xymnovel Chapter 118 Churchill's Handshake
Chapter 118 Churchill's Handshake
Chapter 118 Churchill's Handshake
1940年6月8日，12：05。多佛尔港，皇家码头3号泊位。天气晴朗，能见度无限。气温：28摄氏度。
The sea breeze dispersed the lingering smell of cooking oil from the smokestacks of the USS Rodney.
The thousands of cheering people on the dock were forcibly divided into two huge fan-shaped sections by the military police, leaving a 50-meter-long open passage in the middle.
At the end of the passage, there was no large group of officials.
There was only one black, gleaming Daimler armored luxury sedan parked there.
Unlike Daimler-Benz, which was producing DB601 engines for the German Air Force in Stuttgart, this British Coventry car manufacturer with a Royal Warrant was the true scepter of the British Empire.
It is the same style worn by King George VI, symbolizing an old-fashioned, stubborn, and pure Anglo-Saxon bloodline. Even though the name originates from Germany, its soul belongs to Britain.
There were only a few people around the car: a few plainclothes bodyguards with wary expressions, and an old man leaning against the car door, using a cane in both hands.
Winston Churchill. Prime Minister of the British Empire. And, at this moment, the house in the final gamble of the British Empire.
Arthur Sterling straightened the collar of the borrowed white naval uniform.
He strode forward.
The black military boots struck the wooden pier of the dock with a clear and rhythmic sound.
This is not the goose-stepping of a military parade; it is the imposing stride unique to those who have experienced the baptism of battle.
As the distance decreased, the RTS system automatically locked onto the black figure standing next to the car.
There were no pleasantries, no hugs.
Arthur stopped five meters away from Churchill.
Stand with legs together, at attention, and raise your hands.
A standard British military salute.
The finger cut along the brim of the hat, as sharp as a knife.
Through this trembling body movement, Arthur could see the data stream in his eyes scanning the target in front of him at high frequency.
[Target Analysis: Winston Leonard Spencer - Churchill]
[Physiological state monitoring]
[Distance]: 5.0 meters (optimal social and defensive distance).
Blood pressure: 165/98 mmHg (high risk). Facial capillary dilation, presenting a typical flushed appearance.
Heart rate: 102 bpm (rapid at rest).
[Nervous System]: The fingers are gripping the cane handle tightly, the knuckles are white, and there is a slight resting tremor.
[Breathing]: Short and heavy. Accompanied by a slight wheezing sound.
This is not a healthy leader.
This is an old man who is draining his life with brandy, cigars, and a thirst for power.
His physical condition was medically on the verge of collapse, but on a spiritual level, he was a volcano in the making.
In Arthur's data model, this is exactly the kind of biological engine Britain needs now—an overloaded machine that operates recklessly, solely for the sake of operation.
Churchill did not immediately return the greeting, nor did he speak immediately.
He simply stood there quietly, not looking at the camera, but facing the sea, facing the towering, cliff-like three triple 16-inch main gun turrets of the USS Rodney, and Arthur and the returning soldiers.
This is a very meaningful positioning.
Instead of turning his back to the fleet to deliberately cater to reporters, he chose to stand shoulder to shoulder with the warships, facing the threat from across the strait together.
From this angle, all the newsreel studio cameras could capture Churchill's tenacious and slightly hunched profile, and the most powerful battleship of the British Empire in front of him.
In this composition, people and ships are integrated into one.
He was not merely a prime minister waiting for reports from his subordinates; he was the First Sea Lord of this fleet and the spokesperson for the military power of the British Empire.
Arthur lowered his hand from the salute.
The sea breeze blew, lifting the hems of their clothes.
The visual contrast is extremely strong.
On one side is Arthur: young, tall, wearing a white uniform stained with seawater, representing the sharpness and killing on the front lines.
On one side is Churchill: elderly, obese, wrapped in a heavy black coat and top hat, representing the intrigue and power of Westminster Palace.
Churchill finally made a move.
He slowly turned around, removed his bowler hat, revealing thinning hair. Then, he took the still-burning Romeo and Juliet cigar from his mouth and handed it to his bodyguard.
