The Twilight of Empire: Starting from Dunkirk

Chapter 174 The Final Battle in the Clouds and the Roses in the Ruins

1940年9月7日下午，16时15分。

Ultimate destruction, in a grand, all-encompassing form, officially descended upon the heart of the British Empire.

Hermann Göring, the Imperial Marshal who was utterly humiliated in the fire at Calais and driven to the brink by Little Mustache's rage, has completely lost his mind; he is now insane and dangerous.

On the radar screen, the spots representing the German bomber formation were no longer scattered probing attacks, but a dense, solid blizzard. Nearly a thousand He-111 and Do-17 bombers, painted with the Iron Cross, under the cover of Bf-109 fighters, resembled a black metallic cloud, crossing the Kent coastline in a dense formation.

This time, however, their bomb bay doors did not open over the Royal Air Force's battered field airfields.

Arthur Sterling's ruthless "devilish substitution" tactic completed the most brutal battlefield handover at this moment. The Germans abandoned the 11th Group's airfield, which was about to be suffocated, and instead unleashed the flames of revenge on the banks of the Thames.

Air raid sirens have been blaring for the past week, their mournful cries weaving a web of despair over London.

Minutes later, 500-kilogram high-explosive bombs and thousands of thermite incendiary bombs rained down on the densely populated East End, Southwark, and the Docklands, which served as the lifeblood of the British Empire.

The overpressure generated by the explosion instantly flattened several blocks of Victorian red brick row houses.

But at 20,000 feet, the German crews who were venting their frustration by pulling the bomb release button were unaware that the seemingly massive destruction below was, to a large extent, just a "visual fireworks display" with smoke but no physical damage.

The tens of thousands of tons of strategic rubber, aviation aluminum, high-grade raw sugar, and precious rum that were once piled up in the huge warehouses in the dock area have long been moved without anyone noticing by Sterling Heavy Industries' heavy truck fleet and stuffed into the abandoned subway network and sturdy air-raid bunkers buried deep underground.

At this moment, what was being frantically ignited on the ground by German incendiary bombs was nothing more than abandoned building timber, worthless chemical waste oil, and the cheapest industrial alcohol that Arthur had deliberately left on the surface as "strategic bait."

But for the Germans in the air who desperately needed to report back to Berlin, it was undoubtedly a perfect massacre.

The explosion of substandard alcohol and waste oil created a horrifying visual spectacle. Towering flames mixed with acrid black smoke formed a wall of fire hundreds of meters high, spreading wildly along the Thames. The Thames' surface even seemed to boil due to the hot, burning materials.

London, the heart of the centuries-old British Empire, is bleeding for the Royal Air Force’s vital frontline airfields with its burning, cheap exterior and the ruins of its civilians.

The smoke from early morning still lingered on Crippen Street, which was littered with rubble, craters, and unexploded time bombs.

The air was thick with the unsettling smell of gas and lime dust. A milkman in a gray uniform, carrying a metal basket full of glass bottles, walked numbly but precisely to a building, his steps crunching over the broken glass and bricks scattered on the ground.

The house had been bombed down to just a lonely door frame, but he still bent down and carefully placed two bottles of milk...

It was placed haphazardly on the steps below the door frame.

In the eyes of this ordinary working-class man, a German bomb could destroy half a block, but it could never disrupt the biological clock of the British working class who drank milk tea every morning.

From the perspective of a bombardier at 20,000 feet, the entire financial district had been turned into a rolling, dark red sea of ​​fire by incendiary bombs at temperatures of over a thousand degrees Celsius, and the surrounding blocks collapsed one after another like cardboard boxes thrown into an incinerator.

Yet, amidst the billowing smoke and raging flames, the massive Baroque dome of St. Paul's Cathedral miraculously remained standing. Like an unyielding black reef in a raging sea, it arrogantly mocked the Germans' incompetence.

In Kensington, a heartbreaking silence reigns amidst the ruins of a library with its roof completely torn off and the ground littered with rubble and tattered pages.

Sunlight pierced through the thick smoke and dust, shining like a spotlight on a stage onto the pile of rubble.

