xymnovel Chapter 119 This is not magic, Prime Minister. This is mathematics.
Chapter 119 This is not magic, Prime Minister. This is mathematics.
Chapter 119 This is not magic, Prime Minister. This is mathematics.
Churchill remained silent for a moment.
The air inside the car seemed to freeze. Neither of them spoke. The only sounds were the muffled thud of tires crushing gravel under the chassis and the deep roar of the 4.1-liter inline six-cylinder engine.
This was not an awkward silence, but rather the pressure inflicted before interrogation.
Churchill did not pull out a warrant bearing the royal coat of arms or a promotion order stamped with the seal of the War Department from his briefcase as Arthur had expected.
He didn't even touch the bag.
As a political strongman who served two terms as Secretary of the Navy and a veteran war correspondent, Winston Churchill did not need to read from a script to ask questions.
He could distinguish between things that were done for the media and things that were political dead ends that had to be burned to ashes.
He didn't need Menzies's written report to remind him what this young man had done.
Churchill turned his head, his bloodshot, cloudy eyes, sunken deep in their sockets, fixed intently on Arthur's face.
"Arthur." Churchill finally broke the silence.
"In London, some people—including several Anglican bishops and Conservative backbenchers in the House of Commons—are talking about you in private."
He paused for a moment, observing Arthur's pupil reaction.
"They say you are the son of a witch. Or that you inherited some ancient second vision from the Sterling family."
""
Arthur remained expressionless, while Churchill leaned forward, the smell of brandy and cigars drawing closer to Arthur's nostrils.
"Tell me. How did you do that? I don't believe in magic, but I need an explanation."
"Dalrymp raved about you in the telegram. He said you were far more useful than those sonars that cost me millions of pounds but always broke down at crucial moments. He said you didn't need to listen, you just needed to feel that there was a submarine, and then 'boom!'—and there it was."
Churchill, cigar in hand, a hint of amusement in his eyes, said, "As for your predictions at Dunkirk—the rumors are quite amusing now. The returning soldiers are saying that you weren't actually fighting; you were just having afternoon tea while telling them the time using Guderian's battle schedule."
Churchill's words were tactful and humorous. But Arthur couldn't laugh.
This is an extremely dangerous problem.
If he gives a bad answer, Arthur might be seen as some kind of uncontrollable danger.
An officer with "precognitive abilities" is seen as both an asset and a huge risk by wartime cabinets—because they cannot predict when he will lose control.
Arthur did not look away.
Deep within his seemingly calm blue pupils, the RTS system's UI was frantically popping up windows, blue data streams cascading across his retina like a waterfall, and the system's notification sounds carried a mocking glint in its eye, as if it had seen through the very nature of humanity.
[WARNING: An epic difficulty challenge (SpeechCheck) has been detected.]
The target (Winston Churchill) is attempting to explain your "MapH" using a materialist worldview.
ack).
Please choose your deception—oh no, I mean, your response strategy:
[Option A (Mysticism): Scottish Highlander Intuition] "It's a family gift, Prime Minister. Sometimes I can hear whispers in the wind."
[Deduction]: Very Poor (F). Churchill hates charlatans. He would think you're an alcoholic neurotic, or recommend you to some weirdo club that studies psychic practices.
[Complaint]: Your rank will be permanently locked at "Colonel" and you will be transferred to Scotland Yard to investigate the "Loch Ness Monster".
[Option B (Honesty): Acknowledge the existence of the system] "Actually, I have a tactical support system from the future in my head that can mark the enemy's coordinates in real time."
[Deduction]: Suicide. This is 1940, not 2077. You will be mistaken for a German spy or a schizophrenic.
[Commentary]: There's a space available in the basement of the Tower of London, where a complete set of exquisite surgical scalpels for lobotomy awaits you. (Although such things don't exist yet.)
