The Twilight of Empire: Starting from Dunkirk

Chapter 178 Deep Sea Hunt (Happy Lantern Festival, please follow!)

November 2, 1940, 03:15 AM, 11 nautical miles east of the Strait of Gibraltar, in the western Mediterranean Sea.

The storm had been raging for a full four hours.

Since departing from Southampton on October 28, this massive escort fleet has been tossed about in the turbulent waters of the Bay of Biscay for four days and four nights, finally passing through the Strait of Gibraltar, controlled by the Royal Navy, yesterday evening.

But the Mediterranean did not greet them with calm.

The fierce winds, mixed with the icy, biting seawater, scraped against the steel bridge of the outer escort destroyers like sandpaper. Giant waves, five meters high, crashed against the bow like a tidal wave, tossing the two-thousand-ton destroyers high into the air before slamming them heavily into the troughs.

With each impact, the destroyer's keel emitted a creaking, metallic scraping sound.

However, this apocalyptic turbulence only affected the smaller warships on the periphery.

The four 10,000-ton ocean-going transport ships in the center of the formation, along with two Dunkerque-class battleships with a full-load displacement of over 30,000 tons, remained as steady as mountains in the storm. Their massive hulls and deep waterlines allowed them to brutally crush the crashing waves.

Inside the warm, bright lower decks of the battleship HMS Dunkerque, several Free French sailors leaned against the heavy, bulletproof windows, sipping hot coffee. They gazed at the distant waves, surging and crashing against the shore, like fish in distress.

Ye, a pitiful destroyer comrade, shook his head sympathetically.

Then they turned around, leisurely sat back down at the oak table, tossed their cards onto the table, and continued their unfinished game amidst laughter.

Meanwhile, the four ocean-going transport ships in the center of the formation, each with a full load displacement of over 10,000 tons, maintained a relatively safe waterline because Arthur insisted on transporting them at a less than full load.

The bottomless hold of the transport ship was filled with a strong smell of diesel fuel and engine oil fumes. Fifteen A15 "Meteor" medium tanks, painted in desert yellow, were firmly secured to the deck by extremely thick steel chains.

Even with the ship tilting at an angle of more than 15 degrees, these 28-ton steel behemoths remained completely still.

On the periphery, six Free French Fantastical-class destroyers and two Dunkerque-class battleships formed a tight anti-submarine formation. The massive battleship main gun barrels, like spears pointing straight to the sky in the wind and rain, firmly protected the transport convoy in the center.

The battleship "Dunkirk", armored command tower.

The special steel armor, over two hundred millimeters thick, blocked out most of the roar of the wind and waves. Dense rain pounded against the thick bulletproof glass, and the huge windshield wipers swung steadily, clearing the vision blurred by the curtain of water.

Admiral Jean Sull stood before the chart table, hands clasped behind his back, like a statue. This veteran Frenchman, who had once blasted German armored troops to pieces with the main guns of his battleship on the beaches of Calais, now had his jaw clenched so tightly that the muscles at the base of his jaw bulged out.

"All fleet, heading 115! Maintain speed of 15 knots!" Suer's voice echoed in the spacious command tower.

"Heading 115, speed 15 knots, confirmed!" the first mate shouted, steadily gripping the heavy helm.

Just then, a piercing buzzing sound came from the radio communication pipes behind the command tower. Immediately afterward, the communications officer grabbed the microphone and shouted to his superior: "Sir! The destroyer USS Vicious, which is escorting the outer convoy, has issued a maximum-level contact alert! Their sonar has detected an underwater target!"

November 2, 1940, 03:18 AM, Free French destroyer HMS Vicious, lower deck sonar room.

The narrow sonar room was completely dark, with only the faint green glow of the instrument panel flickering.

The sonar chief removed his sweat-soaked headphones and stared intently at the cathode ray tube display screen in front of him. This device was different from the old-fashioned passive hydrophones that were standard issue for the Royal Navy. It was a new type of active sonar system that Arthur Sterling had forcibly modified on HMS Malicious and HMS Triumph using Sterling Heavy Industries' production capacity.