A little British girl, who looked no more than eight or nine years old and wore a floral dress, sat quietly on a pile of concrete rubble. Her dress was covered in black grime, but she paid no attention to it. She held a bloodstained children's book, which had just been dug out of the ruins, and was reading it intently in the sunlight filtering through the rubble.

Amidst the absolute violence and devastation, and the background noise of heavy high-explosive bombs, the little girl's tranquility creates a striking contrast. The inherent coldness and indomitable spirit of the British Empire are frozen in time on the film of history.

Hermann Göring thought that bombing London to the ground would force Great Britain to submit, but his brain, numbed by cigars and morphine, had no idea what kind of industrial monster he was letting go.

Exactly two weeks after London was plunged into hell, on September 15, 1940.

This is "British Air Day," destined to be recorded in aviation history.

As the massive German bomber formation crossed the Dover Strait once more, preparing for yet another routine massacre of London, an unusual low-frequency vibration suddenly emanated from the sky. It wasn't the whistling of falling bombs, but the terrifying roar of hundreds of Rolls-Royce Merlin V12 aircraft engines at full throttle, like a tsunami.

The Royal Air Force that Arthur Sterling had forcibly "bailed out" from the burning ruins, the 11th Group that had been in dire straits two weeks earlier, now revealed its ferocious fangs, fully reborn.

"All troops, attack! Target directly ahead, altitude 20,000 feet!"

Major General Keith Parker stood in the underground bunker of Axbridge, looking at the densely packed green wooden blocks representing his own fighter jets on the radar table, and excitedly crushed the pencil in his hand.

Having gained valuable rest time, the fighter command demonstrated terrifying resilience in just two weeks.

The runway, blasted into a huge crater, was filled in overnight with cement and steel plates: Sterling Heavy Industries' underground production line will house the brand-new flamethrower Mk.

Type 1 aircraft were continuously sent to the front lines: those pilots who were on the verge of collapse due to extreme fatigue finally got a few good nights of sleep without air raid sirens and returned to their peak condition.

No longer needing to worry about Spitfire and Hurricane fighters being blown up on the runway during takeoff, they can now take off in unprecedentedly dense formations.

Above them, at an even higher altitude, the 12th Wing Fighter Group, commanded by General Leslie Mallory and arriving from Dukesford Airfield in the north, formed a metal wall that instilled despair in the Germans. Sixty fighter planes, with the blinding sunlight shining directly at their backs, carrying energy accumulated to its limit, slammed straight into the belly of the German bomber formation like a giant hammer.

This was the climax of the Battle of Britain.

In seconds, the azure sky transformed into a three-dimensional meat grinder. Tens of thousands of .303 caliber armor-piercing incendiary shells intertwined into an impenetrable net of fire. This time, the British pilots were no longer worried about running out of fuel; their fuel tanks were full, and their machine gun ammunition belts dragged on the ground.

"Die, you Germans! This is for East London!"

A Polish pilot roared as he locked onto the tail of a He-111, and eight Browning machine guns, in a short burst of three seconds, sawed off the left wing of the German bomber with a storm of metal.

One after another, enormous fireballs bloomed in the sky. It was the magnificent sight of German bombers, laden with high-explosive bombs, being blown up in mid-air.

Broken aluminum alloy beams and flaming engine debris rained down on the Channel. Hundreds of white parachutes bloomed across the skies over Kent and London—the parachutes of the German crew forced to evacuate.

Between these white flowers are plumes of black smoke trails left by crashing fighter jets, marking the canvas with the signature of death.

The British Air Force, having achieved full strength through the most ruthless substitution tactics, completely recaptured the skies above the ruins.

Air superiority.

While the meat grinder in the sky was running wildly, the smoke of battle on the ground in London had not yet dissipated.

On the edge of a bombed-out block in the City of London, Arthur, wearing a nearly dust-free dark gray cashmere coat, walked with Colonel Ryder through the rubble-strewn streets like a king surveying his domain.

He didn't need to panic like the ordinary people.

The extremely expensive precision lathes, drilling equipment, and hydraulic presses belonging to Stirling Heavy Industries had all been moved to air-raid shelters dozens of meters underground in London, converted from abandoned subway networks, forty-eight hours before the first incendiary bomb was dropped.

At this moment, in the abyss beneath their feet, the machines were running at full speed, accompanied by a dull roar.