[Option C (Pseudoscience/Hardcore Logic): Repackaging "cheat codes" as "mathematics"] (System-highlighted recommendation ★★★★★) "Reducing the impact of supernatural phenomena to data analysis. Utilizing the racial stereotype of Prussians as rigid as clockwork to construct a perfect logical loop."
[Suggested script template]:
Instead of saying "I saw it," say "I calculated it."
Specific parameters cited: the combat radius of the Stuka B-2 (300km), the distance to San Omer Airport, and the standard time for ground crew to load ammunition (45 minutes).
Regarding submarines: that's thermocline physics and probability theory, not X-ray vision.
[Evaluation]: As long as you throw out enough technical terms and mathematical formulas, these liberal arts politicians will think you're very impressive even though they don't understand them.
Arthur's lips twitched slightly, a subtle expression of suppressing a laugh. Without hesitation, he locked onto option C in his mind.
He needed to package this "cheat code" in a language Churchill could understand—mathematics and prejudice.
"This is not magic, Prime Minister. This is mathematics."
Arthur, expressionless and serious, extended a finger and gently tapped his temple.
The gesture didn't seem like he was pointing at a head; it was more like he was pointing at a calculator that had just finished warming up, and he was about to begin his performance.
"Germans aren't as smart as you think. Or rather, their intelligence is built on a pathological, almost obsessive-compulsive, rigid foundation. The Prussian officer corps is like a precise, but inflexible, mechanical clock."
"If you've studied them carefully, you'll find that their tactical doctrines, bombing procedures, and submarine attack positions are all strictly functions arranged according to mathematical logic." Arthur's voice was calm and cold, carrying a kind of scientific superiority that would suffocate liberal arts students. "Once you understand the logic of how the gears work, you can deduce where the pointer will be in the next second—accurate to the millisecond."
Arthur subtly adjusted his posture, his facial muscles perfectly switching to "academic discussion mode." This was a meticulously designed "logic scam" targeting liberal arts students.
Arthur sneered inwardly: What a joke. He, Lord Stirling, could even fool Prussian foxes like Guderian and Rommel. Could he really not fool this fat old man in front of him who gets a headache looking at financial statements and whose veins are 50% brandy?
Arthur solemnly extended a finger and gently tapped his temple.
"Regarding the premonition of bombing. This doesn't require a crystal ball, just a piece of scrap paper."
"I spent four full hours on the beaches of Dunkirk. They were packed with fleeing soldiers evacuating from Calais and Boulogne. But I didn't rest then, Prime Minister. I spent four hours questioning every officer and sergeant who could speak, piecing together thousands of pieces like a jigsaw puzzle, and then came to some conclusions."
Arthur suddenly spoke faster, as if reciting a timetable he had memorized: "A French sergeant saw the Stuka formation pass by at 09:00 in Abbeville. A British communications officer intercepted the forward guidance signal at 10:15. The time difference is the variable."
He stretched out his hands and gestured in the air as if a blackboard was floating there: "Known: The Stuka B-2's cruising speed is 300 km/h."
"Known information: The nearest German field airfield is in Saint-Omer, 65 kilometers from the target area."
"It is known that the standard operating procedure (SOP) for German ground crew is as follows: load the weapons, refuel, and the pilot has a cup of coffee and receives a briefing. It is rigidly stipulated to be 45 minutes, not a minute more or less."
Arthur clenched his hands together sharply, making a crisp sound.
"Speed divided by distance, plus standard preparation time, and then subtracted from drag coefficient. The result is an absolute constant."
"So I know when the bombs will fall, just as I know what time the train from London to Edinburgh will arrive. There's no mystery to it, Prime Minister. It's just that the Germans are too punctual."
Churchill was stunned.
His mouth was slightly open, and the burning cigar in his hand was suspended in mid-air.
This sounds perfect.
It was so perfect it was like listening to a mad scientist give a lecture.
His intuition told him that the human brain could not possibly perform such calm calculations in the chaos of a battlefield.
