The Twilight of Empire: Starting from Dunkirk

Chapter 175 The Gears of the Empire and the Hunters in the Sands (Final Chapter)

The skies over Britain finally returned to their gloomy calm amidst the October rains.

The German bomber formations that had blotted out the sky in the past few weeks were forced to retreat across the Channel after leaving behind wreckage and hundreds of prisoners of war.

The cost is high.

From the air, London's financial district, East Wharf, and Southwark resembled ulcers scalded by a giant, red-hot iron. Victorian red-brick buildings were reduced to dust, and thousands of civilians perished in the flames.

However, compared to history, the outcome was much better because of Arthur's early departure. And for this massive war machine known as the "Empire on which the sun never sets," as long as the gears of its heart are still turning, the festering of the outer skin is insignificant.

A thick layer of tar and wood ash, emitting a pungent odor, floated on the surface of the Thames. Dozens of scavenger barges were working day and night to salvage unexploded bombs and building debris from the riverbed. And beside these scavenger vessels were ocean-going freighters, some tens of thousands of tons, that had miraculously survived the Atlantic storms.

The British Empire's formidable global colonial heritage demonstrated extraordinary resilience when it suffered devastating blows on its homeland.

Jute and crude copper from India, high-grade aerospace aluminum and timber from Canada, canned beef and wool from Australia, and even gold from South Africa, all flow here like a continuous pump.

London, despite its ugly, charred scars, coldly maintains its dignity as the center of the world.

As long as capital and shipping routes remain, cannons can grow back from the ruins.

Heading south along the Thames, you'll find the Southampton naval port in southern England.

Here, there is no sorrow and ruins like in downtown London, only the deafening roar of heavy industry.

High concentrations of diesel fuel, rust-preventing paint, welding ozone, and salty sea breeze converge here.

"Hook number two! Raise the hook! Watch the counterweight!"

Accompanied by the dock foreman's hoarse roar and the scraping of the hinges of the giant steam crane, a 27-ton steel monster was slowly lifted off the concrete ground of the dock by thick steel cables.

That was an A15 "Meteor" medium tank that had just rolled off the Sterling Heavy Industries Birmingham underground assembly line. Instead of the traditional European grey-green paint, it was painted with an extremely glaring, matte "desert yellow" camouflage paint directly from the factory.

This was something Arthur specifically instructed him to do.

He himself was wearing a black double-breasted trench coat to protect against the sea wind, leaning on his silver lion-head cane, standing expressionlessly on the pier, coldly watching the industrial marvels being loaded into the bottomless hold of the ocean liner.

Behind him, the Imperial Chief of Staff, Sir Alan Brooke, tightened his collar and looked at the tanks with their sloped armor, long-barreled 6-pound cannons, and wide Christie suspensions, a glint of greed in his eyes.

"Lord Sterling, I must admit, those old fogies in the War Office who have always clung to the theory of separating cruiser tanks from infantry tanks have all shut their mouths after seeing the test data for these machines," Sir Alan Brooke exclaimed, trying to drown out the noise on the dock. "The 600-horsepower Meteor V12 diesel engine can propel this 27-ton monster to speeds exceeding 45 kilometers per hour on off-road terrain. Compared to those slow-moving Matildas, this is a group of heavily armored cavalry capable of charging on land!"

"The parameters on paper are all illusions, Sir." Arthur's voice was somewhat stiff in the cold wind. He showed no smugness. "The German 88mm anti-aircraft guns and the ever-present sandstorms are the only true tests of the quality of these tracks."

"If time allowed, I would much rather redesign a tank with better overall performance," Arthur said with some regret. "But unfortunately, for now we can only make do with the existing Cromwell chassis, which will make us much faster and is more technologically mature."

"They will have a chance to prove themselves." Sir Alan Brooke watched as the last A15 Meteor was hoisted into the ship's hold, a ruthless glint in his eyes. "Based on your suggestion, Prime Minister Churchill and the War Office have finally decided that these first batch of 120 extremely valuable new tanks will all be transported to Alexandria, Egypt. They will be directly incorporated into the British Empire's most elite 7th Armoured Division in North Africa."

