xymnovel Chapter 117 The Fall of the Valkyrie and the White Cliff
Chapter 117 The Fall of the Valkyrie and the White Cliff
Chapter 117 The Fall of the Valkyrie and the White Cliff (Two-part chapter combined)
1940年6月8日，08：15。
Central English Channel, H-12 sea area.
Royal Navy battleship HMS Rodney. Speed: 22 knots. Course: West Northwest (295). Sea state: Force 3, Northwesterly winds Force 4.
There was no storm on the sea, but the air tension had reached a critical point.
On the bridge, Colonel Dalrymp lowered his binoculars. The lenses reflected the cool morning light, and the green dots on the radar screen were no longer discrete noise, but had converged into a suffocating solid mass.
"25 nautical miles away, bearing 110. That's the main force of the German 2nd Air Fleet." Dalrymp's voice was unusually grave. "According to intelligence from the home fleet, Hermann Göring has deployed all the flying aircraft he has in northern France."
Arthur Sterling stood before the chart table. He stood out starkly against the backdrop of dark blue naval uniforms around him, wearing the borrowed, pristine white summer dress of a naval captain.
The glass of hot cocoa with rum sat on the corner of the table, its surface trembling with the slight rocking of the ship.
But as long as he remains here, the RTS system will not go into hibernation.
[RTS Status: Online]
[Data Link: Has Taken Over Fire Control Center on the USS Rodney]
[Escort fleet data merging: HMS Diana, HMS Gallant... all completed simultaneously]
[Wide-area surveillance radar: Full power scan]
[Fire control data synchronized: Air defense array self-test completed]
【核心防御：HMSRodney。2座八联装40毫米「砰砰」炮（2—pounderPom—pom，绰号「芝加哥钢琴」），理论射速960发/分；6门4.7英寸（120毫米）高平两用炮；12门6英寸副炮（可提供对空弹幕射击）。】
【外层防御：4艘驱逐舰。16门]4.7英寸主炮，16挺0.5英寸维克斯重机枪。】
[Calculation results: Current air defense fire density in the airspace: extremely high. Metal projection rate per minute: 1.5 tons.]
On his retina, the world is digitized.
The ocean waves were analyzed as a fluid dynamics model, the wind was quantified as vector data, and the approaching black dots in the distant clouds were flying units marked with red high-threat codes.
The battle turned into a calculation.
"Maintain speed." Arthur didn't look up, his fingers lightly tapping on the chart—a prelude to taking over the battle. "Notify the engine room to maintain all boiler pressure at critical levels. In five minutes, this ship will need to perform some actions that are not permitted by the blueprints."
Dalrymp glanced at the army colonel.
Although there were some doubts, there were no questions.
"Chief Engineer, listen to the young master, release the overload limiter. Squeeze every last drop of potential out of this old maid."
08：22。高度：3500米。德国空军第2俯冲轰炸机联队（StG2）。
Lieutenant Rudel, who was not yet famous, pushed open the side window of the cockpit, and a cold wind rushed in, dispelling the smell of engine oil in the cabin.
Below, on the grey-blue sea, the battleship stood out like a giant target.
HMS Rodney. Nelson-class. The pride of the British Empire.
For this generation of German soldiers, identifying and sinking these steel behemoths flying the St. George flag was not just a task assigned from above, but a destiny instilled in them from the very beginning.
From the High Seas Fleet veterans who suffered a crushing defeat at the Battle of Skagerak (the Battle of Jutland) to the young eagles now commanding the Stuka, their fascination with Royal Navy capital ships even surpasses that of the British sailors themselves.
In Rudel's flight chart bag, the "Weyer Naval Yearbook" was worn out from being read so many times.
There is absolutely no need to refer to the identification manual.
Those unique three fully forward-mounted triple gun turrets, that towering box-shaped bridge, that single funnel at the stern—he could draw every inch of the ship's structure with his eyes closed.
Where the armor belt thins, the coordinates of the boiler room air intake, the thickness of the horizontal armor on the top of the main gun turret, and even the blind spots of anti-aircraft fire—these data are like a brand etched into the DNA of every German pilot.
It left a long white trail, surrounded by only a few pitiful small destroyers.
In Rudel's eyes, it was no longer a majestic battleship.
That was a body placed on the altar to atone for the shame of the High Seas Fleet's self-sinking twenty years ago.
"Calling 1st Squadron, target confirmed." The regimental commander's firm and cold voice came through the headset. "Maintain formation. We're going to sink this iron plate. This is the Führer's order."
"Begin the dive."