"Tick-tock".

The extremely crisp pulse echoed through the cramped compartment. Unlike the passive listening method of the past, which required operators to painstakingly distinguish the sound of submarine propellers amidst countless ocean noises, the active high-frequency sound waves emitted by this new equipment struck the metal hull, and the returned signals were so clear that they made the sonar operator's scalp tingle.

On the green scan line of the display screen, three extremely bright spots are arranged in a fan shape and slowly move towards the center of the screen.

"Direction finding! 45 degrees to port! Distance 3,500 yards! Depth 60 meters!" The sonar commander grabbed the microphone, his voice tense and excited. "Sir! Three clear underwater metallic echoes detected! Acoustic signature matching confirmed, it's an Italian Royal Navy Marcelo-class submarine! They're cutting ahead of our course, trying to seize torpedo launch positions!"

Meanwhile, at a depth of 60 meters, the Italian Royal Navy submarine "Marcelo" was...

The boat was filled with a murky smell of sweat, diesel fuel, and unwashed wool uniforms.

The submarine's captain, Lieutenant Carlo Facini, pressed his eyes tightly against the rubber eyepiece of the periscope, even though he could see nothing at this depth. He relied on passive acoustic data transmitted by the sonar operators.

"The British propellers are making a tremendous noise, sir. There are at least four large transport ships, and the turbines of large warships are also making noise," the sonar soldier reported in a low voice.

A ruthless glint appeared in Fassini's eyes.

After the Battle of Taranto, the Italian Royal Navy lost most of its large surface warships, and the British arrogantly claimed that the Mediterranean had become the inland lake of the British Empire.

But these arrogant British didn't understand that Italy's submarine force remained intact and unscathed.

They were forced to abandon their pride in surface fleet battles and learn from the Germans their clandestine underwater wolf pack hunting tactics.

If given a choice, Rome would certainly prefer to send the battleship "Veneto" directly to blast the escort fleet head-on with its 15-inch main guns. But unfortunately, that giant ship, representing the highest level of Italian naval power, had just been pulled out of the mud in the harbor of Taranto in a very disheveled state a few days ago.

Based on the extent of the damage, it is unlikely to be operational for the next one to two years.

Now, we can only rely on these deep-sea wolves to tear apart the arrogance of the British.

This British convoy, clearly en route to North Africa to provide reinforcements, dared to brazenly and forcibly pass through their patrol area in sea state 6, which was nothing short of an open provocation against the Italian Royal Navy.

"These foolish British think the storm will cover them." Fassini glanced at the depth gauge. "Open the outer covers of torpedo tubes one through four. Fill with water for balancing. Set depth to five meters. Heading 040, prepare for a fan-shaped salvo. Signal the 'Dandolo' and 'Mossenig' behind us, we're closing in."

A muffled gurgling sound came from inside the torpedo compartment as seawater rushed into the launch tubes.

Just as Fassini was about to give the launch order.

"A crisp, penetrating metallic clang pierced through the thick pressure hull without warning, exploding throughout the submarine's interior."

All the Italian sailors froze at the same time.

"Clang! Two seconds later, a second knocking sound came again."

This time the sound was louder and clearer, as if an invisible giant hammer was striking their skulls directly.

The sonar operator ripped off his headset in terror, pointed to the top of the cabin, and shouted, "Active sonar! Sir! They've spotted us! This is impossible! At this distance and in these sea conditions, how could the British's lousy equipment possibly lock onto us!"

Fasini's arrogance vanished instantly, replaced by extreme panic. He had been basking in his own ambush skills, never imagining that he had been completely transparent to his opponent.

"Emergency dive! Depth 100 meters! Hard to starboard! Shut down all non-essential machinery!" Fassini roared hoarsely.

The submarine tilted sharply downwards, and the sailors inside, losing their balance, rolled around like bowling balls in the narrow passageway.

