The Twilight of Empire: Starting from Dunkirk

Chapter 16 Uninvited Guest

11:30, Northern France, on the banks of the Lis River, an old windmill.

The midday sun poured down on the Flanders plain like molten gold.

Without the morning mist to conceal it, this ravaged land was laid bare before our eyes. The air was hot and dry, and the cicadas' frantic chirping in the treetops was irritating.

[Distance to contact: 3.5 km]

Estimated arrival time: 6 minutes

Threat Level: Lethal

Arthur leaned against the window on the second floor of the mill, staring at the frantically jumping red countdown on his retina, his eyes as cold as ice.

But he showed no panic whatsoever, and even had the leisure to glance at his pocket watch.

"McTavish".

The voice sounded more like an order to the Sterling family butler to prepare lunch than an order to prepare an ambush.

"The guests will arrive in five minutes. Clear the area."

"Understood, sir."

These British veterans, who had followed Arthur all the way, were now displaying astonishing tactical prowess. Without needing any further words, they quickly switched from "rest mode" to "hunt mode."

"Quick! Cover up the tire tracks! Sweep them up with branches!"

"Bury those damn cans! Don't leave even a trace of the British smell!"

"Check the safety devices. No one is allowed to fire!"

The twelve Opel trucks were already deeply hidden in the poplar grove behind the mill, covered with thick camouflage netting and freshly broken branches. From the air or the road, all that could be seen was a lush thicket of bushes.

Dozens of fully armed soldiers dispersed like ghosts, silently slipping into the mill's attic, behind the flour piles, and into the haystacks surrounding the yard. Gun barrels peered through the gaps, locking onto every blind spot in the yard.

Arthur strode down the stairs and grabbed old Pierre, who was about to wipe Sophie's face.

"Mr. Pierre."

Arthur's voice was very serious and left no room for negotiation.

"Take Sophie and hide in the cellar. No matter what happens outside, absolutely, absolutely do not make a sound."

"What's wrong? Is it a German?" Pierre, seeing Arthur's serious expression, realized the gravity of the situation. "Do you need my help? I still have my hunting rifle..."

"That was the SS, not the Wehrmacht."

Arthur didn't explain much. He and Jeanne together pushed the grandmother and granddaughter into the cellar entrance at the bottom of the mill, covered it with the thick, dusty wooden plank, and piled two old flour sacks on top as a disguise.

"Don't come out. Even if it's just for Sophie's sake."

After doing all this, Arthur dusted off his hands and slipped behind a pile of huge oak barrels.

This is a perfect blind spot for shooting, and also an excellent vantage point.

The entire mill fell into a suffocating silence. Only the huge wooden gears turned in the breeze, making an occasional creaking sound.

[Distance to contact: 0]

Just as the countdown reached zero.

hum - hum - hum -

A sudden roar of an engine shattered the midday tranquility.

It wasn't the weary panting of the Bedford trucks of the British Expeditionary Force, nor the rhythmic industrial throbbing of the Opel "Lightning" of the German Wehrmacht.

That was the distinctive roar of the horizontally opposed twin-cylinder engine of the BMW R75 heavy motorcycle—sharp, ferocious, like the howling of a pack of hungry wolves.

Through the gaps in the wooden planks, Arthur raised his binoculars, and his vision became clear as the lens focused.

Outside the mill, accompanied by the screeching of brakes, three mud-caked motorcycles stopped fifty meters from the entrance.

The engine shut off, and the once bustling plain instantly became eerily quiet, with only the rustling of the cold wind through the withered grass. Five soldiers in SS camouflage smocks jumped out of the vehicle, their boots making a sickening crunching sound as they stepped into the soft, wet mud.

Besides weapons, the Germans also brought two living creatures—two Doberman Pinschers with glossy black backs and menacing muscle lines. They were chained up and began growling restlessly as soon as they got off the vehicle, their noses pressed against the ground as they frantically sniffed, as if they had caught a faint but present threat of death in the air.