The Ju-87 "Stuka" features its signature wing speed brakes in operation.
The nose cone presses down. The air is cut.
The sound generator installed on the landing gear fairing started working.
The "Horn of Jericho" began to exert its power.
The sound was enough to make the anti-aircraft gunners on the deck tremble.
But beneath that devastating scream lies an even more deadly threat.
What was hanging under Rudel's fuselage was no longer the SC-250 general-purpose high-explosive shell used to slaughter Allied infantry.
Those thin-shelled bombs explode the moment they hit the ground, using the shockwave to kill soft targets.
Today, all Stukas have been upgraded with PC-500 (PanzerbombeCylindrisch) armor-piercing aerial bombs.
These bombs feature a thickened, hardened steel casing and a delayed-action fuse (EIAZ25). Their design logic is singular: to use the immense kinetic energy from a dive to pierce the horizontal armored deck of a battleship like a nail, penetrate the core compartment, and then detonate.
For an old or traditional battleship like the HMS Rodney, horizontal armor was its weak point.
Moreover, Stuka is just one hand of death.
Low above sea level, through gaps in the clouds, another, even more insidious group of predators can be seen.
That was a He-111H-4 medium bomber, belonging to the 26th Bomber Wing (KG26).
They don't dive as boldly as Stukas, but rather skim the surface of the water like sharks.
Each He-111's bomb bay was modified to carry two F5b aerial torpedoes.
This 450mm torpedo, known as the "Golden Eel," is equipped with a more sensitive magnetic/impact dual fuse and is specifically designed to attack large ships that are attempting to evade.
This is Göring's killer strategy: a combination of high and low.
The Stuka's high-altitude dive forced the battleship to perform violent maneuvers to avoid the bombs; and once the battleship turned to avoid the bombs, it would expose its vulnerable sides to low-flying torpedo bombers.
This is known in the tactical manual as the "anvil tactic"—the Stuka is the hammer, and the torpedo bomber is the anvil.
Arthur's warship is that red-hot piece of iron in the middle.
But in Arthur's RTS perspective, sound is meaningless.
Only speed, angle, and trajectory.
08:23, bridge of the USS Rodney.
"Air raid siren! Dive bombers!" The lookout's voice trembled with fear.
The screams did not cause chaos; instead, they triggered an almost reflexive combat readiness response.
The sailors on deck practically rushed to their battle stations.
Without the slightest hesitation, without the slightest slackening.
The sailors on this ship were different.
Unlike the HMS Prince of Wales, which would sink to the bottom of the Indian Ocean a year later, they were not destined for the sea.
Like his colleagues, he held the fatal prejudice of old-fashioned big guns and battleships that "battleships are invincible and airplanes are just annoying flies."
The Rodney has just crawled out of the hell of Dunkirk.
Outside that beach known as "Dune Hell," they witnessed firsthand how the HMS Grenade, also flying the Royal Navy flag, was reduced to a burning scrap metal in just minutes under the Stuka's siege, breaking in two and sinking to the bottom of the sea.
They had seen transport ships blown to pieces, seas ablaze with burning heavy oil, and their comrades struggling.
To these veterans, the black silhouette with zigzag wings in the sky was not a target drone there to boost the anti-aircraft gunners' kill count.
That is the scythe of death.
It was this profound fear, stemming from Dunkirk, that stripped away all unrealistic arrogance and transformed their will to survive into maximum combat efficiency.
The helmet straps were tightened, the flash visors were quickly pulled down, and every pair of eyes looking up at the sky was filled with awe and hatred for this new war machine.
Only those who revere life and death deserve to live.
Arthur still didn't grab the brass handrail. His pupils were a cascade of blue data. He saw Stuka's dive trajectory. He was calculating.
Gravitational acceleration 9.8, bomb drop height 600 meters, initial bomb velocity — impact point prediction generated.
"Hard to port," Arthur suddenly ordered, speaking rapidly, "Now!"
The helmsman's hand froze for a moment on the brass spokes.
Driven by years of training, he instinctively turned to look at Captain Dalrymp—this was an ironclad rule ingrained in the Royal Navy: on this bridge, only the captain had the final say, not an army colonel in a borrowed uniform.
But he was met with a furious roar.
"What are you looking at me for?!" Captain Dalrymp, his neck flushed red, roared at the helmsman before even putting down his binoculars, "Didn't you hear what Young Master Sterling said?! On this ship, his orders are my orders!"
"Execute! Unless you want us all to turn into rotting flesh at the bottom of the sea!"
The roar snapped the helmsman back to his senses, and he gritted his teeth and swung the heavy rudder wheel all the way to the left.