The British also had their own 7th Armoured Division, the famous Desert Rats, Arthur thought to himself, narrowing his eyes slightly, while their opponents were the Desert Foxes.

"That's right. General Wavell and General O'Connor have had enough of those slow Matildas and the barely armored Crusaders in the desert. This batch of meteors will be the sharpest daggers for the British Army to pierce the Italians' bellies."

Arthur watched as the cargo ship slowly retracted its gangway, the heavy whistle echoing throughout the harbor. He exhaled a thick cigar ring, the smoke instantly torn apart by the sea breeze.

"Then let the desert's heat temper the British Empire's new armor."

As Sterling Heavy Industries' gears began to turn at full speed in the North African desert meat grinder, Washington, across the Atlantic, was immersed in an extremely shrewd political and business calculation.

The White House, the Oval Office.

The afternoon sun shone through the bulletproof glass and onto the carpet.

President Franklin D. Roosevelt sat in his specially made wheelchair, a long amber cigarette holder between his teeth. Dozens of top-secret assessment reports from the embassy in London, the Military Intelligence Service, and the Naval Intelligence Office were scattered on his desk.

The report's core conclusion is singular: Great Britain miraculously survived the relentless bombing by the German Luftwaffe.

Not only did they survive, but the Royal Air Force even managed to break Hermann Göring's prized talon amidst the ruins.

Operation Sea Lion was postponed indefinitely, and the Germans' attempt to cross the English Channel was completely thwarted.

Roosevelt took a deep drag on his cigarette, a shrewd smile appearing at the corners of his wrinkled eyes.

"Mr. President, Great Britain's shield has indeed held firm. Although, as a precaution, they have transferred a large portion of their domestic gold reserves to underground vaults in Canada, these reserves are still ultimately within the territory of the British Empire, and their confidence is not entirely secure."

It didn't disperse.

Secretary of State Cordell Hull stood to the side, holding the telegram, his tone tinged with anger and dissatisfaction: "Churchill's wording in the telegram is extremely harsh. He seems more like a bloodthirsty gangster on the front lines, demanding not only the immediate delivery of the weapons, aircraft, and medicine as agreed, but also intensifying his demands for more protection money."

"He's shrewd, Hull. But it's reasonable, because it's a bloodbath. If I were Churchill, I would have done the same. Besides, we had no choice; the main force of our fleet had to be wary of that island nation in Asia."

Roosevelt tapped the report on the table lightly with his splinted fingers, pondering for a moment: "Those isolationists on Capitol Hill previously thought Britain wouldn't survive the autumn, and that giving them weapons would be like throwing them into the sea. But now, Churchill has proven to us with the Battle of Britain that the British Empire, this 'shield of Europe,' is not only not broken, but is strong enough."

The president turned his wheelchair around, looking at the huge world map on the wall, his gaze fixed on the European continent.

"Since the shield is still there, and since Churchill is willing to continue taking bullets for us, we, the eagle hiding behind the shield, must pay this protection fee promptly. As long as the British are bleeding, the German war machine will be pinned down on the Western Front and constantly worn down. What we need to do is use the United States' assembly line to buy the lives of Great Britain and the Germans."

"I'll do everything in my power to circumvent the Neutrality Act. Besides those fifty old, crumbling destroyers, I'll unleash a deluge of high-altitude fighters, heavy artillery, and more ammunition into British ports! Even an entire aircraft engine production line!"

Roosevelt, expressionless, tapped the armrest of his wheelchair: "Of course I know Churchill doesn't care about our engines at all. But this is the attitude we must show them! We must forcibly bind the capital and production capacity of the United States to the war machine of the British Empire!"

"Open the floodgates of the arsenal of democracy completely, and set the gears of the war machine in full swing. Before we can truly warm up and deal with those short Japanese in the Pacific, we must use our assembly line to buy Great Britain's life, and let Churchill drag that mad dog, Little Mustache, into the quagmire of Europe!"

Driven by interests and strategy, Washington's industrial gears began to mesh with the British Empire at an alarmingly rapid pace.

Meanwhile, in the vast Pacific Ocean, Tokyo's headquarters were shrouded in continuous rain.