Something must be wrong here—no one could piece together such an intelligence network in four hours by "interrogating" thousands of defeated soldiers.
The problem is, he can't find the loophole.
Every piece of data was correct, and every derivation conformed to his stereotypes about Germans.
Churchill frowned, trying to find a gap in this perfect logical loop: "What about the submarines? The blind firing of those destroyers. Don't tell me you calculated the initial velocity of the torpedoes; the sonar didn't even have time to react."
"Sonar?" Arthur sneered, his tone filled with undisguised disdain for the Royal Navy's current technology. "You yourself said that those expensive ASDIC sonars are just a pile of scrap metal in shallow waters. I relied on a veteran's intuition, plus hydrodynamics."
"Sometimes that thing is not as good as our own ears; we have to rely on people!" Arthur pointed to his ears.
"The Scottish soldiers from the 51st Division I brought back had spent six months in the trenches. Sergeant McTavish even told me he heard 'a sound that wasn't from the waves.' That gave me a vague coordinate."
"As for the firing data—" Arthur spread his hands, his eyes confident: "Herbert Schulzer (U-48 captain) is an ace. And all acees have habits, which falls under the category of psychology."
"Article 3 of Chapter 7 of the German Submarine Manual: When encountering a destroyer approaching at high speed, 90% of U-boat commanders will instinctively choose to dive to 60 meters—that is the thermocline depth of the English Channel in this season."
Arthur leaned back in his leather chair, gently swirling the expensive cognac in his hand.
He looked at Churchill with a languid and composed gaze.
This isn't about students who can't understand physics; it's about watching a primitive man wielding a stick with brute force.
"At this depth, the dramatic changes in seawater density refract sonar waves, creating a perfect, physically-sounding cloak of invisibility," Arthur said with increasing confidence. "If I were that German captain, I would never go anywhere else. Because the textbooks told him that was the safest place, and the Germans never went against the textbooks."
Arthur smiled slightly; it was the smile of death.
"So I don't need to see him, Prime Minister. I don't even need to look for him."
"All I have to do is sit in my chair and let those destroyers drop depth charges according to their manual, and then wait for his body to float down to my feet on time."
He took a sip of wine to moisten his throat.
"This is not a miracle, Prime Minister." Arthur put down his wine glass, his face calm and composed, presenting the omniscience and omnipotence of the RTS system as wisdom beyond the reach of mortals.
"This is the ultimate intelligence analysis, a jigsaw puzzle of scattered information, and absolute domination over the enemy's logic."
A deathly silence fell over the carriage.
Alexander in the front row was completely dumbfounded.
As a powerful figure who controlled the political lifeline of the Royal Navy, he was staring blankly at the young man in the rearview mirror.
He suddenly felt that the "Guiding Principles for Anti-Submarine Warfare" that had just been drafted by the Naval Staff that morning seemed so naive, primitive, and even somewhat ridiculous in his pocket.
Compared to Arthur's "dimensional reduction attack" that "incorporates seawater density into the trajectory and uses psychology as fire control radar," the Royal Navy's current tactics of "running around blindly with active sonar and relying entirely on God's blessing to drop depth charges" are like a bunch of little kids in open-crotch pants playing house with rubber ducks in the bathtub.
He subconsciously wiped the cold sweat from his forehead, silently thinking, "Thank God, this guy is British."
Churchill stared at Arthur for a full ten seconds.
His feeling that "something's not right" was getting stronger and stronger.
But he couldn't refute it.
Most importantly, he didn't want to argue.
Modern Britain doesn't need wizards; they would scare the cabinet and drive the church mad. But Britain needs geniuses, a tactical scientist who can use mathematics to outwit the Germans. This explanation, though chilling, is scientific and politically correct.
Even if this guy is really possessed by some indescribable thing, as long as he is still helping the British Empire through its difficulties, then he is the hero of the British Empire, the god of the British Empire.
That was Churchill's God as well.