The hydraulic transmission system emitted a deep, muffled roar. Below the waterline, the massive rudder blades deflected to their 35-degree limit within four seconds. The 40,000-ton steel body began to struggle against immense inertia, emitting creaking, metallic groans.
Under normal circumstances, a battleship's turning is slow.
Using the hydrodynamic force generated by the deflection of the stern rudder to propel a 40,000-ton ship to change course typically requires a response time of tens of seconds—which is too slow for dodging free-falling aerial bombs.
But Arthur seemed to have already factored in the helmsman's hesitation. Three seconds before giving the order, he had already adjusted the propeller speed difference through the captain.
The starboard main engine is running at full speed, while the port main engine is stopped.
This is an extremely violent way of turning.
This is a "destructive maneuver" that is strictly prohibited in naval manuals.
The enormous torque is no longer evenly distributed on both sides of the hull. The propeller on the starboard side will frantically push one side of the hull forward; while the powerless port side will instantly become a huge drag anchor in the water.
This extreme imbalance of thrust caused the entire warship's keel to bear thousands of tons of lateral shear force.
The reduction gearbox, buried deep in the lower compartment, emitted a sharp whistling sound, and the thrust bearing was almost melting under the high temperature.
But that's exactly what Arthur wanted.
He was driving the battleship like a tank with only one track turning.
After all, in the logic of this army colonel, as long as the power is great enough, there is nothing that cannot drift. Even the 40,000-ton Nelson-class tank is nothing more than a super-heavy tank that can float on water - well, it is about the same as 600 Maus tanks.
He was risking damage to the machine for those few seconds of life-saving angular velocity.
On the sea, the USS Rodney seemed to be shoved violently by an invisible giant hand. The ship tilted sharply to starboard, with the angle of inclination instantly reaching an astonishing 12 degrees.
On deck, unsecured ammunition boxes slid toward the bulwark. Scottish soldiers of the 51st Division clung tightly to whatever was around them, watching in horror as the sea level rose rapidly in their field of vision.
Boom! Boom! Boom!
Three 500-kilogram SC500 aerial bombs were dropped.
It didn't hit the deck. It hit the sea surface fifteen meters to starboard.
A massive column of water shot into the air, reaching a height of eighty meters, instantly engulfing the view on the starboard side.
Tons of seawater mixed with shrapnel pounded against the armor belt, producing a crisp, hail-like sound.
If the USS Rodney had continued on its original course for five seconds, the three bombs would have hit the bridge, B turret, and engine room, respectively.
Right now, they've only killed some deep-sea fish.
"Turn back. Right turn 20." Arthur's voice pierced through the aftershocks of the explosion.
"Secondary gun crew. Bearing 030. Elevation 55 degrees. Time fuse set to 1.5 seconds. Do not aim at aircraft, aim at the airspace 300 meters in front of them."
The 4.7-inch and 6-inch secondary guns began to roar.
It's not about precise sniping—even with RTS prediction, gunners would have a hard time achieving that level of precision—aircraft are not tanks on land after all.
Arthur wanted to block the barrage of comments.
Black smoke exploded in the air, forming an impenetrable "wall".
08:25, Stuka formation, aircraft number 3, pilot Sergeant Oberfeld Welber Krauss.
Through the observation window at the bottom of the cockpit, Sergeant Klaus almost wanted to smash his flight chart on his thigh.
"Damn it! Damn it! Damn it!" he cursed over the radio.
He witnessed firsthand how perfect the wingman's bombing trajectory was; it should have been a textbook example of a "face-to-face" bombing.
But the massive battleship on the sea made a maneuver that defied the laws of physics in that instant.
Instead of turning left or right as instructed in the tactical manual, it drifted sideways like a race car with its handbrake engaged, leaving huge white splashes.
Three bombs crashed into the sea, and the resulting spray of water didn't even reach its deck.
"Those British lunatics—" Klaus gritted his teeth, "Don't their servos have hydraulic limits?"
Despite his cursing, his hands didn't stop.
The lead plane failed; now it's his turn.
"Huang San, enter attack path." Klaus slammed the control stick, and the Stuka emitted a sharp whistle as its nose pointed vertically at the towering bridge of the USS Rodney.
This time, he adjusted his lead time. He anticipated the battleship's rudder return inertia.
Got you?
However, just as he was about to reach bombing altitude, the world before his eyes changed.
There were no tracer bullet trajectories, nor any probing shots aimed at tracking targets.
On the path directly in front of his plane, 300 meters ahead, boom! boom! boom!
