The Twilight of Empire: Starting from Dunkirk

Chapter 8 Pride and Prejudice

1940年5月29日，凌晨05:30。德军第19装甲军，大德意志步兵团前线指挥部，距圣埃卢瓦修道院2.5公里。

The air was filled with the smell of burning high-octane gasoline, mixed with the aroma of freshly opened canned meat, and the smell of hot engine oil that only comes from the operation of precision machinery.

An SdKfz 251/6 armored command vehicle, equipped with a frame antenna, was parked by the roadside. The camouflage netting on its roof was meticulously arranged, even featuring a few fresh branches. Around it, several Panzer III Ausf. F tanks, providing escort, lazily rotated their turrets, their dark gun muzzles pointing towards the still-smoking city of Azhebrew in the distance.

Major Heinrich von Stransky, or Baron, stood in the open rear compartment of the command vehicle.

He wore a well-tailored gray field uniform, the Iron Cross he had earned in the Polish campaign gleaming in the sunlight. Unlike the nouveau riche SS soldiers who rolled up their sleeves, he wore deerskin gloves and was scrutinizing the area ahead with a high-powered Zeiss telescope.

As a career military officer from a Prussian Junker aristocratic family, Major Stransky possessed an almost obsessive aesthetic appreciation for war. He believed that war should be like a surgical operation—precise, swift, and imbued with a logical beauty.

But the farce that began in the neighborhood this morning made him feel physically uncomfortable.

"Is this the intelligence you brought back?"

Strunzsky put down his binoculars, turned around, and looked at the few fleeing soldiers standing under the vehicle.

These elite soldiers, originally belonging to the 3rd Company of the Großdeutschland Regiment, now looked like a bunch of pigs that had just escaped from a slaughterhouse. They had dropped their rifles, their gas masks dangling around their necks, and the sergeant leading the group had even lost his helmet, his face covered in soot and burn marks.

"Yes... sir..." the sergeant gasped, his eyes still etched with lingering terror. "That was hell! The British... the British had two whole battalions! Maybe a whole regiment!"

"Two battalions?"

Strunzsky's voice was soft, but carried a chilling undertone.

Just yesterday, May 28, while Arthur and his few comrades were still on their way, King Leopold III of Belgium officially announced unconditional surrender.

This news came like a hammer blow, shattering the last barrier on the Allied northern flank. At that moment, countless infantry divisions of Army Group B were filling the vacuum left by the Belgian army like a tidal wave, frantically squeezing the last passage of the British Expeditionary Force to Dunkirk.

"In this ruin, where supply lines have been cut off and the city has been bombed twice by Stukas, in a time of despair where the Belgians have already knelt down, you're telling me there are two battalions of highly motivated British Guards hiding here?"

"Absolutely true, sir!" the sergeant pleaded urgently, as if to mask his own cowardice. "They used some kind of large-scale chemical fog! The whole block turned white instantly! And then...and then they came rushing out from all directions! Their marksmanship is terrifying; they could see us even in the fog! We're surrounded! I even heard them shouting; they said they were going to cut off our retreat!"

Strunzsky frowned.

The logic doesn't hold up.

According to air force reconnaissance, the main British force in Azheim had already collapsed yesterday. At most, there was less than a company of remnants remaining in the direction of the monastery.

How could two battalions suddenly appear?

Moreover, deliberately releasing large-scale smoke to obscure one's own vision during a defensive battle? This tactic not only violates German military manuals but also British military manuals, and even basic human intelligence.

unless……

Strunzsky's gaze fell on the location of the monastery on the map, and then he glanced at the attack route of the 10th Panzer Division that was advancing rapidly behind him.

An idea took shape in his rigorously trained staff academy-trained mind.

"I see."

Strunzsky gave a disdainful sneer, a smile brimming with the arrogance of "I've seen it all."

"This is not a counterattack, Sergeant. This is the British 'gecko tail removal'."

He drew a circle around the location of the monastery using red and blue pencils.

"That commander—whoever he was—was very clever, or rather, very cunning. He knew they were finished after Belgium surrendered, so he deliberately created a large-scale smokescreen and bluffed by shouting out the false intelligence of 'two battalions,' with only one purpose: to create chaos, delay our advance, and thus cover their main force's escape towards Dunkirk."

If Arthur were here, he would definitely applaud the major. Because his speculation was perfectly logical—logical for a normal soldier.

Unfortunately, Arthur was a madman.

"Pass on the order."

Strunzsky put his gloves back on and resumed his Prussian arrogance.