As long as he doesn't do anything too outrageous, just let him be.
"Mathematics. And intelligence." Churchill chewed on these two words, and the tense muscles in his face finally relaxed. He forcibly suppressed the strange feeling that lingered in his heart, and a satisfied smile appeared on his lips.
"Very good. I like mathematics. Especially the mathematics that can kill the Germans." He decided to buy this reason, or rather, this lie.
"Since you are so knowledgeable about calculations—" Churchill's tone suddenly shifted, his eyes turning cold, "then I'll trouble you, Lord, to help me calculate another problem."
"If, one day in the future—and I mean assuming the French government completely collapses, Reynolds steps down, and that aging Pétain takes over and surrenders—Admiral Darlan's massive fleet—those battleships anchored in the naval ports of Mers-el-Kébir and Toulon—the Richelieu, the Strasbourg, and those cruisers—" Churchill stared intently into Arthur's eyes: "What are the odds that they'll fall into Hitler's hands?"
Arthur's heart rate did not change.
The RTS system immediately issued a red alert: [Historical Critical Point: Operation Ballista]
[Pre-Catapult Psychological Test]
This was the dirtiest and bloodiest decision the British Empire made in World War II, but from a geostrategic perspective, it was absolutely necessary. To prevent the French fleet from being taken over by Germany, Britain would have to ruthlessly kill its former ally.
This is a moral trap.
If Arthur showed sympathy for his allies or hesitation about betrayal, he would be a competent soldier, but certainly not a competent commander.
Churchill didn't need knights, he needed executioners.
Arthur did not hesitate at all.
"The probability is 100%, Prime Minister."
"The Germans will use every means possible—the terms of the Armistice are just a piece of paper. They will use coercion, bribery, and..."
Or, in the dead of night, send the SS to seize those warships.
"So, if that day comes, and you, as a hero who fought alongside the French, as the one who brought General Jean-Baptiste back—" Churchill asked tentatively, "what would you do?"
"The warship has only two states, Prime Minister." Arthur looked into Churchill's eyes and said, word by word, without the slightest emotional fluctuation in his tone.
"Either fly the Royal Navy's white flag, or become a coral reef on the seabed."
"If it cannot be ours, then it must sink to the bottom of the sea, regardless of whether Germans or Frenchmen are sitting on it."
.
Churchill took a deep drag on his cigar, the smoke lingering in his mouth for a long time before he slowly exhaled.
He was completely relieved.
The young man passed the test.
He was not only a tactical genius, but more importantly, he possessed the cold-bloodedness necessary to be a political executioner.
He can distinguish between "comrades-in-arms" and "national interests".
"Very good." Churchill patted Arthur's knee hard, a signal that a conspiracy had been reached.
"It seems we've reached an agreement. When that day comes—"
"However, Prime Minister," Arthur suddenly interrupted Churchill.
He turned his head and looked out at the turbulent strait through the bulletproof glass, a dangerous, robber-like greed flashing in his eyes.
"Turning battleships into coral reefs is like forcibly writing off bad debts on the accounting statements. It's a last resort." Arthur straightened his cuffs, his tone calm yet brimming with ambition. "The Sterling family motto is to attempt a hostile takeover as long as assets still have value."
"I know the Royal Navy is short of ships right now. The Richelieu and Strasbourg are both good ships. If handled properly, I'd much rather see their main guns pointed at the Italians than at the seabed silt." Arthur looked at Churchill, a cold smile playing on his lips. "Since we have a choice, or rather, we still have a choice now, why not try to seize them? Even if there's only a 1% chance, it's more worthwhile than just blowing them up."
Churchill paused for a moment.
He looked at Arthur as if he were seeing the young man for the first time.
A moment later, the British pirate captain let out a short, cheerful nasal sound.
He understood.
This guy is not only cold-blooded, but also very greedy.
This is good.
In this war-torn era of scarcity, greed was a virtue.
