The Twilight of Empire: Starting from Dunkirk

Chapter 26 Ahe's Traffic Lights

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End of D916 road, south of Gravoline, A River Bridge, May 31, 1940, 01:30, overcast and cold, intermittent light rain, howling sea wind.

If the previous march was like wading through mud, the current situation is like being tumbled inside a giant, frantically running industrial centrifuge.

To shake off the horde of German scouts who were like mad dogs, the four B1 heavy tanks had pushed their already unreliable Renault six-cylinder gasoline engines to their limits. The exhaust pipes were no longer spewing smoke, but thick, sparking carbonaceous material.

28 kilometers per hour.

This is the theoretical top speed of a B1 bis. But in the muddy, rain-soaked Flanders, the jolts at this speed are enough to dislocate a person's internal organs.

"Damn it, God!"

Sergeant McTavish huddled in a corner of the fighting compartment of the "Joan of Arc," which reeked of engine oil and exhaust fumes. He gripped the edge of the turret basket tightly with one hand, while protecting the Bren machine gun in his arms with the other.

Every time the tracks rolled over a crater, his old bones would have to make intimate contact with the hard armor plate.

"I swear, if I make it back to Glasgow alive, I'll never touch anything tracked again in my life!" the WWI veteran complained loudly between jolting moments, his voice ripped apart by the engine's roar. "This isn't a tank! It's a giant tracked cocktail shaker! Did the French only think about how to shake red wine properly when they designed this thing?"

Lieutenant Jeanne, who was struggling with the heavy steering stick in the cockpit, glanced back at him amidst her busy work.

"Shut up, Scotsman! If it weren't for this 'Shaker's' 75mm thick frontal armor, your backside would have been riddled with holes by the Germans' 20mm autocannons half an hour ago!"

Jeanne's voice, though sharp, was also tinged with deep weariness. Her once-neat French military uniform was now soaked with sweat, clinging tightly to her body, and her face was covered in black grease stains from who-knows-where.

"And this is called 'France's Moving Fortress'! Don't you even know what romantic industrial aesthetics are?"

"Romantic?" McTavish spat. "If this is romance, I'd rather date a sow. At least a sow wouldn't shake like she has Parkinson's, and this damn Naeder hydraulic system smells like burnt, expired butter!"

Arthur sat atop the high command tower of the Verdun, ignoring his subordinates' attempts to relieve tension with their trash talk.

His body swayed rhythmically with the tank's bumps, but his icy blue eyes remained fixed on the RTS tactical map in the lower left corner of his field of vision.

The situation was worse than he had anticipated.

The brief 18-minute repair time, while saving the "Joan of Arc," also allowed Guderian's vanguard to completely catch up with their tail.

[Contact Warning: Lead Company of the Motorized Rifle Battalion, 1st Panzer Division, Germany]

[Distance: 800 meters]

Status: Engaging in ongoing firefight

Less than a kilometer behind the convoy, in the darkness, several German Sd.Kfz. 222 armored reconnaissance vehicles and half-track motorcycles were relentlessly pursuing them like leeches. The tracer rounds fired by their 20mm autocannons would occasionally explode in the mud behind the convoy, creating bursts of mud, or make a sickeningly loud clanging sound as they hit the thin metal bodies of the trucks.

The rearguard tank "Alsace" would occasionally stop and fire a shot from its short-barreled 75mm howitzer, the huge explosion temporarily deterring the pursuers, but they would soon swarm back like sharks smelling blood.

"We can't shake them off."

Major Ryder was huddled below Arthur's command tower, his injured arm re-bandaged and slinged to his chest, his other hand gripping the periscope handle tightly. His face was deathly pale in the dim instrument lights.

"Major, this is flat terrain now. Once it gets light, the German Stukas will swoop down like vultures. We simply can't outrun them."

Ryder's voice was filled with despair. As a traditional British infantry officer, he knew all too well what it meant to be overtaken by armored forces in open ground.

"Who said we're going to outrun them?"

Arthur adjusted his goggles, a cold, hard smile curving his lips. He pointed to a wide, black ribbon gradually emerging from the darkness ahead, and an ancient stone arch bridge spanning it.

"We just need to get there a step faster than them."

Ah He.