"The 3rd Company shall halt its attack and establish a defensive line on the spot to prevent the British from resorting to desperate measures. Meanwhile..."

He picked up the telephone receiver leading to the artillery positions behind the lines.

"Calling in Army Group Artillery. Coordinates D4-7. I need a full-scale saturation attack. Since the British like to hide in smoke, let the 150mm shells send them on their way."

"Also, notify the Air Force liaison officer. If there are any spare Stukas nearby, I wouldn't mind asking them to come and clean up the mess again."

Strunzsky stared at the wisp of white smoke in the distance, which had not yet completely dissipated, his eyes filled with mockery.

"Two battalions? Ha. I'd love to see if we can piece together a platoon of corpses from that pile of rubble after the shelling ends."

……

Meanwhile, the Saint-Élois Monastery.

Unbeknownst to Arthur, an arrogant German major had just used his "intelligence" to give him a precious twenty minutes of respite.

But he knew something else: the gates of hell were temporarily closed, but the windows that allowed them to escape were about to be welded shut.

"My goodness, look at this watch! Glashütte Original!"

"Rat" O'Neill crouched beside the body of a German lieutenant, a blood-stained watch in his hand, his eyes gleaming. This habitual thief from London's East End was putting his professional skills to use—cleaning up the battlefield.

"These boots are nice too, they're genuine leather. They're much more comfortable than our terribly hard-soled boots."

Around him, other British soldiers were also having a celebration.

"And this, a pure silver lighter. These Germans are really rich, unlike us, whose pockets are filled with nothing but rotten tobacco and IOUs."

Jenkins was stuffing a slightly melted piece of chocolate into his mouth, making his mouth all black.

They felt safe. At least temporarily. Last night's crushing defeat of the Germans had given these routed soldiers a false sense of security, a feeling that they were invincible. Some even began to plan whether they could take advantage of the morning fog and sneak back to Dunkirk along the trails.

They ransacked the Germans' pockets, stealing cigarettes, chocolates, and Luger pistols. One man even opened a bottle of French red wine he'd found in a half-track and was chugging it down.

"Sir! We've struck it rich!"

Sergeant McTavish walked over carrying two intact MG34 machine guns, his neck draped with ammunition belts, looking like a Scottish Rambo.

"That German machine gun is a work of art! And that half-track, even though it's overturned, they can still pump out the fuel. We have ammunition, fuel, and the rations those sons of bitches left behind!"

The sergeant's face was flushed, and he looked at Arthur with the eyes of a fanatical believer looking at his god.

"Even if you asked me to attack Berlin right now, I'd give it a try!"

Arthur did not laugh.

He stood on the fountain steps, still clutching his command cane. His gaze pierced through the jubilant crowd, through the lingering smoke of battle, and landed on the cold RTS map in his mind.

There, the red Grim Reaper is approaching.

Although Strunzsky's order to bombard had not yet been given, the huge red arrow representing the main force of the 10th Panzer Division had already cut off all roads leading from the monastery to Dunkirk like a greedy python.

Worse still, a bright red pop-up window suddenly appeared in my mind's RTS system interface, like a sadistic game administrator (GM) posting a pinned death sentence in the server-wide chat:

[A historic moment has been triggered: Belgian troops surrendered unconditionally at 4:00 AM yesterday (May 28).]

[Campaign Status Update: Allied northern flank defenses are now classified as "missing." German Army Group B is rapidly filling the vacuum.]

This means that yesterday's rumors have become today's tombstones. The north, which theoretically still had a chance to break out, has now completely turned into a gaping maw.

time is limited.

Stop grinning like an idiot, Sergeant.

Arthur said coldly, his voice not loud, but it instantly extinguished McTavish's enthusiasm.

"If you think you can go fight in Berlin just because you've stolen a few watches and picked up a couple of machine guns, you'd better dig a hole for yourself now, so you won't be blown up and your body can't be found later."

Arthur turned around and strode toward the map table that he had kicked over and was now putting back on.

"Jeanne! Bring me the map. Everyone, officers and sergeants, get over here!"

A few minutes later.

The atmosphere in the dilapidated hall of the monastery was so heavy it was almost palpable.

Arthur spread Jeanne's detailed French military map on the table, holding a red and blue pencil he had captured from the Germans.

"The situation is very simple."

Arthur drew a circle around the location of the monastery, and then drew a thick red line behind it, blocking all escape routes.

"We're surrounded. Completely surrounded."

"Belgium surrendered yesterday." Arthur looked at the stunned crowd. "You all understand without me translating into Scottish slang. This means our northern flank—the flank leading to Dunkirk—was completely destroyed yesterday."

