xymnovel Chapter 121: Both a member of the imperial family and a demon from hell
Chapter 121: Both a member of the imperial family and a demon from hell
Chapter 121: Both a member of the imperial family and a demon from hell
June 8, 1940, 2:00 PM, Dover Naval Base, Kent, Torpedo Boat No. 4 Maintenance Workshop – Temporary Shower Center.
While it couldn't compare to the enamel bathtub Arthur enjoyed in the captain's cabin of the USS Rodney, for these men who had just crawled back from the brink of hell, this was paradise.
This massive domed building, originally used to maintain high-speed torpedo boats, was urgently transformed by the Royal Navy into a "Gate of Rebirth".
To welcome these returning warriors, the base commander ordered all spare industrial-grade boilers to be activated, and even directly used the high-quality anthracite coal originally prepared for the destroyers.
Hundreds of galvanized water pipes were laid on the crossbeams, and the showerheads spewed out an unlimited amount of scalding hot water.
Steam filled the air, turning the entire workshop into a white, misty world.
The smell here was no longer the nauseating stench of blood, but had been replaced by a strong, comforting scent of carbolic acid soap. It was the smell of "home" and "civilization" in the memories of the British, a luxury that could only be smelled far behind the front lines.
Gone are the roars of sergeants on the battlefield; instead, there is the busy yet respectful silence of naval support personnel.
"Hot water is plentiful, gentlemen. Flush as much as you like." A naval petty officer stood at the entrance, holding a thick stack of white towels. His tone was no longer that of a tyrant, but rather carried an unusual gentleness: "Leave the French mud in the sewers. Don't bring it home."
Groups of naked men stood under the flowing water.
They were Scots from the 51st Highland Division, Englishmen from the Cold Creek Guards, and Brittanymen from the French 12th Motorized Rifle Division.
Just hours before, they belonged to different organizations, but at this moment, before the scalding hot water and God, they were no different.
They were all skin and bones.
The intense combat and retreat that lasted for half a month had already depleted every gram of fat in their bodies. In the pale light of the steam lamps, their ribs were clearly visible like the strings of a musical instrument, and each breath felt like pulling a worn-out bellows.
Their skin was covered with a black crust—it was coal ash, engine oil, mud from the trenches, and dried blood clots.
This outer shell was like a layer of armor that the Dunkirk beach gave them; though dirty, it was their last camouflage.
Now, this armor is peeling away layer by layer under the scouring of hot water.
"Sorry, sir, this might hurt a little." In the wash area, a naval medic wearing a waterproof apron was carefully treating a stubborn stain on the back of a lieutenant from the 51st Division with a sponge and a soft brush.
It was a mixture of tank lubricant and coagulated blood clots, which had stuck to the skin.
The medics didn't scrub it like they would livestock; instead, they first softened the dirt with gauze soaked in hot oil, and then wiped it off little by little.
"This is waste oil from German tanks; it's very viscous," the medic explained in a low voice. "We need to clean it off, or it will get infected. You're already home; there's no need for you to carry this scar around."
The lieutenant gritted his teeth and let out a muffled groan, but did not scream.
He could feel the pressure in the other person's hand—it was respect for a hero, not charity towards a refugee.
"It's okay, brother," the lieutenant said, his voice trembling and hoarse. "As long as this damn smell gets rid of, I don't mind if you use sandpaper."
This was the logistical logic of the British Empire, a cold-blooded logic tinged with a touch of warmth: We may have lost our equipment, we may have lost our positions, but as long as you come back alive, the Empire will use the best hot water and soap to turn you from "beasts" back into "humans".
This is not only a matter of hygiene and epidemic prevention, but also a matter of maintaining the army's last shred of dignity.
Black sewage converges into a river, swirling as it flows into the thick iron grate of the sewer.
If you look closely, you'll find that it's not just dirt. It's gunpowder smoke, the red soil of Alaska, the bits of flesh that flew onto your body after your comrades were blown to pieces, and the sweat that dried from fear.
As this "protective coloration" was washed away, what was revealed was pale, somewhat sickly skin.
On that pale skin were shocking marks: purple bruises from the backpack, pink fresh flesh from shrapnel wounds, and trench feet rotting on the ankles.
As the filth receded, they felt a raw vulnerability they had never known before. It was as if that layer of dirty mud was their only dignity in this mad world. But then, a warm, dry towel wrapped around them, shutting out that vulnerability.
"Welcome home, sir." The sergeant major handed over a hot towel, his eyes resolute. "The tea is ready; it's in the locker room."