"Piracy," Churchill uttered through gritted teeth, but at that moment it was undoubtedly the highest praise.
"If that day ever comes, Colonel Sterling. If you can bring those ships back instead of sinking them—" Churchill didn't finish his sentence, but his eyes said it all.
"One must eat one bite at a time, Prime Minister." Arthur timely concealed the greed in his eyes, leaned back in his comfortable leather chair, and steered the conversation from the distant Mediterranean back to the pressing reality.
"Before we try to seize the French ships, I think we need to deal with those old fogies in the War Ministry who occupy positions but do nothing."
With a roar of the engine, the Humber car's gearbox completed a low, rumbling shift.
The heavy, bulletproof vehicle began to climb the hill, along the winding military road, approaching Dover Castle, which overlooked the entire strait, perched atop the cliff.
As the altitude increased, the conversations in the carriage no longer touched on those vague assumptions, but instead settled on the most practical and ruthless level—the transfer of power.
"Well then, Brigadier General Sterling—please allow me to address you this way ten minutes early." Churchill withdrew his gaze from the stark white cliffs outside the window, turned his head, and spoke with an unprecedented pragmatism, making Arthur even suspect that this man was his accomplice. "Let's talk about your price. I've heard you have strong opinions about the current command structure of the War Department? And judging from your tone, you want more than just the honorary title of brigadier general; you want greater—authority."
Arthur sat up straight.
He knew that now was the time to negotiate.
He held the merits of the 51st Division and the Cold Creek Guards Regiment in his hands; these were his bargaining chips.
"I need command authority, Prime Minister. Not the kind of command authority that's bound by layers of approvals from the Army Department."
"The 51st Hill Division, General Jeanson's French 12th Division, and the Cold Creek Guards. These are the units I brought back, and they now only listen to me. I hope to reorganize them into an independent corps, directly under the command of the wartime cabinet, as a strategic reserve."
"No." Churchill refused decisively, leaving no room for negotiation.
They didn't even think for a second.
"Eat one bite at a time, Arthur, that's what you said. You're only 26 years old." Churchill held up two fingers and waved them in the air.
"26 years old. In the history of the British Empire, there has never been a 26-year-old corps commander, not even a brigadier general. Even Nelson was still a captain at that age. The Duke of Wellington was only a colonel at your age."
Churchill turned his head, his eyes becoming extremely serious, even carrying a hint of stern instruction.
"I know what you're thinking. I can tell without you reminding me."
Churchill took a deep drag on his cigar, a look of disgust on his face, as if he had just swallowed a fly.
"You think the War Department is full of idiots. You think Dill and Lord Gott are just morons who draw red and blue lines on a map and figure out how to make a 'graceful retreat'."
Churchill turned his head, his eyes revealing undisguised sarcasm and empathy: "In a way, you're right. And I completely agree that they were indeed a bunch of idiots, otherwise they wouldn't have led four hundred thousand people to that kind of place."
"These people's brains are filled with the mud of the Somme. They treat the Field Service Regulations like the Bible, and even when the German tanks are already at their doorstep, they are still discussing the sharpening of bayonets and the shine of leather boots."
Churchill angrily pounded his fist on the armrest: "If we let them get away with it, they'll turn all of England into a giant trench and sit in it waiting for Hitler to bury us alive, simply because—that's in accordance with defensive doctrine."
He looked at Arthur as if he were looking at one of his own kind: "That's why I need you. We need some barbarians who don't know the rules, who don't obey regulations, but who can cut off the heads of Germans."
"But Arthur, you must remember that the military is not just a killing machine; behind it is a huge, sophisticated, and rigid bureaucracy."
"If I were to promote you to lieutenant general, or even general, and then give you corps-level command authority—"
Churchill shook his head, his tone becoming unusually serious, even carrying a hint of warning.
"Believe me, Arthur. Your father, the Earl of Sterling, will be the first to storm Downing Street and tear that letter of appointment to shreds."
