ATPnovel Chapter 4 Union in the Mist
Chapter 4 Union in the Mist
In the early morning, there is no sunshine in Azhaibruk, only a thick fog that permeates the streets and smells of burning rubber.
It was the haze unique to war—a mixture of burning vehicle wreckage, lime dust kicked up by explosions, and moisture blowing in from the English Channel.
Visibility was less than fifty meters. For any fleeing army trying to find their way out of this labyrinth, this kind of weather was a death shroud, because you never knew which window the next bullet would come from.
But for Arthur Sterling, it was a gift from God.
"stop."
Arthur raised his cane, which was covered in dust but still stood straight, and gestured for a halt.
The footsteps behind them vanished instantly.
Crouching to the sergeant's left was Private Jenkins, the Birmingham milkman's son who had nearly been crushed into mincemeat by a StuG III yesterday. His face was still deathly pale, like a sheet of paper soaked with water, but his terrified eyes no longer darted around; instead, they were fixed on Arthur's back—for a drowning person, grabbing onto the only piece of driftwood is a physiological instinct.
Behind him stood Corporal Williams, a silent miner from Rhonda Valley in Wales. He held a gleaming Lee-Enfield rifle, his breathing as steady as if he were working in a gas-filled mine. In yesterday's battle, he was the one who smashed the German's head like a walnut; he was the best marksman in the entire squad.
Standing against the right wall was "Rat" O'Neill, a short man speaking fluent East London dialect. His tactical vest was bulging with watches, lighters, and even chocolates looted from German corpses. This guy was a habitual thief before enlisting, but on the battlefield, such people often have a sense of smell even more acute than a dog's.
Bringing up the rear was Private Miller, a Yorkshire farmer as strong as a brown bear. He carried the last crate of ammunition and all the rations for the entire unit, silent and reserved, with a captured entrenching tool in his hand, seemingly ready to smash someone's spine like a watermelon at any moment.
These five men are an angry Scottish sergeant, a terrified milkman, a cold-blooded Welsh miner, a greedy London pickpocket, and a silent Yorkshire farmer.
This is all the "army" Lord Arthur Sterling currently possesses.
A group of lowly scum, regarded as cannon fodder by the British Empire. But now, under the watchful eye of God, they are transforming into the most dangerous pack of wolves.
Arthur stood in the middle of the street, not seeking cover. He tilted his head slightly, as if listening to the whispers of the wind. In reality, his consciousness had already connected to the holographic battlefield floating in his mind.
From his perspective, the previously gloomy fog of war was forcibly pushed aside. At the crossroads fifty meters ahead, three striking red dots were arranged in a triangular pattern.
It was a German SdKfz 222 armored reconnaissance vehicle, parked at the intersection with its engine off, listening for any sounds. Next to the 20mm autocannon, two infantrymen holding MP40 rifles were crouching.
If they had recklessly crossed the intersection, that machine gun would have swept them down like wheat.
"Turn left," Arthur ordered decisively. "There's a traffic jam at the intersection ahead. The German reconnaissance vehicle is sunbathing there."
Of course he had to take a detour; he didn't own a Matilda tank.
"A reconnaissance vehicle?" Jenkins swallowed hard, glancing nervously at the white fog ahead. "Sir, I didn't hear anything."
"That's because you haven't learned how to see with your nose, Private." Arthur turned around, his grey-blue eyes devoid of any emotion. "If you want to shake hands with a 20mm machine gun, I won't stop you. But don't splatter blood on my boots."
After saying that, he strode towards a narrow alleyway on the left that was filled with rubble.
Without a word, Sergeant McTavish kicked the still-stunned Jenkins and immediately followed. After the battle at the winery, the Scottish veteran had learned a truth: don't ask how the lord knew, just follow him and you'll survive.
As he walked through the alley, Arthur finally had a chance to glance down at his left arm.