This normally unremarkable river has now swelled to a tremendous level due to continuous torrential rains, its turbid waters roaring towards the sea. It stands like a natural scar across the outer defense line of Dunkirk.

On Arthur's RTS map, this river is a dividing line between life and death.

On the south bank of the river, on their side, the map had been stained a shocking deep red. Countless icons representing German tanks, armored vehicles, and motorized infantry were converging into an unstoppable torrent of steel, surging towards the Ark River.

That was the main force of Guderian's 19th Panzer Corps. It was the sharpest spearhead in the French campaign and even in the entire Third Reich.

Any commander with a modicum of common sense, upon seeing this map, would immediately order the entire army to deploy in defense or simply surrender. Attempting to cross the river under the nose of such a behemoth would be tantamount to suicide.

But Arthur was an exception.

Just as his convoy was 500 meters from the bridgehead, the RTS interface, which had been flashing a high-risk warning, suddenly froze for a moment.

Immediately afterwards, a golden strategic intelligence pop-up with the highest priority forcibly overshadowed all the red tactical warnings.

[Historical Node Correction: Confirmed]

[Source of the instruction: OKW (German High Command)]

[Order Code: Dunkirk Ceasefire Order]

[Effective Scope: South of the Ahe River]

[Instruction: To preserve the strength of armored forces for the subsequent execution of "Plan Red" and to await air support, all armored divisions of Army Group A are ordered to immediately halt their advance toward Dunkirk and are prohibited from crossing the Ark River.]

Arthur looked at the line of golden words as if he were seeing a pardon issued by God himself.

He won his bet.

At the most critical moment, the Bohemian corporal in Berlin, with his neurotic micromanagement, brought the Anglo-French allied squad to its knees.

"Attention all!"

Arthur pressed the all-channel communication button. His voice, which had been tense before, now carried a strange, almost insane sense of relaxation.

"I am Major Sterling. The Aw River Bridge is just ahead."

"I know what you're thinking."

Arthur's voice was transmitted via radio to every vehicle and truck, sounding exceptionally clear in the noisy, rainy night.

"You think that since Guderian's troops are right behind us, given the Germans' speed of movement, the other side must have already been outflanked and occupied by their motorized infantry by now. You think that the end of that bridge must be full of German 88mm guns and machine guns by now, and that as soon as we show our faces, we'll be riddled with holes like ducks in a shooting range."

Major Ryder's grip on the periscope tightened. This was the source of his fear—the classic pincer movement. The Germans had done it in Poland, in Belgium. They always got there first, waiting for you in your retreat route.

"Under normal circumstances, you are right, Major Ryder."

Arthur's tone suddenly shifted, taking on the arrogance of a gambler revealing their hand.

"But tonight is different."

"I have reliable intelligence that the corporal with the mustache in Berlin just did us a huge favor. He put a dog leash on Guderian."

"There's not a soul on the other side of that river now. Because not a single German dares to cross that damned political red line without orders."

"So, put aside your fears and step on the gas!"

A suffocating silence fell over the radio channel.

Only the hissing of electricity and the distant roar of German motorcycles echoed.

Major Ryder gaped, his bloodshot eyes fixed on the calm young major in front of him, as if he were looking at a monster who had just escaped from an asylum.

intelligence?

In this damned, muddy French countryside where even radio signals are intermittent? On the run from which the Germans were herding and chasing them like ducks? He actually claimed to know the highest decisions made in the Reich Chancellery in Berlin, hundreds of kilometers away?

Absurd! It's as ridiculous as a wildebeest being chased by a lion suddenly stopping to say it has just received a truce telegram from the Lion King.

"Arthur... Major Sterling, are you insane?"

Ryder's Adam's apple bobbed violently, his voice hoarse. "Do you know what you're talking about? That's an order from the German High Command! How could you possibly know what that guy is thinking right now? Did you call him?"

"Of course I didn't call him."

Arthur shrugged, flicking the ash from his cigar. "But I have some... special channels. You know, in this world, some messages travel faster than radio waves."

Special channels.

Major Ryder's confused mind suddenly cleared.

He suddenly remembered Arthur's surname—Sterling.

That was one of the oldest noble families in Scotland, the kind of top-tier aristocratic family that had a permanent seat at Westminster Palace, private tea at Buckingham Palace, and even the ability to exchange letters with royal families of various European countries about "hunting experiences" before the war.