But the SS soldier with the dog paid no heed. He yanked on the chain and cursed in German, "Quiet down, you beast. There's only the stench of Frenchmen here."

"Hans, go check the cellar." An SS lieutenant wearing a peaked cap waved his hand lazily, his expression as relaxed as if he were having a picnic in the outskirts of Berlin. "If it's wine, take it; if it's French women... hey, keep them for fun."

Several soldiers let out a lewd chuckle, their MP38 submachine guns and Kar98k rifles hanging loosely at their waists. They were too confident, so confident that they were completely unaware of the terrifying death trap they had stepped into.

Arthur lay prone behind the second-floor ventilation shaft piled with hay, coldly observing the Germans with skull and crossbones badges atop their heads. On his RTS system interface, the five red dots representing the enemy were now completely surrounded by dozens of green dots representing friendly forces, leaving no gaps.

The two frenzied Dobermans suddenly stopped and began barking wildly towards the second floor of the mill, their previously loose chains snapping straight instantly.

"Sir?" Sergeant Jack, lying beside Arthur, asked in a low voice, his finger already on the trigger of the Bren light machine gun. "Those two dogs have spotted us. Does the lead officer want to take them alive for questioning?"

"No, that's not necessary." Arthur didn't hesitate at all. His eyes were cold as he looked at the officer who was taking out his cigarette case. "I want them dead, now."

Just as the SS lieutenant put a cigarette in his mouth, head bowed to protect the flame, and struck a lighter with a "click"—

Arthur suddenly swung his hand down.

"Fire!"

Rat-a-tat-tat-tat-tat—!

The roar of death tore through the air in that instant.

As if some finely tuned slaughtering machine had suddenly been powered on, dazzling muzzle flashes erupted simultaneously from behind the dilapidated windows of the mill, on the collapsed roof, and even from every inconspicuous crack in the brickwork. The dull roar of more than twenty Thompson submachine guns and the crisp bursts of three Bren light machine guns intertwined to create a destructive metal symphony.

Using two fully armed Guards infantry platoons to "take care" of a mere five German scouts is, from an infantry manual perspective, an extremely extravagant use of firepower. But this is precisely the war aesthetic that Arthur believed in—asymmetric warfare.

The battlefield is not an arena for knightly duels; it has no place for tender probing. What he seeks is swift, devastating kills, achieving zero casualties through overwhelming firepower. He sees any protracted or arduous battles as mere signs of a commander's incompetence.

As for the pile of scorching hot brass cartridge cases? It doesn't matter.

In those trucks loaded with munitions, there were countless blocks of copper and lead, symbols of death and destruction. This was the privilege of industrialized warfare.

The SS lieutenant's lighter had just produced a faint blue flame when it was instantly swallowed up by the overwhelming hail of bullets.

The first 11.43mm blunt-nosed bullet, carrying immense stopping force, shattered his jawbone without hesitation, blasting the unlit cigarette along with fragments of broken jawbone into his throat.

But this is just the beginning.

Following closely behind was a torrent of metal consisting of dozens of .45 ACP and .303 rifle rounds. These high-speed spinning bullets, like a bloodthirsty piranha, tore countless terrifying cavities into his once crisp uniform. The immense kinetic energy impact caused his body to tremble violently against gravity in mid-air, every muscle and every bone being mercilessly dismantled and pulverized in this storm of steel.

He was even physically deprived of the chance to scream.

He didn't fall immediately. The immense kinetic energy caused his body to convulse violently in mid-air, like a manipulated puppet performing a bizarre death tap dance. The lighter in his hand, still burning, flew out, tracing a faint arc in the air before being swallowed by the blood mist.

The two ferocious Dobermans only had time to let out a short, mournful whimper before they were riddled with bullets and turned into two mushy lumps of flesh, pinned to the mud along with their owner.

The remaining three soldiers couldn't even lie down before the Bren gun fire instantly tore their bodies apart, and blood mixed with fragments of internal organs, dirt, and wood chips exploded in the air in clouds of crimson mist.

