SWDnovel Chapter 66 The North Gate is Closed, the South Wall Must Be Breached
Chapter 66 The North Gate is Closed, the South Wall Must Be Breached
Chapter 66 The North Gate is Closed, the South Wall Must Be Breached (Two chapters combined into one, please recommend, vote, and donate)
The moment Arthur uttered those words, it was as if an invisible barrier unfolded on the breakwater, completely separating that world, reeking of engine oil and the stench of power struggles, from these warriors who had crawled out of hell.
Everyone heard those words, from the wounded soldiers to the impeccably dressed Royal Navy captain standing before them.
Captain Eubank's face froze; his ingratiating smile looked like a mask cracking in the cold wind, appearing both comical and ugly.
He clearly hadn't expected that this young master Sterling, known as a "playboy," would refuse a ticket to heaven at such a critical moment, for the sake of that damned, worthless chivalry.
"Young Master—you—you must be joking, right?"
Eubank stammered, looking at him as if he were a madman.
"This is the last ship! If we don't leave, this place will become a German firing range in two hours!"
Arthur ignored him.
He turned around, his back to the destroyer that represented their survival, and faced his men, covered in mud, their eyes filled with hope that had just been ignited but quickly dimmed.
The sea breeze ruffled the hem of his trench coat, making it rustle.
Under everyone's watchful eyes, Arthur lit a cigarette.
The sound of a match striking phosphorus was particularly jarring in the deathly still night.
In reality, Arthur's mind was engaged in a frantic deduction.
Was refusing to board the ship really for the sake of so-called "aristocratic dignity" or for the sake of those French people?
While this factor plays a role, it's not the whole story.
You could even say that it's just a sugar coating on the surface.
Arthur squinted through the smoke at the overcrowded "Shikari." In his eyes, it wasn't a life-saving ark, but a transport ship full of "losers."
Yes, if he were to step on the heads of French soldiers to get on the ship now, he could indeed survive.
But in what capacity will he return?
A survivor who narrowly escaped death? A "lucky one" who became the talk of the town in London's social circles?
At most, to appease the Sterling family, the king would award him a meager Distinguished Service Medal (DSO), then confine him to a sinecure and assign him a sinecure for the rest of his life.
Back then, those who had long known the truth, hiding in safe houses in Dover or London—especially opportunistic chameleons like Eubank—would secretly swirl their crystal brandy glasses, their seemingly admiring but actually venomous smiles mocking, "Look, that's the Duke of Stirling's offspring. When it comes to running away, he's faster than a greyhound from Naples."
At that moment, the prestige he had built with gunpowder, blood, and a week of tireless work would crumble like a sandcastle at high tide. A commander who abandoned his men for a ticket? In the eyes of his soldiers, he would no longer be a god, but an expired ticket, destined to be despised.
But this is merely a matter of saving face.
What truly made Arthur decide to take his own life, what brought him to a halt on the brink of life and death, was the frantically flashing green beacon on his retina—the Cold Creek Guard.
That's more than just the designation of an infantry regiment.
That's a living fossil of the British Army, history printed on the back of the pound sterling, it's "Nuli"
The "Secundus," the elite guard. In this army where blue blood flows and lineage trumps merit, the Coldstream Guard is a massive, living political symbol. Behind every bayonet lies a seat in the House of Lords, the nerves of the Privy Council, and even a direct line to the dining table at Buckingham Palace.
Now, this incredibly valuable political bargaining chip is being discarded by the panicked London command and forgotten in the quagmire of Furney.
For the past few days, he had been closely monitoring the situation on the last line of defense at Dunkirk. The entire First Army—including his nominal parent regiment, the Cold Creek Guards—was locked in a fierce battle with Guderian's other two aces in the east: the 1st and 2nd Panzer Divisions.
At that time, Arthur was preparing to fight in urban warfare against the 10th Armored Division. He was barely alive and had no time to spare to even glance at his comrades who were destined to be surrounded.
At that point in time, compassion was a luxury; it could be deadly.