Unlike Washington's composed and strategic demeanor, the atmosphere in a secluded Japanese-style room deep within the Imperial Palace was somewhat oppressive.

Outside the window, autumn rain fell incessantly, pattering on the wooden corridor. Several army generals in khaki uniforms and navy admirals in navy blue uniforms sat upright on the tatami mats.

On the low table in front of them was a huge defense map of Southeast Asia and the Pacific.

For these island warlords who were extremely eager for resources, the war in Europe was a visual feast that stimulated their greedy nerves.

"France has already been defeated and surrendered. The Vichy government is nothing but a puppet of that little mustache in Berlin. And the British—" General Sugiyama, Chief of the Army General Staff, his eyes flashing with malice, jabbed his white-gloved fingers hard into the map, pointing towards France.

Indochina (Vietnam) and British Malaya, "the British Empire's homeland has been bombed into ruins, and the main force of the Royal Navy is tied down in the Atlantic and the Mediterranean! Southeast Asia, that rich land flowing with rubber and oil, is now like a vault with its doors smashed open, completely unguarded!"

"The Empire must seize this once-in-a-lifetime historical opportunity and fully implement the 'Southward Expansion' strategy! Once we capture the strategic resources of Southeast Asia, we can completely revitalize ourselves from the quagmire of the Eastern battlefield!"

Listening to the army's raucous barking, the naval commanders, though equally eager, revealed a deeply hidden, ingrained fear of the industrial power of the Western powers in their eyes.

"Don't be reckless! You bunch of army idiots always think that cross-sea warfare is as simple as drawing a samurai sword." Admiral Osami Nagano, Chief of the Naval General Staff, coldly interrupted the army idiots' fantasies. "Although the British mainland has suffered heavy losses, in the Far East, the Royal Navy's Far East Fleet still has its foundation, and the fortress of Singapore remains strong."

At this moment, Admiral Isoroku Yamamoto, the Commander-in-Chief of the Combined Fleet, who had been kneeling at the end of the long table in silence, slowly raised his head.

Compared to the army's blind fanaticism, this general, who had served as a military attaché to the United States, saw a clear-headed yet desperate look in his eyes: "Compared to a declining Britain, you bunch of idiots who only know how to charge into the mud, don't you see the American Pacific Fleet anchored at Pearl Harbor, Hawaii, with its eyes fixed on our throats?" Yamamoto's voice wasn't loud, but it carried a suffocating sense of oppression. "You only have eyes for Malayan rubber, but you don't understand what the Detroit assembly lines and Pittsburgh steel furnaces mean. If we anger the US and Britain too early, the industrial cogs of Washington and London could turn our combined fleet into a pile of scrap metal within a year!"

The air in the conference room instantly dropped to freezing point.

Greed and cowardice, two extremely contradictory emotions, were battling fiercely in the minds of these top Japanese decision-makers. They were like a pack of hungry hyenas, drooling over a piece of fat meat in the distance, yet extremely afraid of prematurely provoking the awakening industrial behemoth of Washington, and the old lion of Great Britain, which, even wounded, could still tear their throats apart.

Finally, after a long period of silence, Prime Minister Fumimaro Konoe offered a relatively opportunistic compromise.

"The Empire's current resources are indeed not yet ready for a full-scale war with Britain and the United States simultaneously," Konoe Fumimaro solemnly announced the decision. "However, we can gradually bare our fangs based on the development of the war in Europe. We can first conduct a symbolic test of force—under the pretext of cutting off the supply lines to the eastern battlefield in China—and send troops to northern French Indochina to test the bottom line of Britain, the United States, and France."

The hyenas began to test the waters, but this small action had already quietly turned the countdown clock to the Pacific War.

Europe, England, the underground bunker at 10 Downing Street, London.

The thick smoke from cigars swirled beneath the low ceiling. Winston Churchill paced back and forth around the conference table like a raging bull.

With the pressure on homeland air defenses greatly reduced, the Prime Minister of the British Empire eagerly turned his highly aggressive gaze toward the Mediterranean and North Africa.