The whole process lasted five seconds.
These five seconds are reserved for the reporter.
He needed to make sure all the lenses were in focus.
Then, with his signature slightly unsteady yet extremely stable gait, he took the initiative to complete the last two meters.
The chubby hand reached out.
Arthur grasped it.
It feels warm and moist to the touch, but has amazing grip strength.
It didn't look like a hand holding a pen; it looked more like a hand that frequently grips a gun.
"Colonel Sterling." Churchill's voice had a heavy nasal tone and a unique rhythmic enunciation, each consonant sounding as if it were being ground from the depths of his throat.
"It's great to see you bring our warriors home. Guderian couldn't keep you, and neither could Rommel."
He didn't let go, but instead led Arthur to face the group of reporters who were isolated outside the cordon on the left, and the row of Army generals with different expressions behind them.
He raised his voice.
This isn't a private chat; this is a speech.
"In London, some people—I won't say who—are whispering that we've lost, that we've been driven out of Europe, that we should go and negotiate with Mr. Mussolini." Churchill's chin jerked up, and a fierce glint flashed in his cloudy eyes.
"Tell them, Colonel Sterling. Tell them with that voice you brought back from hell. Did we escape?"
This is a trap, but also an opportunity.
If Arthur answers "We did our best" or "We retreated," then it was just a routine meeting.
Churchill needed more aggressive ammunition to retaliate against the appeasers at home.
Arthur did not look at the camera.
He looked at Churchill's profile, and three semi-transparent dialog boxes with a strong game UI style popped up:
[Notification: Legendary NPC Winston Churchill detected. Affection level assessment in progress ————]
[WARNING: This NPC is currently in a state of "extreme anxiety/alcohol withdrawal/political gamble." Please choose your lines carefully.]
Option A (Standard/Conservative): Whitehall bureaucratic response
"This was a successful strategic shift, Prime Minister. We preserved our manpower, and although we abandoned equipment, we must see the positive side—"
[Deduction]:
Safe? Yes. Boring? Utterly boring.
This sounds like a document written by some staff officer who'd gone mad from afternoon tea at the War Office. Churchill hated official documents more than anything.
[Rant]: Your military service will end tomorrow. You will be assigned to the Hebrides to count the number of puffins. Your postwar memoir, "How I Was Bored During World War II," will have an initial print run of 500 copies, 490 of which you bought yourself as gifts.
[Option B (Honest/Pessimistic): Realistic Response] "It's hopeless, Prime Minister. The Germans have faster tanks and more planes than us. Unless God himself pilots a Spitfire into battle, I suggest you learn German as soon as possible. Of course, there's an even faster option: we'll tie you up, pack you up, and send you to Little Mustache, then bring Chamberlain back. After all, only his 'peace' umbrella can 'make Britain great again.'"
[Deduction]: You have successfully angered God, the Prime Minister, and the patriots of the entire British Empire in just three sentences.
[Commentary]: Churchill would give you a free laser surgery on your retina right there with that lit cigar. You would be locked up in the basement of the Tower of London by MI5 on charges of "psychopathy" and spend the rest of your life there, with your daily task being to memorize the Munich Agreement against the wall.
[Option C (Arrogant/Aggressive): Mad Dog-like Response] (System Highlight Recommendation: It's it, it's it!)
★★★★★）"No, we just came back for a breather so we can go back and bite their throats."
[Analysis]: Critical Hit! This is like injecting this politically impotent old man with a potent and illegal political aphrodisiac. He doesn't care whether it makes tactical sense; he just wants a slogan to be printed on the front page of tomorrow's Times to slap the appeasers in the face.
[Comment]: NPC favorability is completely locked (Ma). You will become the mascot and henchman of the British Empire. You will receive the "unlimited firing rights" buff, as well as a blank check that the Treasury will be crying over.
Arthur's lips curled up slightly; this question was practically an open-book answer, he knew it.
In this era, humility is a virtue, but arrogance is a powerful tonic.
Arthur paused for 0.5 seconds, the breath a hunter holds before pulling the trigger.