Dozens of black clouds of smoke exploded almost simultaneously, instantly forming an impenetrable "black wall".
That wasn't a sniper attack targeting a specific aircraft; it was a blockade of the entire airspace.
"My God!" Klaus was stunned by the sudden appearance of the barrier of death.
An instinctive fear of having a hunter's gun pointed at his head instantly took over his mind. He instinctively yanked the lever, trying to pull it up from the top of the wall.
The immense overload pressed him firmly into the seat, and his vision began to darken.
This pull completely ruined the dive angle.
Although the armor-piercing shell on the rack was thrown out, it missed the target by a full two hundred meters and crashed into the sea like a stone, posing no threat.
But his wingman, "Huang Si," was not so lucky.
The younger lieutenant hesitated for a fraction of a second.
It was just 0.5 seconds.
Klaus turned his head in alarm.
He saw his wingman crash headfirst into the plume of black smoke that had just exploded.
A 4.7-inch anti-aircraft shell fragment, traveling at three times the speed of sound, severed the Stuka's fragile main wing spars.
Click.
The entire right wing broke off and flew out.
The unbalanced fuselage spun wildly in the air before disintegrating into a burning fireball, mixed with aluminum alloy fragments and the pilot's remains, before tumbling into the sea.
Bridge of the USS Rodney.
"Tell the anti-aircraft commander not to focus on one plane." Arthur didn't even glance at the crashed aircraft, merely brushing non-existent dust off his white cuff. "That's a waste of ammunition. Use barrage to block their air routes, disrupt their formation, and make every German pilot feel like they're being specially targeted by that cannon." Fear is more effective than shrapnel.
08: 45.
30 meters underwater.
German Navy U-48 submarine (Type VIIB).
This is another world.
There was no sunlight, no gunpowder smoke, only the smell of diesel engine oil, sweat, and the pungent odor of evaporating battery acid.
Condensation formed on the bulkhead, dripping slowly as the boat rocked.
Captain Schulzer pressed himself against the eyepiece of the attack periscope.
His palms were sweaty, but that didn't affect his judgment.
As an ace submarine captain, he has sunk tens of thousands of tons of merchant ships since the start of the war.
But today the situation is different; his prey is the jewel in the crown of the British Empire.
In view, the massive battleship was regaining its steady course.
Although the air raid failed, it did force the behemoth to lose speed.
Now, its sides are completely exposed to the torpedoes of the U-48.
A perfect 90-degree angle, distance: 1200 meters.
This is a distance that can be hit without calculation.
"Torpedo tubes 1 to 4, fill with water." Schulzer's voice echoed in the narrow command tower.
"Set depth: 5 meters. Magnetic fuse."
"Target: Nelson-class battleship. Speed 18 knots."
"Sir, U-47 and U-99 have sent a signal that they are in position," the first mate said in a low voice.
"Very good. The wolves are about to tear us apart."
Schulzer watched as the crosshairs pressed down beneath the smokestack of the Rodney.
"Launch number one."
The boat shuddered slightly.
"Launch number two." "Launch number three." "Launch number four."
Four white trails stretched across the sea like the whiskers of death, heading straight for the battleship.
Schulzer retracted the periscope, a cold smile playing on his lips.
"Dive to 50 meters. Silent navigation. Prepare to celebrate, gentlemen. We are about to become heroes who sank a battleship."
He was certain that at this distance and at this angle, no ship could evade the four fan-shaped torpedoes.
That was a doomed situation.
08:47, bridge of the USS Rodney.
[WARNING: High-threat sonar contact]
Type: G7e electric torpedo
Quantity: 4 (first batch) + 2 (second batch)
[Direction: 160. Distance: 900 meters. Estimated time to hit: 45 seconds.]
On RTS, the red alert almost filled Arthur's entire field of vision.
Captain Dalrymp had not yet received the report from the sonar room, but he noticed the change in Arthur's expression.
The change was not one of fear, but rather an extreme calm.
Arthur had no time to explain. He grabbed the direct telephone to the engine room. "Port main engine, full speed ahead. Starboard main engine, full speed reverse."
"Now! Back up! I don't care if you break the driveshaft!"
He then turned to the helmsman.
"Hard to starboard! Kill!"
This order completely violates common sense about naval warfare.
Reversing to one side while traveling at high speed can cause irreversible mechanical damage to the drive shaft and may even cause the boiler to overload and explode.
But RTS has already provided the only solution for him.
This time, the first mate didn't look at the captain again; he made the right choice.
The massive battleship let out a mournful cry. The sound of metal twisting and turning came from its hull, sounding like the dying roar of a behemoth.