Arthur, standing on these ruins, is simply playing the role of the eternal "beacon" of the British Empire.

Political propaganda had to be done thoroughly—which was exactly what Churchill wanted to see.

Dozens of heavy engineering bulldozers and armored recovery vehicles bearing the Sterling Heavy Industries logo were roaring furiously through the muddy, cratered streets. They weren't fleeing; they were forcefully leveling the burning ruins, clearing surface supply lines, and even distributing supplies from underground bunkers to desperate civilians.

Arthur was using this absolute composure to demonstrate to the panicked lower-class citizens and cabinet politicians the unshakeable dominance of capital and steel in the midst of war.

Just as the air raid siren sounded its all-clear signal, a convoy of armored vehicles, painted entirely in dark black and without any insignia, slowly came to a stop at the rubble-strewn street corner, escorted by a squad of fully armed Scotland Yard police.

The car door opened, and a 14-year-old girl, dressed in a slightly oversized khaki military uniform, stepped into the muddy ruins, surrounded by several attendants.

Princess Elizabeth.

The future Queen of the British Empire, representing the ailing King George VI and the entire Windsor family, is visiting the most dangerous ruins to comfort the victims and firefighters.

This was also the first time Arthur had met the first in line to the throne of the empire in reality since he traveled through time.

In the original owner's remaining memories, the old King George VI and the old Earl Stirling had discussed in private the possibility of bringing the two together in a very serious manner.

After all, the Sterling family controls more than half of the empire's heavy industry, and a marriage alliance with the royal family would be the most solid foundation for stabilizing the empire's rule.

As Arthur forged a fearsome reputation in the French meat grinder, crushing the Germans with steel and tracks, the ailing old king in Buckingham Palace became even more eager to push this marriage bargaining chip back to the Earl of Stirling.

Before this, the old Earl had specifically spoken to Arthur about this matter, taking a firm and clear stance: Arthur could go to war or refuse the marriage proposal from the House of Windsor, but he must leave an heir.

Before the young Elizabeth's time, the name Arthur Sterling simply represented an arrogant playboy who frequented Parisian social circles and indulged in philandering.

The young woman felt an instinctive aversion to this politically calculated marriage.

However, at this moment, as the 14-year-old girl stood on the devastated ruins, looking at the man not far away who was leaning on a silver-tipped cane and whose eyes were as cold as an abyss, the disgust in her eyes had long since disappeared. In its place was extreme shock, curiosity, and deep respect.

She knew what this man had done.

This capitalist in the three-piece suit not only saved the empire's skies by integrating the nation's near-collapsed air defense radar network, but also, during the darkest moment of France's complete defeat, he single-handedly brought back the British Empire's most precious spark—the 51st Highland Division and the Coldstream Guards—entirely from the German armored meat grinder to the homeland.

He used radar and tracks to simultaneously save both the airspace and the backbone of the army of Great Britain.

Moreover, having been tempered by the flames and bloodshed of the French war, the man before me has long since shed the frivolity of his former playboy days.

Today, Arthur exudes a deadly mature charm in every gesture. In the luxurious underground bunkers of London's West End, countless high-society ladies are secretly infatuated with him, dreaming of climbing into the bed of this "Young Master Sterling" and spending the night with him.

Power and victory are always the ultimate aphrodisiac for the imperial class, even for this 14-year-old who has been raised with...

The girl, who was kept under strict protection in the royal greenhouse, couldn't help but be drawn to the calm and dangerous aura of this apex predator when she faced it. Her eyes, which were originally filled with doubt and scrutiny, couldn't help but show a hint of deep attraction.

Amidst the rubble and the acrid smell of burning debris, the future queen made a move that sent chills down the spines of all her entourage of protocol officers.

Ignoring the muddy ground, Elizabeth pushed aside the guards who tried to help her and walked to Arthur.

Instead of extending her hand in a handshake, she bent her knees very solemnly and deeply, slightly lifting her skirt with both hands, and performed a standard curtsy to the nobleman before her, representing the highest gratitude and respect of the royal family.