"No, Prime Minister." Arthur's voice was cold and hard, with a strong penetrating power that instantly drowned out the sound of the waves on the dock.
"If you're referring to those two German armored divisions south of the Somme that we burned to scrap metal, then my answer is..."
"We had our teeth in the Germans' throats, and we had to let go to catch our breath."
The sound of camera shutters clicking filled the air.
The flashing frequency of the spotlights reached its peak.
In Arthur's view, Winston Churchill underwent a visible, almost biologically miraculous change.
The gloomy aura that had enveloped him due to anxiety and alcohol withdrawal evaporated completely in that instant.
His right hand, which had been trembling slightly as he gripped the cane, suddenly became as steady as a rock. His cloudy eyes instantly became bloodshot, his pupils dilated, and he radiated a chilling, predatory glint.
Damn it, Arthur was stunned. What kind of aphrodisiac had he taken?
Bang! A muffled thud. Churchill's heavy hand slammed down on Arthur's shoulder. It wasn't the pat of an elder; it was the desperate force of a drowning person grabbing a lifebuoy. The force was so great that it knocked Arthur's colonel's epaulet half an inch off course.
【hint】:
[Target Status Update]: Anxiety cleared. Morale instantly restored to full. Current adrenaline level: Overload.
[Physical Damage Warning]: Left shoulder to withstand instantaneous impact force: 15G.
[Evaluation]: Congratulations, Commander. You have just fed a starving lion a piece of raw, bloody meat. Now, enjoy admiring its fangs.
"Did you hear that?! Gentlemen!" Churchill turned around abruptly and roared at the row of livid army generals like an enraged bull, his spittle almost spraying onto the face of the Imperial Chief of the General Staff.
"This is the answer we've been waiting for! Eradicate all your damned notions of 'retreat,' 'failure,' and 'routine' from your dictionaries!" Churchill gripped Arthur's arm tightly, as if wielding a newly forged sword, brandishing it at everyone. "As our hero, Colonel Arthur, said, this is not running away! This is breathing! This is a tactical break! This is preparation for the next desperate battle!"
"As long as Sterling stands here, as long as this spirit lives on, Hitler's nightmare has already begun!"
""
The handshake ended.
The lingering heat of the spotlight hadn't yet dissipated. A Foreign Ministry protocol officer in a tuxedo immediately strode forward, offering flattery, attempting to guide Arthur to the pre-arranged "hero review passage" on the right. Meanwhile, in the shadows off-camera, another scene was unfolding.
Major General Louis Jeanson.
He came to the docks specifically to see if the young man who had led his troops out of hell had returned alive, wrapped in an ill-fitting British army coat.
Now, he sees it.
The young man was standing with the British Prime Minister, basking in the glory.
A hint of relief appeared on Sen's weathered face, but it was quickly masked by a bitter self-awareness typical of exiles.
He was a defeated general.
This is a victory celebration for the British Empire, not a funeral for France.
Rang Sen lowered the brim of his hat and turned to leave.
Two plainclothes agents immediately followed discreetly—for the British authorities, this was the best possible outcome.
The presence of a French general with a missing arm in the central shot would only disrupt the purity of the image and could even provoke a diplomatic protest from France.
It is in everyone's interest to let him disappear into the crowd without a trace.
Except for Arthur.
Arthur ignored the guide hand extended by the protocol officer.
He suddenly stopped and, in full view of everyone, abandoned the prime minister and dozens of reporters, striding towards the edge of the crowd.
"Colonel? Colonel! You're going the wrong way!" the protocol officer exclaimed in a panic.
Arthur ignored him.
He pushed aside two military police officers blocking his way and grabbed the forlorn figure who was about to disappear into the alley behind him.
They grabbed Sen's intact right arm.
Its power is immense and cannot be refused.
"Where are you going, General?" Arthur's voice was cold and hard, with a hint of reproach.
Sen stopped and turned to look at Arthur, his eyes filled with complex emotions: "Arthur—I'm glad you're safe and sound. This is your moment. My presence here only disrupts the atmosphere. For the sake of London and France's reputation, I'd better disappear."