The propeller on the starboard side began to reverse wildly, stirring up white turbulence. The enormous resistance generated instantly pulled the stern, while the propeller on the port side continued to propel the ship at full speed.
The USS Rodney performed a tactical drift maneuver on the sea surface, a maneuver that battleships should never make.
The stern swung violently to the left, while the bow swerved sharply to the right.
The entire ship was like an out-of-control race car, swerving sideways on the sea, its speed dropping from 20 knots to 4 knots in ten seconds.
08: 48.
Captain Schulzer was holding a stopwatch and counting down.
His thumb hovered over the stop button, his eyes focused on the mechanical ticking of the second hand.
"————3, 2, 1. Treffer (Hit)."
The voice was very confident.
During the past six months of "good times," on the Atlantic shipping lanes, this countdown was death's verdict.
Whether it's a Shell tanker fully loaded with crude oil or an Unilever cargo ship with a displacement of 10,000 tons, once it's locked down within 1500 meters, there's only one outcome.
For U-boat commanders, torpedo attacks are not a gamble, but an inevitable result of ballistics and geometry.
The G7e electric torpedo has a speed of 30 knots, the target has a speed of 18 knots, and the firing angle is 90 degrees.
Once this data is input into the fire control system, the torpedo will take over.
The merchant ship's sluggish rudder was simply unable to change this deadlock within a few dozen seconds.
Even for a Royal Navy battleship, facing a four-shot fan-shaped scattering at such close range, the theoretical probability of evading it is zero.
Schulzer closed his eyes, waiting for the familiar, dull thud, followed by the mournful sound of the keel breaking.
That was the death knell he tolled for the British Empire.
There was no explosion.
Only silence.
The deep sea remains as silent as ever.
"What happened?" Schulzer jumped up. "Dumb missiles? All four are duds? That's impossible!" The sonar soldier, looking terrified, took off his headset: "Sir—target—target stopped. No, it's spinning in place! Torpedo—torpedo went right through it."
"Spinning around in place?"
Schulzer, doubting he had heard correctly, rushed to the periscope and raised the lens.
He witnessed a scene he would never forget.
The battleship wasn't actually there. In a mere few dozen seconds, it completed an incredible, sudden turn on the spot. Of the four torpedoes, two grazed its bow, while the other two, due to the ship's dramatic swaying at the stern, passed through the turbulence created by the propellers and disappeared into the vast ocean.
"This—this is simply a miracle—" Schulzer muttered to himself, his eyes bloodshot, pressed tightly against the periscope's eyepiece.
As a submarine commander who had spent his entire life dealing with the sea, Schulzer knew better than anyone what a 40,000-ton displacement meant.
That is immense inertia, an irresistible momentum.
To allow a battleship speeding at 20 knots to complete such a lateral drift that defies hydrodynamics in a matter of seconds is an absolute taboo in the Royal Navy's Ship Handbook.
The other person is a madman.
This would not only burn out the engine room, but also require the commander to have an inhuman speed of reflexes. He must be able to instantly determine the precise course, speed, and depth of the four torpedoes by observing the ripples on the sea surface with the naked eye in the last few seconds before the torpedoes hit.
"This is impossible—" Schulzer felt a chill run from the soles of his feet to the top of his head. "This is not a human reaction."
"Unless—unless that commander has eyes that can see through the sea."
"Unless he saw the torpedo tubes being filled with water from the very beginning, saw the torpedo leaving the barrel, and precisely calculated the trajectory of every meter of that kilometer-long journey in his mind."
An unprecedented sense of dread—the kind of dread a hunter feels when he suddenly finds himself standing naked in front of a wild beast—instantly engulfed him.
08:50, bridge of the USS Rodney.
Arthur released the phone, his palms sweating profusely.
Just moments ago, the nearest torpedo came within five meters of the ship's hull. But he didn't celebrate his narrow escape. RTS
The red dots are still there.
But at this moment, the roles of prey and hunter were reversed.
"Communications officer, establish contact with escort destroyers HMS Valiant and HMS Diana."
"Tell them not to drop depth charges indiscriminately. Listen to my coordinates."
He closed his eyes.
RTS reconstructs underwater acoustic data into a three-dimensional model.
He can see them.
Three iron coffins hiding underwater.
U-48, U-47, U-99.
They thought they would be safe hiding fifty meters deep.
But from the omniscient perspective of RTS, they are no different from goldfish in a glass tank.
"HMS Valiant, heading 160. Speed 25. 400 meters to your port side."
"Set depth: 60 meters. Number of throws: 5. Interval: 2 seconds."