Passing through the heavy canvas curtain in the shower area, the air instantly becomes dry and cool.
The smell here is completely different. Gone is the stench of blood and filth; in its place is the strong smell of mothballs, the smell of new fabric being washed, and the smell of leather polish.
A magic show called "Logistics Miracle" is being performed here.
For this upcoming global broadcast, and to convince everyone in the world—whether it be the hesitant Americans across the ocean, the desperate French exiles across the Channel, or the Europeans trembling beside their radios—that the British Empire was still a civilized force, the wartime cabinet spared no expense.
Dozens of rows of mobile coat racks were filled with densely packed, brand-new military uniforms.
Not one of those cheap, hastily made uniforms produced to meet the demands of military expansion, but a proper 1937-style combat uniform woven from Australian wool. The brass buckles were polished to a gleaming shine, and the leather belt gleamed with an alluring luster. Even the boots were brand new, the soles untouched by a speck of dirt.
In addition, there were regular uniforms specifically prepared for officers.
Some of these clothes even bear the chalk marks of the Savile Row tailor shop—these were emergency requisitioned stock.
Dozens of tailors and quartermasters darted through the crowd like bees, carrying measuring tapes and notebooks.
"State your name and rank!"
"McTavish! Sergeant! Cold Creek Guards!"
"chest circumference?"
"I don't know! But I've probably lost two inches in the last two weeks!"
"Give him number 40! Next!"
A brand-new uniform was shoved into Sergeant McTavish's arms. The Scottish veteran had just been forced to shave off his prized beard. Now, naked, he was struggling with the collar buttons of his new jacket in front of a half-length mirror with a crack in it.
"Damn it—who designed this thing?" McTavish cursed, his large fingers clumsily trying to fasten the terribly tight top button. A red mark was left on his neck, a shave from a razor shave that had been too rough.
"This collar is so stiff it feels like it's strangling me! It's like something a dead person would wear!" McTavish turned to Ryder, who was adjusting the major's epaulets, and complained, "Major, to be honest, I'm starting to miss that old junk covered in engine oil."
At least it has my scent on it, the scent of that old bastard Guderian's lungs pounding with rage, and the memories of rolling around in the mud for the past two weeks. But this one—"
He tugged at his cuffs in disgust; they were so clean they made him feel ashamed.
"This smells like something a sissy would wear to an office in Whitehall for afternoon tea. If this were on the battlefield, the Germans would be able to smell the mothballs from two kilometers away!"
Major Ryder did not answer immediately.
He was pinning a gleaming Norfolk Regiment badge onto his beret.
He looked impeccably dressed and handsome in the mirror.
The well-tailored officer's uniform perfectly accentuated his slender figure, making him look no longer like a fleeing beggar, but rather like an imperial officer about to participate in a military parade.
But this outfit, when worn by him, had a strange sense of alienation. It was like dressing a dog that had just finished a fight in a mud pit...
The wounded beast was forced to wear an exquisite evening gown.
"Shut up, Sergeant." Ryder straightened his hat, covering the not-yet-fully-healed abrasion on his forehead.
"Stop complaining. This is for those people outside to see."
"They don't want to see us begging, nor do they want to smell the stench of our corpses. They want to see officers of the British Empire, gentlemen."
Ryder turned around, pulled McTavish's collar straight, and said in a low voice, "Even if we just lost by a hair's breadth, we have to lose with dignity. That's the point of this suit—it's not for you to wear, it's for the camera shutter to wear."
When the group finally emerged from the locker room, the scene had changed dramatically.
The ragged, blood-stained, and ravenous "beggars' army" vanished. In its place stood a well-dressed, impeccably dressed British Imperial officers, their boots gleaming and their uniforms impeccably buttoned.
They stood in neat rows, their leather boots clicking rhythmically on the concrete.
Sunlight streamed through the skylight, bathing them in its golden light, and the brass buckles reflected a dazzling golden glow. At first glance, they appeared to be an invincible and formidable army.
But in Arthur's RTS view, the image presents a different tone.
[Unit status scan complete]
[51st Highland Division/Cold Creek Guards Regiment Combined Battalion]
[Equipment Durability: 100% (Factory New)]
[Hygiene Condition: Excellent (No parasites)]
Morale: Recovering (Yellow)
Mental Stress: Extremely High (Bright Red Alert)
[Warning: Severe PTSD masking detected]
The brand-new military uniforms covered their scars and protruding ribs, but they couldn't hide what was in their eyes.
It's a kind of emptiness.
It was a deep distrust of the so-called "civilized world" that came from having seen the deepest parts of hell.