But now it's different.
He was already standing on the breakwater, one foot even already inside the safety zone. When survival is no longer the only anxiety, ambition begins to grow wildly like weeds.
As Operation Dynamo neared its end, the fate of these troops, forgotten by the British Empire on the Furney Line, was almost sealed: either die in battle or become forced laborers in Third Reich prisoner-of-war camps. Unless—unless a madman familiar with the terrain, possessing vehicles, and utterly audacious, could point them to a way out of this dead end.
What if that person is him?
Arthur's heart pounded violently at this crazy idea.
if----
Arthur took a deep drag of his cigarette, the nicotine exploding in his lungs, making his mind clearer than ever before.
What if—he could really lead this "Imperial Guard," which had been disbanded from London, back to fight his way back?
What if he could, like Moses who parted the Red Sea, tear a gap in Guderian's steel torrent and bring these thousands of the British Empire's most elite veterans back to their homeland from a seemingly hopeless encirclement?
So, the moment his military boots stepped onto the concrete of Dover Harbor, he was no longer just the "Sterling scion" whose only merit was his lineage.
He will be the savior of these thousands of battle-hardened veterans, their "king." In this turbulent time, he will hold a formidable armed force that is significant even on British soil.
This is a very clear calculation:
The Royal Navy and the Royal Air Force, needless to say, were essentially the royalists' private domain, the backyard of these traditional blue-blooded aristocrats. More than 80 percent of the generals in those two branches had either had afternoon tea at the Duke of Stirling's estate or owed the family favors.
The army, however, was the watchdog of Parliament, a tool in the House of Commons' hands to check the aristocracy.
But Cold Creek Guards are different. They are an anomaly in the army, the sharpest, gold-plated fang in the mouth of a watchdog.
If he could master this fang—
At that time, whether it's Churchill with a cigar in his mouth or Chamberlain waving an umbrella, whether it's the bureaucratic War Department or the noisy Parliament, anyone who wants to touch Arthur Sterling will have to think twice about those thousands of bayonets that have actually seen blood in hell.
It's a big gamble.
The chips on the table are his only life in this world.
The winning factor is—supreme authority.
If he dares to reach into that fire pit to fish out the drowning people, he will not only save a few thousand lives, but also gain an unshakeable voice at the core of power in the British Empire for the next fifty years.
"Captain Eubank."
Arthur flicked away the ash from his cigarette, turned around, and wore that signature, enigmatic smile.
How many more people can this ship hold?
Eubank paused for a moment, then subconsciously replied, "If we squeeze in—we could probably fit another four or five hundred people. If the deck is full."
"very good."
Arthur nodded, then pointed to Major General Jensen and the group of wounded French soldiers.
"Let them board the ship."
The order was like a bombshell, exploding on the breakwater.
The French soldiers looked up in shock, unable to believe their ears. Captain Eubank's mouth gaped open, as if he had swallowed a dead fly.
"What did you say? Let them?" Eubank pointed at the Frenchmen, his voice shrill. "Young master, are you insane? These frogs—"
"If you don't want a detailed report on the Admiralty's desk tomorrow morning detailing how the captain of the 'Shikari' violated wartime regulations and callously refused entry to an Allied division commander, then shut your damn mouth and lower the gangplank."
Or perhaps—
Arthur took a step forward, his chest almost touching the tips of the sailors' bayonets. He ignored the row of dark gun muzzles, simply raising his finger and flicking the cold barrel with an almost contemptuous gesture, producing a crisp "ding".
"Have your men fire. Right here, shoot this way."
He pointed to his heart, a chillingly maniacal smile playing on his lips: "Then throw me into the sea to feed the fish. But I suggest you pray before you pull the trigger—pray that no one will expose that you personally murdered the Duke of Sterling's second son, pray that the Sterling family's wrath will only burn your future, not send your whole family to hell."
"No! I won't leave!"
An old and stubborn voice interrupted Arthur.