"The civilians on our homeland have bled to death, and the lads of the Royal Air Force have fought to the last drop of their strength, finally holding off Göring's bombing!" Churchill whirled around, slammed his hand on the North African battle map, and roared at the communications officer, "Now, it's the Middle East's turn to shine! Send an encrypted telegram to General Archibald Wavell immediately!"

Churchill, cigar in hand, desperately needed a land victory to boost national morale: "Tell Wavell that I don't want to hear his complaints about long supply lines or harsh desert conditions! Launch a full-scale attack on the Italian forces in Libya immediately! I want him to crush Mussolini's flamboyant face into the sands of Egypt!"

Radio waves crossed the Mediterranean, carrying the Prime Minister's anger to the Middle East Command in Cairo, Egypt.

Outside the window, suffocating yellow sand and scorching heat filled the air. Inside the heavy concrete command post, the ceiling fan creaked monotonously, struggling to stir the stuffy air.

General Archibald Wavell, a commander with pure British aristocratic lineage and traditional army training, stood before a huge sand table, his brow furrowed.

He held Churchill's strongly worded telegram in his hand and sighed helplessly.

This is the third urgent telegram from the Prime Minister since Italy declared war, and it seems Churchill is eager to teach these opportunists a lesson.

"His Excellency the Prime Minister always thinks that war is as simple as knocking down a few blocks on a map." Wavell threw the telegram on the table and looked at Lieutenant General Richard O'Connor, the commander of the Western Desert Forces beside him.

On the sand table, the positions of both sides presented an extremely strange state of stillness.

Originally, in September, Marshal Rudolf Graziani's 200,000-strong Italian 10th Army had aggressively crossed the Libyan border and invaded Egypt. However, after advancing less than 100 kilometers eastward, reaching Sidi Barrani, this massive Roman legion, like a worn-out toy that had suddenly run out of wind, mysteriously halted.

It stalled.

Wavell knew very well why the Italians weren't leaving.

"Graziani is now like a toothless, fatheaded fish," General O'Connor sneered, pointing to the Mediterranean shipping lanes on the map. "Thanks to the Mediterranean Fleet and Lord Cunningham's 'Taranto' massacre in the Mediterranean, the Italian home fleet was destroyed by more than half. Without the cover of control of the Mediterranean, the Italian sea supply lines have been sliced ​​to pieces by our Royal Navy like sausages."

"Two hundred thousand people are stationed in the desert, but they don't have enough fresh water, gasoline, and ammunition. Their current offensive capability is even less than that of a herd of camels searching for water in the desert."

A hint of arrogance and disdain flashed in General Wavell's eyes.

He was seething with rage at the Italian army that only knew how to build fortifications and even cook pasta in the trenches.

Since the outbreak of the war, the British Empire has been constantly suppressed and beaten by the Germans. Now, it has finally found an easy target to trample on.

"O'Connor." Wavell turned, his deep gaze meeting the armored commander's. "The Prime Minister needs a victory, and we need a massacre to vent our frustrations. How's your 'Operation Compass' coming along?"

"At a single command, fifty thousand British Commonwealth lads can tear their lines apart," O'Connor replied confidently. "We have Matilda infantry tanks manufactured by the Vulcan Foundry. Although our lads..."

They always complained that they were as slow as turtles, but against the Italians' L3 ultralight tanks, which were practically cardboard, the Matilda was an invincible mobile fortress. Their anti-tank guns barely scratched the Matilda's frontal armor.

"Very good. But I have even better news for you."

Wavell walked to the table, picked up a top-secret shipping manifest from London, and handed it to O'Connor.

"The first batch of 120 A15 Meteor medium tanks, developed by Stirling Heavy Industries, has begun loading onto ships and is expected to arrive in Alexandria in about two weeks. These are war monsters powered by aircraft engines. With them, your armored forces will not only be able to crush the Italians, but also cut off their retreat at incredible speed."

O'Connor's eyes lit up instantly, but he immediately thought of some other rumors that had recently come from MI6.

