The Twilight of Empire: Starting from Dunkirk

Chapter 179 O'Connor: It's so good!

November 10, 1940, 06:30, Alexandria, Egypt, military deep-water pier. Sunny, light breeze, temperature 22 degrees Celsius.

In the early morning in Alexandria, the cries of seagulls are completely drowned out by the piercing noise of steam crane winches.

This massive transport convoy, escorted by Free French warships, slowly docked at Alexandria's No. 5 deep-water pier, amidst the thick smell of gunpowder and heavy oil. Having weathered the turbulent waves of the Bay of Biscay and the underwater hunts of the Mediterranean, every inch of the fleet's steel exuded weariness and ferocity.

The massive battleship "Dunkirk" raised its iconic quadruple main gun barrels high, pointing directly at the azure Egyptian sky.

The ship's hull, weighing over 30,000 tons, was covered with a thick layer of sea salt crystals.

The situation was even worse for the outer "Fantasy" class destroyers. The wave deflectors on the bow were deformed by the giant waves, and the armor belts on the sides were covered with severe metal dents caused by the violent impact of the short-wave giant waves. Even the thick steel railings on the foredeck were twisted into a pretzel shape by the terrifying power of the storm.

General Archibald Wavell, Commander-in-Chief of the Middle East Command, and Lieutenant General Richard O'Connor, Commander of the Eighth Army, stood side by side on the breakwater of the pier.

The sea breeze blew through their crisp khaki tropical military uniforms.

Behind them was a company of fully armed British military police, carrying Lee-Enfield rifles, who were keeping a tight watch on the entire dock.

Wavell's hands were behind his back, his fingers tightly intertwined.

For the past ten days, he has been anxiously waiting for this batch of equipment.

The Italian 10th Army constructed a massive defensive position in Sidi Barane, putting the British forces at a significant disadvantage.

His only bargaining chip for the all-out counterattack, codenamed "Compass," now lies in the hold of these transport ships, which reek of the sea.

Wavell's idea coincided with O'Connor's.

The two British generals' gazes completely bypassed the proudly standing French sailors and were fixed on the four 10,000-ton ocean-going transport ships that were anchoring.

As the heavy oak gangway was laid on the concrete pier, Admiral Jean Sull, commander of the Free French fleet, strode down the gangway with several accompanying officers. Sull's eyes were bloodshot, and the collar of his uniform, wet with seawater and dried by the sea breeze, was covered with a layer of white salt frost—the marks of days and nights spent intently watching the sea conditions from the violently rocking bridge.

Clearly, even aboard a massive warship like the Dunkirk, life at sea was not as easy as one might imagine.

It's not that easy to get by.

Wavell stepped forward, his leather boots making a dull thud on the concrete.

His face was tense, but he did not extend his hand, completely abandoning the diplomatic etiquette that should be observed when welcoming allies.

"You must be tired from your journey, General Sue." Wavell's tone was tinged with undisguised wariness, his voice sounding unusually harsh in the sea breeze. "However, I hope you can understand. Even though your warships fly the Free French flag with the Lorraine Cross on their mainmasts, my staff were still extremely nervous when a fully armed fleet that did not belong to the Royal Navy entered Alexandria."

"After all, just half a month ago in Dakar, your colleagues in French North Africa were still firing their coastal heavy artillery at Royal Navy warships. Some French colonies have already openly sided with the Germans. As the commander of the Middle East theater, it's hard for me to predict whether the next shell fired from the guns of French warships will land directly on my headquarters."

Suer's face stiffened, and his steps slowed down.

The French officers following behind him instantly frowned, their right hands instinctively reaching for the leather holsters at their waists, their thumbs already unbuttoning them.

Upon seeing this, the surrounding British military police all pulled back their rifle bolts in unison, the crisp sound of cocking echoing across the empty dock.

Suer raised his right hand, which was covered by a white glove, and made a downward tactical gesture to stop his subordinate's movements.

He stared directly at Wavell, his facial muscles twitching slightly, but he forcefully suppressed his anger.

"General Wavell, the Vichy government and Dakar do not represent Free France. My sailors just crushed two Italian submarines with depth charges in the western Mediterranean and protected this equipment."

He had no intention of lingering in this port.

Arthur had completed his escort mission and only wanted to refuel and set sail as soon as possible. But this did not mean he needed to back down an inch in the face of the British Army's provocations.