Ryder had heard rumors about these "blue-blooded nobles" at the officers' club. It was said that their tentacles reached every corner of the empire, even extending into the heart of the enemy. It was also said that many of the shadowy leaders of MI6 were frequent guests of these nobles.

"My God..."

Ryder looked at Arthur's profile, which, even covered in oil stains, couldn't hide his arrogance, and his heart was filled with turmoil.

Could the legends be true? Could this be the so-called "war of the nobles"?

While these ordinary soldiers were still fighting tooth and nail for a few meters of front line in the mud, these powerful figures had already seen through the entire game in another dimension—a dimension filled with cigars, whiskey, and top-secret telegrams.

Are the Sterling family really that powerful? They can even intercept top-secret orders from the German High Command in real time?

A complex mix of absurdity, awe, and a profound sense of powerlessness welled up in Ryder's heart.

If anyone else had said that, Ryder would have given them a good whack with the butt of his rifle to bring them to their senses. But if it was Arthur Sterling… he might need to wake himself up.

"Major, we have no choice but to trust him."

Over the channel, Sergeant McTavish said in a low voice, his tone even carrying a hint of fanatical superstition, "The Sterling family never jokes like this. If the young master says that river is the red line, then it is the red line."

For this Scottish soldier, Arthur's words were more effective than the gospel of God.

Ryder took a deep breath.

He glanced back at the approaching German pursuers, then at the silent stone bridge in the darkness.

They actually had no choice at all.

"Okay...okay!"

Ryder gritted his teeth, as if he were gambling with his very soul. "The decision is yours, Major Sterling. If we die, I'll haunt Sterling Castle and complain to your ancestors!"

"Don't worry, my ancestors had a bad temper, and they didn't welcome complaining ghosts."

Arthur waved his hand sharply, like a cavalry commander issuing orders, cutting off all hesitation.

"So, put aside your fears and step on the gas!"

"We'll march across like we're parading troops down Regent Street in London! I guarantee these Germans won't dare step across the river, even if they grind their teeth to dust!"

……

Rumbling--

Upon receiving the order, the Verdun accelerated again. Although the Renault engine was already groaning under the strain, the 31-ton steel behemoth charged toward the stone arch bridge like an angry rhinoceros under the pounding of pilot Miller's large feet.

Less than 500 meters behind them, the German pursuers were already clearly visible.

Those were several Sd.Kfz. 231 eight-wheeled heavy armored reconnaissance vehicles from the 1st Armored Division's reconnaissance battalion. Their long bodies moved nimbly through the mud, and the muzzles of their 20mm autocannons spat deadly flames.

Clang!

A burst of tracer rounds slammed into the rear armor of the "Alsace," sending up blinding sparks.

"Sir! They're catching up! 400 meters away!" the rear guard machine gunner shouted in terror. "They're going to catch us off guard!"

"Ignore them! Charge across the bridge!"

Arthur didn't even turn his head; his gaze was fixed on the stone arch bridge that was getting closer and closer in the night.

That is the dividing line between life and death.

Three hundred meters. Two hundred meters. One hundred meters.

"Hurry up!"

Miller roared, and the tank tracks slammed heavily onto the stone pavement at the bridgehead. The tank jolted violently and then surged onto the arched bridge surface.

Everyone's heart was in their throat.

Major Ryder instinctively closed his eyes, awaiting the artillery fire from the opposite bank. If Arthur's intelligence was wrong, if the so-called "Sterling family channel" was just a joke, and if the Germans happened to have prepared 88mm guns, then this tank, which was completely immobile on the bridge, would turn into a huge fireball in the next second.

however--

One second. Two seconds. Three seconds.

The expected explosion did not occur.

There was no whistling of the 88mm gun, no muffled thud of the anti-tank rifle, and not even a single shot from a Mauser rifle.

On the north bank of the A River, there are only rain-soaked bushes and a desolate emptiness.

As Arthur said, it was a vacuum.

"Really...really nobody's here?!" Ryder's eyes snapped open as he stared at the empty opposite bank, feeling his blood run cold. "God...how did you do that? How did you know they didn't surround us?"

"Because some orders carry more weight than bullets."

