novelSusiti Chapter 115 Miracles Beyond Dunkirk
Chapter 115 Miracles Beyond Dunkirk
Chapter 115 Miracles Beyond Dunkirk
21: 00.
Divine punishment.
Arthur saw it.
Even in the pitch-black night, a red flash suddenly appeared far above the horizon.
The light was so intense that it instantly illuminated the low-hanging clouds and turned the entire sea into daylight.
A few seconds of deathly silence.
This is the time difference between the speed of light and the speed of sound.
then.
Ugh!!
It was a howling sound that tore the heavens and the earth apart.
The sound didn't resemble a cannonball; it was more like a fully loaded express train speeding overhead.
The air was compressed by the huge projectile, emitting a painful shriek.
This is a 406mm (16-inch) high-explosive grenade weighing 879 kg.
The destructive projectiles did not land near the warehouse. Carrying millions of joules of kinetic energy, they produced a sonic boom that sent chills down Arthur's spine, flying directly over his head and crashing into German positions several kilometers behind the warehouse.
Boom!!!
The tremors of the earth caused the accumulated dust in the warehouse to fall in a flurry.
Arthur raised his binoculars.
At that moment, his pupils suddenly contracted.
It's not twenty kilometers, nor is it ten kilometers.
In the dissipating fog of war, illuminated by a red flash, two enormous, mountain-like steel silhouettes lay silently anchored on the sea less than 5 kilometers from the coastline.
That iconic "all-forward main gun turret" layout. That imposing, castle-like bridge.
That was a Nelson-class battleship.
The thick darkness of night and the rising fog from the sea provided the best camouflage for this steel fleet.
Even the omniscient system on Arthur's retina was deceived by this veil—until the two sides closed to a mere five kilometers, and as they broke radio silence and opened fire, the green dots representing friendly forces suddenly burst forth.
Arthur failed to notice their existence, and the Germans were even less likely to notice.
The German troops, who were gathered at the dock and focused all their attention on the obstacles and the forward warehouse firing positions, had no idea that death had silently crept up behind them.
When the sea breeze dispersed the mist, and those majestic figures, like floating castles on the sea, were revealed in the moonlight, it was all too late.
This is not a fair fight.
It was a loaded 16-inch revolver, coldly and firmly pressed against the German's forehead.
[Alert: Strong friendly signal detected.]
[The new formation has been added to the command structure: Royal Navy Task Force "H".]
[Fire support authorization granted to: HMS Rodney and HMS Nelson.]
On Arthur's retina, the blue area representing the sea was instantly activated.
A golden "Fire Support Group" icon lights up, beneath which is a dazzling list of destroyers and cruisers.
Flagship: HMS Rodney
[Fellow ship: HMS Nelson (battleship)]
Heavy cruisers: HMS Norfolk, HMS Suffolk
Light cruisers: HMS Southampton, HMS Manchester
HMS Sheffield
[Destroyer Squadron: 6 Tribal-class destroyers, 8 J/K/N-class destroyers]
Arthur's breath almost stopped.
This morning, a single Aretosa-class light cruiser that came to visit caused the German armored forces a great deal of trouble with its few "weak" 6-inch (152 mm) main guns.
The Germans were horrified to discover that the army's so-called "heavy artillery," which they were so proud of, was a joke in the face of the navy. A 152mm naval high-explosive shell had twice the explosive charge of an army 150mm howitzer, but its rate of fire was three times that of the latter.
The firepower of that one light cruiser was enough to force Rommel's tank group to retreat three kilometers.
And now?
Arthur felt a chill run down his spine as he stared at the dense blue dots on the RTS interface.
What's anchored on the sea now isn't just one ship, but an entire task force.
Two battleships with 16-inch guns, three Southampton-class light cruisers with 12 6-inch rapid-fire main guns, plus a dozen or so fully armed destroyers.
This is no longer "firepower support".
The combined fire from the sides of these dozens of warships was enough to turn every inch of Le Havre harbor upside down in half an hour, and incidentally blast the earthworms underground into ashes.