The wrench and coffee cup slammed against the metal deck with a deadly clatter.

03:21, Free French destroyer HMS Vicious, bridge.

The captain stared at the three red crosses that were quickly marked on the chart table.

Italian.

His eyes revealed a murderous intent that seemed to want to devour all the Axis warships alive.

"Signal the flagship Dunkirk! Anti-submarine maneuver! HMS Malicious and HMS Triumph break formation!" The captain slammed his hand on the brass communication tube. "Full starboard! Speed ​​up to 28 knots! Engage them!"

"Full right rudder! Both cars to four!" The first mate frantically cranked the engine telegraph machine.

Inside the boiler room on the lower level of the "Vicious" ship, the engine room crew frantically spun the massive brass handwheels, pushing the heavy oil booster pump to its limit.

Preheated, viscous fuel is forced into the fuel injector under high pressure, turning into an extremely fine mist, which then burns.

A deafening explosion erupted inside. The pressure gauge on the main steam pipe spiked instantly, and the steam turbine roared deafeningly.

The high-speed French destroyer drew an extremely violent white arc on the sea surface, braving the oncoming giant waves, like a sword drawn from its sheath, piercing straight into the lurking waters of the Italian submarine.

Inside the sonar room, the "beep-tap" sound coming from the headphones became increasingly rapid.

On the screen, those few eerie green dots were frantically changing course.

"Distance 2000 yards! Target depth decreased to 80 meters!"

"1500 yards!"

"One thousand yards! Sir, the enemy submarines are increasing their speed; they're scattering and fleeing!"

The captain stared intently at the sea ahead, where a storm raged outside the bridge and thunder roared.

"Sound the battle alarm!" the captain shouted sternly.

A piercing alarm instantly resounded throughout the entire destroyer. Sailors braved the raging winds and towering waves to rush onto the stern deck, removing the safety pins securing the depth charge rails one by one. The K-type depth charge launchers on the broadside were also quickly loaded, their robust launch rods pointing straight into the dark night sky.

"500 yards! We're over them! Sonar has lost target!"

When a destroyer sails directly over a submarine, it enters the sonar's detection blind spot. These are the most deadly and critical few seconds in anti-submarine warfare. The lead time is calculated entirely based on data from just before the sonar disappears, relying on the commander's tactical intuition for blind deployment.

The captain took out his pocket watch, pressed his thumb on the chronograph button, and stared intently at the ticking second hand.

The waves crashed against the hull of the ship.

"three!"

"two!"

"—!"

The captain abruptly looked up and roared in pure French, "Blow those spaghetti-eating underwater rats to smithereens! Drop them!"

"Launch!" the first mate shouted hoarsely, pressing the launch button hard.

The stern rails unlocked instantly.

A dozen or so cylindrical MkVII depth charges, each weighing 300 pounds, rolled into the sea along the inclined track like dumplings being dropped into a pot. Immediately afterward, with two muffled bangs, the K-type guns on the broadside launched another four depth charges onto the sea surface dozens of meters away from the hull, forming an extremely dense diamond-shaped array of explosions.

Fixed depth: alternating between 80 meters and 100 meters.

The bomb entered the water and sank rapidly.

Five seconds. Ten seconds.

The sea surface was turbulent, but on the surface it seemed as if nothing had happened.

Then, an eruption occurred on the seabed.

No sound emerged from the water, only an extremely terrifying shockwave emanating from the deep sea. Immediately afterward, everyone on the bridge felt the deck beneath their feet suddenly bounce upward, as if the warship had been violently rammed against the keel by a giant deep-sea monster.

A huge water bubble suddenly rose from the sea surface.

The next second, the water bag shattered with a loud crash.

Hundreds of tons of seawater, mixed with white foam, were propelled into the air by an extremely violent force, forming several towering columns of water tens of meters high. Only then did the muffled, continuous roar travel through the water into the air, like a muffled...

It exploded like thunder in everyone's chest.

03:25, 90 meters underwater.