Arthur replied casually, a hint of mockery flashing in his eyes that only he himself understood.

The convoy swept across the bridge like a whirlwind. As the last truck, laden with wounded soldiers, swayed and wobbled across the center line of the bridge, the red warning sign that had been flashing on Arthur's RTS tactical map suddenly and abruptly stopped.

This scene appears extremely dramatic in reality, even absurd.

The German eight-wheeled armored reconnaissance vehicles that had been pursuing the fiercest had already reached the bridgehead on the south bank of the A River. Their wheels screeched as they rubbed against the stone pavement, and then, just meters from the bridgehead, they came to an abrupt stop as if they had crashed into an invisible wall of air.

Inside the lead German armored vehicle, a commander angrily climbed out of the turret, ripped off his headset and slammed it onto the armor plating. He then brandished his fist at the British convoy, which was only a hundred meters away, his mouth clearly uttering some highly simplistic German vocabulary.

But he never drove the bridge.

Behind him, more and more German vehicles—half-tracks, motorcycles, and even Panzer III tanks that had caught up—came to a stop on the south bank of the A River.

They crowded together on the narrow riverside road, engines roaring and headlights flashing, but not a single vehicle dared to put its tracks on the bridge.

The Halt Order from the Supreme Command, like Moses parting the sea, abruptly severed the momentum of this torrent of steel.

Military orders are absolute.

Even with the prey right in front of them, even if they could just step on the gas and rush over, these soldiers, whose Prussian discipline was ingrained in their bones, chose to obey the orders of that madman in Berlin.

……

"parking."

After the convoy had completely crossed the bridge and established a temporary circular defensive line on a high ground on the north bank, Arthur gave the order.

"Are we...we're safe?"

Sergeant McTavish poked his head out of the turret, staring incredulously at the chaotic yet stagnant sea of ​​German vehicle lights on the opposite bank of the river. "Are these Germans out of their minds? Why aren't they chasing us?"

"Because the red light is on, Sergeant."

Arthur jumped off the tank, straightened the collar of his somewhat disheveled leather jacket, took out the silver cigarette case from his pocket, and finally lit the cigar he had been holding back all the way.

He took a deep breath, the pungent smoke swirling in his mouth, washing away all his fatigue.

"Now, it's our turn to put some pressure on them."

Arthur turned to the sapper behind him: "Go, find a plank. A big one."

"What are you doing, sir? Blowing up the bridge?"

"No, blowing up the bridge would be too wasteful. It's still useful." Arthur exhaled a smoke ring, a mischievous grin spreading across his face. "I want to leave Guderian a souvenir."

A few minutes later.

A piece of rotten wood, salvaged from the door panel of an abandoned farmhouse, was carried to the north side of the bridge.

Arthur found a brush, dipped it in a bucket of white camouflage paint, and on the dark door panel, in standard Gothic German, wrote two lines of large, crooked, yet highly provocative characters:

【VERKEHRSKONTROLLE】(Traffic Control)

[BRITISCHES HOHEITSGEBIET. EINTRITT VERBOTEN.——AS] (British territory ahead. No entry without permission.——AS)

"Plant it at the head of the bridge," Arthur said, pointing to the center of the bridge, "right in the face of the Germans."

The two sappers looked at the sign, then at the menacing German tanks on the opposite bank of the river a few dozen meters away, and swallowed hard. This was like pulling the tiger's tail.

But seeing Arthur's stern gaze, they had no choice but to grit their teeth and rush forward, forcefully planting the sign into the dirt.

But this is not enough.

This level of humiliation was not enough for this unit, which had just escaped death, to vent the pent-up emotions in their hearts.

Arthur turned around and his gaze fell on Lieutenant Jeanne, whose face was covered in soot but who was still full of energy.

"Lieutenant."

"Yes, Major!"

"Is your ship 'Joan of Arc' equipped with a high-powered propaganda loudspeaker?"

"Yes! It was originally intended to be used to shout when those damned Belgians surrendered." Jeanne patted the device on the side of the turret that looked like a giant trumpet flower. "Although the sound quality is like a broken gong, the power is definitely enough to be heard within a two-kilometer radius."

"very good."

Arthur walked over, pulled a microphone out of the car, and held it to the lips of the French female knight.