This was a force that could have been used to fight a decisive battle with the Italian Navy or to hunt down the Bismarck in the Atlantic, but now it was being used extravagantly against a mere few thousand German soldiers.
This is not war.
This is called bullying.
I've never fought such an extravagant battle before.
Arthur turned his head sharply and looked towards the front door.
The German StuG III assault guns were clearly stunned by the deafening roar coming from behind them.
They stopped ramming, and the commander peered out in horror, trying to figure out what was happening behind them—their assembly point, which was now a sea of fire.
But they had no idea that death was right in front of them.
"It's not over yet! Stop spacing out!" Arthur jumped off the box and rushed back to the corner.
Jeanne was holding the radio, listening in shock to the static coming from her headphones.
Arthur snatched the microphone, pressed his finger firmly against the call button, and spoke rapidly: "Calling the Rodney! Calling the Rodney! This is Colonel Arthur Sterling!"
"I have seen your ship! I repeat, I have seen your ship!"
A thick-voiced London accent, tinged with surprise, came from the radio: "Colonel Sterling? We're about to begin the second round of firing. Take cover—"
But then, the radio station went silent.
Immediately afterward, the previously businesslike London accent changed completely. The arrogance in his voice diminished, replaced by a perfectly measured obsequiousness and familiarity reserved only for the most powerful and influential, like a butler greeting his young master at the manor gate after a hunting trip. Even the way he addressed him changed: "Young Master Stirling? Oh, my goodness, it's you personally directing things."
"Cease fire immediately!" Arthur roared into the microphone, his voice drowning out the noise outside. "Your main guns are too powerful! We're in H-7! Less than 400 meters from the target! That's a dangerous distance! One of your 16-inch shells will blow us all up!"
Hearing this, the captain's voice betrayed a hint of tension, fearing that the shelling had actually injured this important figure: "I'm so sorry, sir. The Admiralty specifically instructed us that if Earl Sterling knew that we, a bunch of uncouth sailors, had thrown shells at your head, the Navy's shipbuilding budget for next quarter would likely be blocked in the House of Commons."
"Since you're in command, we'll have to change our tactics. We're about to begin the second round of firing. For your safety, please keep your head down. Even a tiny scratch would be an unbearable loss for the Royal Navy."
Arthur glanced at the glaringly red German forward positions on the RTS map: "Stop firing with your primary guns, switch to secondary guns! Follow my orders!"
"All ships, secondary guns ready! Destroyers, 4.7-inch (120mm) guns ready!"
"Coordinates: X—Ray45, Yankee22! Enemy armored units and infantry clusters!"
"Fire all missiles!"
There was a half-second silence on the other end of the radio.
Immediately following was the man's excited voice: "We'll arrange it for you, Colonel. Secondary gun crew, adjust the sights to the left by 0.5! Rapid fire!"
The next second, the sea surface boiled.
This time, there was no earth-shattering 16-inch bang. Instead, there was a dense, torrential "bang bang bang" sound.
The three twin 152mm (6-inch) secondary guns on the broadside of the HMS Rodney, along with the main guns of the two escorting Southampton-class cruisers and the 120mm guns of the four outer destroyers, opened fire at the same time.
Hundreds of medium-caliber high-explosive shells wove a red net of death in the air, raining down on the open space in front of the warehouse.
Boom boom boom boom boom boom boom—!!
The No. 3 assault gun at the warehouse gate didn't even have time to reverse.
There was no phase transition, nor were there exaggerated impact craters.
But it is even more cruel.
This 20-ton steel monster seemed to have been sucked into a giant crusher.
A dozen 152mm high-explosive shells and dozens of 120mm artillery shells simultaneously covered the area within seconds. The flames from the explosions merged into one, forming a wall of fire several meters high.
The assault gun was instantly dismantled.
Its tracks were blown off and sent flying into the air; the superstructure was flattened by a dense barrage of shrapnel; then, a 152mm semi-armor-piercing shell blew its turret off like a can being opened.