The pressure hull of the Italian submarine "Marcelo" was destroyed in the instant of the explosion.

Depth charges do not need to hit directly.

The shockwave generated by an explosion in water propagates through an incompressible liquid, possessing extremely terrifying destructive power.

The pressure of thousands of tons of seawater, combined with the rapid expansion of the explosives, slammed violently into the submarine's hull.

The Italian sailors inside the cabin didn't even have time to scream. The steel keel emitted a piercing, twisting shriek as hundreds of rivets, under extreme pressure, shot into the cabin like bullets, instantly piercing through human bodies and high-pressure pipes.

Immediately afterwards, the pressure hull suffered a catastrophic inward fracture in the middle.

Frigid seawater flooded into the cabin. The electric arc caused by the short circuit in the high-voltage cable was instantly swallowed by the seawater. The oxygen cylinder ruptured, and the high-pressure airflow and the surging seawater violently clashed. In just a fraction of a second, dozens of crew members were squeezed into a bloody mess by the water pressure.

The submarine completely lost its buoyancy, and like a flattened steel can, it plummeted towards the deep sea abyss thousands of meters below, dragging billowing bubbles along with it.

03:40, Western Mediterranean Sea, surface water.

The Malicious completed a sharp turn in the storm and re-entered the bombing zone.

Two nautical miles away, the destroyer "Triomphant" also completed a depth charge on another Italian submarine, with a huge column of water rising from the sea.

The searchlight's powerful beam swept across the turbulent, black sea.

Large slicks of thick, heavy oil churned on the sea surface. Floating within the oil were fragments of cork insulation panels, tattered sailor uniforms, and mangled pieces of limbs. The pungent stench of blood mingled with the smell of diesel fuel, even overpowering the salty, fishy scent of the sea breeze.

The Italian defensive line was completely crushed by Stirling Heavy Industries' sonar technology and the firepower of the Free French fleet.

On the Dunkirk.

"USS Malicious report! A third enemy submarine, 3,000 yards to our right, is making an emergency dive. They have abandoned their attack and are fleeing south at full speed!"

The first mate turned to Suer: "General, shall we pursue?"

Sull watched the expanding oil slick on the sea, then stuffed his pocket watch back into his pocket. "Don't pursue a cornered enemy. The Sterling family's mission for us is to safely deliver those tanks. Order the fleet to resume its escort formation. Let that remaining rat go back to Taranto and tremble."

The destroyer's horn blared through the storm.

The "Vicious" re-entered the transport convoy's anti-aircraft formation. After a brief moment of danger, the four transport ships, fully loaded with Meteor Tanks, continued to move steadily through the waves. On the armored decks at the bottom of the hull, the 78-millimeter-thick sloped armor gleamed with a suffocating metallic sheen in the dimly lit cabins.

November 2, 1940, 08:00, Alexandria, Egypt, British Middle East Command Headquarters.

The blinding sunlight streamed through the blinds, casting dappled shadows on the marble floor of the headquarters. A massive ceiling fan spun listlessly, unable to dispel the oppressive heat mingled with dust and sweat.

General Archibald Wavell, Commander-in-Chief of the Middle East Command, stood in front of a huge sand table, holding a top-secret telegram that had just been delivered by a communications officer.

His brows were furrowed tightly, forming deep frown lines.

Lieutenant General Richard O'Connor, commander of the Eighth Army, strode into his office and casually tossed his dust-covered military cap onto the sofa.

"How is the situation at the front, Richard?" Wavell did not look up, his gaze still fixed on the massive defensive line representing the Italian Tenth Army on the sand table.

"We're advancing westward, and progress is going well." O'Connor walked to the table, picked up his water glass, and took a big gulp. "Graziani's troops are practically a bunch of beggars in uniform. The vanguard of the 7th Armored Division is already close to Sidi Barani. As long as logistics keep up, I guarantee we can drive them out of the Egyptian border next month."

Wavell handed the telegram to O'Connor: "Take a look at this. It's from London. The sender is Brigadier General Arthur Sterling."