Major General Rangsen pushed aside the soldiers who were helping him and stumbled towards Arthur. The old general, whose left arm was tightly slinged to his chest with thick bandages and the blood seeping out had turned black, was now flushed red and was gripping Arthur's collar tightly with his good right hand.
"Arthur! Are you humiliating me?"
Jean-Jacques roared, "I am the commander of the 12th Motorized Division! My soldiers died in Berg, my brothers are buried in the ruins! You want me to abandon you and cowardly climb onto the British ship to escape? Absolutely not! I will stay with you! I will die on the battlefield!"
The surrounding French soldiers also had tears in their eyes, and they shouted, "We won't leave! We want to stay with our officers!"
Looking at the excited old man before him, Arthur felt a complex mix of emotions welling up inside him.
This is the spirit of old-school soldiers. Even in dire straits, they value honor more than life itself.
But honors can't put food on the table, much less be used to turn the tide.
Arthur reached out and gently but firmly pried open the fingers of the man gripping his collar. Then, he placed both hands on the old general's trembling shoulders, leaned close to his ear, and said in a voice only the two of them could hear, "General, look at me. Listen to me."
Arthur's voice was deep and seductive: "If you stay and die with me in the mud pit of Flne, then the 12th Motorized Division will be completely wiped out. No one will know what you did in Burgh, no one will know how you held off Guderian for three whole days. History is written by the living, General."
Sen was stunned.
Arthur did not loosen his grip; instead, he increased the pressure and threw out the "political lie" he had carefully woven.
"France needs someone to go back alive, General. Someone needs to tell the world that the 12th Division did not surrender, France did not surrender, and you fought to the last moment."
Arthur paused, his gaze deepening. "Moreover, I suspect the Allied high command now believes that this glorious Battle of Berg was commanded by you, an experienced and tenacious French general. After all, who would believe that a British playboy could command a French division?"
Sen's pupils contracted sharply. He stared at Arthur in shock, his lips moving as if he wanted to say something.
"So let them continue to think that way."
Arthur smiled. "Go back, receive the flowers, the honors, and become the hero who saved the Allied flank. This isn't just for you, but for your soldiers. If they knew this was a unit commanded by a French hero, your soldiers would be treated much better in England than locked up in prisoner-of-war camps like stray dogs."
Of course, Arthur was thinking further ahead.
He certainly didn't intend to give away the credit for nothing; he was investing.
At this juncture, France was on the verge of collapse. If Major General Sen were to return to London with the glory of the "Battle of Berg," he would become the sole tangible representative of the French spirit of resistance.
Compared to Charles de Gaulle, who would face setbacks everywhere in London, held only the rank of brigadier general, and was as arrogant as a rooster, Major General Jeanson, who had combat experience and the remnants of the 12th Division as his base, was clearly more qualified to raise the banner of "Free France".
If Sen were to become the leader of the government-in-exile, what would that mean for Arthur Sterling, who had "saved his life" and "supported" him?
This means that the Sterling family will have an unshakeable ally in future France. This is worth a thousand times more than a medal worn on one's chest.
"Arthur—you—" Sen's voice trembled as he looked at the young man before him, as if seeing him clearly for the first time. "You're putting all the credit on me? Do you know what that means?"
"I don't need that empty title, General. At least not now."
Arthur reached out and straightened the old man's askew military cap, his tone meaningful: "I just need you to remember that when you stand in the spotlight representing France one day, don't forget who polished your boots."
"Take the wounded with you. Leave some seeds for the 12th Division, and leave a different option for the future of France."
As Major General Mori looked at the young British officer before him, tears finally welled up in his eyes.
He got it.
This is not just a retreat; it is a political entrustment, and even more so, a mutual support among comrades.
The old general took a deep breath and wiped away his tears with his sleeve. He turned to the still hesitant French soldiers and roared with all his might, "12th Division, listen up! Wounded first! Abandon heavy weapons! Everyone—board the ships!"
The boardwalk began to get crowded.
Although Captain Eubank looked reluctant, under Arthur's cold gaze, he had no choice but to order the sailors to begin receiving the stinking French wounded soldiers.