Around the assault gun, the entire company of German infantry didn't even have time to scream. Under the barrage of hundreds of rounds per minute, every inch of the area was turned upside down. Concrete, human bodies, steel, and dirt were all mixed together.
In an instant, the entire area in front of the warehouse was cleared away.
The once crowded German positions are now nothing but scorched earth billowing black smoke and countless burning wrecks.
Arthur released the microphone and let out a long sigh of relief.
He peered through the dusty window at the hellish scene outside, a cold smile curving his lips.
This is the precision strike enhanced by the system.
This is what the Royal Navy should be like.
"Tell everyone," Arthur turned around, looking at his dumbfounded subordinates behind him, "you can pack your bags now. The Royal Navy is here to pick us up."
"9
21:02, inside the warehouse.
The massive tremor caused dust to fall like a blizzard.
All the gunfire stopped.
Both the British and the surviving Germans were so shocked by this sudden divine punishment that they lost their ability to speak.
Around those piles of craters, the German offensive collapsed instantly.
This isn't a matter of morale; it's a biological instinct—when God starts rolling the dice, mortals dare not breathe.
As the roar of the last 152mm secondary guns faded into the air, the inferno in front of the warehouse finally fell silent.
Only the burning wreckage continued to crackle and pop.
A few seconds later.
"Buzz—buzz—buzz" The radio indicator light in Jeanne's arms flashed again.
This time, the London accent no longer rushed through the firing data, nor did it inquire about correcting the coordinates.
"Target area confirmed and cleared."
"As you can see, the dust on it has been swept away."
Then, the radio broadcast paused for a moment, as if someone was flipping through papers to confirm the list.
Then, a hint of amusement crept into the voice, the composure of a victor: "This is HMS Rodney, Royal Navy."
"Calling the 51st Highland Division, calling the Coldstream Guards Regiment—"
"And, especially Colonel Arthur Sterling."
"We apologize for being a little late; traffic on the strait is a bit congested. We heard some people wanted to treat you to German tea?"
Arthur strode to the radio station.
He took the microphone from Jeanne and pressed the call button firmly with his finger.
"This is Sterling. Captain Dalrymp, you are indeed late." Arthur's voice was hoarse and cold. "Five minutes later, you would only be able to erect a monument for us on the ruins of Le Havre."
A few soft laughs came from the other end of the radio, and in the background, one could vaguely hear the busy commands from the bridge and the roar of the loaders operating the ammunition hoists.
"We're here now, young master. Now, please report your coordinates and the boundary of friendly forces. Our main guns have already set the barrage parameters with this as the center."
"in addition----"
The voice on the other end became solemn and deep: "The Home Fleet Command has asked me to convey to you: The British Empire has not forgotten you. The King has not forgotten you."
77
"Welcome home, brave warriors of the 51st Division."
That last sentence was the most crucial, instantly piercing through the defenses of every soldier present.
The resentment "forgotten" in Dunkirk, the despair of breaking out of Saint-Valéry, and the exhaustion of holding out in Le Havre were all released at this moment.
Sergeant McTavish's eyes instantly welled up with tears.
He ripped off his helmet and slammed it to the ground, letting out a long-suppressed roar: "Fuck the Germans!"
The navy is here! We have ships now!
"Long live the King! God bless our King!" The cheers that erupted from the warehouse even drowned out the explosions outside.
The wounded struggled to sit up, tears glistening in their eyes.
Major Ryder leaned against the wall, laughing and panting, and finally lowered the submachine gun in his hand that had been fired but had no power.
But Arthur did not cheer.
From RTS's perspective, his composure made him the only iceberg in this frenzied atmosphere.
Go home? It's still a long way off.
This shell was just a prelude; the Germans were still outside.
"Captain, that's enough of the pleasantries."
Arthur did not bask in the other person's flattery.
