xymnovel Chapter 120 The Mad Dog of Hellfire Horn
Chapter 120 The Mad Dog of Hellfire Horn
Chapter 120 The Mad Dog of Hellfire Horn
June 8, 1940, 13:00, Dover Castle, underground operations command post.
This site was once a defensive fortification during the Napoleonic Wars, and has now been repurposed as a frontline hub against invasion.
As you descend dozens of meters underground via a narrow, dark spiral staircase, the air is thick with the damp, musty smell.
Huge generators roared deeper into the caverns, providing an unpredictable supply of electricity to this dark underground world.
Condensation on the wall gathered into a thin stream, slowly sliding down the two-hundred-year-old limestone cracks and dripping onto the cement floor covered with cables.
The huge oak table was covered with nautical charts of the English Channel, marked with dense red arrows indicating possible routes for a German naval landing.
These arrows, like red daggers, were pressed against the throat of the British Empire.
The atmosphere here isn't as lively as it is at the docks.
General John Dill, the Reich Chief of Staff, was frowning as he looked at the promotion order in his hand, which had just been drafted by Churchill's private secretary.
Around him, several senior staff officers from the Army also wore complex expressions.
General Deer certainly knew Arthur Sterling; he was no ordinary officer.
He was the heir to the Sterling family, which controlled the financial lifeline of the empire. Half of the generals present had attended the hunting parties hosted by old Earl Sterling, or even drunk wine in the cellar of that manor.
At that moment, Arthur stood there.
Although he was wearing a borrowed, slightly oversized white naval uniform, it only accentuated a certain languid elegance.
The uniform was snow-white and crisp, without a single wrinkle or oil stain—he had already showered and groomed himself aboard the Rodney.
In this underground command post filled with the smell of musty tobacco and damp mildew, Arthur even faintly exuded a crisp, soapy scent reserved for high-ranking Royal Navy officers.
His top button was fastened meticulously, and his back was as straight as a javelin. On his handsome but pale face was a kind of indifference and composure in the face of chaos, which only the highest nobility possessed.
He didn't look like he'd just crawled out of the mud of France; he looked more like he'd just finished afternoon tea at a gentlemen's club in St. James's, London, and was taking a stroll around the General Staff headquarters.
But it was precisely this elegance that made Admiral Deer uneasy.
Because he was a "rebel" who broke the tacit understanding between classes.
"This is against the rules, Prime Minister." General Deer put down the documents, his tone curt, but without the contempt one would show towards a junior officer. Instead, it carried the stern warning of an elder to a junior for overstepping boundaries.
He took off his reading glasses, rubbed his temples, and looked at Arthur with a stale and arrogant "I'm doing this for your own good" attitude.
“My son, your father, Earl Sterling, and I are old acquaintances. For the sake of your family’s reputation, I must tell the truth.” General Dill tapped the table, pointing to the resume on the promotion order: “You have indeed displayed bravery, for which the wartime cabinet can award you the Victoria Cross. But military rank is not a game.”
"Three days ago, you were promoted to colonel on the front lines; before that, you were just a major." The old general's voice rose a few decibels. "Just three days! You think you can cross the threshold of brigadier general? This will break all the promotion regulations in the army since the Napoleonic Wars."
"What will those old-school colonels who have served on the Western Front for twenty years and are still commanding a regiment think? This will damage the discipline and morale of the army." General Dill looked at Arthur, his words earnest yet unyielding: "Young man, you have to take things one step at a time. Entrusting main forces like the 51st Highland Division and the Cold Creek Guards to a young nobleman with no experience commanding large armies and whose promotion rate is as fast as a rocket is irresponsible to the soldiers and a drain on the Sterling family's reputation."
This is a typical scene of British high society.
The country is on the verge of collapse, yet they are still discussing seniority, family honor, and the sentiments of the old colonels.
They weren't worried about the Germans; they were worried about the "rules" being broken.
Arthur did not speak.
He just stood there quietly, his snow-white naval uniform looking out of place in the dimly lit basement.
He didn't need to speak, much less defend himself.
Because someone will naturally speak up for him.
Winston Churchill was in the room the whole time.
The prime minister had been standing in the shadows, his back to the crowd, staring at the chart of the English Channel, like a silent statue.