Thus began a loading operation that defied the laws of physics.
Despite his obvious pain, Captain Eubank displayed astonishing efficiency under Arthur's threat to "throw you into the sea to feed the fish."
In order to accommodate the thousand or so wounded and disabled soldiers brought by Rear Admiral Mori, this S-class destroyer is undergoing a crazy "weight loss surgery".
"Drop the depth charges! All of them! We need to free up weight!"
"Forget about the spare anchor! Cut the cable!"
"No walkways on deck! It's too crowded! Stand! Everyone stand! Anyone who dares to sit down will be kicked overboard!"
The shouts of the sailors rose and fell.
Heavy depth charges and ammunition boxes were pushed into the sea like dumplings being dropped into boiling water, creating huge splashes. As the load was reduced and personnel poured in, the destroyer's waterline not only did not rise, but was actually pushed almost below the surface due to severe overloading.
The entire ship was like a steel sardine can crammed full of people, about to burst. Every inch of deck, every corridor, even the base of the B turret was covered with people. The wounded were piled up in the boiler room and ammunition depot, the strong stench of sweat, blood, and engine oil mixed together, making it suffocating even before setting sail.
Looking at the rickety "Noah's Ark" that seemed ready to capsize at any moment, Arthur turned away indifferently.
That wasn't the ship he wanted.
His gaze fell upon the group of people who remained on the shore.
There were 400 people standing there.
Besides the original 162 veterans who had crawled out of hell, there were more than two hundred stragglers who, in the chaos just now, were either swayed by Arthur's "real men don't queue" or simply thought that the sinking ship was unreliable, and thus decided to entrust their lives to this young British man.
This is no longer a regular army.
This was a thoroughly mixed brigade, or more accurately, a group of heavily armed bandits.
Standing at the forefront were Sergeant McTavish and his gang of Scottish lunatics. They were all carrying MP40 submachine guns that they had pried off German corpses, and their waists were laden with M24 grenades that looked like grapes.
The group of guys who had been following him since he woke up now had eyes that were more ferocious than wolves.
Next to him is Major Ryder.
The officer from the Norfolk Regiment was now commanding dozens of scattered British staff officers and communications soldiers. Although they had lost their radio, they were the brains of the unit. Ryder, with a half-smoked cigar dangling from his mouth, was loading ammunition into a Bren gun he'd picked up from somewhere—clearly, he was fed up with this endless escape.
Behind them were Lieutenant Jeanne and several mechanics with grime-covered faces. They were conducting final checks on the half-track vehicles. Behind them were even two Bofors 40mm anti-aircraft gun tractors, barely functional and still salvaged from the beach. For this convoy desperately needing firepower, they were invaluable.
What moved Arthur the most were the more than one hundred French suicide squad members on the flank of his team.
They refused Major General Rensen's order to board the ship. This group of Frenchmen, some with only one arm or their heads wrapped in bandages, carried a motley collection of weapons—MAS-36 rifles, British Enfields, and even captured German MG34 machine guns.
Their reason for staying was simple: on that crowded British warship, they were merely a burden and refugees.
But here, under the command of this man named Arthur Sterling, they are the Avengers.
That's exactly half a battalion's worth of soldiers.
Although their clothes were haphazard and their weapons varied, and although they looked like a group of beggars who had crawled out of a garbage dump, the murderous aura that clung to Arthur when those 400 pairs of eyes focused on him was sharper than that of an entire division of Boy Scouts.
"Sir." McTavish still held the gleaming MP40 in his hand. He glanced at the destroyer that was weighing anchor, then at the dark inland, a bloodthirsty smile spreading across his face. "That ship looks like it's about to sink. I think the air here is fresher."
Arthur smiled.
He jumped onto the hood of a half-track vehicle, looking down at his pack of wolves.
"This ship is too small to contain our ambitions. Nor can it contain our souls."
Indeed, the ship was already fully loaded, and its waterline was terrifyingly deep; it could no longer hold a single soul.