He stared at the RTS tactical map on his retina. On the map, the once glaringly red front line area had turned into a gray representing "empty space," but further away, a dense cluster of red dots was regrouping in the outer ruins—that was the main force of Guderian and Rommel. They had only been intimidated, or rather, had not kept up completely. They occupied most of the space in this port city.
"The ants in front of us have been cleared, but I need more space." Arthur pressed the microphone and issued new instructions at lightning speed: "My troops will hold out in area H-7. But the German follow-up armored formations are regrouping in a depth of 1000 to 5000 meters."
"I want to drive them out of this port, out of this city."
His voice turned chilling: "Reactivate the main guns. I want you to conduct creeping barrage fire."
Barrage).
"Starting line: 1000 meters ahead. Bullet spread speed: 100 meters per minute. Continue pushing until the edge of the city."
"A barrage of gunfire? In the city?" Captain Dalrymp's voice on the radio sounded surprised. "Sir, do you know what that means? That dense barrage of 16-inch main guns would flatten half of Le Havre. There might even be French civilians there—"
"Then wipe it out." Arthur interrupted him rudely, his voice devoid of any pity. "The French have all fled. Now, the only people left in that city are Germans who want to kill us."
"I'm taking my men to the beach. I don't want to see any standing buildings or standing Germans along the route ahead of me."
Arthur looked up through the broken skylight at the dark silhouette of the city in the distance: "Teach Guderian a lesson, Captain. Show him what real heavy firepower is."
"Is it possible?"
There was a two-second silence.
Then came Captain Dalrymp's affirmative reply: "As you wish, sir. We will sweep the lawn for you. We suggest your soldiers cover their ears."
"First-round shot, arriving in ten seconds."
21:05, behind the German front lines, the command position of the 7th Panzer Division.
Guderian had never seen anything like it.
As the founder of "Blitzkrieg," he was accustomed to calling in Stuka bombers to dive-bomb the enemy and to using 150mm or 210mm heavy artillery to crush the enemy's will.
But tonight, the roles have reversed.
Moreover, this time what fell on his head was not a few hundred kilograms of aerial bomb, but a naval high-explosive bomb weighing nearly a ton.
Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom!
On the sea, the nine 406mm main guns of the USS Rodney, along with the 152mm main guns of the two escorting Southampton-class cruisers, began a meticulously choreographed grand chorus. This was not chaotic shelling; it was the ultimate in violent aesthetics.
Guderian stood on the half-track command vehicle, watching as a company of German infantry had just moved into a four-story building a kilometer ahead, preparing to use it as a base for the attack. A 16-inch shell landed.
There was no collapse process.
The building seemed to have been wiped away in an instant by an invisible giant hand.
A massive fireball soared into the air, even surpassing the height of the surrounding crane wreckage. The shockwave from the explosion created a visible, transparent wall in the air, sweeping away everything within a two-hundred-meter radius.
The soldiers hiding behind the wall, the trucks parked by the roadside, and the machine gun positions that had been set up—all of them disappeared.
All that remained on the ground was a deep crater tens of meters in diameter, surrounded by unrecognizable fragments.
"My God—" The chief of staff beside him turned pale, his hand holding the binoculars falling to his sides. "Our soldiers are being slaughtered."
Indeed, German tank armor was like paper in front of battleship main guns!
Boom! ...
Another salvo.
This time, the impact point began to extend forward. A series of massive explosions followed, and the earth trembled as if a magnitude 7 earthquake had struck.
Every shell that landed created an absolute death vacuum on the German positions.
That was a true dimensional reduction attack.
Rommel rushed over and grabbed Guderian's arm. The "Desert Fox's" face was now filled with terror and determination: "Heinz! Retreat! We must retreat immediately!"
"We can't send armored divisions to fight battleships! That's suicide!"
"That Sterling is using naval firepower to launch a counter-offensive! If we don't leave soon, our advance force will be wiped out!"
Guderian gritted his teeth, staring at the port area ahead engulfed in orange-red flames.
He was not reconciled.