Less than three seconds.

The gunfire stopped abruptly.

In the open space in front of the mill, all that remained was a pile of unrecognizable mangled flesh, several motorcycles riddled with holes and emitting white smoke, and an SS lieutenant still twitching slightly in the mud—merely the last reflex of his nerve endings.

"Clean up the battlefield! Be on alert!"

Arthur strode down the stairs, his boots clattering heavily on the wooden planks. He didn't even glance at the corpses outside, heading straight for the cellar entrance. The intense gunfire that had just erupted across the open plain seemed to be announcing their location to all of France.

The main force of the Skeleton Army is definitely nearby; these reconnaissance squads never stray too far from the main force.

The cellar cover was lifted, and the old miller still gripped the old double-barreled shotgun tightly in his hand, pointing it tremblingly at Arthur, while the little girl cowered behind him, her eyes wide with terror.

"We're leaving, now!" Arthur roared in French, his words rapid. "The gunshots just now will attract more Germans, hundreds, even thousands! You must come with us!"

"No..." The old miller lowered his gun, but there was a stubbornness in his eyes that chilled Arthur to the bone. He glanced at the gruesome corpses outside, then at Arthur. "I'm not leaving."

"Are you crazy? Those are SS soldiers! They're beasts!" Arthur grabbed the old man's shoulder. "Staying here means certain death!"

"This is my mill, left to me by my father, and it's what I'm leaving to my granddaughter." The old man forcefully pulled his hand away from Arthur's. His wrinkled face was etched with the almost foolish attachment a French peasant had to his land. "I'm not going anywhere. I didn't die in Verdun, and I'm not afraid of these Germans."

"That was 1916! Things are different now!" Arthur's forehead veins throbbed with anxiety. He turned to the little girl. "What about her? Are you going to take her with you?"

The old man fell silent. He glanced back at his trembling granddaughter, a flicker of pain crossing his eyes, but it was quickly replaced by a resolute determination.

"I'm not going anywhere! I want to stay with Grandpa!" the little girl suddenly cried out, clinging tightly to the old man's leg.

Just then, the sentry on guard duty rushed in in a panic: "Sir! Two o'clock! A large amount of smoke and dust spotted! It's armored troops! Less than three kilometers away!"

Arthur's heart sank. Damn it, it came too fast.

He quickly scanned the RTS map; the fog of war at the edge of his vision was churning violently, and a large red blob representing enemy heavy armored units was rapidly advancing towards the mill. That was the armored force of the "Skeleton Division."

If we don't leave now, taking these two civilians with us, everyone will die here.

"Sir! We must retreat!" Jack shouted at the door, where the rumble of tracks crushing the ground could be faintly heard.

Arthur looked at the old man and the young man before him. He had dozens of brothers, the elite of the British Empire, and he couldn't let them die for two stubborn French civilians.

"Damn it!" Arthur slammed his fist on the doorframe, took all the cans and two grenades from his waist, and slammed them heavily on the table. "If the Germans come, don't resist. Maybe...maybe they won't kill civilians."

This is a lie that even he himself doesn't believe.

"Sir, all vehicles have been checked," Sergeant Jack reported as he ran over. "All twelve trucks are working, we..."

"No, we can't take them all." Arthur interrupted him coldly, his gaze sweeping over the twelve trucks loaded with supplies. "Twelve trucks are too conspicuous. The intelligence officers of Army Group B aren't fools. To them, a large, fully-equipped transport convoy is just a piece of moving meat. Stuka bombers will be on their doorstep within half an hour."

He made a swift decision, his finger tracing a line in the air: "Leave only these three with the best engines. Transfer all high-value ammunition, fuel, and supplies to these three vehicles. We'll disguise ourselves as an inconspicuous squad. As for the rest..." A ruthless glint flashed in Arthur's eyes, "Disrupt the engines, drain the fuel tanks, and leave the Germans not a single screw."

"yes!"