"That's the door for commoners, that's the door for sardines. That's the door for those who are going back to London to collect their welfare and then brag in the pubs about how they escaped like rats."
Arthur pointed to the sea behind him, then suddenly pointed southeast—the direction of Flörn, the direction of the raging gunfire, a death trap that everyone avoided like the plague. But under Arthur's finger, it seemed not to be hell, but a promised land flowing with milk and honey: "Brothers, the northern gate is closed."
"Then how do we get there?" someone asked loudly.
Arthur pointed to the dark sea behind him, and then to the destroyer that was slowly reeling in its mooring lines.
"Since the sea has rejected us, then we will conquer the land."
"Let's break down the south wall!"
"A real man doesn't queue for the last train. A real man only uses the VIP lane—even if that lane has to be carved out by tank treads and the bones of Germans!"
"We're going to Ferney to pick up our brothers, to pick up the Coldstream Guards who were sentenced to death by those old men in London! And then—"
Arthur looked around: "We'll drive back to Calais, back to Brunswick, even back to Cherbourg! We'll show the Germans that they don't have the teeth to drive us into the sea!"
A brief silence.
Immediately following was a low, guttural roar, like the growl of a wild beast.
"Damn it!" McTavish slammed the bolt back. "I knew following the young master wouldn't end well, but this is what makes it so exhilarating!"
"VIP access—ha, I like that term." Major Ryder spat out the end of his cigar, looking every bit like a gambler. "Then let's go bang our heads against the wall."
Jeanne didn't say anything. She simply climbed into the driver's seat silently and turned the key.
boom-
The half-track's engine roared, as if in response to Arthur's declaration.
03: 50.
The destroyer "Shikari" finally untied the last cable.
Like a satiated beast, it slowly departed from the breakwater in the darkness before dawn. The deck was packed with a dense crowd of survivors from the French 12th Division.
Captain Eubank stood on the bridge, watching the figure on the shore grow smaller and smaller, his feelings a complex mix. He thought Arthur was an incomprehensible madman, yet he also felt a vague sense of awe—and, of course, he was mostly relieved that he didn't have to go to his death with this madman.
On the aft deck.
Major General Mori pushed away the guards who tried to help him up and stood straight.
The sea breeze tousled his gray hair, but he still tried his best to maintain the most solemn military posture.
ashore.
Arthur stood at the very front of the convoy, his trench coat fluttering in the sea breeze.
Behind him was a Frankenstein-style convoy that would drive any logistics officer mad but would make any frontline commander drool.
Aside from the twenty-odd Citroën trucks and half-tracks that had their engines running and were ready to go, this vast graveyard of supplies abandoned by the British Expeditionary Force gave Arthur his final gift.
Those were two steel behemoths.
Two Matilda II infantry tanks.
This was the miracle that Jeanne and her mechanics created in the last half hour. On this beach littered with abandoned equipment, they found the two "Land Queens" that had been abandoned by the crew due to running out of fuel or track failure.
After the mechanics' rough but effective repairs, at this moment, the two 27-ton steel lumps are once again emitting black smoke.
If the French B1Bis heavy tanks left behind by Arthur in Burgh were "prehistoric behemoths" clad in heavy armor, with fierce firepower but slow reaction time, then Matilda before them was an arrogant and tough "battlefield queen" wearing a heavy crinoline.
Arthur patted the cold, cast turret, a hint of appreciation for his own equipment in his eyes.
Compared to the B1's anti-human design, which had the cannon tucked into its crotch and required the commander to command, load, and aim simultaneously, this was a true tank.
Although the Matilda lacked the B1's formidable 75mm cannon, it possessed advantages that the B1 lacked: a wide three-man turret and equally devastating armor.
Its frontal armor, which is 78 millimeters thick—thicker than the B1—is a "bug" of this era.
Arthur knew very well that at this point in time, the German armored forces under Guderian's command, whether the Panzer III tanks as the main force or the Panzer IV tanks as support, could only sigh in the face of Matilda.