"Face?" Arthur sneered, and without saying another word, dragged the French major general back.
"To hell with face. We just burned two German divisions, that's the biggest face we can have."
When Arthur forcibly brought Jensen back to the central area, the protocol officer's face turned green. He lowered his voice and said urgently, "Colonel Sterling! This is a serious breach of procedure! The Prime Minister's schedule does not include a meeting with the French general! This will cause a diplomatic incident!"
Arthur didn't even look at him.
He pushed Jensen directly in front of Churchill, making them stand side by side.
Then, staring into Churchill's eyes, he uttered a statement that would send chills down the spines of every politician present: "Prime Minister, standing before you is General Louis Jeanson, commander of the French 12th Motorized Rifle Division."
"In Berg, under orders from the Supreme Command of the Expeditionary Force, it was his troops who held the flank to the death, using their flesh and blood to hold the tracks of the 10th Panzer Division. Without them, his comrades in the Expeditionary Force would not have returned safely—"
The 12th Division paid for our boat ticket home.
Arthur paused, then continued in a politically charged tone that only Churchill could understand: "Prime Minister, we've all seen the latest intelligence. Paris is in complete chaos. General Weygand and Marshal Pétain are preparing to kneel before Little Mustache, while General de Gaulle, the Under-Secretary of State for Defense—though he's making efforts, he only has his briefcase, no troops."
Arthur pointed at Jensen.
"But General Mori is different—"
"He's here. He has blood in his hands, a sword, and his old men who refused to surrender."
Arthur lowered his voice: "If the worst happens—I mean if—France falls. You will need a banner to recruit warriors from the ruins."
"This flag cannot belong to those politicians who quarrel in Bordeaux; it must belong to a soldier who actually fought Guderian with bayonets."
[Analysis result: Extremely high value for united front work.]
[Analysis:] De Gaulle is currently just a figurehead, even if he comes to London. Jeanson, on the other hand, is a real military commander with extremely high prestige within the French army. Placing him next to Churchill is a rallying signal to all French sailors and soldiers exiled in Britain—"Here, there is not only a broadcast, but also a real commander."
Upon hearing Arthur's words, Churchill turned around and scrutinized the somewhat flustered Jeanson, then looked at the tough-looking Arthur.
In that instant, the top politician's mind raced.
He saw not only the camaraderie among comrades, but also the enormous political benefits.
A second later, Churchill roughly shoved aside the still-talking protocol officer.
He stepped forward, took the cigar out of his mouth, and extended his hand to Major General Jensen.
"Bienvenue, Général. (Welcome, General.)" Churchill proclaimed into all the microphones in his broken but booming French, "On this island, there are no exiles. Only avengers who have not yet returned home. England is your home too."
Arthur released his grip on Ronson's hand, stepped back, and left the stage to the two elderly people.
He was not just helping his comrades regain their dignity.
He was demonstrating his value to Churchill—I'm not just a killer who pulls the trigger; I have the ability to integrate Allied resources and manage the overall situation.
This was exactly the bargaining chip Churchill desperately needed.
Rear Admiral Ryoma did not immediately grasp the outstretched hand. In that instant, the general turned his head, his gaze passing over Churchill's broad shoulders and looking at the crowded deck of the USS Rodney.
He was looking at people.
He first caught sight of Arthur, the young man who had dragged him back to the center of the stage like a prisoner, who was now standing in the shadows, casting a silent gaze at him.
He saw Sergeant McTavish, the Scottish veteran, who was biting a half-smoked cigar and gave him a dirty thumbs-up.
He saw Major Ryder, the always-smiling British commander, who gave him a thumbs-up.
He saw Lieutenant Jeanne. The girl who was a communications officer just a week ago was now shivering in the sea breeze, wearing an ill-fitting British naval overcoat, but her red and swollen eyes were full of expectation for him.
Finally, his gaze swept over the small group of soldiers who, despite their ragged clothes, still maintained an orderly formation.
Those were remnants of the French 12th Motorized Rifle Division.