"General, intelligence reports that, to prevent Mussolini's complete collapse in North Africa, Little Mustache seems to be dispatching an armored intervention force to cross the Mediterranean and reinforce Libya. The commander is said to be the one who rose to fame during the French campaign—"

"You mean Erwin Rommel?" Wavell waved his hand dismissively, interrupting O'Connor's worries. "Nothing to fear. The Germans are tied up too much in the Atlantic and the English Channel. Even if they send someone, it would be nothing more than a symbolic force to put on a show. What can one or two light divisions do in the vast desert?"

Wavell walked to the window, looked at the blinding sun outside, and gave his final order: "Forget about the Germans. Your mission is to use your tanks to crush those two hundred thousand Italians into ashes in the desert. Get ready, the counter-offensive is about to begin."

At this moment, General Wavell had no idea how terrifying his opponent would be, and his arrogance based on traditional military logic was about to collide head-on with a speeding train from hell.

Across the shimmering yet deadly Mediterranean Sea, on the other side of the North African continent, in Libya, lies the port of Tripoli.

1940 10 Month 24 Day.

Because of the violent flapping caused by Arthur Sterling, this mechanical butterfly, the course of history has been cruelly derailed.

The early losses of the Italian fleet quickly paralyzed Graziani's offensive, forcing the "Deutsches Legion" (Afrika Korps), originally planned for formation the following spring, to prevent a complete collapse of the southern flank.

The Afrikakorps were brought forward to late autumn 40 years ago.

Codenamed "Operation Sunflower" (Unternehmen Sonnenblume), it quietly blossomed at the end of this extremely hot October.

Under the blazing sun of Tripoli Port, temperatures soaring to 40 degrees Celsius caused the air on the docks to become severely distorted. A massive German naval transport ship had just barely evaded the Royal Navy's submarine patrol network and docked at the pier.

"Clang!"

The heavy steel plank slammed onto the concrete dock, kicking up a cloud of dust.

Immediately following, accompanied by the extremely ferocious and oppressive roar of the Maybach V12 gasoline engine, one after another, German Panzer III tanks painted in brand-new desert yellow camouflage rolled off the transport ship, their tracks crushing the ramps, like wild beasts released from their cages.

On the flank of the tank formation, a command-type Sd.Kfz.250 half-track armored vehicle came to a steady stop at the edge of the dock with a screeching sound of brakes.

The car door opened, and a German general, dressed in his signature khaki dustproof windbreaker, with an expensive Leica camera hanging around his neck and a pair of British military goggles casually tucked into the brim of his military cap, nimbly jumped out of the armored vehicle.

His feet touched the scorching sand, and he took a deep breath of the dry air, which smelled strongly of the sea and engine oil.

Erwin Rommel.

This armored tactical genius, who commanded the 7th Armored Division in the Battle of France and almost single-handedly tore through the French defenses, was now coldly scanning the chaotic port with his sharp blue eyes.

On the other side of the dock, a large number of Italian soldiers, dressed in tattered uniforms, slumped in the shadows like beggars, their morale low. Seeing the arrival of the German Allies, their eyes held no excitement, only a numb, deathly stillness.

Rommel looked at these "allies," his eyes flashing with undisguised contempt. But his sharp mind was rapidly analyzing the situation before him.

"General, the situation with the Italians is worse than we thought." Rommel's chief of staff strode in with a frontline report. "Graziani's 200,000-strong army is stalled at Sidi Barani. The good news is that, by sheer luck, they managed to hold onto a key supply depot at El Agheila, thanks to their swift retreat."

The bad news was that Wavell's British troops were assembling and could launch a counterattack at any moment.

"No, this is not bad news."

Rommel's lips curled into a dangerously cold smile, the look of a hunter seeing his prey slip up: "The Italians may be useless, but their presence on the front lines serves as a huge human shield. If Wavell's British army wants to swallow these 200,000 men, their supply lines will have to be stretched drastically from the heart of Egypt."

This gave him an opportunity.

Rommel walked to a military map spread out on the hood of a car, his gloved fingers tracing a sharp arc across it: "In the desert, an overly long supply line is a noose! Wavell thinks he's hunting Italians, but he has no idea that in the desert without strong defenses, mobility is the only truth!"

He turned to look at the troops behind him.