Sterling Heavy Industries provided the pay and supplies to the Free French Fleet; it was not the Middle East Command's place to interfere.

"I'm not here to listen to the complaints of the British Empire, much less to hear your Wavell's nonsense. If you have any complaints, go find your Prime Minister Churchill; he might be better at cleaning up your mess. I'm employed by Brigadier General Arthur Sterling. Now, I'm handing over his steel to you intact. After you sign, immediately replenish my fleet with heavy oil, fresh water, and ammunition. We're returning to Gibraltar to continue our work. As for how you deal with the Italians in the desert, that's the job of your Middle East theater army."

Wavell stared at Sue for a second, then his tense jaw relaxed.

He turned and waved to the quartermaster behind him, signaling to lift the alert.

On the other side of the dock, the boilers of the giant steam crane roared deafeningly. The stoker frantically shoveled coal into the combustion chamber, and high-pressure steam poured into the cylinders through thick pipes, driving the huge transmission gears to mesh.

Four thick steel main cables, each as straight as a wrist, were stretched taut, making a metallic screech.

Inside the hold, a dozen or so dockworkers, covered in oil, were painstakingly attaching chains with giant hooks to the tank's four load-bearing rings.

"Raise the hook!"

The foreman waved a red signal flag.

The anchoring cable slowly rose from the bottomless hold. Then, a tracked armored vehicle painted a desert yellow was pulled out of the narrow hatch and hovered in mid-air. The morning light shone on its massive, angular hull, casting a huge shadow on the concrete of the dock.

The eyes of all the British generals, staff officers, and soldiers on the dock were instantly drawn to this machine that exuded a strong smell of industrial oil.

There were no unnecessary handover ceremonies. The crane operator abruptly pulled down the hydraulic control lever, releasing the winch's brakes.

The 28-ton steel behemoth plummeted down, crashing heavily onto the concrete surface of the dock.

"A dull thud echoed across the breakwater, as if even the ground beneath our feet trembled."

The rising dust spread outwards along with the fine cracks in the cement ground.

The Meteor Tank's five pairs of road wheels suddenly sank downwards under the extreme compression of the Christie suspension springs.

The chassis armor almost scraped the ground, then the strong coil springs bounced the vehicle back to its original position, and with the sound of metal components rubbing together, the entire tank landed steadily on the ground.

O'Connor crossed his arms and strode up to the oddly shaped tank.

He didn't even turn his head to look at the data booklet that the Sterling Heavy Industries technical representative handed him.

A few days ago, Arthur's brief telegram had already crammed all the core data into his brain. He walked slowly around the tank, his gaze sweeping over every detail of the vehicle.

He walked to the front of the vehicle, extended his gloved hand, and tapped the armor plate on the front of the vehicle.

A heavy, echo-less, solid metallic thud.

"Seventy-eight millimeters, thirty-degree inclination." O'Connor stared at the sloping steel plate that ran smoothly from the chassis to the bottom of the turret and muttered to himself.

When hit by a shell, the occupants no longer have to worry about broken rivets flying around the cabin like bullets.

His gaze moved downwards and finally settled on the tank's running gear.

The tracks are an astonishing 400 millimeters wide, and each high-manganese steel track plate has thick anti-slip teeth. The track pins gleam coldly in the sunlight.

A technical representative from Sterling Heavy Industries followed behind O'Connor, loudly reporting, "General, this is the A15 Meteor medium tank. It is equipped with a 600-horsepower Merlin-modified V12 diesel engine, and its main armament is a 57mm caliber 6-pounder anti-tank gun with 72 rounds of ammunition."

"I know how much data it has on paper." O'Connor abruptly turned his head, interrupting the representative, his tone somewhat impatient. "Those old men in the London War Office, sitting on their leather sofas, always like to exaggerate the data."

It's like something out of a fairy tale.

"With 78mm of armor and this long-barreled cannon, this vehicle weighs a whopping 28 tons. You've piled such a terrifying amount of weight onto this chassis size; its suspension and tracks will break after just ten kilometers in the desert! And with such narrow road wheel spacing, it will absolutely sink deep into soft sand, making it impossible to even turn!"