The sleeves of the uniforms there were torn, revealing hastily bandaged bandages underneath. Blood seeped out, staining the expensive wool fabric red. The wound throbbed, the price for being injured by falling marble while saving Jenkins.
The pain kept his mind in a morbid state of clarity. As he walked, he mentally assessed his current predicament.
Arthur Sterling, besides being the second son of the Earl of Sterling, held the official military position of Major Battalion CO of the 2nd Battalion, 1st Infantry Division, 1st Guards Brigade, 1st Army Corps, British Expeditionary Force (BEF).
This is more than just a title; it's a huge irony.
Cold Creek Guards. This is not some second-line ragtag group made up of conscripted Irish farmers.
This is the oldest and proudest unit in the Royal Guard of the British Empire. Their motto is "Nulli Secundus" (Nulli Secundus). At the top of the British Army's hierarchy of contempt, they even look down on the Grenadier Guards. Within the entire Expeditionary Force, they were King George VI's sword, the elite of the elite, and were supposed to be the mainstay of the 1st Corps, holding the most critical defensive lines.
But this glorious army is now in the hands of a good-for-nothing.
Why?
Because of the Sterling family.
On the map of this British Empire, the coat of arms of the Sterling family, though not often appearing in newspaper headlines, is deeply imprinted on the empire's war machine.
From the shipyards on the River Clyde to the steel blast furnaces in Sheffield, the Stirling family controlled the keel orders for one-third of the Royal Navy's destroyers, as well as the supply of special steel for the Army's heavy artillery. It was said that in the corridors of Whitehall, the First Lord of the Admiralty would tip his hat to the Earl of Stirling, and the Imperial Chief of the General Staff even owed the Earl a huge personal gambling debt.
It was this suffocating political energy that made this absurd appointment a reality.
Two months ago, simply because his family "donated" a huge sum of money to the War Department, enough to equip two armored regiments, nominally as patriotic bonds, the old lieutenant colonel, who had previously been a decorated soldier and deeply loved by his soldiers, was transferred to the Logistics Department with a single order.
Instead, Major Arthur Sterling, who had no combat experience and had even held a marching map upside down, was appointed.
It's important to understand that at this very moment on the French battlefield, Bernard Montgomery, known for his meticulousness and professionalism, was only a major general, commanding the 3rd Infantry Division on the Leuven front like a firefighter plugging leaks. To climb to that position, this teetotaler had struggled for a full thirty years, crawling his way up from the piles of corpses along the Somme.
And Arthur Sterling? He only needs an autograph.
The signature comes from Lord Gott himself, Commander-in-Chief of the British Expeditionary Force.
Why would the Commander-in-Chief personally inquire about the appointment of a mere battalion commander?
Lord Gott and the Earl of Stirling were not only alumni of Harrow School, but also card-playing partners at the Carlton Club in London for twenty years. Even in the shadows of Whitehall, an open secret circulated: Lord Gott was able to overcome immense controversy and surpass Alan Brooke to become Commander-in-Chief of the Expeditionary Force precisely because the Earl, at a closed-door hearing of the Parliamentary Defence Committee, used the three seats controlled by his family to cast a decisive vote in favor.
This was a blatant exercise of power. The family needed the title of "World War II hero" to pave the way for postwar politics, and the military high command and even the entire British Empire tacitly approved of this gilding game.
Logically, he should have stayed at the battalion headquarters, commanding an entire battalion of eight hundred elite soldiers with the assistance of the chief of staff.
But the reason he ended up here with half a platoon of remnants was because of that damned "aristocratic retreat"—when the defense line collapsed, the battalion commander panicked and did not organize the entire battalion to retreat in an orderly manner, but instead led the guard platoon to "retreat" first.
As a result, the road wasn't properly paved, leaving the main force of the entire 2nd Battalion to the Germans, and they ended up running headlong into Guderian's encirclement.
"How ironic," Arthur thought to himself, his nails digging deep into his palms.