It was so close. If he had just half an hour more, he could have crushed that damned British force.
But reason told him that Rommel was right.
In the absence of air or sea superiority, engaging in a direct confrontation with the Royal Navy's capital ships near the coastline would be the greatest dereliction of duty for a military commander.
"Order the troops—" Guderian's voice seemed to be squeezed from his chest: "Order the 7th Panzer Division and the 7th Motorized Infantry Regiment—to retreat across the board."
"Withdraw from the port area! Retreat 15 kilometers! Out of range of British naval guns!"
He took one last look at the sea of fire, his eyes filled with hatred: "Sterling—you've won. But the war isn't over yet."
21:20, British positions.
The navy's barrage was like a giant broom, sweeping a wide path three hundred meters ahead of the British forces.
The previously dense German firing positions were instantly silenced under the cover of naval guns.
Arthur Sterling stood at the warehouse entrance. He straightened his stained trench coat and put his helmet back on. He glanced at the RTS interface. The red dots representing the German forces were receding like the tide, replaced by large blue concentric circles representing the naval gunnery's firing range.
"This is the space you wanted," Arthur said to himself.
Then, he turned around and looked at the group of soldiers behind him who were already unable to contain themselves.
"Gentlemen," Arthur's voice boomed through the loudspeakers, calm yet carrying a chilling killing intent, "the Germans wanted to invite us for tea, but it seems they're leaving now."
"As a matter of courtesy, we should see them off."
He drew his Webley revolver and pointed it at the burning ruins ahead: "Fix bayonets."
C
"Using Xu Jin's barrage as cover, advance across the board."
"We're going to kick these bastards out of our yard."
Click—click—hundreds of bayonets were attached to the muzzles of guns.
The sound of metal clashing was particularly jarring in the firelight.
"Piper!" Sergeant McTavish roared.
A bagpiper from the Black Guard stepped forward.
Although his face was covered in blood and his uniform was tattered, the bagpipes were still polished to a shine.
He took a deep breath and puffed out his cheeks.
Waaah—waaah—
The stirring yet desolate sound of Scottish bagpipes echoed across the battlefield.
That's Highland Laddie.
This is the bugle call of the 51st Heights Division.
"Scotland! Forward!"
"For the King!"
Amidst the deafening roar of naval guns and the melodious sound of bagpipes, eight hundred British soldiers launched a counter-attack.
Instead of forming neat ranks like in World War I, they moved nimbly through the ruins in groups of three.
By this time, the German army had completely collapsed.
The German infantrymen, still reeling from the naval gunfire, had just peeked out from their bunkers when they saw this group of ghostly British soldiers.
It was a hellish sight: in the background were towering pillars of fire created by battleship gunfire, and in the foreground were Highlanders charging up with gleaming bayonets, accompanied by the sound of bagpipes.
"Kill!!!" Before a German machine gunner could even turn his gun, Major Ryder fired a burst of bullets that pierced his chest.
Immediately afterwards, several Scottish soldiers rushed into the German foxholes.
The dull thud of a bayonet piercing flesh. The crisp sound of an entrenching tool shattering a skull.
This is the final reckoning.
The anger that had been suppressed all day was finally released at this moment.
Arthur did not rush to the front.
He stood atop a pile of ruins, coldly observing everything.
On the RTS interface, the British army's front line is advancing rapidly, like a sharp knife cutting through butter.
But he was very clear-headed.
This is just a counterattack, not an attack.
He couldn't let the soldiers, blinded by rage, break free of the protection of the ship's guns.
When the troops advanced to a position about one kilometer away from the warehouse, Arthur saw the signal on the RTS interface that the main German forces were assembling.
Although Guderian withdrew, he left behind a defensive force.
Further ahead lies a trap.
"Stop advancing!" Arthur yelled into the radio, "Everyone! Cease the pursuit!"
"Establish a cordon on the spot! We're not going to Berlin! We're going home!"
McTavish reluctantly pulled his bayonet from a German corpse, but he immediately carried out his orders and blew the assembly whistle.