"Now, let's put your French women's strengths to good use."

Arthur pointed to the German troops on the other side of the river, who were restless because they had been forcibly ordered to stop.

"Please give my regards to these guests who have come from afar. And ask them if they are afraid to cross the bridge because they didn't buy tickets."

Lieutenant Jeanne de Valois paused for a moment.

Then, her emerald green eyes turned wild. The fiery passion and romance unique to French women, along with the anger that had been suppressed for so long in this desperate war, found a perfect outlet at that moment.

She grabbed the microphone, jumped onto the tank turret, one foot on the 75mm cannon shield, the other hand on her hip, her posture like the Statue of Liberty standing on the barricades—though covered in oil, she was breathtakingly beautiful.

Sizzle—Hey! Hey!

The ear-piercing sound of electricity instantly exploded on both banks of the A River, drowning out the idling sound of German tank engines on the opposite bank.

On the opposite bank of the river, the German tank crews who were climbing out of their turrets to smoke and curse were startled by the sudden noise and looked up at the north bank.

Immediately afterwards, a sharp, high-pitched, and mocking female voice, amplified through the high-powered loudspeaker, slapped the faces of all the officers and soldiers of the 1st Armored Division like a resounding slap in the face on this cold, rainy night:

"Hey! Hans across the river! Can you hear me?"

"I am Lieutenant Jeanne! I extend my greetings on behalf of the 1st Armored Division of France!"

"What are you doing standing there? Admiring the scenery? Or have your proud German tracks rusted in our mud?"

Jeanne became more and more excited as she spoke, and she even made a highly insulting gesture towards the opposite bank.

"Or is your gas tank empty? Did you fill it with Bavarian swill?"

"Why aren't you coming over? Hmm?"

"Is it because that bearded corporal who only knows how to draw postcards didn't pay you the bridge toll?"

"It's alright! Our commander, Major Sterling, said—he's treating!"

"Come here! You cowards! I'm standing right here! Hit me in the chest!"

This barrage of sarcastic remarks, coupled with her incredibly piercing voice, instantly ignited the powder keg on the south bank of the A River.

The German frontline commanders, who were already furious at being forced to halt their advance, completely lost their temper.

All notions of "ceasefire" and "preserving strength" were thrown to the back of their minds at that moment. No Prussian soldier with even a modicum of courage could tolerate a French woman standing atop a tank, pointing her finger at them and calling them cowards.

"Open fire! Shut that crazy woman up!"

A German company commander on the opposite bank roared hysterically.

Boom! Boom! Rat-a-tat-tat!

The machine guns on several Panzer IV tanks and half-tracks opened fire almost simultaneously.

Shells whistled across the river, exploding into water columns several meters high on the riverbank in front of the "Joan of Arc." Machine gun bullets struck the stone bridge railings, sending pebbles flying.

However, since they had not received the order to "attack," they could only keep firing in place, and no vehicle dared to launch an attack.

"Hahaha! Missed! Is this what you call a Germanic sharpshooter?"

Instead of taking refuge in the turret, Jeanne laughed even more wildly. Her hair flew wildly in the firelight, making her look like a madwoman.

"Looks like you ate too much pickled cabbage last night; your hands are shaking like an old lady with Parkinson's!"

Sergeant McTavish huddled in the foxhole, watching the woman laughing wildly amidst the gunfire, then glancing at Arthur standing to the side with a smile, as if he were watching an opera.

He took out the oil-stained silk handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the liquid on his forehead, which he couldn't tell was either rain or cold sweat.

"They're insane...they're all fucking insane."

The veteran who had fought in the Battle of the Somme muttered to himself, but the corners of his mouth couldn't help but turn up wildly, revealing his yellowed teeth.

"But...fighting with these lunatics is fucking awesome!"

Arthur glanced at the impotent, furious artillery fire on the opposite bank and gently flicked away the ashes from his cigarette.

On the RTS map, the red arrow representing the German army remains firmly planted on the south bank of the Ark River, becoming even more chaotic due to the congestion ahead.

The red light in Ahe is on.

For Guderian and his armored army, this was going to be a long, frustrating, and humiliating night.

For Arthur and his "Asylum Task Force," this death game of dancing on the edge of a knife has only just begun.