He was not only a deserter, but also a traitor. He stole command of a heroic unit and then smashed it to pieces.
No wonder Sergeant McTavish had looked at him like he was a death row inmate—if there were military police here, his act of abandoning his troops would be enough to get him shot ten times over, and even his earl father might not be able to save him.
Because the military police could kill him on the spot; the count is not God, he can't control what's happening across the strait.
Although he now holds a higher military rank than anyone else here, he doesn't even have enough troops to form a single squad.
"Sir," McTavish leaned closer and asked in a low voice, "Are we just going to keep going in circles like this? The regimental headquarters should be in the direction of the church."
"If the regimental headquarters hasn't been taken over by the Germans yet," Arthur replied coldly, "we're looking for a way. A way that hasn't been cut off by that damned 'Blitzkrieg'."
He's lying. Or rather, he's engaging in a kind of micromanagement based on a God's-eye view.
In his mental map, the main roads leading to the church were densely covered with red arrows. The German infiltration was happening much faster than the British command had anticipated. He had to operate like a character in Commandos, utilizing blind spots to lead his remaining soldiers through the cracks of death.
Suddenly, a burst of intense gunfire shattered the morning silence.
Rat-a-tat-tat—! Bang! Bang! Bang!
It wasn't the crisp "pop" of the British Enfield rifle, nor the hissing sound of a German machine gun tearing through canvas. It was a duller, slower-paced gunshot.
Arthur stopped, his brow furrowing slightly.
At the edge of the RTS viewpoint, a previously dark area suddenly lit up with a combat-ready flash. About two hundred meters ahead, in a small fountain plaza, blue dots representing friendly forces and red dots representing enemy forces were colliding violently.
But these blue dots are strange—they appear more fragile and are rapidly decreasing in number.
"That's... the sound of a MAS-36 rifle." Arthur recognized the distinctive gunshot. "And a Hotchkiss heavy machine gun."
"French?" McTavish's face instantly darkened, revealing undisguised disgust. "Damn frogman."
The group continued forward, and soon they found themselves behind a collapsed wall, where they could get a clear view of the situation in the square.
This is a typical French-style square with a Baroque-style fountain sculpture in the center. At this moment, the sculpture has been smashed and riddled with holes, and the water jets mixed with blood have stained the pool red.
About a dozen French soldiers, dressed in khaki coats and wearing Adrian helmets, were being held back behind the fountain and several abandoned wagons nearby.
On the other side of the square, a German strongpoint occupying a two-story building was firing furiously. An MG34 machine gun was mounted on a second-floor window, blocking all French retreat routes from its elevated position.
The French troops had clearly been ambushed. Their bodies lay scattered across the cobblestone pavement, and the remaining men could only fight back desperately, but their lines were crumbling under the precise fire of the Germans.
"Let's go, sir."
McTavish glanced at it, then looked away, his expression as indifferent as if he were discussing last night's leftovers.
"That's a Frenchman. Mind your own business."
The other soldiers nodded in agreement. By this time in 1940, the British Expeditionary Forces' opinion of the French army had plummeted. In their eyes, these allies were nothing but a bunch of cowards who only knew how to drink red wine, crumbled at the slightest provocation, and would even betray their allies to save their own lives.
History is a wicked old bitch; it always repeats the same joke: brothers can share wealth, but they can never share hardship.
Even during the burning of the Old Summer Palace, these two robbers were still able to dance naked like half-brothers in order to divide up the porcelain and silk they were robbing.
But if the spoils are not divided equally, or if a powerful enemy is looming, the friendship that is bound together by greed will collapse instantly.
Anglo-French allied forces?
So-called allies are nothing more than two drowning people trying to breathe by stepping on each other's heads.
The French knew perfectly well that the British Empire's most effective tactic was the damned "fight to the last Frenchman." These past few days, telegrams from London had been filled with talk of "together to the death," but every British ship on the Dunkirk beach was desperately trying to hide that damned "British Only" sign.
