The Twilight of Empire: Starting from Dunkirk

Chapter 41 Following Behind This Madman

Naked humiliation.

If it were an ordinary British officer with an excessive sense of pride, he would probably blush and pull out the King's Articles to argue a few points, or slink away from the vehicle to save face.

But Arthur didn't. He didn't care about that so-called "face of the Allied Forces" at all.

He focused his attention on the most suffocating problem facing the entire coalition forces at that moment—

Although the Allied forces had more than three times the number of Guderian's 19th Panzer Corps in this ever-tightening pocket—a total of 400,000 living, breathing human beings, enough to fill every ravine in Flanders.

In contrast, the "19th Armored Corps" only had—

The 1st, 2nd, and 10th – three fully equipped German armored divisions.

In terms of manpower? Even including special military units such as the Großdeutschland Regiment, Guderian had no more than 50,000 men at most.

But the German army didn't walk on two legs in that damned mud.

They sat in the turrets of nearly 800 tanks, on the steel chassis of thousands of half-tracks and trucks, with 105/150mm howitzers trailing behind them to accompany their attacks.

This is not a war between soldiers at all.

This was an industrial massacre of shoelaces by internal combustion engines and ribs by steel.

When 400,000 rifles with only bayonets face 800 tank cannons and thousands of MG34 machine guns, numbers are no longer an advantage; they merely mean that the fuel in the crematorium is piled up a little higher.

Because in modern warfare, the deciding factor is no longer cheap human lives.

The physical laws that were proven three years ago in the meat grinder of the Battle of Shanghai in the East still hold true in the quagmire of Dunkirk.

Whether on the banks of the Huangpu River or along the Colm Canal, the logic of war has never changed:

When flesh and blood try to stop the industrial onslaught, the only difference is what color the tracks will be dyed.

In terms of the amount of heavy equipment and the density of firepower delivered per unit time, the heavily armed Germans were at least ten times stronger than the stripped-down Allied forces.

This was only Guderian's 19th Panzer Corps, alongside Reinhardt's 41st Panzer Corps (the 6th and 8th Panzer Divisions), which together formed Kleist's Panzer Group—a total of five panzer divisions.

The coalition forces had only targets, while the coalition had ammunition.

Think back to last September, when the British Expeditionary Force landed in Cherbourg and Le Havre, how grand it was!

That was the last vestige of dignity for the British Empire. They carried gleaming field guns, drove brand-new Matilda tanks, and their trucks were loaded with afternoon tea, strawberry jam, and phonographs. At that time, the Allied forces, though a strategic joke, were tactically well-equipped enough to crush the German Wehrmacht, which had not yet completed its re-equipment.

But now?

During this two-week, disastrous "back turn," every road from Azheim to Kassel and on the way to Dunkirk was littered with abandoned "expensive garbage."

In an effort to outrun the German tracks, the Allied forces discarded heavy artillery that couldn't be pulled, destroyed tanks that ran out of fuel, and even found heavy machine guns too heavy. The Allied forces were now like a medieval knight stripped of his armor, left with only a dagger that hadn't even been properly consecrated.

Arthur understood this, and Major General Mori understood it even more clearly.

Since the 12th Division took over the defense, he was like a scavenger in a pile of rubble, watching countless defeated soldiers pass through his area of ​​responsibility.

Some Frenchmen—those who hadn't forgotten who Napoleon was and were tough enough to stick their necks out—chose to stay and join his defenses; but the vast majority, whether Englishmen with London accents or Frenchmen with Brittany accents, chose to hang their heads and slink to the beach like zombies.

Rang Sen didn't stop them because that was "human nature," and also "consumables."

In the meat grinder of modern warfare, there is no difference between sending 10,000 infantrymen without heavy weapons and sending 100,000; it's just a matter of lubricating Guderian's tracks a little more.

But he stopped Arthur.

Because Arthur has "steel".

The 12th Division's tanks had already been wiped out in the previous Battle of Jamblü, and its anti-tank guns were almost all lost as well. Now, all that's left for Jansen is a bunch of breathing meat.