Their eyes were sunken in their sockets, their gazes wandering, as if they were still searching for cover or where shells might fall.
This glamorous uniform is like a painted mask, barely maintaining the shape of broken souls.
They are not heroes. They are a bunch of ghosts in new clothes.
Arthur stood on the second-floor corridor, looking at the group of "new" soldiers, and lightly flicked his cigarette ash.
"It's washed quite clean," he said coldly. "Hopefully, the smell of this mothball will mask the gunpowder in their souls."
They donned survivor masks, preparing to attend the funeral-like victory celebration held in their honor.
14:50, Baiya Hotel, second-floor deluxe suite.
This was originally Dover's most expensive ocean-view suite, featuring Victorian oak paneling, heavy Persian carpets, and a crystal chandelier that was not lit at the time.
Now, this has become Brigadier General Arthur Sterling's temporary dressing room, or more accurately, a "backstage dressing room".
The huge floor-to-ceiling windows were wiped spotless, and outside the windows was the magnificent English Channel.
The sea shimmered, and several white seagulls circled low overhead, emitting clear cries. Sunlight spilled across the water, creating layers of golden light, making it impossible to discern the massacre taking place on the opposite shore dozens of kilometers away, or that just hours before, the outer perimeter of this area was littered with corpses and burning heavy oil.
Arthur stood in front of a huge full-length mirror.
The room was quiet, with only the ticking of the clock and the soft rustling of fabric.
He was wearing a brigadier general's uniform that had just been delivered and was made overnight by Henry Poole, the top tailor on Savile Row.
In this wartime of scarce resources, this uniform is nothing short of a luxurious work of art.
Logically speaking, this is an impossible task.
He had just arrived in Dover this morning and had been promoted on the spot in the underground command post just two hours ago.
Even the best tailor in all of London could not conjure up such a well-fitting general's uniform without any measurements.
But this is the magic of power, and a product of the "deification movement."
From the moment Arthur and the 51st Heights Division met up, Churchill's secretary had already dialed Savile Row.
For a century-old establishment like Henry Poole, the Stirling family wasn't just a client; they were part of its history. Their archives contained all of Arthur's physical data from birth and baptism to his enrollment at Eton College and graduation from Sandhurst [Archive No.: 709, The Earl of Stirling].
The old tailor didn't even need to see Arthur in person.
So, while Arthur was still adrift on the English Channel, the sewing machine in the London basement had already started to spark.
This is more than just a set of clothes.
This was a propaganda prop hastily produced by the wartime cabinet, much like the production of the Spitfire fighter plane.
The deep khaki gabardine fabric had an excellent drape; it was made from top-quality Australian wool stockpiled before the war, and it had a matte, metallic texture in the sunlight. The double-breasted design perfectly accentuated his broad shoulders and narrow waist; every seam was so precise it seemed to have been mathematically calculated, and every pleat was designed to flatter his figure.
Arthur reached out, his fingertips tracing the cool brass clasp.
These buttons are engraved with intricate crown and lion patterns, polished to a gleaming shine that reflects a dazzling light.
On the collar, the red insignia stood out starkly, like a bloody wound or a brand of power.
That's the insignia of a brigadier general.
In the rigid and inflexible promotion system of the British Empire, such a rocket-like speed of advancement was simply a fantasy.
In the past two hundred years, almost no one has ever been able to wear the red general's insignia at the age of 26. Even the legendary T.E. Lawrence ("Lawrence of Arabia") was only a colonel at that age; even the king's own son, unless attending the coronation ceremony, would at most be an honorary colonel in name only.
History tells us that those who become generals in their twenties are usually one of two extremes: one is the royal family members born with a silver spoon in their mouths, who need to be gilded in the war, and whose military rank is an ornament they are born with; the other is the gambler who is completely insane and bets the lives of the entire army on the roulette table, and whose military rank is a life-saving money piled up by the blood of his users.
Arthur looked at himself in the mirror and felt that he was a combination of the two.
"He is both a member of the imperial family and a demon from hell."
Arthur adjusted the glaringly red collar insignia on the brigadier general's collar in front of the mirror and said with a self-deprecating laugh, "The British Empire must be blind to entrust its army to someone like me."
He reached out and fastened the last button of his collar with his long, slender fingers.
The movements were graceful, precise, and without the slightest tremor.
As the button was fastened, a sense of suffocation followed. This was not just a piece of clothing; it was a shackle, and also a suit of armor.
The person in the mirror is handsome, noble, and impeccably groomed.