The British were well aware that the French backbone had been broken in the Verdun meat grinder of World War I. The Maginot Line not only locked down the Germans but also stifled the French ambition. Once the line was breached, the proud Gallic rooster would immediately revert to a docile fowl.
This was a marriage destined to break down. The German tanks were merely the thugs who kicked open the bedroom door and caught their lover in bed with her.
Look at the situation now. Those former "brothers" who once set fires together are now in stark contrast: one is preparing to practice his German, while the other is busy betraying his comrade and running away. The so-called "Anglo-French Agreement" is now less than a piece of toilet paper.
"Saving them won't help; they'll just surrender again," Jenkins muttered under his breath.
Arthur did not move.
He stood behind the wall, his gaze not fixed on the French soldiers about to be slaughtered, but piercing through the battlefield to look at the figure carrying a huge square backpack, who was being protected by the French soldiers at the core.
From his omniscient perspective, the figure's head was marked with a special symbol—[Communication Unit].
That was a radio station.
In this chaotic era where communication relied mainly on shouting and contact on the run, a working field radio was more precious than gold. With it, Arthur could find gaps in the damned encirclement, or at least call for air support that might not even exist.
More importantly, Arthur saw the German deployment. The MG34 machine gun not only suppressed the French troops, but its field of fire also covered the next street that Arthur and his men had to pass through.
If all the French soldiers were killed, the machine gun would turn around and fire at his rear.
Arthur straightened the shirt with bloodstains on the collar and gently brushed the dust off the cuffs with his long, slender fingers.
"Sergeant," Arthur's voice was devoid of any pity, only cold calculation, "you're right, the French are indeed terrible at fighting, as terrible as their moldy cheese."
He turned his head and looked at the reluctant soldiers.
"But now, this bunch of rotten Frenchmen are the only human shields to draw German fire."
Arthur pulled out the MP40 submachine gun from his neck—a trophy seized from the winery. Although it belonged to the Germans, it had to be admitted that it was far more useful at this moment than a revolver or even their own Sten submachine gun in the future.
"Whether we like it or not, they're on our flank now. If they're all dead, that machine gun will make us the next appetizer. And..."
Arthur's gaze was fixed on the figure carrying the radio.
"...They have what I want."
"Prepare for battle."
Those two words lashed at the soldiers like whips. McTavish, though reluctant, still grumbled as he pulled the bolt: "Fine, consider it keeping the Germans from finishing too soon."
Tactical deployment.
In Arthur's mind, the battlefield had been divided into countless grids.
"Listen, we're not going to fight head-on. That's something only brainless cavalrymen would do."
Arthur pointed to a drainage ditch on the right side of the square, which led directly to the back of the small building occupied by the Germans.
"McTavish, you take two men. That damn Thompson submachine gun only works at that distance. Sneak along the ditch. I want you to throw a grenade down the crotch of that machine gunner while he's changing his belt."
"Williams, find a high spot and keep an eye on that German sniper on the left side of the second floor. Don't let him interfere with the sergeant."
"And what about me, sir?" Jenkins gripped his rifle nervously.
"You?" Arthur glanced at the easily flustered recruit. "You'll stay with me. We'll make noise to make the Germans think there's a company of British here."
……
The battle began three minutes later.
There was no earth-shattering bugle call.
When Williams' Enfield rifle fired its first shot, accurately shattering the binoculars of the German observer on the second floor, the battle entered Arthur's rhythm.
"Fire!"
Arthur, with Jenkins peeking out from the side of the ruins, unleashed a barrage of fire from his MP40 and rifle at the first-floor windows of the building. Although his aim was mediocre, this sudden flank attack startled the German troops.
"Engländer! Flanke! (The Englishman! The flank!)"
The German machine gunner instinctively wanted to turn his gun around and suppress the emerging threat.
But that's exactly what Arthur wanted.