So when the B1 heavy tank, with its 75mm cannon and armor thickness enough to mock the German 37mm gun, appeared, in Jensen's eyes, it was not just a vehicle, but a lifeline, a gift from God.

He could let Arthur go, but he could never let go of those hundreds of tons of deadly steel.

Arthur understood this despair.

"An interesting suggestion, General."

Arthur's fingers gently caressed the silver-tipped cane, his expression less one of anger at being humiliated and more one of waiting for a better price.

"You're right. In this godforsaken place, a working 75mm gun is definitely worth more than the life of a British major."

He ignored the general's order to leave and went straight to the huge battle map.

He stopped less than a meter from Jensen and spoke in an even more arrogant and aloof aristocratic tone than Jensen himself:

"General, since you've brought up the field of fire, let's talk about your blind spots."

"What?" Sen frowned.

Arthur raised his cane, the silver lion's head flashing a cold light in the dim light.

His gaze did not fall on the red areas marked with known enemy forces on the map, but instead went beyond the map of Berg's formidable city walls and landed on the edge of a seemingly harmless grove of trees on the east side of the city, near the canal.

That area was a blank space on the French army's maps.

But on Arthur's RTS interface, several glaring red exclamation marks were flashing.

[Enemy engineer unit detected conducting operations]

[Unit: 10th Armored Division Assault Engineer Battalion]

"I'm not in a hurry to go to the beach to sunbathe, General."

Arthur's voice was calm, but his words sent chills down the spines of everyone present:

"But I suggest that you, immediately, send your most trusted guard platoon to check the outlet of the drainage ditch at the base of the east wall."

Sen narrowed his eyes: "That's a blind spot, and there's a swamp outside. Tanks can't get through. What nonsense are you talking about?"

"Tanks can't get through."

Arthur glanced at his watch, calculating the time:

"But the assault engineers of the German 10th Panzer Division could. They were carrying 300 kilograms of TNT and flamethrowers, and they were setting the fuse at that drain."

"According to my calculations, if you had been even a little slower..."

Arthur raised his head and looked directly into Jean's eyes:

"...In ten minutes, your eastern wall will be wide enough for two Panzer III tanks to drive in side by side. Then you can save yourself the trouble of guarding the gate, because you'll be having coffee with the Germans on the steps of the city hall."

The hall fell silent instantly.

The staff officers exchanged bewildered glances. The Englishman was being too specific, so specific that it sounded more like he was reading from a script than speculating.

Sen stared intently at Arthur, trying to find a trace of a joke on the young major's face. But all he saw was a poker face.

After a few seconds of deathly silence, Sen suddenly turned his head and roared at his adjutant beside him:

"Pierre! Take the guard platoon to the east wall drain! Bring light machine guns! Quickly!"

Time passed by, second by second.

The atmosphere in the hall was so oppressive it felt like you could wring water out of it; only the clock on the wall made a "tick-tock" sound.

Letsen relit his pipe and paced anxiously in front of the map. Arthur, on the other hand, leaned leisurely against a marble pillar, even taking a cigar from his exquisite silver cigarette case and casually toying with it.

"If you're playing me, Englishman..." Rangsen stopped in his tracks, his eyes turning sinister.

boom--!!!

A muffled explosion resounded, sending dust flying through the hall even through the thick walls.

Immediately following was a dense barrage of gunfire, like popping beans—a death duet of the MG34 machine gun's distinctive tearing sound and the muffled bursts of the French Hotchkiss machine gun.

Everyone's expression changed.

About seven or eight minutes later, the adjutant rushed in, his face covered in dust and panting, carrying an M35 helmet.

"General! It's true! Those sons of bitches really are at the drain!"

The adjutant threw the helmet on the table:

"It's German engineers! They've already piled up explosives along the base of the wall! If we're even a minute late... just one minute! That wall will be finished!"

"We drove them back! It was a trap! Damn it, it was a trap!"

A collective gasp filled the hall.

All eyes were once again focused on the British major leaning against the pillar. But this time, the contempt and hostility were gone, replaced by awe as if looking at a monster, and a deep fear.

How did he know? He hadn't even left the hall, nor had he even glanced at the map.