As he listened to General Deer's earnest advice about "rules" and "family reputation," the cigar in his mouth crunched loudly.
At that moment, the stone statue came to life.
Churchill turned around abruptly, his expression cold and stern.
He completely ignored General Dill's face, which screamed "I'm doing this for the greater good," and didn't sit down. He went straight to the oak table and grabbed the pen.
"Rules?" Churchill snorted, his voice like a deep bass cannon squeezed out from his chest.
He took the Romeo and Juliet cigar out of his mouth, looked at the bright red end, and then flicked the ash hard onto the nautical chart marking the German invasion route.
The grayish-white cigarette ash fell on the spot where "Calais" was located, covering the red arrow that represented the German 10th Panzer Division.
"General Dill, if your 'rule-abiding' colonels could win even one battle, I wouldn't be signing this document here." Churchill's voice wasn't loud, but every word was like a slap in the face to these high-ranking army officers.
"You're talking about seniority?" Churchill pointed to the damned map of the Western Front on the wall.
"Lord Gott has the credentials; he led the entire expeditionary force into the sea. Gamelin has the credentials; he handed France over to Hitler. Weygand has the credentials; he's now preparing to kneel in the Compiègne Forest to sign."
Churchill's voice suddenly rose an octave, echoing in the low basement and making the incandescent light bulbs overhead sway.
"The current situation is that the 'rule-abiding' expeditionary force has lost all its heavy equipment and is running back naked! They've dumped their cannons, trucks, and even rifles on the Germans!"
"And this young man who broke the rules"
Churchill whirled around, his chubby hand pointing at Arthur, his face almost touching Admiral Dill's nose.
"He brought back twelve thousand veterans and two full ships of spoils while surrounded! He brought back more cannons than the entire Portsmouth defense zone combined!"
The scene was deathly silent, with only the dull hum of the generator.
No one dared to speak. The staff officers lowered their heads, pretending to be organizing documents.
After Churchill finished speaking, he ignored everyone present and instead signed his name heavily on the promotion order.
"rule?"
Churchill scoffed. He didn't stop writing despite Admiral Dill's warning. On the contrary, he quickened his pace.
That's more than just a signature.
It was a declaration of war against the Germans, and also against the rigid British bureaucracy.
Churchill slammed the folder shut with a thud.
He raised his head, his eyes revealing no room for negotiation, only pure and undisguised dictatorial will.
"General Dill, you seem to have misunderstood something." Churchill's voice echoed in the deathly silent underground command post. "I am standing here today, with Arthur, our hero, and this pen, not to seek the opinion of the Imperial General Staff, but to inform you."
He stood up, his massive body casting a somber shadow under the light.
"At this moment, I don't need senior officials sitting in offices drinking tea and arranging their seniority. I don't need those gentlemen who can write eloquent evacuation reports. I'm fed up with all that nonsense about 'honorable defeat' to gloss over the fact that things are peaceful."
Churchill raised his head and scanned the room like an enraged lion.
Every staff officer whose gaze fell upon him instinctively looked away, and some even began to tremble.
They were used to the routine flow of official documents, but had never seen such blatant political violence.
"What I need is the ability to kill," Churchill said through gritted teeth.
"What I need are butchers who know how to stab Germans in the stomach. As long as they can keep the Germans on the other side of the strait, I don't care if they are 26 or 62, or if they are nobles or prisoners."
Churchill grabbed the newly signed document, but instead of handing it to his adjutant, he slammed it into General Dill's chest.
*Thud.* The document slipped from its grasp and was instinctively caught by General Deer.
"If he looks dangerous, General—" Churchill pointed at Arthur, his tone chilling yet carrying a high degree of praise, "that's because he is a true weapon."
"You're discussing whether this knife conforms to protocol? I'm checking if it's sharp!" Churchill brandished his fist. "It's not your job to sheath this knife. Your job is to use it."
"Give him flesh, give him teeth, give him the best steel and ammunition, then let go—let him cut the Nazis' throats."
The old general took a deep breath, suppressing the humiliation in his heart, raised his head to look directly at Churchill, and then turned his gaze to the young man who had been silent all along.
"Very well, Prime Minister. You are the leader of the wartime cabinet, and the army obeys your orders." General Dill's voice became somewhat hoarse, but he uttered the name that no one present could ignore. "However, there is one thing you may have overlooked. Or rather, you are deliberately avoiding it."