"General, its Christie suspension has undergone heavy-duty modifications, doubling the spring's damage coefficient. The tracks, widened to 400 millimeters, ensure its ground pressure fully meets the stringent standards for desert warfare—"

"I don't need your endorsement!" O'Connor shoved the handover list out of the technical representative's hand, pointed at the tank, and shouted so loudly that it drowned out the wind on the dock, "Paper data won't last a day in the desert."

The 7th Armored Division's garages are now filled with cruiser tanks whose engines have failed due to sand accumulation. I don't trust any equipment that hasn't been tested in live ammunition, much less leave it as some kind of damned strategic reserve to gather dust in the rear.

"Drive it to the abandoned quarry outside the port."

He turned to his adjutant behind him and gave instructions in a very fast voice.

"Go to the armory and get a two-pounder anti-tank gun. Then go to the spoils depot and drag out the Italian 47mm anti-tank gun that we captured last week from the Sidi Barane front. Bring the best armor-piercing rounds."

O'Connor's eyes were filled with ruthlessness.

"I want to personally test with artillery whether what London sent is an invincible war machine capable of crushing the Italians, or an iron coffin that will turn into scrap metal in the desert. If it fails the test, not a single one of these things will be put into my 7th Panzer Division."

07:15, Visibility is extremely high on the military access road from Alexandria to the southern quarry; temperature 26 degrees Celsius.

Stirling Heavy Industries' chief test driver climbed into the driver's compartment of the A15 Meteor tank. Ignoring the complex stares of the British armored soldiers around him, he pulled down the main power switch and then slammed down the start button.

The starter motor emitted a piercing screech, causing the heavy flywheel to begin spinning. Two seconds later, the 600-horsepower Merlin-modified V12 diesel engine crammed into the rear of the vehicle roared to life.

"boom"

Two thick exhaust pipes suddenly spewed out a thick plume of black exhaust fumes. The pungent smell of burning diesel instantly filled the dock. The twelve large-displacement cylinders spun simultaneously, unleashing a deafening, deep roar.

Even General Wavell, who was standing a dozen meters away, could clearly feel the concrete ground of the breakwater trembling slightly beneath his feet.

The test driver depresses the clutch and engages first gear.

The powerful torque is directly output to the rear-mounted drive wheel via the drive shaft. The drive wheel, equipped with a huge gear, instantly engages with the track pin.

With a metallic scraping sound, the 28-ton steel behemoth slowly started moving.

O'Connor and Wavell got into an open-top Humber military command vehicle, closely following the Meteor tank. The convoy drove out of the port area and directly onto the unpaved desert dirt roads on the outskirts of Alexandria.

O'Connor's previously furrowed brow began to relax slightly after the convoy had traveled five kilometers.

Wearing goggles, he stared intently at the chassis of the tank ahead, which was kicking up clouds of dust.

The old cruiser tanks equipped by the 7th Armored Division had narrow tracks, and when traveling on these soft desert dirt roads, the road wheels would often sink deep into the sand. The engines had to run at extremely high speeds just to maintain their course, which could easily lead to overheating and breakdowns.

But he had already realized that this Meteor Tank was completely different.

Its wide 400mm high-manganese steel tracks evenly distribute the 28-ton weight of the vehicle on the sand.

The tank's ground pressure was incredibly low, almost as if it were "gliding" across the sand. Every time it rolled over a deep crater or a raised dune, the heavily modified Christie suspension system demonstrated its terrifying mechanical resilience.

The massive coil springs contracted violently, perfectly absorbing the impact of the ground, allowing the wide vehicle body to maintain a high degree of stability on the undulating desert terrain.

It didn't get stuck in the sand, nor did it break the tracks.

It roughly crushed the dry shrubs along the way at a speed of nearly 30 kilometers per hour, plowing two deep track tracks into the desert land.

They soon arrived at an abandoned limestone quarry located 15 kilometers south of Alexandria. By then, the temperature had risen to 34 degrees Celsius.

The scorching sun beat down mercilessly on the white limestone walls. The temperature at the bottom of the quarry was suffocating, and the air was thick with acrid, dry dust.

The identification flags hanging from the antennas of the military trucks drooped lifelessly.

The Meteor Tank sat quietly in the open space in the center of the quarry. Ten large-diameter road wheels were firmly planted on the chalky soil covered with gravel, and the engine was idling, emitting a low rumble.

Fifty meters away, two anti-tank guns had already set up firing positions behind hastily piled-up sandbags. The gun barrels were held horizontally, and the reticles were tightly wrapped around the front of the Meteor tank.