His golden hair was combed back with hair wax, revealing a full, smooth forehead. His deep blue eyes reflected the sea outside the window, so deep they seemed unfathomable. He didn't look like a survivor who had just crawled out of a mountain of corpses and a sea of blood; he looked more like a nobleman who had just finished afternoon tea at St. James's Palace and was preparing to attend a royal horse race.
[Scan complete]
[Equipment: Custom-made British Army Brigadier General's Service Uniform (SavileRow)]
Physical Defense: 0
Charisma: MAX (Devastating effect against females of a specific tier)
Prestige: +500%
[Special Effect: The Disguise of Civilization. Wear it, and you become the face of the British Empire.]
Arthur looked at the data panel, his lips twitching slightly.
The system was right.
If the socialites in London's Mayfair district, caught up in the peak of their social season, were to witness this scene, or if the duke's daughters, still agonizing over "who to marry this desperate summer," were to see this man in the mirror—a tsunami would erupt throughout London's social circles.
Countless marriage certificates sent to clerks in the rear security department or to fiancés working in banks will be torn up without hesitation; countless carefully prepared balls will become dull and tasteless because of his absence; those shrewd aristocratic mothers will use all the political resources of their families, like sharks smelling blood, just to squeeze their daughters into the passenger seat of Brigadier General Sterling's jeep.
Because at this moment, he not only possesses a physical appearance that would make Hollywood stars pale in comparison, but he is also draped in a golden body called "war hero".
He was the most expensive, most dazzling, and most deadly trophy of the British Empire at that moment.
"The perfect family heir, the perfect dream lover." Arthur coldly added the last sentence to himself in the mirror: "The perfect—high-class cannon fodder."
"Bang!"
The door was flung open with a loud crash, shattering the silence in the room.
There are very few people in all of Britain who can barge into a brigadier general's dressing room like a cannonball without knocking.
"Sir! Sir! You have to see this!" Major Ryder burst in like a whirlwind. He had also changed into a brand-new major's uniform, but his tie was tied crookedly. He was waving a newspaper with undried ink in his hand, and his face had an expression of excitement as if he had seen a ghost, or perhaps some kind of absurd ecstasy.
"You're on the front page! Damn, you're even above that fat old Churchill's speech! You're now a household name in London, even more famous than that posing Montgomery!"
Arthur frowned slightly and slowly turned around.
He straightened his cuffs and said calmly, "Ryder, if you don't learn how to knock, I'll transfer you to Scotland Yard as a doorman. Or I'll send you to be General Dill's aide-de-camp, and let him teach you what manners are."
"Forget about the door, it's made of wood and it's worthless! Look at this!" Ryder didn't care about Arthur's threat at all. He rushed to the dressing table and slammed the evening edition of the Daily Mail onto the marble tabletop, jabbing the front page with his fingers, making the newspaper rattle loudly.
[Front-page headline: The Empire's sword of vengeance—Major Sterling and his "Ghost Legion" return!]
A huge black-and-white photograph occupied half the page, overshadowing the official press release below that stated "the Dunkirk evacuation has been successfully completed."
Arthur's gaze fell on the photograph, his pupils contracting slightly.
The photo isn't high resolution, and it has the graininess typical of newspapers from that era, but you can still clearly see the person's face.
In the photo, Arthur Sterling is wearing a full Cold Creek Guard uniform, his collar crisp and his expression solemn.
It is worth noting that the rank insignia on his shoulder at this time was not the later colonel, nor the current brigadier general, but a crown, which was his rank of major before he went to war with the expeditionary force.
The background of the photo is a magnificent building deliberately blurred by a large aperture lens, in which one can vaguely discern the ancient Tudor-style chimneys and the maze of bushes trimmed like geometric shapes.
To the editors of Fleet Street, it was just an "unknown manor" full of mysterious aristocratic atmosphere, a symbol used to satisfy the public's fantasy of high society.
But his memory told Arthur that it was the eastern flank of Strindberg.
He was a standard, enviable, top-tier nobleman.
But the feigned seriousness on his face, in Arthur's eyes now, revealed a kind of laughable naiveté. He was a young master who thought he understood the cruelty of war, but in reality had never even seen a dead person, trying his best to play the role of a "soldier" in front of the camera.
He thought war was honor, medals, and chivalry, but he didn't know that war was actually mud, severed limbs, and death without dignity.
Memories flooded back. Arthur remembered. It was three months ago, the afternoon before the expeditionary force departed for France. Old Earl Sterling, sitting in his wheelchair, looked at his son in full military uniform and nodded: "Stand over there, Arthur."
Take a picture. Be serious, like a Sterling man.