"Diana, heading 200. Full speed ahead. 800 meters directly in front of you."
"Set depth: 85 meters. I want you to turn the sea surface in that area upside down."
08:55, U-48 submarine.
Panic began to spread.
The sonar soldier's voice was filled with fear and panic: "Propeller sound! Approaching at high speed! It's a destroyer! Right above our vitals!"
Schulzer yelled, "Hard to starboard! Dive! Dive to 120 meters!"
That's too late.
A despairing sound came from above.
"Splash—Splash—" That was the sound of a depth charge entering the water.
A few seconds of deathly silence, then hell.
boom!!!
The first depth charge exploded 20 meters above the submarine. The massive shockwave slammed into the pressure hull like a hammer.
The submarine shook violently, shattering all the light bulbs and plunging the cabin into darkness.
Then came the second one, and the third one.
This was not a blind bombing, because every bomb exploded within the submarine's lethal radius.
"Outer shell cracked! Water taking in at the stern!"
"Battery compartment on fire! Chlorine! Chlorine!" Screams echoed in the darkness.
The fourth depth charge exploded beneath the submarine's keel.
This "dragon bone fracture" effect is the most deadly.
With a metallic tearing sound, the pressure shell that U-48 was so proud of twisted and broke like a crushed soda can.
Thousands of tons of seawater surged in under high pressure, instantly crushing all life.
At the last moment, Captain Schulzer had only one thought in his mind: How did they know? How did they know we were going to go 60 meters deeper?
On the sea.
A towering column of water shot from the stern of the destroyer HMS Valiant. Minutes later, large amounts of oil, debris, and clothing churned up on the sea surface.
There is no need to confirm the outcome of the battle.
This level of debris means the submarine has disintegrated.
Arthur watched the red dot disappear on the RTS interface. Then, he turned his gaze to the other two red dots.
"Diana, coordinates corrected. Turn 15 degrees to the right. The mouse is trying to run south."
"Give it a quick death."
The next twenty minutes were a one-sided massacre.
There was no lengthy sonar search, no cat-and-mouse game of probing.
Arthur, like a fisherman with a fork, precisely directed the two destroyers, pinning down the wolves hiding underwater one by one. Two more huge oil slicks spread across the surface of the sea.
Raeder and Dönitz's prized wolfpack tactics became a joke in the face of full map vision.
At 10:30, the sea returned to calm.
Apart from the floating debris and oil slicks, there was no other sign of the enemy on the sea surface.
The German Luftwaffe retreated, partly due to running out of fuel and partly due to the terrifying anti-aircraft barrage.
The German navy retreated because their vanguard was annihilated instantly without any chance of resistance.
The main engines of the USS Rodney are being reconnected; the recent frantic maneuvers have caused the bearings to overheat, but the old ship has held up.
Arthur remained standing in front of the chart table.
The RTS system is still operating, monitoring every fluctuation within an 8-nautical-mile (approximately 15-kilometer) radius.
But now, on the sea surface, there are only green dots of friendly forces.
Captain Dalrymp came over and handed Arthur a new cigar.
His hands were trembling, and his eyes were filled with awe as if he were looking at a monster.
"Colonel—no, sir. I have served for thirty years."
"But I've never seen anything as thrilling as that. You're like God."
Arthur took the cigar but didn't light it.
"I only know my enemy, Captain." He lied, but it didn't matter.
"Look ahead," Arthur said, pointing to the windshield.
The morning mist was rapidly dissipating under the sunlight.
Where the sea meets the sky, the monotonous gray-blue is no longer present.
11:00, near Dover.
First it was a blurry line, then the line became clear and sharp, and finally it transformed into a dazzling white barrier that cut vertically into the sea.
The White Cliffs of Dover.
Those are the walls of the British Empire.
It's the direction of home.
No matter how rational Arthur was, no matter how cold the RTS data was, when that white light came into view, he still felt his heart clench.
That was a throbbing sensation etched into the genes of Sterling's body.
"Contact on radar!" The radar operator's voice suddenly rose, tinged with emotion. "Massive contact! The number—God, countless!"
Not German.
Countless points of light appeared on the sea surface in the shadow of the white cliffs.
That wasn't a neat formation of the Royal Navy.
It was a chaotic fleet of ships of varying sizes.
Trawlers, Thames River cruise ships, private luxury yachts, coal barges, and even a few lifeboats with sails.
That was a continuation of "Operation Dynamo".
That was a "small boat fleet" spontaneously organized by British civilians.
They were originally intended to go to the French coast to meet the "desperate troops," but for various reasons they were unable to make it in time.