He held up the promotion order, looking at Arthur with a complex expression: "Has Earl Sterling agreed to this?"
The moment those words were spoken, the air in the command center froze.
If Churchill represented the pinnacle of executive power, then the Earl of Stirling represented the cornerstone of the British Empire's deep-rooted capital and aristocratic influence.
The old Earl was not only Arthur's father, but also the behind-the-scenes financier of both the Conservative and Labour parties, a financial tycoon who had long since transcended the Westminster partisan struggle, and the Admiralty's largest creditor.
If Arthur's joining the expeditionary force and donning the Coldstream Guard's magnificent red uniform was merely a tacitly understood "gilding trip"—a way for this famous London playboy to have more to talk about regarding "trench and courage" in future parliamentary elections, thus swaying voters' ballots.
Now, Churchill has completely shattered this tacit understanding among the aristocracy.
He no longer saw Arthur as a decorative object that needed protection, but instead ruthlessly threw this piece of gold leaf, which was originally intended only to be pasted on the wall, into the furnace of steel, gunpowder, and blood.
He wanted to turn Arthur into a second Horatio Nelson.
That sounds glorious and exciting.
But anyone familiar with naval history will instinctively feel a chill down their spine. Lord Nelson was indeed the savior of the empire, but his final resting place was not in a peaceful old age at his estate, but in the Battle of Trafalgar, where a French lead bullet pierced his spine and a barrel of cheap brandy used for preservation.
Heroes are used as sacrifices for the flag.
Why throw the sole heir of such a powerful family, the only remaining member of the Sterling Empire who could sway the balance between the Conservative and Labour parties and even surpass Westminster, into the front-line field troops with the highest mortality rate to be used as a expendable resource?
This is insane.
This is an absolute taboo for any top family.
"My son," Admiral Dill said, turning away from Churchill and towards Arthur, his tone carrying the authority and admonition of an elder, "your father called the War Department last night. He demands that you immediately transfer to the Homeland Defense Forces' staff upon your return. You are his only son. If you die abroad, who will inherit the Sterling family title and its vast fortune?"
"The Prime Minister can give you a military rank, but he can't give your father forgiveness. This isn't just a military issue; it's a political one."
All eyes were on Arthur. It was a dead end. On one side was the call of his country, on the other the ironclad rules of his family.
Arthur moved.
He took a step, his leather boots making a crisp sound on the concrete.
His expression remained unchanged, still exuding that intimidating elegance and indifference.
"Thank you for your concern, General Dill." Arthur's voice was calm and even, without a trace of emotion. "But I think you've confused two concepts."
"The Sterling family business is my father's business. But this uniform, and which unit I will command on the front lines in the future—that is my business."
Arthur lifted his eyelids.
"As for my father—"
Arthur's lips curled into a slightly upturned smile, revealing an extremely confident expression: "That's my family matter. I'll handle him, just like I handled the Germans."
"Whether through negotiation, deception, or forced acquisition."
This statement plunged the underground command post into a brief silence.
Immediately afterwards, a short, cheerful laugh broke the silence.
"Did you hear that, Dill?" Churchill's facial muscles twitched as he tightened his grip on his cigar, his eyes gleaming with amusement, as if he had just won a big gamble. "He just said he wanted to buy" Earl Stirling. Ha! God bless that old man."
The laughter stopped abruptly.
Churchill turned around abruptly, looked around, and glanced at the staff officers who were looking at each other in bewilderment.
"From this moment forward, whoever dares to obstruct Brigadier General Sterling's appointment, whoever dares to obstruct his logistics, whoever dares to manipulate those damned bureaucratic procedures in his promotion—"
Churchill paused, then gave a chilling smile: "I'll send him to North Africa to guard the reservoir!"
"I mean what I say."
General Deere's face turned ashen, but he said nothing more.
Under a wartime regime, the prime minister's will is law. Especially in such a desperate moment, no one dares to bear the charge of "obstructing the war effort."
He took a deep breath, suppressing his dignity as the Chief of the Imperial General Staff, looked at the document, and then reluctantly signed his name on it.
The old general walked up to Arthur and handed him the letter of appointment with both hands.
At this moment, his expression became solemn, or rather, he had no choice but to become solemn.