O'Connor took the telegram and quickly scanned it.

The telegram was extremely brief, but very forceful.

First, it was announced that the first batch of sixty A15 Meteor tanks had been escorted by the fleet through the Strait of Gibraltar and were expected to arrive on November 10th. This was followed by a forced intervention in the deployment of the 7th Panzer Division and a warning of a possible German armored flanking maneuver in the southern desert direction.

"He's teaching us how to fight?" O'Connor raised an eyebrow, a hint of absurdity in his voice. "A young brigadier general sitting in a London air-raid shelter, relying on a few blurry intelligence reports, dares to assert that our strategic deployment in the desert is flawed?"

"Not only that." Wavell walked to the window, looking at the warships docked in the harbor, "He forced me..."

These sixty tanks are designated as the army's sole strategic reserve, and are strictly prohibited from being dispersed. Richard, what's the current status of your 7th Armored Division?

When his troops were mentioned, O'Connor's face darkened.

"It's terrible." O'Connor walked to the sand table and pointed to the blue marker representing the 7th Armored Division with his baton. "We're nominally an armored division, but we actually have fewer than two hundred operational tanks. Most of them are old A9 and A10 cruisers, and those MkVI light tanks with armor as thin as paper. The desert heat and sandstorms are madly destroying their engines. Yesterday alone, fifteen tanks from the 7th Armored Brigade broke down due to mechanical failures. As for those few heavy Matilda infantry tanks—they're barely faster than camels, and they're completely incapable of deep penetrations."

"So, these sixty Meteor Tanks that Brigadier General Arthur sent are your lifeline." Wavell turned around and looked directly into O'Connor's eyes.

"If their performance is really as the War Office in London boasts," O'Connor threw the telegram on the table, "78mm sloped armor, 600-horsepower engine, and a 6-pounder high-caliber anti-tank gun."

If this data is accurate, these sixty tanks are more than enough to roam the desert unchallenged. I will personally go to the port to receive them. But I absolutely disagree with leaving them in the rear as reserves; I want to send them all to the front lines to smash through the Italian defenses.

Wavell looked at Arthur's warning on the telegram about the "German outflanking maneuver in the southern desert" and pondered for a moment.

"Richard Arthur Sterling's strategic vision in the air defense battles of France and the homeland was extremely sharp."

Spicy. The cabinet now has complete faith in him. If he warns of danger in the southern deserts—

"General!" O'Connor interrupted Wavell. "The southern desert is a sea of ​​death that even the Bedouins fear! There's no water, no roads, and the terrain is extremely rugged. Any organized armored force attempting a deep penetration from there is pure suicide. Supply lines will collapse within days. The Germans aren't gods; their tanks need fuel too!"

Wavell remained silent. From the perspective of conventional military common sense, O'Connor's judgment was flawless.

"Raise the alert level and send more reconnaissance planes to patrol the south." Wavell finally made a compromise decision. "As for those Meteor tanks, we'll deal with them when they arrive at the port. The fate of the British Empire in the Middle East cannot be controlled by a London nobleman."

November 2, 1940, 12:00 PM, Tripoli Port, Libya, temporary assembly point of the 11th Light Division of the German Wehrmacht.

A fierce wind whipped up a cloud of yellow sand, shrouding the port of Tripoli in chaos.

The sunlight was blocked by sand and dust, making the midday sun as dark as dusk.

The cranes at the port struggled to operate amidst the sandstorm. One German transport ship after another docked at the pier, and heavy Panzer III and IV tanks were hoisted ashore one after another. The pier was piled high with oil drums, ammunition boxes, and military trucks.

Lieutenant General Erwin Rommel was wearing a khaki tropical field uniform without rank insignia and goggles around his neck.

Instead of staying in the comfort of the command post, he stood on the sandbag bunker at the forefront of the dock, keeping a close eye on the unloading progress.

