The Twilight of Empire: Starting from Dunkirk

Chapter 2 The Gentlemen's War

The basement was quiet.

That still-smoking cigarette butt was a silent warning, making everyone hold their breath.

Without a word, the sergeant deftly tossed his heavy Enfield rifle behind him—this old-fashioned single-shot weapon was practically useless in the stairwell. Then, he grabbed his Thompson M1928 submachine gun from his chest; in this narrow, soon-to-be-bloodied space, it was the best broom he could use.

That was American-made. In an era when most British army companies weren't even equipped with light machine guns, this automatic weapon, jokingly called the "Chicago Typewriter," was practically a jewel in the crown. Clearly, this was a "privileged toy" that the Sterling family used their financial power to equip the young master's guard with.

Sergeant McTavish's fingers gripped the handle tightly, his knuckles turning a sickly pale white from excessive force.

The question—"How did you know?"—circled in his throat before being swallowed down with a mouthful of dust-laden saliva.

In this damned place, curiosity is a superfluous luxury. Only the dead care about "why," while the living only care about "what to do."

Arthur ignored the stares of the crowd. He tilted his head back slightly, his grey-blue eyes fixed on the cobweb- and dust-covered ceiling, peering through the thick oak floorboards, watching a silent film that only he could see.

On his retina, gray and white lines outlined the panoramic view upstairs.

The red StuG III still stood motionless in the courtyard, the commander smoking his second cigarette. But the threat didn't just come from outside.

In the lobby on the first floor, four red outlines are moving.

Those were four German infantrymen. Their movements were languid and casual, clearly indicating that they believed the area had been cleared out, or at least was no longer a threat.

Suddenly, he looked at Sergeant McTavish.

He didn't speak, but slowly raised his right hand, which was covered in a dirty glove, and made a standard tactical gesture:

Hold up four fingers.

Then he pointed to the ceiling.

"Four." His lips moved silently, without uttering a sound, only the shape of his mouth.

The soldiers looked at each other in bewilderment.

"Four...four?" Jenkins' face turned deathly pale upon seeing the gesture. His eyes widened as he silently asked with his lips.

Arthur ignored the recruits' fear. He continued his precise "battle report" using hand gestures, his movements crisp and decisive, displaying the confidence characteristic of a commander.

He held up two fingers, pointing to the restaurant on his left, making a "search" gesture, and then a smile appeared on his lips.

Two of them were busy at the restaurant's sideboard, stuffing the restaurant's silver candlesticks and knives into their backpacks.

That's incredibly ill-mannered; it seems Prussian military discipline is nothing special after all.

Immediately afterwards, he extended a finger, pointed towards the main entrance, and made a gesture as if he were setting up a machine gun, with his hands loosely clenched.

This series of pantomime-like gestures was so specific and so certain that Sergeant McTavish couldn't help but frown.

The sergeant stared intently at Arthur, his eyes blazing with anger and suspicion. Unable to question him aloud, he could only press closer to Arthur with his greasy face, silently roaring with an extremely fierce gaze.

It basically means: Are you crazy? You didn't even look up! How could you possibly know what they're doing? Is this another one of your drunken hallucinations?

The previous accurate warning was indeed chilling, but this "battle report" that resembles a pantomime has shattered everyone's expectations.

No one dared to move, nor dared to voice any doubt, but that didn't stop them from conducting a trial in absentia with their eyes: This guy is a hysterical madman. He's giving wild orders, and we're all going to die because of his delusions.

Arthur understood the sergeant's and everyone else's expressions. He neither explained nor got angry.

He simply and slowly withdrew his gaze.

The casual banter disappeared, replaced by a chilling feeling that sent shivers down one's spine.

Arthur's finger moved slowly, finally stopping in a spot slightly to the left of the center of the room, pointing directly at the somewhat moldy ceiling.

That's the key point.

From his omniscient perspective, the fourth German soldier was kneeling there, bayonet in hand, trying to pry open the floor. And on his waist was a distinctive long-handled grenade.

Arthur made a "press down" gesture, then a "explode" gesture.

The meaning is clear: if we don't take him down, we'll be blown to bits.

The German may have heard something underground, or he may have just been cautious and wanted to throw a potato masher down to test the waters.

"What?" McTavish was shocked and instinctively raised his submachine gun to fire at the ceiling.

"Don't move, Sergeant. You don't know his exact location."

Arthur stopped him.

He drew the Webley Mk VI revolver fully from its holster. The .455 caliber behemoth was heavy and sturdy, its barrel gleaming with a cold, blued sheen. In the British Army, it was usually a "gentleman's cane" used by officers as a decorative accessory, but at close range, its stopping power was enough to smash a bull's skull.