At this distance, any early World War II anti-tank weapon could achieve maximum kinetic energy penetration.

Air resistance has a negligible effect on reducing the projectile's velocity. This has absolutely no simulation of actual combat distance; it's purely an extreme close-range execution-style shot.

O'Connor and Wavell stood behind the sandbags. A dozen or so armored officers from the Eighth Army stared intently at the steel behemoth ahead, sweat trickling down their necks and into their khaki shirts, but no one reached out to wipe it away; everyone held their breath.

"Try that Italian thing first," O'Connor ordered, his voice echoing through the empty quarry, carrying the ruthlessness unique to a veteran of the battlefield.

Several British artillerymen, sweating profusely, rushed toward the captured Italian-made 47mm "Elefantino" anti-tank gun.

Although this gun has a small caliber, it has caused great casualties to the British MkVI light tanks with their thin armor on the desert front. It is currently the most relied-upon infantry anti-armor firepower on the Italian front.

The artillerymen skillfully operated the elevation and azimuth handwheels.

"Armor-piercing shell loaded!" The loader shoved a brass-cased shell into the breech and slammed the breechblock shut. The metallic clang of the breech closing was crisp and clean.

"Aim at the sloped front armor of the vehicle! Fire!"

The gunner pulled the firing cord sharply.

"boom!"

The powerful muzzle blast instantly ripped away the loose soil in front of the position. The 47mm capped armor-piercing round, propelled by the rapid expansion of the propellant, left the barrel at a muzzle velocity of over 600 meters per second. At a distance of fifty meters, the projectile's flight time was less than one-tenth of a second.

Everyone's eyes were fixed on the front armor of the Meteor Tank.

There was no dull, penetrating sound, nor the muffled thud of metal breaking.

The armor-piercing projectile slammed into the 78mm homogeneous steel plate at a 30-degree angle. Powerful kinetic energy was released instantly. However, the exaggerated angle of the armor plate completely altered the force distribution. Upon contact with the metal surface, the projectile was unable to grip the steel plate and penetrate; the lateral sliding torque was far greater than the vertical penetration torque.

With a sharp, ear-piercing metallic tearing sound, the bullet ricocheted violently off the armor surface.

Sparks flew everywhere.

The bullet's trajectory was abruptly altered, and it flew upwards with a piercing whistle, slamming heavily against the limestone wall dozens of meters behind the tank, creating a large cloud of white powder.

The smoke of battle has cleared.

O'Connor raised the Zeiss telescope.

On the frontal armor of the Meteor Tank, only a shallow, silvery-white dent and a long strip of desert yellow anti-rust paint had been scraped off. The internal structure of the armor was intact, without even a tiny crack caused by stress.

The British officers on the position erupted in low shouts.

The main Italian anti-tank guns, which had posed a great threat to them in previous battles, failed to leave even a deep crater when fired directly at a distance of fifty meters.

This means that the front of this tank is completely immune to Italian anti-tank fire.

O'Connor's eye twitched.

He put down his binoculars and strode over to the QF2-pounder anti-tank gun, the mainstay of the British Army.

"Switch to our gun. Don't use standard armor-piercing rounds." O'Connor stared at the gunner and issued the extravagant order, "Use armor-piercing tungsten core rounds (APCNR). Aim for its turret shield; that's the thickest and largest vertical armor on the entire vehicle. Fire!"

The two-pounder cannon had a more robust barrel and was fitted with the iconic Little John adapter at the muzzle.

The artillerymen quickly opened a sealed wooden box and inserted an expensive tungsten-core sub-caliber armor-piercing projectile into the gun barrel.

This type of shell contains an extremely high-density tungsten carbide core. Relying on the extremely high initial velocity brought by its sub-caliber design, it is the most powerful armor-piercing weapon that the British Army can currently offer, specifically designed to deal with heavy armor.

Compared to the previous Italian cannon, it has a stronger penetrating power.

"Armor-piercing rounds are ready!"

"Fire!"

The recoil mechanism suddenly retracted, and the two-pounder cannon roared, spewing out a large ball of bright flame around the barrel.

The tungsten-core warhead, appearing as a blur too thin for the naked eye, struck the gun shield on the front of the Meteor tank's turret without deviation. That shield was a thick, single-piece cast armor plate protecting the gun's elevation and depression mechanisms.