"Because your father knew better than anyone else: that wasn't a promotion, it was a political assassination, for both you and for me."
Churchill held up his finger and drew a circle in the air, as if encircling the entire political landscape of London: "The old guys in the War Office won't listen to you; they'll resign en masse to force me out. The opposition in Parliament will impeach me for nepotism."
"You'll become the target of everyone in Whitehall. Your supplies will be accidentally sent to the wrong address by the Logistics Department, and your orders will be 'technically' misinterpreted by the General Staff."
"Even King George—" He didn't finish his sentence.
Churchill stared at Arthur and said earnestly, "I don't want to see the sharpest sword of the British Empire break in its own office infighting before it can even reach the Germans."
Arthur paused for two seconds, then subconsciously touched his nose.
An absurd sense of déjà vu struck him—like a boomerang that had just been thrown, arced through the air, and then struck him precisely on the back of the head.
The logic modules of the RTS system were frantically trying to find a point of rebuttal, but ultimately only produced a helpless conclusion:
[Logically consistent. Cannot be refuted.]
This feeling is so familiar.
This is practically a political version of the "thermal superposition theory" we just discussed.
Churchill wove a vast web with an impeccable, adult logic, full of realistic gray areas.
Arthur knew perfectly well that this contained elements of "pie-in-the-sky promises" and "PUA" tactics, but he couldn't find any loopholes.
It sounded perfectly reasonable, every sentence conformed to political logic, but something just felt off to him.
Real-world politics is not a cheap chivalric romance novel, much less a wish-fulfillment story online.
The price of skipping ranks for promotion is usually heavy; the bloodshed on that cut may be more than on the battlefield.
well.
Arthur chuckled to himself, a self-deprecating smile playing on his lips.
No one escapes the wrath of Heaven.
I fooled them just now, and now I'm the one getting caught up in this bureaucratic logic.
But he had to admit that this was a case of "the righteous path is one foot high, but the evil path is ten feet high."
"However," Churchill's tone softened as he changed the subject, "since you were able to bring the 51st Division back, it proves you are at least capable of commanding a divisional battle group. I will promote you to Brigadier."
"Remember, this is what you earned through your own efforts, not because of your father, Earl Sterling's influence. This is your honor."
"And as compensation, I will grant you special privileges." Churchill pointed to Arthur's chest.
"You can give me advice directly. About strategy, about tactics, even about personnel. You will have a direct line to 10 Downing Street. Your reports will go straight to my desk, without going through the Imperial General Staff."
"As for the path ahead, Arthur, that's for you to walk yourself. I can't promote you to commander-in-chief of the campaign all at once. You need to prove within the existing framework that you can win offensive battles, not retreats, at the scale of a brigade or a reinforced battle group."
Arthur nodded.
This result is within his acceptable range.
As a brigadier general, he had command of an independent brigade and the privilege of direct access to the highest levels of government, which was more than enough for him to make great strides in the upcoming Battle of Britain and the anti-landing operations.
"And the equipment." Churchill sighed, a worried look on his face.
"You know how short of guns we are right now. I said on the radio that we should fight with sticks and stones, and that's not rhetoric, Arthur, it's the damn truth."
"The expeditionary force abandoned thousands of cannons and tens of thousands of vehicles at Dunkirk. Now the Home Guard is armed with shotguns, pitchforks, and even rusty bayonets from World War I."
"The Thompson submachine gun is too expensive, and the Americans can't keep up with production. We need guns, lots of guns, cheap guns."
"I have a suggestion," Arthur immediately replied.
This time, he was speaking not only as a military officer, but also as the heir to the Sterling family business.
"Regarding new weapons, we captured some interesting things in France—such as German MP38/40 submachine guns."
"It's stamped, not milled from a single block of steel like our Lanchester submachine gun. It costs only one-tenth of ours and can be produced ten times faster."
"Since our family has significant stakes in both RSAF Enfield and Vickers, I think I can push forward some of the research and development processes."