The British offensive came to an abrupt halt.
They stopped atop the pile of German corpses, facing the darkness in the distance.
Behind me lies a safe harbor.
In front of him were German soldiers fleeing in disarray.
21:40, Le Havre Beach.
The battle is over.
Or rather, the battle belonging to the 51st Division had ended.
On the sea, the Rodney's main guns continued to fire intermittently, drawing an insurmountable line of death around the city with heavy shells.
In the nearshore waters, the once pitch-black sea surface has been illuminated by countless searchlights.
Dozens of landing craft and shuttle boats converted from trawlers are beaching the boats.
Royal Navy sailors in dark blue uniforms jumped into waist-deep water, ropes in hand, their faces beaming with the kind of smiles only seen on the way home.
"The 51st Division!" A naval sergeant major stood on the wreckage of the pier, holding a huge brass megaphone, his voice hoarse but full of energy: "This way! Norfolk Regiment, to the left! Cold Creek Guards Regiment, to the right!"
"The wounded first! Stretcher team! Hurry! Where are the stretcher team?!"
"Don't push! There are seats available! Everyone gets first class tonight!"
There was none of the chaos and panic seen on Dunkirk beach.
This was an organized, disciplined, and even somewhat elegant tactical evacuation.
The soldiers lined up, supporting each other.
They did not abandon their weapons. Everyone carried their rifles on their shoulders, the machine gunners carried Bren guns, and even the few 2-pounder anti-tank guns that had served so well were dismantled and carried onto the ship by the engineers—Arthur had given a strict order that not a single screw should be left for the Germans.
This is a silent protest: we're not running away. We're just off work.
Arthur stood on a rock on the beach, like a statue.
He watched as the last wounded soldier was carried onto the ship, and as Major Ryder directed engineers to install explosives on the truck engines and tanks that couldn't be taken away.
"Colonel." Major General Fortune approached. Although the old general's uniform was tattered, the buttons were still neatly fastened. He looked at Arthur, his eyes filled with complex emotions—gratitude, admiration, and a hint of pride as an elder.
"Twelve thousand people. We brought back twelve thousand people."
This is a brutal math problem. The 51st Highland Division has a full strength of 13,000 men, plus the Sterling Battle Group of 3,000.
Bringing back 12,000 people meant that 4,000 people were left forever in Abbeville, under the ruins of Le Havre.
They paid the price of four thousand lives to obtain twelve thousand tickets to go home.
The old general's eyes reddened. He turned to look at Arthur, his voice choked with emotion: "This is a miracle, Arthur. To bring back so many people while surrounded by two armored divisions—this is a miracle you created."
Arthur fell silent.
He watched the wounded men helping each other onto the pier, their empty sleeves and bandaged heads.
“It wasn’t a miracle, General.” Arthur shook his head, his tone calm yet cruel, his fingers holding the cigar trembling. “It was a deal.”
"We made a deal with God with the lives of four thousand brothers." He took a deep drag on his cigarette, letting the pungent smoke churn in his lungs, trying to suppress the bitterness in his heart.
"And—" he pointed to the shadow of the huge battleship on the distant sea, "and these Royal Navy sailors who get paid a year finally didn't let us down at the crucial moment."
Just then, a transport boat launched from the destroyer docked. A young naval ensign jumped off, strode up to Arthur, and gave him a crisp Royal Navy salute. His clean uniform stood out starkly against the backdrop of the mud-covered army soldiers.
"Colonel Sterling?" the lieutenant asked loudly.
"it's me."
"I am the liaison officer for the USS Rodney. The captain invites you aboard." The lieutenant looked at Arthur, a hint of admiration in his eyes.
Arthur Sterling is now a legendary figure on the Royal Navy's radio.
"The captain has prepared hot cocoa for you, and—well, maybe a glass of fine brandy."
Arthur smiled.
That was the first time he had shown a genuine smile that night.
That feeling of relief after unloading a heavy burden.