The German 37mm anti-tank gun could only make a sound when it hit the Matilda, and was jokingly called a "door knocker" by the British army; even the short-barreled 75mm howitzer of the Panzer IV could at most break its tracks, but could not penetrate its core armor at all.
Unless the Germans leveled out their damn 88mm anti-aircraft gun, the Matilda, like the B1, was invincible on this battlefield.
"As for this 2-pounder cannon—"
Arthur stroked the somewhat slender-looking cannon barrel.
Although this 40mm cannon did not have high-explosive shells and was just a "toothpick" that could only make holes, it was like it was naked in front of German tanks, whether it was the Panzer III or the Panzer IV.
Unfortunately, this thing is a bit slow, with a top speed of only 24 kilometers per hour, about the same as the old lady selling popsicles in the park.
But it's tough enough! As long as it's blocking the road, even if Guderian himself drove a tank there, he'd have to go around it!
With these two "walls of sighs" paving the way, the so-called "breaking through the south wall" will no longer be an empty rhetoric, but will soon become a physical shattering.
On either side of the tank, there were five or six small and agile Bren gun carriers. These tracked vehicles, which resembled covered cars, were loaded with Bren light machine guns and Boyce anti-tank guns scavenged from the beach.
"Who would have thought?"
Arthur patted the rough armor plating of the Matilda tank beside him, feeling the vibrations from the diesel engine, and smiled at the dumbfounded McTavish, saying, "Lord Gott may have run away, but he was quite generous, leaving us such a generous farewell gift."
Finally, he glanced at the Shikari destroyer as it sailed away, and at Rear Admiral Shimonori on the deck.
The two gazed at each other from afar, separated by the ever-widening sea and the boundary between life and death.
"Live! Arthur!"
Major General Sen's hoarse voice pierced the waves; it was the old Frenchman's final words: "See you in London! I'll have the champagne chilled for you!"
After saying this, the old general slowly raised his only remaining right hand and gave Arthur on the shore a perfect French military salute.
That was a tribute to a knight.
On the deck, hundreds of French soldiers also raised their hands.
This scene, so out of place on the dirty, chaotic, and betrayal-ridden Dunkirk beach, was both incredibly poignant and deeply moving.
Arthur stood there, watching the ship sail away into the distance.
He did not salute.
He simply took out the half-pack of crumpled cigarettes from his pocket, pulled one out, and waved it in the direction of the ship, as if bidding farewell to an old friend.
"You too, veteran."
Arthur said softly.
He then put the cigarette in his mouth but didn't light it. He turned around abruptly, the hem of his trench coat drawing a sharp arc in the air.
The warmth of parting vanished from his face in an instant, replaced by a chilling coldness and murderous intent.
He strode over to the lead half-track vehicle, yanked open the door, and jumped in.
"McTavish".
"Yes, sir."
"Target: Flne." Arthur stared at the green island surrounded by red markers on the map, his eyes gleaming with the flames of ambition.
"Tell everyone, don't skimp on bullets, don't skimp on fuel."
"Let's go create some traffic jams for Guderian."
[Note: You have left the Dunkirk evacuation operation]
[Current Strategic Objective Update: Crimson Flne]
Objective: Rescue the trapped main force of the 1st Army (Cold Creek Guards Regiment)
With a piercing sound of gears meshing, this convoy of heroes, turning their backs on the road to survival that everyone yearns for, resolutely rushed into the darkness before dawn.
Behind them, the destroyer, laden with French troops, disappeared into the fog. Just five minutes after it vanished, a heavy German shell roared in, hitting precisely the section of the breakwater where Arthur had just stood, blasting the wooden walkway into a shower of flying debris.
If it was five minutes ago —
But there are no "what ifs" on the battlefield.
There are only choices, and the price to pay for those choices.
Arthur Sterling made his choice. Now, he's going to demand his reward from the world.
If you enjoyed this chapter, please recommend it, give it a monthly pass, or a reward. Today I have two long chapters, totaling 16,000 words, which is quite a big update.
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