"Thank you, Lord Sterling." Elizabeth's voice, though still youthful and clear, carried a maturity beyond her years. "On behalf of my father, on behalf of the Royal Family, and on behalf of the people of Britain in these ruins, thank you for everything you have done for the Empire."

Arthur's eyes showed no sign of being flattered.

He effortlessly abandoned his usual arrogance towards cabinet politicians, removed his black felt hat from his head with his right hand, leaned forward with his cane in his left, and returned a perfectly standard and impeccable aristocratic hat-tipping salute.

"It is the Sterling family's duty, Your Highness." Arthur's voice was calm and cold, devoid of any emotional fluctuation. "I am now the CEO of Sterling Heavy Industries, and my sole responsibility is to ensure that no bombs fall from the sky above my factory to disrupt the lathes. As for gratitude, you should reserve that for the heroic pilots who sacrificed their lives in the air."

The political distance was perfectly maintained, and business was conducted strictly in an official manner, leaving no loopholes for the outside world.

Amidst the blinding white light of the accompanying reporters' flashes, both sides maintained this extremely delicate balance, neither making any overstepping moves.

A few minutes later, the visit ended, and Elizabeth prepared to return to the bulletproof Rolls-Royce. Just before getting in, with one foot already on the running board, she suddenly paused.

The future empress turned her head and, through the gap in the car window, stared intently at Arthur with her pure yet profound eyes. A slight upturn at the corners of her lips, tinged with playfulness and probing, she whispered in a voice only the two of them could hear: "Lord Sterling, you are even more enigmatic than the politicians on Downing Street are rumored to be."

"We hope that during a lull in the war, you can find some time to visit Windsor Castle. My father and I are very eager to hear firsthand how you brought our soldiers home from the brink of defeat in France, and how you forged a new shield for the British Empire. I think the real battlefield is far more profound than any history lesson taught by a court tutor."

With a low hum of engines, the black royal convoy rolled over the rubble and disappeared into the dust.

Arthur put his felt hat back on, looked in the direction the caravan had gone, and smiled.

"Ryder." Arthur didn't turn around, but directly gave the order to Ryder behind him.

"Yes, sir." Ryder stepped forward, gripping his submachine gun tightly.

"Instruct the underground arsenal to accelerate production. The royal tribute is merely a political lubricant; what truly stops the Germans..."

The only bullets we use are the armor plates produced on our assembly line.

As dusk fell, the air raid sirens were completely lifted. The London sky was dyed a blood-red hue by the setting sun.

Arthur stood on the extremely narrow stone balustrade beside the dome of St. Paul's Cathedral. A fierce wind whipped his dark grey cashmere coat, and below him stretched the vast city of London, still billowing black smoke. This was the highest point in the city, his perfect vantage point to overlook this grand, deadly game.

Two people stood behind him.

Jeanne, with her blonde hair, walked over to him through the rubble and debris, handing him a top-secret document that had just been deciphered by Bletchley Park: "Arthur. Newly intercepted top-secret intelligence. Supplement to Führer's Directive No. 21: The Little Mustache has officially issued the order: Due to the failure to seize air superiority over the English Channel, 'Operation Sea Lion' is indefinitely postponed. The Germans in the French ports have begun to disperse."

After the blood of the First and Second Air Fleets had been shed, the Germans finally surrendered under these skies.

On the other side, Colonel Ryder, like a black panther protecting its master, carried a Sterling submachine gun that had just been modified by the Sterling Armory, with an extended barrel and custom magazine. He watched with extreme coldness and vigilance every shadowy ruin around him that might be hiding danger.

He had heard David mention that there were still quite a few German spies in London. McTavish and that guy had been busy with them lately, but there were likely still some who had slipped through the net.

Upon hearing Jeanne's report, Arthur remained silent, showing no sign of relief; he simply closed his eyes indifferently.

On the retina, the RTS God's Sandbox, which ordinary people cannot see at all and which is currently covering all of Europe, is undergoing dramatic changes.

The massive red arrow formations that had been densely packed on the coasts of Calais and Boulogne in France, representing Germany's "Operation Sea Lion" landing across the sea, are now irreversibly dissipating and retreating, like stagnant water receding from the tide.

The survival crisis in Great Britain, after paying a heavy price of dozens of city blocks turning to ashes and countless civilians filling air-raid shelters with their own flesh and blood, can be basically declared over.