Although the intelligence arrived a full 24 hours late, much like the British postal system, it didn't stop Arthur from imagining the grand spectacle there.

After a night of frantic patching, the gap in the northern defenses is now more congested than the Piccadilly Line of the London Underground during Monday morning rush hour in later years.

The only difference is that the people crammed into that tin can are not office workers rushing to the bank with umbrellas and briefcases, but dozens of heavily armed infantry divisions from Army Group B, who are eager to find someone to fight with bayonets.

He raised his head and scanned the people in front of him.

Sergeant McTavish, Lieutenant Jeanne, and several surviving British company and platoon leaders. Among them was Captain Gordon, who had been intimidated by Arthur earlier—he was the highest-ranking officer besides Arthur.

Captain Gordon's face was grim. The victory he had just won back had given him a little confidence, but Arthur's words had brought him back to reality.

"Then...what do we do?" Captain Gordon stammered. "The Belgians surrendered? Then we're surrounded by Germans to the north? We're finished..."

"Let's break out in a split-up!" another lieutenant suggested. "Westward? Towards the coast?"

"To the west lies the swamp, and Guderian's flank forces are deployed there," Arthur coldly rejected.

silence.

A deathly silence.

The joy of victory vanished instantly. Everyone realized that they had beaten a fly in a tin can, but that didn't change the fact that the tin can was being crushed by a hydraulic press.

"So..." Gordon's eyes were somewhat vacant, "We're doomed? Should we... surrender?"

"surrender?"

Arthur raised an eyebrow, a dangerous glint flashing in his grey-blue eyes.

"When I just executed that lieutenant who wanted to desert, didn't you see it clearly? In my dictionary, there is no surrender, only death or victory."

"Then what do you suggest we do!" Captain Gordon finally broke down, roaring, "We're surrounded by Germans! We have no heavy weapons, no support! Where can we go? Fly over?"

Arthur wasn't angry this time.

He slowly took out the exquisite silver cigarette case from his pocket—a relic of Colonel Harrison—from his pocket, pulled out a cigarette, and lit it.

Pale blue smoke rose above the map table.

"Who said we were going to retreat?"

Arthur took a drag of his cigarette and pointed in a direction on the map—a direction that left everyone speechless.

That's the East. That's the direction of the German advance. That's the heartland of Germany.

"Let's move forward."

This statement was like a bombshell, causing an uproar among the crowd.

"What?!"

Lieutenant Jeanne was the first to cry out, her amber eyes wide open as if she were looking at a madwoman.

"Forward? That's the German rear! That's the direction Guderian's armored groups came from! Are you suggesting we go to Berlin for dinner?"

Captain Gordon was so frightened that he took two steps back: "You're insane...you're completely insane! This is suicide! I'd rather die on the way to Dunkirk than do this!"

Even Sergeant McTavish, who had always blindly followed orders, gaped, his face filled with disbelief: "Lord... are you serious? There are thousands upon thousands of tanks over there..."

Despite the doubts of the crowd, Arthur remained calm. He flicked his cigarette ash as if he were in his own living room.

Is he lying? No. Is he gambling? Of course.

From his God's-eye view, the large red net representing death, though tight, revealed an extremely strange vacuum at its deepest point, directly behind the German attack spearhead.

This was a structural flaw unique to the "Blitzkrieg" tactics in the early stages of World War II.

Guderian's armored forces advanced too quickly, so quickly that even their own infantry and logistics could not keep up.

They welded the tank throttles to the bottom plate, making them so fast that even their own motorized infantry could only watch in the dust, not to mention the logistics teams driving mules and supplies dozens of kilometers away.

How fast was this speed? So fast that a comical battlefield spectacle occurred: the French raised white flags, wanting to surrender, but the German tanks were too lazy to stop and accept them.

For this group of speeders eager to reach the seaside, stopping to take in prisoners would be a desecration of gasoline and time. They simply waved them away like flies, letting the group of Frenchmen with their hands raised walk east to the POW camp—"Get out of the way, don't block my charging tracks!"

Those invincible armored divisions were like sharp spearheads, piercing deep into the body of France. But between the spearhead and the handle behind it—the logistical supply line—there was a huge, fatal disconnect.

There were no tanks, no heavy artillery, only unsuspecting truck convoys, mule and horse transport teams, and long, fragile supply lines.

"This is what they call 'the darkest place is under the lamp,' ladies and gentlemen."

Arthur pointed his cane at the area on the map that everyone considered a dead zone.

"It is empty precisely because it is illogical."