In the few seconds that the machine guns stopped suppressing the French troops, Sergeant McTavish emerged from the ditch like an angry Scottish wildcat.
He had already reached the base of the small building.
A Mills grenade traced a perfect parabola through the air and precisely entered the second-floor window.
"Fire in the hole!"
boom!
The explosion's flames erupted from the window, accompanied by machine gun parts and human fragments. The deadly MG34 instantly went silent.
"Go! Clean up the first floor!"
McTavish kicked open the side door, and Thomson submachine guns began spraying death inside.
Deprived of machine gun cover, the German infantry fell into chaos, while the previously suppressed French troops finally recovered. Although they were looked down upon by the British, their survival instinct at this moment unleashed astonishing fighting power.
"Pour la France!"
The surviving French soldiers launched a counter-charge, and a dozen bayonets gleamed coldly as they rushed into the small building.
Two minutes later, the gunfire subsided.
Arthur didn't participate in the final cleanup. He stood at the edge of the square, wiping the oil stains off his MP40 rifle with a relatively clean handkerchief, as if it were something filthy. The wound on his left arm had reopened from the strenuous activity, and blood soaked through his sleeve, but he didn't even flinch.
Amidst the ruins, a French officer stumbled along, supported by two soldiers.
The officer was covered in ash, his khaki overcoat riddled with holes and bloodstains, his helmet missing, revealing short hair stained gray from gunpowder smoke.
To Arthur's surprise, he discovered that the person was actually a woman when she got closer.
Although her face was covered in ash and dirt, it couldn't hide her exceptionally bright, yet wild, amber eyes. Her figure was encased in a large military overcoat, but her upright posture and the pride she maintained even in her disheveled state showed that she was no ordinary office worker.
Lieutenant Jeanne of the Liaison Office of the French 1st Army.
Jeanne approached Arthur but did not immediately express her gratitude. She first scanned the group of British men in khaki uniforms with a wary look, and finally her gaze settled on Arthur's face, which, though dirty, was still excessively handsome, and the gleaming rank of major on his shoulder.
"British?"
Her English was heavily accented, her voice hoarse, and her tone carried a complex, even somewhat provocative, undertone.
"I thought you guys had already gone to the beach to sunbathe."
Sergeant McTavish spat beside him: "If it weren't for saving you, we'd already be having afternoon tea, ma'am."
Arthur raised his hand to stop the sergeant.
He looked at Jeanne, a faint, aristocratic smile playing on his lips. He wasn't angered by her sarcasm, nor did he display any gentlemanly manners simply because she was a beautiful woman.
His gaze went past Jeanne's shoulder and fixed on the radio carried by the soldier behind her.
That's what he considers a "beauty".
"God's busy, Lieutenant. He doesn't have time to care where we're sunbathing."
Arthur's smile faded, his tone cold and polite, as if he were rejecting a salesperson.
"It was the Cold Creek Guard who saved you. Now, I don't think we have time for a party here."
He pointed to the radio station.
"Is that thing still usable?"
Jeanne was taken aback, clearly not expecting the British officer to be so direct and pragmatic. She instinctively shielded the communications soldier behind her.
"It still works. What do you want to do with it?"
"very good."
Arthur turned around, waved his cane, and signaled for the group to set off.
"Then stay close, Lieutenant. If you fall behind, I won't come back to save you a second time. After all..."
He glanced back at the few French soldiers who were still panting, a cold glint in his eyes.
"...My bullets are expensive, I don't want to waste them on dead people."
Jeanne bit her lip, watching the arrogant figure recede into the distance. She took a deep breath and waved to the soldiers behind her: "Keep up with these Englishmen! Don't let them leave us behind!"
Arthur did not turn around.
In his RTS view, the green icon representing "communication unit" had already joined his formation. That was enough.
As for this woman's name, what she looks like, and what her story is...
In this hellish place, dozens of kilometers from Dunkirk, it was a luxury that only the survivors had the right to care about.