Night had completely fallen at Sterling Manor.

In the study of the manor, the fireplace was burning brightly. The old butler, Alfred, still dressed in his impeccable tailcoat, elegantly carried a sterling silver tray, handing Arthur a glass of Scotch whisky with ice and a Cuban cigar with its cap trimmed.

The occasional sounds of anti-aircraft gunfire and the vibrations of high-explosive shells that could still be heard from outside London sounded like a distant, somber symphony through the thick soundproof walls.

"Ring ring! The encrypted dedicated line on the desk in the study, which connects directly to the core plant of Sterling Heavy Industries, suddenly rang."

Arthur picked up the receiver.

On the other end of the phone came the extremely tired but excited voice of the production director: "Sir Sterling! The 11th Fighter Group's production line is operating at full capacity 24 hours a day, and we've replenished all the battle losses. But more importantly—the 'Meteor' medium tank project, codenamed 'A15,' which you personally approved as a top-secret project two months ago, has had its first batch of prototypes pass the final main gun recoil and off-road limit tests and has officially rolled off the production line!"

Arthur's eyes instantly turned serious, and he took the cigar out of his mouth.

"What is the production volume?"

"The first batch comprises 120 vehicles, Your Excellency. Not one more, not one less."

The production director rapidly reported the mechanical parameters that sent Arthur's adrenaline soaring over the phone: "Just as you designed, we've completely abandoned the military's weak gasoline engines. These 120 Meteor tanks have all been equipped with 600-horsepower Meteor V12 diesel engines, modified from our Merlin aircraft engines by removing the superchargers!"

"With our reverse-engineered and significantly improved Christie suspension system, this 27-ton steel monster can reach a terrifying speed of 60 kilometers per hour on the road! Its frontal armor reaches 76 millimeters, and its main gun has been replaced with a long-barreled 6-pounder (57 millimeters), enough to tear through the frontal armor of all the German Panzer III and IV tanks currently in service at a distance of one kilometer!"

Arthur closed his eyes, his mind conjuring up images of 120 steel monsters emitting deafening diesel engine roars. In an era when the British armored forces were still using light cruiser tanks with only two machine guns, or the snail-paced Matilda infantry tanks, the A15 Meteor, powered by an aircraft engine, was an industrial miracle of dimensional reduction.

"120 vehicles, just right."

Arthur muttered to himself, "Enough to fully arm a reinforced armored brigade. Listen, immediately get the flatcars on standby. Load all these experimental samples onto the trains and transport them to Southampton port, then onto the cargo ships bound for Alexandria!"

"Send them to Egypt?!" The production director gasped. "Boss, that's a desert! This batch of new tanks hasn't even undergone extensive high-temperature sandstorm protection testing yet—"

"That's why I'm sending them to North Africa!"

Arthur abruptly interrupted him, his gaze fixed on the map on the table: "Test data on paper is meaningless. I'm going to test this machine's limits with the Sahara's fifty-degree heat, its penetrating sand, and the Germans' deadliest armor-piercing rounds! Throw them into the most brutal desert meat grinder and see how many of these 120 prototypes survive!"

"At the same time, tell all the engineers: if the data and reliability transmitted back from these 120 Meteor Tanks in the desert meet my expectations, then have all the heavy tractor factories in Birmingham and Coventry switch production! Stop making those slow-moving agricultural machines!"

"We need to increase tank production to fifty tanks per day!"

"As for the War Department and Churchill, I will speak to them."

In terms of massive steel production, the British Empire absolutely cannot lose to the Germans, so it must learn from the Americans across the Channel and the Russians on the Eastern Front!

The phone hangs up.

Arthur stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling window, gazing at the deep starry sky to the south.

In the first round of the air defense battle, he won air superiority using the most ruthless civilian substitution method. Now, his cold eyes have completely crossed the turbulent English Channel, passed through the Mediterranean Sea, and are looking at that vast, boundless yellow desert that will soon be filled with treads and blood.

He raised his whiskey and downed the cold liquid in one gulp.

"The air defense war on our homeland is over."

Arthur's voice echoed in the empty study: "Time to go to the desert and hunt foxes."

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