"We need a similar design—one that makes extensive use of stamped and welded parts, even if it's ugly and rough, as long as it can fire, as long as it can be produced in a bicycle factory. I have some design ideas for man-portable automatic weapons."
"That's all I wanted to say." Churchill smiled, a smile like an old fox smelling meat.
"You're from the Sterling family. That's a major reason why I wanted to ask for your help."
"You can bypass those idiots at the Ordnance Department who only talk about stock polishing at times like this and just get the factory up and running."
"In this area, you're in charge. Whatever resources you need, the Treasury will provide. I want guns, Arthur, whatever they look like, as long as they can kill Germans."
The vehicle began to slow down.
The thick, ancient stone walls of Dover Castle came into view from the window. This fortress, which had stood for hundreds of years, had now been transformed into a frontline hub for resisting invasion.
"One last thing," Churchill said, adjusting his tie as he gave his final instructions before getting off the train.
"You heard it on the radio before. We need heroes. We need a beacon."
"Starting tomorrow, countless reporters will be swarming around you. The BBC, The Times, even Life magazine in America."
Magazine. I want you to be prepared.
"Don't avoid them. Cooperate with them."
"Tell your story in France—selectively, of course. Portray yourself as the sword of vengeance of the British Empire, and the soldiers you brought back—the 51st Hill Division, the Coldstream Guards, and Jeanson's 12th Division—as an invincible iron army."
Churchill looked at Arthur with a meaningful gaze.
"This isn't just for your vanity, Arthur. It's to show the Americans across the ocean that we're still fighting, and we can win. Only then can Roosevelt convince Congress to give us aid."
At this point, Churchill paused, his expression becoming somewhat subtle, yet also somewhat helpless.
"But before that, there is one last thing, which is also the most difficult one."
"You need to deal with your father—the Earl of Sterling—yourselves."
Churchill sighed and pointed to the roof of the car above him, as if a mountain were pressing down on him: "The old Earl will never allow the family's sole heir to return with a gun after circling the gates of Dunkirk, the gates of hell."
"Don't expect me to give you orders on this matter. I am Prime Minister in Westminster Palace, but in the City of London and the House of Lords, your father's voice carries far more weight than mine."
"If he's determined to bring you home to inherit the family fortune, I won't dare cast a single dissenting vote in order to sell the next batch of war bonds. This is a battle you must win alone."
Arthur was silent for two seconds.
He remembered the old man who always had a stern face, but dared to smash the door of the Navy Headquarters to save him.
"Give me the troops and the ammunition, Prime Minister. I'll take care of that old stubborn man. I'll also play the mascot."
"Very good." The car vibrated slightly and then came to a stop.
The burly driver and bodyguard from Scotland Yard's Special Branch respectfully opened the heavy bulletproof car door for the two of them.
The humid, salty air from the Dover Strait rushed into the carriage, diluting the smell of cigars inside.
The moment Arthur stepped out of the car, the bodyguard gave the young colonel, or rather, brigadier general, a deep look.
The gaze was no longer directed at a "rich young master" or a "lucky officer," but rather at some unfathomable and dangerous creature.
They knew all too well what their boss was like before he got on the bus—he was a live volcano ready to erupt at any moment, capable of making cabinet ministers cry with his scolding.
The young man went in and sat for twenty minutes, and not only did he come out unharmed, but he also rekindled the furious lion's hunting interest.
It was a silent reverence for the "animal tamer".
"Now, let's go see General Deer."
Churchill grabbed the black cane with such force that it was as if he were picking up a fighting iron rod.
The moment he stepped out of the car, the cunning smile on his face vanished, replaced by the famous, rock-hard, and aggressive "Bulldog Mask."
"That old guy is probably ready to unleash a whole host of complaints."
Churchill, with a cigar in his mouth, had a fierce look in his eyes.
"And I can't wait to stuff all these complaints back up his ass."
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