At the time, Arthur Sterling tried hard to keep a straight face, attempting to make himself look like his grandfather in the portrait.
Back then, he acted like an assassin; now, he wants to act like a human being.
At the time, he didn't know that the screech of a Stuka during a dive would tear his eardrums, he didn't know what color human intestines would be, and he didn't know that so-called "honor" was worthless in the face of an 88mm high-explosive shell.
"Ha!" Arthur let out a short, cold laugh, his voice full of sarcasm.
Unexpectedly, Churchill's propaganda machine was spinning so fast. In order to cover up the horrific defeat at Dunkirk, to give the panicked public a boost of morale, and to tell the world "we haven't lost yet," they couldn't wait to dig out this "old photo" from the Sterling family's album and put it on a pedestal.
They needed a hero. But the real heroes—soldiers covered in mud, with empty eyes, crawling back from the beach like wild dogs—were too ugly, too real, for the masses to accept.
So they chose this "perfect illusion".
This clean-cut, handsome major, standing in the rose garden and representing the glory of the old era, is the "sword of revenge" that the public desires.
Arthur reached out, his fingertips lightly tracing the smiling face of the young man on the newspaper. His fingertips touched the rough paper, devoid of warmth.
That was him. But it wasn't him either.
He slowly raised his head, shifting his gaze from the newspaper to himself in the mirror.
The brigadier general in the mirror was wearing a higher-ranking uniform, with red trim on his epaulets, a symbol of power.
But he was pale.
This was an extremely incongruous pallor; even though the RTS system had strengthened his muscle fibers and nerve responses, it still couldn't repair the cracks left on the mental level.
The system could instantly replenish his physical stats, but it couldn't erase the morbid marks left by long-term sleep deprivation and repeated brushes with death. It could repair the body, but not a broken soul.
His eyes were as cold as a thousand-year-old block of ice, or a bottomless, dry well. There was no bright sunlight, no neatly trimmed roses, and no docile hunting dogs in them, as seen in the photographs.
Only the burning streets of Calais, only the mud splattered from under the treads of Guderian's tanks, only the English Channel stained brownish-red with blood.
That's the "Thousand-yard stare".
That's the look in someone's eyes who has killed people and seen countless people die before their eyes.
The pale blue data stream from the RTS system flowed silently across Arthur's retina.
It coldly ran its facial recognition program, trying to match the sunlit major in the newspaper with the gloomy brigadier general in the mirror.
[Facial feature matching in progress————]
Match rate: 98.7%
[Biological identification: Same goal]
But deep in Arthur's mind, he coldly rejected this conclusion.
The system can only read data about bones and muscles, not what's in the eyes. Biologically, they are the same person; but on a spiritual level, they are completely different species.
"Who is this kid in the photo?" Arthur asked casually, his voice as calm as if he were asking a stranger's name, his finger lightly tapping the rough paper of the newspaper.
Ryder paused for a moment.
He glanced at the innocent-looking major in the newspaper, then looked up at the officer in front of him, dressed in a brigadier general's uniform and exuding a dangerous aura. His smile slowly froze.
As Arthur's subordinate who had followed him all the way back from Dunkirk, he knew better than anyone the difference between the two "Arthurs".
That major, holding a riding crop and striking a melancholy pose in the garden, would never do something as crazy as crushing a German general's tent with a treadmill.
"Uh—" Ryder scratched his head awkwardly, trying to ease the sudden oppressive atmosphere: "Looks like a clueless playboy, sir. I bet he doesn't even know where the safety catch is, and probably even thinks tank tracks are for plowing."
"Yes." Arthur turned around, his back to the newspaper, and straightened his cuffs in front of the mirror, smoothing out the red collar insignia. His gaze met his reflection, his eyes devoid of any emotion, only a farewell-like indifference: "I remember now too."
"That kid died in Azhebrook. He was blown to pieces by the German StuG III assault guns, not even a trace was left."
""
The tone was as if he were talking about an unnamed comrade who had died on the roadside. Major Arthur Sterling, who believed in chivalry and that war had rules, had been buried in the soil of France along with his naivety.
What stands here now is merely a sophisticated war machine bearing the name Sterling.
"Let's go, Ryder." Arthur didn't look at the photo again.
Since the world needs a perfect idol, then he should play that role well.
As for that innocent young master who died in the garden, let him remain forever in the newspapers and live on in people's imaginations.
He strode forward, his boots making a crisp, rhythmic sound on the floor.
He pushed open the heavy oak door and walked toward the noisy banquet hall deep in the corridor.
"Go to our funeral—oh no, I mean victory celebration."
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