Now, they all poured out of the harbor, on this sunny morning, to greet the battleship covered in gunpowder.
As the massive, blackened-out main gun of the USS Rodney sailed into this sea of small boats, all the ships sounded their horns.
Whoosh—! Beep—!
The deep, resonant sound of ship horns and the sharp, piercing horns of yachts converged into a deafening roar. It was a sound more beautiful than any symphony.
The destroyer USS Diana displayed a light signal: "Welcome home, heroes."
Amidst this deafening roar, the emotions that had been suppressed for half a month finally broke free.
Major Ryder rushed to the bulwark like a madman.
He did not salute, nor did he maintain the decorum expected of an officer.
With one foot on the mooring bollard, waving his tattered beret, he roared like a wild beast at the sky, at the white cliffs, and at the small boats: "Come on! Come back if you dare! You bunch of Nazi bastards! I'm back!!"
It was a pure, euphoric outpouring of relief after surviving a catastrophe.
It was the middle finger he gave to Death.
Meanwhile, the group of soldiers from the 51st Highland Division on the deck unleashed a roar characteristic of the Scots.
I don't know who started it, but some people started banging on their gun butts, and others started stomping their feet.
"Huzza! Huzza!" This ancient war cry, which once echoed in Waterloo and Crimea, now resounded throughout the Strait of Dover.
They were abandoned children, but now, with lives snatched back from hell, they have forcefully broken down their own doors.
The soldiers hugged each other, patting their comrades' backs with their rough hands, and some even threw their precious last half pack of cigarettes onto the fishing boat below.
Rear Admiral Victor Fortune stood on the side of the bridge.
The general, who should have been a German prisoner in history, was now miraculously standing on the British deck, his body stiff as a statue.
He looked at the gradually clearing dock, at his men cheering wildly, and his hand, raised in salute, trembled.
Only he knew the weight he had been carrying these past few days. If it weren't for that young colonel, if it were for that decision to "surrender"—Fortune took a deep breath, fighting back the stinging in his eyes, and straightened his back.
He preserved the flag of the 51st Division, and more importantly, he preserved the backbone of this unit.
But amidst this sea of revelry, only one person remained silent.
Lieutenant Jeanne stood in the shadows, wearing a borrowed British naval overcoat.
She looked at the white cliff, her face pale and complicated.
Every cheer and every whistle around her reminded her of a cruel truth: for the British, this was home.
But for her, this was exile.
She turned around and looked at the gray, misty east behind her. That was France, Calais, already trampled under the Nazi iron heel, a homeland burning.
The sea breeze tousled her short hair, and she bit her lip hard until she tasted the rusty, metallic taste of blood.
From this day forward, she is no longer an officer of the French Republic; she is a homeless avenger.
A roar came from overhead. A squadron of Spitfire fighters skimmed low over the battleship's masts, their wings swaying in salute to the surviving behemoth. Arthur looked up at the familiar oval wings.
The RTS markings indicate that it was the cover force that General Dowding had squeezed out of the homeland air defense.
11:45, Port Dover, Royal Dock.
The massive hull of the USS Rodney slowly approached the dock. Cables were lowered, and winches tightened. The shore had become a sea of people.
Reporters, family members, nurses, Boy Scouts—it seemed like the whole of Dover had crowded into this place.
The moment the gangway was lowered, a group of medics carrying stretchers rushed up.
Their orders were to receive the remnants of the defeated army that had been withdrawn from France.
In their imagination, these people should be weak, injured, and mentally broken.
"Stop!" A sharp shout echoed across the dock through the ship's loudspeakers.
Arthur Sterling stood at the top of the gangway. He was still wearing his pristine white naval uniform, though the hem was damp with seawater, but his posture was ramrod straight, like a javelin. He looked down at the medics, his eyes cold and stern.
"Put away your stretchers," Arthur's voice echoed across the docks. "My soldiers don't need them."
He turned around to face the 12000 soldiers crammed tightly onto the deck.
That was the remnants of the 51st Hill Division, plus stragglers gathered along the way.
Their uniforms were tattered, many had blood-soaked bandages wrapped around their heads, and their faces were covered in cigarette ash and grease. Some soldiers even had only one boot left.
But at that moment, no one collapsed to the ground.
"51st Division! Heed my command!" Arthur roared.
"Lift your head up!"
"Look down there! They're here to welcome heroes, not to give alms to beggars!"
"Button up your shirts! Straighten your guns! As long as you still have legs, keep walking!"