"Clang!!!"

A deafening clang of metal echoed through the quarry, causing several nearby officers to instinctively cover their ears, their eardrums throbbing painfully. A violent shower of sparks erupted from the shield's surface, as if someone had ignited a high-yield magnesium flash bomb; the blinding flash made several staff officers squint.

Everyone stared intently at the turret.

The flames quickly dissipated.

A clear, shallow crater appeared on the shield, surrounded by severe signs of high-temperature metal annealing, the steel surface tinged with a bluish-purple hue from quenching. However, the extremely hard tungsten-core armor-piercing projectile, upon impacting the hard, homogeneous steel plate, suffered catastrophic consequences due to its inherent brittleness.

Under the enormous reaction force, the projectile core shattered into countless tiny metal fragments, which scattered like petals around the tracks below the turret.

The armor was still not worn.

The entire quarry fell into a deathly silence. Only the whistling of the wind against the rock face could be heard in the distance.

The two-pound tungsten-core armor-piercing rounds failed to penetrate the tank's armor at a distance of fifty meters, meaning that none of the Axis powers' existing conventional anti-tank weapons in the North African theater could penetrate the tank's armor from the front. The sheer thickness of the armor combined with the extreme angle of inclination created an absolutely insurmountable barrier.

As for 88mm anti-aircraft guns? They haven't encountered them yet.

The Sterling Heavy Industries technical representative stood to the side, took out a handkerchief to wipe the sweat from his forehead, and then smiled.

He turned around and gestured to the test driver who had been standing next to the tank.

The test driver nimbly climbed onto the turret, crawled into the driver's compartment, and slammed the heavy cast steel hatch shut. The metallic click of the hatch locking was crisp and steady.

"Boost the RPMs!" The test driver excitedly pressed the accelerator pedal.

"Boom! Boom! Boom!" A powerful torque erupted instantly. Under the shocked gazes of dozens of senior British officers, this 28-ton steel behemoth brutally completed a reverse rotation of its two tracks on the spot. The wide 400-millimeter tracks gripped the gravel on the ground, and with a series of friction sounds, the tank smoothly completed a pivot turn on the spot, pointing its rear towards the open field ahead.

The next second, the engine speed spiked dramatically, and the black smoke from the exhaust pipe turned pale blue.

The Meteor Tank shot off like an arrow. Its twelve powerful cylinders unleashed a torrent of power. The massive Christie suspension springs contracted and rebounded violently on the uneven limestone ground, perfectly absorbing all the impact. The tank tracks kicked up clouds of dust several meters high as it raced through the treacherous, rotten ground of the quarry at speeds exceeding forty kilometers per hour.

This would have been unthinkable for Matilda in the past.

It easily crushed the large rocks blocking its path, and its wide tracks effortlessly crossed the broad, dry trenches. Each slam of the tracks was accompanied by a heavy mechanical roar, displaying a primitive and extremely oppressive industrial violence.

O'Connor stood straight in the swirling dust. He didn't brush the dust off his uniform.

His stubborn doubts and prejudices against outdated armored tactics were utterly shattered the moment the shells detonated and the V12 engine roared.

He has now been completely conquered by this Sterling family war machine.

He knew all too well what this machine could change. The Italian army's massive but fragile defenses were like paper in front of it.

He strode up to the technical representative and roughly snatched the receipt from him. He pulled out his pen and, without hesitation, forcefully signed his name on it, the force almost tearing the paper.

O'Connor turned to Wavell. His eyes were bloodshot, and he spoke rapidly, rejecting the previous battle plan without hesitation: "Tear up all those bullshit infantry escort and cover plans that the General Staff came up with! Completely scrap them!"

Wavell took a deep breath as he watched the Meteor Tank wildly stop and reverse in the quarry, demonstrating its superior mobility.

"These sixty tanks have thick enough armor and are highly mobile enough. They don't need any infantry to scout ahead, nor do they need accompanying cover! Infantry will only slow them down!" O'Connor held the list as if it were a sharp, unparalleled blade. "I've changed my mind. Brigadier General Arthur is right. I need to gather them all together and form a sharp, independent armored spearhead. Tonight, I'll send them to the front lines of the 7th Armored Division."

He turned to look at the western horizon, his voice dropping to freezing point, filled with intense killing intent.

"I will use this warhammer to pierce the heart of the Italians."

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