As early as October 24, the day he led the first advance troops to North Africa, he ordered the armored reconnaissance battalion to advance directly eastward, preparing to launch a surprise attack before the British could establish a firm foothold.

With only a battalion of soldiers, he dared to attack an entire British division on the other side.

His courage was commendable, but unfortunately, his ambitious charge only advanced less than 20 kilometers before he ran headlong into a rare and severe sandstorm.

The fine sand whipped up by the strong winds quickly obscured the vision of the advance team, and large amounts of sand and dust were sucked into the air intakes, causing engine failures in several tanks.

Even more deadly than the severe weather was the logistical disaster that followed.

The fuel depots along the route, which the Italians had so confidently assured them of, were filled with substandard gasoline thickly covered in silt, and some even contained foul-smelling brine. Italian trucks carrying supplies were breaking down in large numbers under the combined onslaught of sandstorms and extreme heat.

The combined forces of nature's fury and the incompetence of the Roman bureaucracy brought Rommel's armored forces to a standstill, leaving him waiting on the front lines for a full week without being able to get even a single drop of fuel to power his tanks.

Before this, he had imagined that fighting in the desert would be difficult, but he hadn't expected it to be this difficult. Suddenly, he felt a little envious of Guderian, who was still in France.

At the same time, this extremely frustrating retreat made him realize a crucial fact: relying on the Italian supply lines, the Afrika Korps couldn't even get out of the gates of Tripoli. He had to personally return to the port and seize control of the German supply lifeline.

"General!" Major General Johannes Streck, commander of the 5th Light Division, ran to Rommel through the sandstorm and shouted, "The port's throughput capacity has reached its limit! The cranes left by the Italians are too outdated; we'll need at least another week to unload all the equipment!"

Rommel whirled around, veins bulging on his forehead. "We've wasted a whole week in this port! Get those trucks ashore! Have the soldiers carry them on their shoulders! Even if they have to push them! I need tanks that can move and supply trucks full of fuel, not a pile of scrap metal lying in the hold!"

He jumped off the sandbags, strode over to a Kfz.15 command vehicle parked nearby, pulled a huge North African military map from the cargo compartment, and laid it directly on the scorching hood. The sand and dust lashed against the map, making a harsh, rustling sound.

Rommel's finger struck Sidibarani, the English striker, heavily, then moved westward along the coastline.

It glided across Selum, eventually drawing a huge semicircle in the southern desert region, its arrow piercing the British rear.

"The Italians were being driven like rabbits by the British in the east." Rommel didn't seem to care about the Italians not far away. "Wavell and O'Connor's attention was entirely focused on the coastal road. They thought that as long as they advanced along the road, they could drive us into the sea."

He looked up at Streck.

"But they forgot that the essence of armored forces lies in mobility. Last week we suffered enough logistical problems on the coast. Streck, I want you to immediately assemble all the Panzer III and IV tanks that were just unloaded today, along with all the fuel tankers. Don't wait for the infantry behind; ditch all the baggage. Get off the coastal road and head straight into the southern desert. Even if it's just one battalion, I'm launching an attack!"

Streck's eyes widened, as if he had heard the most unbelievable order: "The southern desert? General, that's a supply nightmare! Our lines will be stretched to an extremely dangerous point, and once we run out of fuel—"

"The fuel won't run out!" Rommel slammed the map down, interrupting his subordinates' doubts. "The British supply depots are overflowing with fuel and water! What the Italians didn't give us last week, we'll get ourselves from the British rear! I'm going to wage a no-holds-barred mobile war in the desert and completely tear O'Connor's flank apart!"

Rommel pulled up his goggles to cover his eyes.

"Get the armored reconnaissance battalion moving tonight. We're going to give the British a surprise."

At opposite ends of this vast desert, two massive war machines are simultaneously accelerating. Arthur's Steel Meteor is cutting through the waves on the sea, while the Desert Fox's armored vehicles have already entered the desolate sand sea.

The storm that will decide the fate of North Africa is about to crash down in the yellow sands of Salom.

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