Arthur held the gun in one hand, his arm outstretched, the muzzle slightly raised, pointing at the spot on the ceiling that he couldn't see as marked, but which flashed a deadly red light in the RTS view.

The red silhouette was kneeling there, leaning forward, intently prying at the floor.

This is the terrifying aspect of the RTS perspective: one-way transparency. Absolute first-strike advantage.

"Sir..." McTavish looked at Arthur's almost trembling arm, his throat dry, his eyes questioning, "Are you sure?"

Arthur did not answer. He simply tilted his head slightly, as if listening intently to some melody that only he could hear.

In his mind, the red dot had stopped what it was doing, as if it had pried open a crack and was reaching for the grenade at its waist.

Right now.

"This kind of behavior would be prosecuted as trespassing in London."

Arthur finally whispered something, then pulled the trigger.

boom!

Webley's revolver emitted a thunderous roar. The muzzle flash was particularly glaring in the dim basement, and the immense recoil caused Arthur's arm to jerk upwards.

The heavy lead bullet pierced the rotten wooden plank instantly, sending wood chips flying.

Immediately afterwards, a muffled, chilling scream came from above.

"ah--!!"

Then came the sound of a heavy body slamming onto the floor, the dull thud of a sack full of flesh and bones being thrown to the ground.

The soldiers in the basement huddled together in fear.

Before they could react, a loud explosion suddenly came from above.

boom!

That was the sound of an M24 grenade exploding.

Clearly, the unfortunate German was hit the instant he pulled the pin on the grenade. The grenade landed beside him, or worse, was crushed beneath his body.

The shockwave from the explosion sent dust flying from the ceiling, like a light snowfall. A few drops of warm, dark red liquid even seeped from the cracks in the wooden planks, landing beside Arthur's dusty military boots.

Chaotic shouts and running sounds came from upstairs; the remaining Germans were frantically searching for cover.

"Damn it! Hans ist tot! Von unten! (Hans is dead! He came up from below!)"

The exclamation in German came through the floor clearly.

The basement was deathly silent.

Everyone stared in disbelief at Arthur standing in the center.

Sergeant McTavish's mouth was slightly open, his eyes looking as if he were looking at a war god who had just descended to earth, or a demon who had crawled out of hell.

The young Private Jenkins even forgot to breathe.

Blind firing. Through the ceiling. One shot, deadly. It even triggered a grenade explosion.

This is something no human could do. It requires X-ray vision, or... some forgotten war instinct that flows only in this centuries-old aristocratic lineage?

Arthur slowly lowered his arms.

He gently blew away the wisp of smoke rising from the muzzle of the gun, his movement as elegant as blowing out candles on a birthday cake.

Despite the tingling numbness in his wrist from the recoil and the ringing in his ears from the gunshot, his expression remained an infuriating calm.

"As I said," Arthur turned around and holstered the smoking revolver, "it's very impolite."

The silence has ended.

Arthur stopped gesturing. At this distance, the muffled explosion spoke louder than any words to the German: someone was downstairs, and in a bad mood.

He glanced at Sergeant McTavish, who was still in a daze, and raised an eyebrow.

"Sergeant, stop standing there. The explosion will confuse them for about ten seconds. This is our only chance."

Arthur picked up the baton he had thrown away earlier; it was a gift from his father, its head inlaid with a silver lion's head. He wiped the dust off with a handkerchief, then gripped it tightly.

"Now, lads, fix bayonets."

Arthur's voice was no longer languid as before, but carried a metallic coldness, like a drawn saber.

"Since the guests don't know how to knock, we have to go up and teach them what the Cold Creek Guard's hospitality is all about."

Sergeant McTavish suddenly shuddered.

Looking at the officer in front of him, whose face was pale and uniform was filthy, but whose eyes were frighteningly bright, a long-lost soldier's passion was ignited in his chest.

This isn't some pretty face who only drinks brandy. This one shot shattered all the doubts.

"Yes, sir!" the sergeant roared, his voice carrying a hint of respect for the first time.

"All hands on deck! Fix bayonets! We're going to throw a party for the Germans!"

Click, click. Four bayonets were jammed into the muzzles of the Enfield rifles, their cold glint flashing in the dim basement.

Arthur looked at the soldiers who had regained their souls, a faint smile playing on his lips.

From his omniscient perspective, the three red dots upstairs were in a state of extreme chaos and panic. The commander of the assault gun was also frantically scrambling back into the turret.

At this moment, the roles of hunter and prey were reversed.

"Come with me."

Lord Arthur Sterling kicked open the side door leading to the adjacent wine cellar and strode into the darkness.