"Congratulations, Brigadier General Sterling," Admiral Dill's voice was somewhat hoarse.
Arthur took the document.
The paper is light, but it has a heavy weight.
The RTS system immediately popped up a notification, and golden text flashed on his retina, overlaying the real-world image.
[System Notification: Rank Promotion]
[Change of Status: Brigadier General (Temporary Wartime Rank)]
[Access Unlocked: Command Authority of Brigade-level Combat Group]
[Resource mobilization level: Level A (Can directly mobilize weapons, fuel, and transport vehicles)]
[Industrial Manufacturing Permissions: Unlocked (Access to production lines at Enfield, Vickers, and Birmingham Small Arms Companies)]
Arthur glanced at the data without making a sound.
In the British military system, Brigadier is not a "General" in the strict sense, but a special rank between colonel and major general. But that's exactly what Arthur wanted.
Because a "general" needs to sit in the command post at the rear, looking at maps and dealing with politicians; while a "brigadier general" is usually awarded to brigade commanders who carry out missions independently.
This represents the pinnacle of a combat commander, possessing absolute tactical discretion without needing to get bogged down in administrative quagmires at the division level or above.
"This is not just a title, it's a blank check." Churchill walked over and lowered his voice so that only the two of them could hear him.
He turned his back to the army generals as if they didn't exist.
"However, regarding your previous proposal to integrate the troops into one unit—the 1st Special Service Brigade—" Churchill pulled out another piece of paper from his pocket, a draft of the order, but instead of handing it directly to Arthur, he marked it with a pen.
"The name is too flashy, Arthur. Those old fogies in the War Department can't handle it."
"Moreover, the 51st Heights Division—that's a fully-fledged main force division with over ten thousand soldiers. The Cabinet will never allow such a large strategic force to be in the hands of a single individual. They must be returned to their original units and placed under the direct command of the Home Defense Command to fill the gaps in the Kent County defenses."
Arthur raised an eyebrow but didn't say anything.
This was to be expected; he had never hoped to turn the entire 51st Division into his private army, at least not now.
"But—" Churchill changed the subject, pointing heavily at the paper: "The Cold Creek Guards, and all the remnants of the French 12th Division who volunteered to follow you, are temporarily under your command."
"Although the number is small, these are the royal guards. I'm giving them to you so that you understand that this force is the core strength to protect the kingdom and the seed for a future counterattack."
The unit designation was changed to "Independent Special Operations".
"Detachment." Churchill slammed the revised draft on the table with a dull thud.
"You decide on your own equipment and write your own training syllabus. You don't need to take orders from anyone except me."
There's no need to pay attention to the Army Department's "infantry manuals." If anyone tries to pressure you with rules, let them come to me.
Arthur looked at the paper.
A genuine smile finally appeared on his lips.
The quality of an army is more important than its quantity.
After removing the bulky and inefficient parts, what remains is the essence.
This is the future "Commandos".
O
This is the cradle of the British Special Air Service (SAS) and Special Boat Service (SBS).
He finally legally possessed his own private army—an elite force entirely built by him, equipped with weapons of his design, and obeying his tactical logic.
Here, there are no bureaucrats, no regulations, only executors of the optimal solution.
"Thank you for your trust, Prime Minister." Arthur folded the document and put it in his jacket pocket.
He was not upset about losing command of the 51st Division; on the contrary, his eyes were sharper than before.
Arthur put his legs together and saluted Churchill and Admiral Diehl respectively.
"Now, unless you two give further instructions, my troops are still waiting on the dock. They need showers, hot meals, and, most importantly, new guns."
Excuse me.
Arthur turned, his white naval uniform a bright streak against the dim basement. He strode out of the underground command center, leaving the group of important figures with a resolute back view.
Churchill watched Arthur leave, not angered by his rudeness, but instead nodded in satisfaction. Just as Arthur's hand was about to touch the handle of the blast door, Churchill seemed to suddenly remember something and called out behind him, "Oh, one more thing, Arthur."
Arthur stopped and turned his head.
Churchill pointed to the white naval uniform Arthur was wearing.
"At tomorrow's press conference, take off that borrowed naval uniform. I'll have someone send you a new outfit." Churchill's eyes held a hint of amusement. "Since you call yourself a mad dog, dress like a hunter, not a sailor."