He raised his head, his gaze sharp as a knife, sweeping across every thoughtful face.

"The Germans are a sophisticated machine. Their tank crews are thinking about how to get to the sea, their infantry are thinking about how to clear us out. All their eyes are on our backside—Dunkirk. Nobody's looking at their own throat."

Arthur began to weave his lies—or rather, to explain his cheat in a way they could understand.

"I know the Germans like I know my own hunting dogs. I studied in Berlin, and I know what those Prussian staff officers are thinking."

"In their pursuit of speed, the advance troops and logistical support units became separated. Right here—"

He drew a winding curve on the map, which was a country dirt road southeast of Azhebrew.

"There's a gap of about three miles here. That's their blind spot. If we get through it, we can break out of the encirclement, get a fishbone stuck in their throat, and then make a big detour to get ahead of them to the A River line."

"But..." Jeanne hesitated, "this is just speculation. What if there are German reserves there?"

"Speculation?"

Arthur gave a cold laugh. He walked up to Jeanne and looked down at the stubborn French woman.

"Lieutenant, do you think I 'guessed' that half-track and managed to blow it up in the smoke just now? Do you think I 'guessed' the only reason you guys survived that winery?"

That rhetorical question is very powerful.

Jeanne was speechless. She recalled all the "miracles" Arthur had performed along the way. This man's intuition was as accurate as if the Virgin Mary had descended to earth.

Arthur gave her no chance to catch her breath. He turned and stared at Sergeant McTavish.

"Sergeant, answer me."

Arthur's voice became seductive.

"Would you rather be like a rat, waiting in these damn ruins to be blown to pieces by a Stuka, or crushed into mincemeat by a tank on the way back?"

"still……"

Arthur pointed eastward.

"...Or should we come with me and turn the German supply lines upside down? Steal their trucks, eat their sausages, burn their fuel, and then go home like true Guards heroes?"

McTavish's Adam's apple bobbed.

As a veteran, he knew all too well what "the rear" meant. It was a road to death. And the road the lord pointed out, though it sounded insane, possessed a wild beauty of survival against all odds.

Most importantly, this aristocratic madman hasn't missed a single one so far.

Click.

The sergeant pulled the bolt of his Thompson submachine gun.

He spat out a mouthful of bloody saliva, revealing his teeth, which were stained yellow from tobacco.

"Fuck Dunkirk."

The sergeant said with a sinister grin.

"Just lead the way, sir. We're going to die anyway, so we might as well stab the Germans in the back."

With a leader in place, the remaining soldiers began to waver.

"Rat" O'Neal touched the gold watch in his pocket, his eyes gleaming: "I heard the German supply convoy has a lot of good stuff...maybe even some French brandy?"

Private Miller tightened the ammunition box on his back and nodded honestly.

Corporal Williams silently wiped the rifle scope.

Only Captain Gordon remained standing there, his face full of struggle.

"This...this disobeys the orders of the Expeditionary Force Headquarters..."

"The headquarters no longer exists, Gordon," Arthur interrupted him coldly. "Now, I'm in charge here."

He glanced at the watch on his wrist—a German officer's watch that he had stolen.

On the RTS map, the Stuka bombers summoned by Strunzsky have entered their dive flight path.

"We have five minutes to evacuate. In five minutes, this place will be razed to the ground."

Arthur put on his helmet, picked up the MP40, and tucked his cane under his arm.

"Take all the ammunition and food. Dump all unnecessary heavy equipment—except those two MG34s. We're going to march lightly."

He walked to the door and glanced back at the soldiers who were still hesitating.

"Those who want to live, follow me. Those who want to stay and become targets for the Germans, do as you please."

After saying that, he walked into the smoke-filled street without looking back.

Sergeant McTavish kicked Jenkins in the backside: "Get moving! You blockhead! Follow the Lord!"

Jeanne gritted her teeth, slung the heavy radio over her shoulder, and hurried after him. As she passed Captain Gordon, she coldly tossed out a sentence:

"Good luck, Captain. I hope you see Churchill in heaven."

Captain Gordon watched the departing figures, then looked at the piercing sound of the Jericho Horn echoing in the distance.

Even the most foolish person will make the right choice when faced with death.

"Wait! Wait for me!"

The captain grabbed his pistol and chased after them in a disheveled state.

……

Ten minutes later.

As the first heavy bomb whistled down onto the roof of the monastery, turning the ancient building into rubble, Arthur's "Ghost Army" had already vanished into the rainforest trails southeast of Azhebrook.

They broke out of the encirclement. Heading east. Heading towards the throat of the Germans.