduring immense G-forces, and relentlessly pursued a He-111 bomber that was attempting to dive and escape.

His sights were filled with that massive black fuselage.

"Die, you Nazi pigs!"

He pressed the launch button.

The recoil of the 20mm cannon caused the entire fuselage to shake violently, and several armor-piercing incendiary bombs accurately penetrated the bomber's right engine.

"boom!"

A massive fireball erupted in the air. The He-111 seemed to be torn apart by an invisible hand, its fuselage snapped in two, and it spun and plummeted with its four crew members inside.

But Tom didn't have time to celebrate.

"Tom! Six o'clock! Take cover!" came the roar of his comrade over the radio in his headset.

A yellow-nosed Bf-109 had silently crept up behind him.

That was a German ace.

"Bang bang bang!"

A burst of 20mm cannon shells hit Tom's aircraft.

Reality was harsh. The bulletproof glass of the cockpit shattered instantly, the instrument panel exploded into a pile of fragments, and engine oil sprayed all over Tom's face. A large hole was punched in the left wing, and the Merlin engine, which had been emitting a beautiful roar, let out a dying groan before spewing out thick black smoke.

"I've been shot! Engine failure! Losing altitude!" Tom tried to pull up the nose of the plane, but the control stick was unresponsive.

"Jump! Tom! Jump now!"

Inside the out-of-control, tumbling cabin, Tom remembered the major general's words: "The man must come back."

He struggled to push open the canopy. A violent gust of air rushed in, nearly blowing his helmet off. He unbuckled his seatbelt and flipped himself out of the cabin.

Behind him, the expensive Spitfire fighter jet transformed into a burning torch, crashing into the turbulent English Channel below.

08:00. Bentley Monastery, underground command room.

The severity of the battle was reported to Arthur in real time via radio and radar data.

On the huge nautical chart table, the wooden blocks representing both sides are constantly decreasing.

"32nd Squadron reports encountering German JG26 wing aces, losing three Spitfires, two pilots ejected, and one killed in action."

"74th Squadron reports: out of ammunition and returning to base. They shot down four fighters, but we also lost two."

"Dover radar station reports: a group of German bombers that slipped through the net are approaching the radar tower!"

Every report is cold and hard, but behind every number lies a precious life lost and the destruction of an expensive war machine.

General Daoding's face grew increasingly grim.

The Germans were simply too numerous. Even with the Royal Air Force's altitude advantage and precise radar guidance, sheer numbers could overwhelm an elephant. It was a pure numerical superiority. Arthur could only guide the aircraft in the general direction to intercept the "largest" cloud formations; he had no time to attend to the scattered German squadrons attempting to break through.

"Mr. Sterling, we can't hold on much longer," a staff officer reported, his voice trembling. "Another squadron has been wiped out. There's a breach in the defenses, and a swarm of bombers is approaching East London."

Arthur remained standing in front of the map, holding the exquisitely crafted fountain pen in his hand, rapidly making notes in a black notebook.

His expression remained unchanged.

"3rd Squadron, one aircraft lost, serial number X-4522, beyond repair. Needs replacement."

"32nd Squadron, two aircraft lost, serial numbers K-9981 and K-9982. Need replacements."

He looked up at the panicked staff officer, his voice chillingly calm: "Ignore the East End. Ignore the radar stations. Let the ground anti-aircraft guns deal with them. Our objective is to wear down their fighter jets."

"But the radar station—"

"The radar station can be repaired if it's blown up. As long as the tower is still standing, I can get it back in operation within six hours," Arthur interrupted.

He said, "But if Parker's squadron loses altitude to chase those low-flying bombers, they will be overtaken by the Bf-109s above."

massacre."

"Jeanne, report on the rescue situation."

Lieutenant Jeanne, standing nearby, immediately stepped forward, her voice cutting through the noise of the command center: "Report! The Coast Guard and Sterling Security's maritime search and rescue teams are fully deployed. So far, we have recovered 12 parachuted pilots from the strait, nine of whom are ours and three are German."

"In addition, the Home Defence Force found seven parachuted pilots alive in a field in Kent and they are being transported to the hospital."

Upon hearing this news, General Daoding's previously tense shoulders relaxed slightly.

This is what Arthur referred to earlier as the "advantage of fighting on home soil."

When a Spitfire is shot down, its pilot will parachute to British soil or be rescued by a British ship. After having a cup of hot tea and having his wounds bandaged, if not serious, he can return to another airport in the afternoon and fly a brand-new plane back into the skies.