"Have the tailors on Savile Row work overtime tonight. You need a uniform worthy of the 'Sword of Imperial Revenge.'"
Arthur nodded slightly, pushed open the heavy blast door, and disappeared at the end of the spiral staircase.
13:30. Arthur walked out of the underground command post. The sun was blinding, and the sea breeze was strong. The grass atop the White Cliffs of Dover undulated in the wind, like a green wave.
In the distance, beneath the white cliffs, the USS Rodney was unloading ammunition. Huge crane booms swung in the air, hoisting boxes of shells and firearms marked with German onto the shore.
The dock was still bustling with activity. Soldiers who had just disembarked were enjoying hot tea and sandwiches, their faces showing a mixture of bewilderment and joy at surviving the ordeal.
But Arthur felt no joy.
His gaze passed over the cheering crowd, across the grey strait, and looked towards the horizon. There lay France. That was now German territory.
He touched the promotion order in his pocket, still warm from Churchill's touch. It wasn't just a piece of paper; it was a key to a higher dimension.
The first phase of "survival" has ended.
But for Arthur, that was merely cutting his losses; he snatched the chips back from the clutches of death, but that wasn't enough.
Now, we move on to the second phase: recasting.
In a flash, Arthur's mind constructed the framework for the next strategic move.
He couldn't rely on the bureaucrats at the Ordnance Department who would take another six months to approve his applications. He wanted to use all the resources of the Sterling Group to bypass the War Department and restart the family's production lines in Birmingham and Coventry.
We must never produce those Sten submachine guns that look like something a plumber could cobble together. That's garbage for cannon fodder.
Since his name is Sterling, his soldiers must be armed with "Sterling assault rifles"—
A work of art of killing, featuring a side-loading magazine, double-row feed, and perfect ergonomics.
He wanted to make this name a nightmare for Germans and also the most profitable brand for his family.
The "Independent Special Operations Detachment" was just the beginning. Arthur knew very well that special operations alone could win battles, but not wars.
You can use a dagger to cut off the enemy's supply lines, but you can't use a dagger to stop Guderian's armored divisions.
The future battlefield points to the other side of the Mediterranean—North Africa.
In that vast, boundless desert with no cover, not only ghostly assassins are needed, but also a torrent of steel.
Arthur's eyes swept over the list of the remnants of the French 12th Division—there were hundreds of experienced armored soldiers who had lost their clowns.
Those were precious seeds.
He decided to take a path that no officer in the British Empire had ever taken: special operations and field operations.
He intends to formally reorganize the "1st Special Service Brigade" in the future North African desert.
But this branch will never be the kind of light infantry that just carries light weapons and drives around in jeeps. He wants to give it the soul of heavy armor. He wants to fuse together the discipline of the Ridgemont Guards, the technology of the French armored forces, and the heavy cuques that the Stirling Group is about to roll out.
The moment Rommel set foot in Africa, he would find himself facing not an army, but a monster armed to the teeth, both tactically and strategically.
Furthermore, the Battle of Britain was imminent.
Göring's air force was already focused on London. He needed to assist the Royal Air Force (RAF) in optimizing the radar network by leveraging the bias advantage of the system, and deploying every Bofors anti-aircraft gun along the inevitable routes of the German bombers.
Finally—Arthur's gaze turned towards the distant Mediterranean Sea, a glint of bandit-like greed flashing in his eyes.
"Operation Ballista".
Churchill wanted to sink the French ship. But Arthur didn't.
That was hundreds of thousands of tons of high-quality steel; that was cannons and giant ships. That was assets.
As long as the assets still have value, the Sterling family motto is hostile takeovers.
Arthur took a deep breath of the salty, soot-smelling air. On this afternoon filled with the air of defeatism, on the verge of collapse of the empire, he was the only one thinking of attacking.
Defense? No. The best defense is to keep the Germans awake at night.
Arthur straightened his ill-fitting collar and strode toward the jeep that was waiting for him.
The anti-world movement begins now.
P.S.: Regarding yesterday's system options, my original intention was just to make a joke, but I didn't expect everyone to take it so seriously. Okay, my bad, I didn't explain it clearly. I changed the system's consequences to a joke. Of course, Churchill would have strongly supported the protagonist. I apologize if this caused you a bad reading experience.