Accompanying him to the front were only the pitiful 5th Light Division and a reinforced 5th Armored Regiment. The entire army had only a little over 130 tanks, half of which were poorly armed Panzer II light tanks.

Against a British army of 50,000 men and heavy infantry tanks, this small force was practically sending itself to its death.

But there was no trace of frustration or fear in Rommel's eyes.

"Does the intelligence service have the latest configuration of the British armored forces?" Rommel turned to his adjutant.

The adjutant immediately handed over a high-resolution photo archive taken by a high-altitude reconnaissance aircraft, along with analysis by the Berlin Military Intelligence Bureau.

Rommel opened the file, his gaze instantly locking onto the first photograph. It was of a vehicle with extremely thick cast armor...

The Matilda model tank, shaped like a large tortoise, was produced by the British Vulcan Foundry.

"Sixty millimeters of frontal armor, our 37mm knockout gun (PaK36 anti-tank gun) can't handle it," Rommel coldly remarked, then turned to the second photo.

When he saw the second photograph, Rommel's previously composed gaze suddenly sharpened, and his pupils contracted sharply.

The photo is extremely blurry, clearly taken by intelligence agents at a distance in Southampton harbor. It shows a new tank with an extremely low profile, large-diameter road wheels, Christie suspension, and a turret with lines that exude a brutal industrial aesthetic.

At the edge of the photo, intelligence analysts heavily highlighted a line of text in red pen:

[Target codename: A15 Meteor, Manufacturer: Stirling Heavy Industries, Estimated quantity: 120+]

Sterling! Arthur! AS!

Rommel stared intently at the word "Stirling," his breathing becoming slightly rapid. A gust of scorching desert wind swept by, ruffling his dust coat, but it couldn't dispel the bloody memories of the events of months past that suddenly surged into his mind.

Sterling————

Rommel's hoarse, magnetic voice murmured softly on the empty dock. It wasn't a curse against the enemy, but a boiling, purely fatalistic fighting spirit.

"You persistent, illicit liar!"

Rommel slammed the intelligence file shut and tossed it onto the hood of the engine. He turned to face the Afrika Korps soldiers who were gathering, drew his Luger P08 pistol from his waist, and pointed it at the boundless yellow sands to the east.

"Soldiers! Those bureaucrats in Berlin, dressed in their crisp uniforms, think we're here just to clean up the messes for the Italians! But they're wrong!"

Rommel's roar echoed through the harbor amidst the din of the Maybach's engines: "The British supply lines are stretched to their limit, and we've only just reached the edge of hell! I missed the most dangerous enemy on the plains of France, but in my desert, in this hunting ground without rules or cover, I will personally crush his steel with armor-piercing shells!"

"No need to wait for reinforcements! No need to build defensive positions! Fill all the fuel tanks!" Rommel swung his pistol down sharply. "Target: Suez Canal. All troops, advance eastward!"

With Rommel's order to attack, the film of history was torn apart at that moment.

On the left side of the picture is London, cold and drizzling with winter rain.

Deep underground at the Sterling Armory, Arthur Sterling stood beside the massive A15 Meteor tank assembly line. His dark gray three-piece suit allowed him to blend perfectly into the shadows of heavy industry.

The overhead spotlights flickered, casting a cold reflection on his young, handsome face, which resembled a marble sculpture. He showed no emotion, his eyes as deep and unfathomable as black holes, coldly watching the tracks engage.

He was like a god sitting on a cloud, viewing the entire world as an RTS chessboard, coldly calculating the data of every death.

On the right side of the image is the scorching, wind-swept North African desert.

Erwin Rommel stood amidst the swirling yellow sand as one German Panzer III tank after another sped past him, kicking up clouds of dust.

His goggles rattled loudly in the wind and sand, and his trench coat billowed wildly in the gale. His blue eyes burned with the madness, cunning, and extreme aggression unique to tactical genius, like a desert fox that had finally broken free of its shackles and was about to begin a bloody hunt.

The cold rain and the scorching yellow sand.

At that moment, across the Mediterranean Sea, three thousand kilometers away, Arthur's cold, detached mutterings and Rommel's command vehicle's furious engine roar overlapped eerily under the vast expanse of history.

"The second round has begun."