"Tell Dover, tell London, tell the whole world! We wiped out two armored divisions! We walked back, we didn't flee!"
"Black Guard Piper! Step forward!"
"Play 'Highlanders'!"
Suddenly, the mournful yet stirring sound of Scottish bagpipes rang out. It was the tune played by the Scottish Highlanders during their charge, a sound that had terrified the enemy on the battlefield countless times.
12: 00.
A breathtaking scene unfolded.
The troops, initially considered a group of "stray dogs," began to disembark.
Leading the way were twelve bagpipers. Closely following them were infantrymen arranged in four columns.
Although they were dressed in rags and walked with a slight limp, their formation was surprisingly orderly.
Snap, snap, snap. The sound of leather boots on the wooden dock drowned out the sound of the waves and the cries of the seagulls.
Every soldier held their head high, their eyes fierce and proud.
They carried rifles, machine guns, and some engineers even carried a disassembled 2-pounder anti-tank gun.
The previously noisy crowd on the dock instantly fell silent.
The handkerchiefs prepared to wipe away tears froze in mid-air, and the words of comfort prepared stuck in their throats.
People stared in shock at this team.
These are not defeated soldiers.
This is a menacing army.
They carried the smell of gunpowder from hell, a smell that would frighten citizens in peacetime, but also give them an unprecedented sense of security at this moment.
After a few seconds of deathly silence, someone shouted first.
"Long live!"
Immediately following was a thunderous applause and cheers.
Flowers were tossed to the procession like raindrops.
The veterans took off their hats in salute. Young girls rushed across the cordon and planted kisses on the faces of the bearded soldiers.
While everyone's attention was focused on the triumphant march, in the shadows, there was a forlorn figure—Major General Jeanson, commander of the French 12th Motorized Rifle Division.
His left arm was slinged in a dirty gray bandage, and he had changed into a brand new British Army Major General's uniform.
He looked at the young man in a white naval uniform walking at the front of the group.
Just minutes before, he had wanted to go over, even with his injured hand, to hug his British colleague who had brought his men back from the brink of death, and say "Merci."
But he stopped in his tracks.
Because he saw the black Daimler sedan at the end of the dock, and the fat old man wearing a top hat next to it.
A bitter and complex smile appeared on Major General Mori's weathered face.
He lowered his right hand, which he had been about to extend.
He's a veteran, and he understands politics.
From the moment he stepped onto the Dover docks, Colonel Sterling, who had shared a cigarette with him in the trenches, was no longer just a soldier.
He was a hero of the British Empire and a political asset in the hands of Churchill's cabinet.
He himself was merely an exiled general living under the roof of others.
"Adieu, monami. (Goodbye, my friend.)" Ren said softly.
He did not step forward to disturb that glorious moment belonging to the British.
The exiled general simply straightened his back and, across the noisy crowd, solemnly gave a standard French military salute to the departing figure.
Arthur walked at the very front of the group.
He didn't look at the crowd, nor at the camera.
He nodded to Rangsen, then his gaze cut through the noise and locked onto a point at the end of the dock.
There was a black, gleaming Daimler armored car parked there.
There were not a large entourage beside the car, only a few plainclothes bodyguards.
An elderly man, dressed in a dark overcoat, wearing a black bowler hat, and slightly overweight, was standing there.
He was leaning on a cane and had a freshly lit cigar in his mouth.
Winston Churchill.
The newly appointed prime minister, who is facing immense political pressure, canceled all cabinet meetings and personally traveled to Dover.
He watched the approaching column, the Scottish soldiers standing tall and proud, and his eyes, which had been filled with worry and exhaustion for the past few days, finally lit up.
Arthur walked to within five meters of Churchill.
Stop. Stand at attention. That was a standard British military salute, crisp and clean, without the slightest hesitation.
The cheers around them seemed to be shut out.
At this moment, only two people remained in the world.
One is the helmsman of the empire, and the other is the newly forged sword of the empire.
Churchill did not speak.
He slowly removed the cigar from his mouth, and a signature, bulldog-like, cunning, and powerful smile appeared on his always taut face.
That smile contained everything: appreciation, satisfaction, and a certain unspoken understanding that only one's kind could comprehend. You really did it, you troublemaker.
Arthur looked at the smile but did not lower his salute.
Because he knew that the end of this moment was just the beginning of an even bigger storm.
The RTS data stream still seemed to surge in his eyes.
Behind him, the footsteps of 12,000 soldiers were tolling the death knell for Nazi Germany's invasion plans.
The two chapters have been released together. I need to take a couple of days to rest and organize the subsequent plot, and try to write something even more exciting.
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