When a Bf-109 is shot down, its pilot, after ejecting, faces only the icy sea or the angry pitchforks of British farmers. Even if he is Germany's top ace, once he ejects, his war is over.

This is the strategy of the Royal Air Force.

They were exchanging aircraft for personnel, using mass-produced industrial products to consume the irreplaceable elite manpower of the German Air Force.

"Very good." After the line "One aircraft lost" in his notebook, Arthur wrote down the words "Personnel recovery" heavily.

"Notify Sterling Heavy Industries' Coventry plant to activate Plan B's reserve," Arthur ordered Jeanne. "By tonight, I want 20 brand-new Spitfires delivered to Bigin Hill Airport to fill in those craters. Tell the pilots not to worry about the planes; as long as they're alive, I can give them new wings."

09:30, Kent, outside Biggs Hill Airport.

A muddy jeep sped along a country road.

Sitting in the car was Lieutenant Tom, who had just jumped out of the plane.

He looked terrible. His flight jacket was soaked with seawater, a blood-soaked bandage was stuck to his forehead, his face was covered in oil and cigarette ash, and he was clutching a broken control stick that he had unconsciously brought with him before jumping.

The driver, a female Royal Air Force pilot, slammed on the gas pedal and shouted, "Lieutenant, are we going to the hospital? Your head is still bleeding!"

"Go to the hospital my ass!"

Tom spat out a mouthful of bloody saliva, felt his pocket, and found that the deck of cards was still there, only soaked.

"Back to the airport! Quickly!"

Tom's eyes burned with a terrible rage: "I just saw that damn yellow-nosed guy fly south, he must be out of gas! I'm going back to get a new plane, I'm going to kill him!"

The jeep drifted and crashed into the smoke-filled airport gate.

There, although there were still several smoking bomb craters on the runway and a corner of the control tower had been destroyed, several brand-new Spitfire fighters, smelling of factory paint, had been towed out of a hidden hangar at the end of the runway.

Ground crew are frantically refueling and adding ammunition.

This is what makes Sterling Heavy Industries so terrifying. These planes weren't repaired at this airport; they were transported by truck from a depot dozens of kilometers away.

Tom jumped out of the car and, without even wiping his face, rushed toward a new fighter jet.

"This one's mine!"

He climbed onto the wing and yelled at the mechanic, whose face was also covered in soot, "Is the fuel full? Are the shells loaded?"

"Full! Absolutely full!" the mechanic shouted, handing over a scalding cup of strong tea. "Colonel Ryder just called, saying to warm you up before getting back to work! This tea is on him!"

Tom gulped down the cup of bitter, strong tea, feeling as if his internal organs were on fire.

"Thank that guy for me!"

He pulled up the canopy and started the engine again.

"boom!!"

The blue flames erupted once more.

This was the prelude to "Eagle Day." The Germans thought they were fighting an army, but in reality, they were fighting a massive, sophisticated, and efficient industrial recycling system.

They can shoot down planes, they can blow up runways, but they can't break this industrial necromancy that brings the dead back to life.

10:00. Bentley Abbey.

Arthur looked at the radar screen.

The climax of the first wave of attacks had passed, and the German aircraft were returning to base. The red dots on the screen were thinning out and receding towards the other side of the Channel.

Daoding let out a long sigh and slumped into his chair.

"We held on," Dowding said wearily. "The losses were heavy, but we held on."

Arthur didn't sit down. He looked at the latest statistics Jeanne handed him.

"The 11th Squadron lost 19 aircraft, 4 pilots were killed in action, 6 were wounded, and the rest were recovered."

"German aircraft losses—based on wreckage and camera guns, estimated at approximately 35. These include 12 fighters and 23 bombers."

shelf."

The exchange ratio was close to 1:2. This was nothing short of a miracle, especially considering the overwhelming numerical disadvantage.

"It seems that Göring's four-day commitment will have to be extended."

Arthur closed the black notebook and turned to walk toward the row of huge teletype machines.

"Send a message to Coventry. We need more 20mm shells. Tell the workers to get back to sleep; the rate of consumption at the front is faster than we anticipated."

He looked up at the group of cheering female support soldiers, his eyes showing little joy, only a solemn expression.

"This is just the first wave. The Germans still have three thousand planes. This meat grinder is only just beginning to heat up."

Outside the window, the once gloomy sky was fragmented by countless white trails. Above those chaotic clouds, the young people of Britain were writing the most tragic chapter in human history with their blood and steel.

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