Those were survivors who fought their way out of the Somme, from Abbeville, and from Berg.
Some of them had blood-soaked bandages wrapped around their heads, while others used salvaged rifles as walking sticks.
At that moment, the French soldiers did not look at the Prime Minister of the British Empire.
Hundreds of eyes were fixed on him. On their general.
There was no pleading in their eyes, only waiting. They were waiting for a command, waiting for a flag.
Sen felt a tightness in his throat.
He suddenly realized that Arthur was right.
He can't leave. If he leaves, these soldiers will truly be like stray dogs.
He must be that flag. Even if that flag is already tattered and broken.
Let Sen turn around.
His back straightened instantly, as if his injured left arm hadn't taken away his balance, but instead turned him into a javelin. He extended his good right hand and firmly grasped Churchill's hand.
Snapped.
Two hands were clasped tightly together, one the politician's hand, the other the soldier's hand.
"Thank you for taking me in, Your Excellency the Prime Minister."
Let Sen's voice no longer be the whisper of an exile, but regain the booming sound he used to give orders in the command post.
He stared at the countless flashbulbs and microphones in front of him and roared in French, "But I must correct you. We're not here looking for a new home." Jeanson turned to look at the soldiers behind him, then abruptly turned to the camera: "The entire French 12th Motorized Rifle Division is here. We don't need shelter, we just need ammunition!"
"Give us guns, whether in Dover, in North Africa, or one day back in Calais—the 12th Division will always be on the offensive!"
boom!
This statement is like a spark thrown into an oil drum.
Click, click, click—!
All the photographers went crazy.
The film was spinning wildly, and the flash turned the scene into daylight.
The image freezes: a one-armed French general tightly grips the British Prime Minister's hand, his eyes fierce like those of a wounded wolf.
Behind them, the young British colonel stood in the shadows, a slight smile playing on his lips.
This photo will make headlines around the world the next day.
The title is simple and direct: The Unbroken Sword of France.
12:20, Dover Port Exit.
Vehicle: 1939 Humber Pullman armored limousine. License plate: FGU12 (Royal Use).
The heavy car door was closed by Scottish agents in plainclothes.
"Click".
As the latch clicked shut, the deafening cheers from outside instantly vanished.
The vehicle's body is lined with armored steel plates, and the windows are 40 millimeters thick.
This is a mobile fortress, a completely enclosed acoustic chamber.
The rear seats of the carriage were as spacious as a small club box. Churchill sat on the left, First Lord of the Admiral Alexander sat in the front passenger seat, and Arthur sat opposite Churchill.
With a slight vibration, the three-ton steel fortress slowly started moving.
Instead of taking the main road to London, it left the bustling dock area and drove along the winding coastal road toward Dover Castle, perched atop a cliff overlooking the entire Channel.
Churchill opened the walnut wine cabinet in the middle of the seat.
Inside were not documents, but a complete set of crystal barware and several bottles of wine without any labels.
At a time when supplies were becoming increasingly scarce and ordinary Londoners even had to ration tea, the contents of this wine cabinet were priceless.
"A little, Arthur." Churchill pulled the cork from the bottle, and the cloudy amber liquid released a rich aroma as it was shaken.
He poured two glasses and handed one to Arthur.
"This is to celebrate your return. This is a very special year, and I don't have much left."
When presented with a reward by the Prime Minister, the young military officer would usually be flattered and carefully accept it, then drink it down in one gulp to show his loyalty.
But Arthur was different.
He took the glass, but he didn't drink it.
He raised the glass to his nose, swirled it gently, allowing the wine to coat the glass with a thin film, and then inhaled the volatile ester aroma through his nose.
[Substance Analysis: Ethanol Solution]
【Origin: Cognac and Grande Champagne regions, France】
[Vintage estimate: Aged between 1910 and 1915]
[Brand speculation: Hine (御鹿)]
"So-so, Prime Minister." Arthur put down his glass without drinking.
His tone was flat and polite, but carried a critical edge.