"Tell Captain Dalrymp that the brandy is out of the question. Get me a basin of hot water and a Havana cigar." Arthur patted the lieutenant on the shoulder, leaving a dark handprint on his pristine white uniform. "Also, tell him his aim was spot-on. I'll treat him to a drink at the best club in London later."
The naval lieutenant saluted and turned to run off to arrange boarding procedures.
Watching the lieutenant's departing figure, Arthur withdrew his gaze and turned to Major Ryder, who had been following behind him. As if suddenly remembering something, he casually asked, "By the way, Ryder," Arthur asked, adjusting the worn buttons on his cuff, "that thing I specifically left for General Guderian, is it properly stored?"
Major Ryder's previously serious face broke into a knowing smile as he patted the empty magazine pouch on his person. "Don't worry, sir. I've already personally placed it on the largest tactical map table in the underground command room."
"As soon as the Germans storm in, the first thing they'll see won't be our corpses, but that."
"Very good." Arthur nodded, a mischievous smirk flashing in his eyes, which pleased him even more than the company of German soldiers he had just blown up.
22:15, USS Rodney, aft deck.
The massive warship was slowly turning, its stern cutting through the waves and leaving a broad white wake.
The roar of the engine and the sound of the waves mingled together.
Arthur Sterling stood alone by the railing on the aft deck.
The sea breeze caressed his face, carrying away the smell of gunpowder.
He held a freshly lit cigar in his hand—a personal treasure of Captain Dalrymp.
He turned around, his back to the sea, and looked one last time at the receding land.
Le Havre is still burning.
The fire in the port area illuminated half the sky.
The collapsed cranes, the sunken, blocked ships, and the bombed warehouses are all gradually receding into the distance.
That was a gift he left for Guderian.
A port that is completely paralyzed.
A mess that will give the German logistics department a headache for six months.
The RTS system flashed on his retina one last time.
[Battle settlement complete.]
[Objective achieved: Evacuation.]
[Historical Deflection: Significantly Increased.]
[Achievement: A Miracle Beyond Dunkirk.]
Arthur took a deep drag on his cigarette, the blue-gray smoke dissipating in the sea breeze.
Thanks to his efforts, the 51st Hill Division, which should have been annihilated at Saint-Valéry, returned intact to Britain. These more than 10,000 battle-hardened veterans would become the most solid backbone of the defense of Britain.
It was also the force that propelled him to the top.
In the more distant future, at El Alamein in North Africa, at the Normandy landing site, this force will become a nightmare for Adolf and his generals.
Arthur turned around, facing the still-burning dark continent one last time, facing the four thousand brothers who would never be able to return home.
*Snap.* Heels slammed together.
Under the massive shadow of that battleship, in the biting winds of the Atlantic, he straightened his back and gave the most standard, solemn, and resolute military salute to the land that buried the fallen heroes.
Rest in peace, brothers.
"I will return with victory."
"Is it over?" a voice came from behind.
Major Ryder walked over with two enamel mugs in his hands, steaming inside—it was rum hot cocoa, a special naval product.
Arthur took the cup, feeling its warmth spread to his palm. He looked at the burning coastline in the distance, a weary yet arrogant smile playing on his lips.
"No, Ryder." Arthur raised his glass, gesturing a salute to the distant French coast and to his unseen adversary, Guderian. "This is just the beginning."
"But I assure you, when we come back next time—" Arthur took a sip of hot cocoa, his eyes shining eerily in the night, "we won't need to leave again."
The USS Woo Rodney sounded its horn. The deep sound of the horn echoed across the sea, announcing the end of this mission.
The fleet cut through the waves, heading towards the island, which was shrouded in mist but at least temporarily safe.
Behind them, the European continent was plunged into a long night.
The End (dog).
It's not over yet; it's only just begun.
Finally, they're going home. The legend of Arthur Sterling has taken its first step, but the real battle is just beginning.
There will be another update tonight, the exact time is uncertain, but I will try to update it as early as possible.
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