Major General Mori took a deep drag on his pipe, calming his rapid breathing. He turned around and re-examined the young man before him.

At this moment, he no longer regarded his opponent as a coward who only knew how to run away, but as an opponent who had to be treated as an equal and even looked up to.

"Your name, Major." Mori's voice lowered.

"Arthur Sterling. Cold Creek Guard." Arthur flicked his cigarette ash and straightened up.

"Alright, Major Sterling."

Sen pointed to the map, his attitude becoming extremely serious this time, even with a hint of seeking guidance:

"Since your nose is sharper than a hunting dog's, can you tell me what those damned Germans are planning to do next?"

He didn't ask how the other person knew such nonsense, because it was pointless.

"I don't do fortune telling, General."

Arthur walked to the table and tapped his fingers lightly on the surface:

"But I'm in charge of the transactions."

"A deal?" Sen frowned.

"I don't want intelligence, I don't want a pass, and I don't want medals."

Arthur reached out and picked up the helmet, the insignia of the 10th Armored Division:

"I need cannonballs."

"My B1 tank, despite its thick armor, now only has a few German 75mm shells inside."

Arthur raised his head, his gaze fixed intently on Jeanson:

"I need 47mm SA35 armor-piercing shells (Obus de rupture Mle1935) and 75mm Mle1915 high-explosive shells. Full load. And I also need enough 40mm ammunition for my four Bofors anti-aircraft guns to go to waste."

"I want to feed my tanks. That's my condition."

After listening, Sen did not answer immediately. A bitter, even somewhat helpless smile appeared on his face.

"Is this all you asked for? Just a few boxes of shells?"

"At this time, a few boxes of artillery shells are worth more than a few boxes of gold," Arthur shrugged.

"You're right. But there's a small problem."

Jean-Jacques sighed and pointed with his pipe to an area east of Berg, marked in red as a "war zone":

"The damn armory is in the railway freight station near the East Gate. That used to be our supply depot."

"But just half an hour ago, before you arrived, an armored reconnaissance unit of the 10th Panzer Division—about three Panzer III tanks and a company of infantry—broke through the outer defenses and captured the freight station."

Let Sen spread his hands, his tone revealing a sense of helplessness:

"My soldiers tried to counterattack twice, but were repelled both times. Those Germans were using their tanks as bunkers at the cargo hold entrance, making it difficult for our 75mm guns to deploy in that complex terrain. So..."

The old general looked at Arthur with a look of helpless pity:

"The shells are right there, piled up like mountains. If you're capable, go get them yourself. I can even give you the entire cargo terminal."

This looks like a dead end.

To get artillery shells, you first need to defeat German tanks; but to defeat German tanks, you need armor-piercing shells. This creates a vicious cycle of "chicken and egg."

For ordinary people, this may be a dead end.

But in Arthur's eyes, this was simply a "buffet feast" prepared for him by the system.

"Freight station?"

Arthur glanced at the RTS map.

In that fog-shrouded area, there were indeed a few red dots representing German tanks flashing. But in that narrow, urban warfare terrain filled with containers and brick walls, tanks were not invincible.

Especially when you have four Bofors machine guns that can fire horizontally, and a team of professional demolition engineers.

"That's perfect, General."

Arthur slowly buttoned up his trench coat, put on his slightly tilted wide-brimmed hat, and a graceful smile appeared on his lips:

"I'm going to pick up the goods. By the way..."

He adjusted his gloves:

"...Let me clean up the trash in that freight station for you."

"Prepare the trucks, General. I think you'd better send a few empty trucks with me. Because once I open fire, there will be so many shells left that I can't take them all with me, and it would be a waste to leave them to the Germans."

After saying that, Arthur turned and walked towards the door.

Behind him, Major General Mori stared at the arrogant figure in silence for a long time before finally whispering to his adjutant:

"Pierre, assemble the 3rd Battalion. Follow this madman."

"If we have the chance... let's go for it."

An extra chapter has been added. Please recommend, vote with monthly tickets, and follow the story. Writing is hard work, so thank you all for your support. Thank you!