"For the current wartime rationing system, this is certainly a decent alcoholic beverage. But if this is what you call 'rare'—" Arthur raised his eyelids, looking at Churchill's somewhat astonished expression, "Next time you can come to Sterling Estate in Chelsea. My father's cellar still has two cases of 1865 pre-phylloxera cognac. That's what you call rare."
The air in the carriage seemed to freeze for a second.
The Navy Minister Alexander, sitting in the front row, glanced at the young man with a strange expression through the rearview mirror.
He didn't think Arthur was arrogant; instead, he watched Churchill as if he were watching a good show.
As a cabinet minister who had dealt with the old Earl Stirling for many years, he knew all too well the weight of that surname.
Just two days ago, it was that old count who almost tore down the gates of the Admiralty, forcing them to send out battleships.
At this moment, Alexander's eyes held only a sense of helplessness, like father, like son—this self-righteous arrogance, as if the entire British Empire were their backyard, was exactly the same as that old bastard's.
Churchill's face showed embarrassment for a second, but he wasn't angry. Instead, his taut, bulldog-like face relaxed, and he burst into a loud, wheezing laugh.
"Hahahaha! Good! Very good!" Churchill took a big gulp, choked and coughed a few times, but his eyes became even brighter.
"I almost forgot, sitting across from me isn't just Colonel Sterling, it's Lord Sterling. Your stingy father actually has a stash of 1865 vintage? Damn, he told me last time he'd finished it all!"
This round is over.
Arthur won.
Through this almost rude display of wealth, he conveyed a core message to Churchill: I am not a poor officer begging for a position. I am a partner who has brought capital. We are equals. At a time when the country was on the verge of bankruptcy, the Sterling family's wealth and power were Arthur's greatest source of confidence.
After the laughter subsided, Churchill lit a new cigar.
Blue smoke quickly filled the carriage. The atmosphere of the conversation changed. It was no longer the concern of an elder for a younger person, but a business deal between partners.
"Your father is a stubborn old man." Churchill exhaled a smoke ring, his eyes scrutinizing Arthur through the smoke. "The other night, he almost tore down the doors of the Admiralty. He mobilized twelve lords in the House of Lords and threatened Admiral Ramsay that if the Navy didn't send a capital ship to pick you up, he would have the City reassess the risks of this month's new Treasury bond issuance."
Arthur maintained a polite smile and did not respond.
There's no need for further comment. It's a fact.
Without the Earl of Stirling's frantic efforts in London, the cautious Admiralty would never have approved a warship of HMS Rodney's class to risk an air raid and enter the English Channel.
"We need money, Arthur," Churchill suddenly became very blunt. "The Neutrality Act of America has us tied. Roosevelt wants to help us, but he can't just give us money. We need cash, lots of gold and dollars, to buy those destroyers and machine tools."
"The Sterling family has a better reputation in New York than the British government. We need your father's support."
"The Sterling family will forever remain loyal to the King."
Arthur's answer was perfectly fluent, without even blinking.
"I have already sent a telegram to my father. The entire merchant fleet under the family name will be requisitioned by the Admiralty. As for the next tranche of war bonds, the Sterling Group will act as the underwriter and fully guarantee it."
He never sent any telegrams.
Since boarding the ship, he hasn't even touched the telegraph machine.
But it is not important.
Arthur knew very well how important he was to that old man—he was the sole heir of the Sterling family.
Since the old count dared to smash the Admiralty's gates and even resort to political blackmail to save him, then now, to pave the way for his son, who has just become a national hero, to the pinnacle of power, making him pay the bill is simply the most logical investment in the world.
Old Deng only had one son, and that was enough.
Churchill was unaware of the subtle power struggle between father and son. He only heard the promise he most wanted to hear. The Prime Minister's fingers tapped a cheerful rhythm on his knees. It was the sound of gold coins falling into pockets. But there's no such thing as a free lunch.
"Then, Lord Sterling," Churchill changed his form of address, "what do you want?"
“I don’t understand finance, Prime Minister. That’s my father’s business.” Arthur leaned forward, his eyes sharpening. “I only want one thing.”
"Permissions".
"Absolute operational control that bypasses the zombies of the War Department."
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