Arthur walked over to the pile of SS corpses, his gaze falling on the overturned half-track motorcycle (Sd.Kfz. 2). This was a good piece of equipment, with excellent off-road capabilities, perfect for reconnaissance or rapid assaults.

He reached out and tried to straighten the handlebars, but then frowned.

That "metal storm" just now was really too thorough.

The once-precise German mechanical craftsmanship has now been reduced to a pile of scrap metal. The motorcycle's fuel tank is riddled with holes, the fuel has long since leaked out, and there are at least seven or eight jagged bullet holes in the engine guard plate. Through the cracks, you can even see the broken connecting rods and gears inside.

"What a pity." Arthur patted the bullet-riddled seat, his hands smeared with black engine oil and semi-congealed blood. "This is the price of excessive firepower."

He shook his head, decisively abandoning the idea of ​​repairing the machine. For them now, carrying this pile of scrap metal would only be a burden.

"Everyone get on the bus! Let's go!"

……

Five minutes later.

The streamlined convoy—three trucks fully loaded with supplies—had stopped at the edge of the high-altitude forest two kilometers away. To mislead the German troops, they deliberately avoided the main road and smeared more mud on the trucks.

"Stop. Turn off the engine."

At Arthur's command, the three trucks slid into the shadows, their engines falling silent.

Arthur stood on the footboard of the lead car and raised his binoculars.

In the distance, the lone mill had now transformed into a giant torch. Thick black smoke billowed into the sky, starkly bright against the gloomy backdrop.

Even from this distance, one could almost hear the heart-wrenching gunshots and the arrogant shouts in German.

"Sir..." Jack, his eyes red, gripped the steering wheel tightly in the driver's seat, "We..."

"Shut up," Arthur said in a hoarse voice.

He closed his eyes, his thoughts instantly switching to the RTS system interface in his mind.

On the map viewed from above, the location of the mill still shows two faint green dots. Around them are countless red dots, like a swarm of ants—the main armored force of the Skeleton Division, drawn by the gunfire.

Arthur "saw" that scene.

The stubborn old Frenchman was dragged out of the burning house. An SS officer was waving a map in front of him, seemingly interrogating him. The old man's granddaughter was gone; the green dot representing her had turned gray seconds earlier.

Arthur's heart skipped a beat.

On the map, the green dot representing the old man suddenly started flashing.

The old man raised his hand.

At that moment, Arthur, through the system's "fog of war" perspective function, clearly saw the direction the old man was pointing—

East.

That was the opposite direction from which Arthur and his caravan retreated, a vast, open swamp with no cover.

Immediately afterwards, the SS officer pulled out a pistol.

boom.

The last green dot on the map went out.

The moment the green dot went out, the group of red dots actually started turning around and rumbling off in the east, in the direction the old man was pointing.

Arthur opened his eyes, and the world before him was still a dark forest and a burning mill in the distance.

He slowly lowered his binoculars, his face expressionless, but all the soldiers saw that the young officer had bitten his lip, and blood dripped down his chin onto the collar of his dirty military overcoat.

"He lied to them," Arthur said softly, his voice barely audible in the cold wind. "The old man, before he died, pointed the Germans in the opposite direction."

The surrounding soldiers were stunned, and Lieutenant Jeanne in the carriage covered her mouth, tears welling up in her eyes.

A complex mix of extreme anger, shame, and respect spread through the ranks. Several young soldiers pounded their fists against the walls of the carriage, venting their pent-up frustration. They possessed the best weapons, yet they could only survive through this "escape by hiding" method, watching helplessly as those they were protecting died tragically.

"Remember this moment." Arthur put his helmet back on, closed the car door, shutting out the cold wind and the smell of blood. "Remember this black smoke. We'll settle this score with the Skeleton Master."

He stared straight ahead, his killing intent palpable.

"Drive. Destination: Dunkirk coast. Full speed ahead. Don't let that old bastard die in vain."

The three camouflaged trucks started up again, kicking up a trail of dead leaves, and disappeared into the vast forest.