gnovel Chapter 71 The Vacant Throne
Chapter 71 The Vacant Throne
Chapter 71 The Vacant Throne (Part 2)
1940年6月4日，07：00，弗尔内·圣尼古拉斯教堂地下酒窖。
As Arthur finished speaking, the notification on the RTS panel refreshed.
【hint】
[Command transfer in progress —]
[Current Commander (Edward Hawke) has been detected as incapacitated.]
[Arthur Sterling has been detected to have the same rank and superior lineage/reputation]
[Passed]
You have been granted provisional command of the 1st Battalion (remnants) of the Cold Creek Guards Regiment.
You have been granted supreme wartime command authority over the Flney defense zone (including retreating troops on the perimeter).
[Currently available core forces: 582 (elite/loyal)]
[Currently available auxiliary troops: 2840 (confusion/low morale)]
[Morale Status (Core Units): Unbreakable]
[Obtained temporary badge: The Last Gentleman, description: In dire situations, all party members gain +30% to all attributes, only effective when maintaining a neat and tidy appearance]
[Note: Even Death is a sucker for good looks. If you dress presentably, maybe he'll hesitate for a second before striking.]
But this was not the end. The data stream on his retina was still pulsating wildly, and a familiar feeling surged into Arthur's mind again—the feeling of upgrading.
[Call of Battle Node Change: Taking Over Supreme Command of the Defense Zone]
[Achievement Completed: Survival of the Fittest]
[Commander Level Up: LV3]
[RTS Tactical Access Unlocked: Tactical Map Radius: 15km]
The current field of view covers: the entire territory of Flörn, the outskirts of Azhebrew, and — the eastern coastline of Dunkirk.
[Commentary]: "A soldier who doesn't want to be a general is not a good soldier." — Napoleon Bonaparte
Congratulations, Major Sterling. You have accomplished in a single morning a promotion that would normally take thirty years of experience. Legally speaking, due to the complete "disappearance" of the upper command, your authority is now equivalent to that of the commander of the First Expeditionary Force (ICorps).
But don't get too excited. Although your title is as prestigious as a lieutenant general, the actual number of troops you have isn't even enough to form a standard field regiment. This is a classic "bounced check"—it may be worth a hundred million, but you'll have to risk your life to cash it at the bank.
Arthur ignored the system's malicious taunts. His attention was completely drawn to the new map that had expanded to 15 kilometers.
Before this, even a minute earlier, even including the shared field of vision provided by the hundreds of defeated soldiers under Major Ryder who were forcibly incorporated into the chain of command, the radius he could see was only a mere 6 kilometers.
This was even narrower than the 10-kilometer field of vision he had during the Berge melee—when he at least still held actual command of the remnants of the 12th Division.
From frugality to luxury is easy, from luxury to frugality.
Once he experienced the sense of control that comes from this God's-eye view, Arthur felt he could never go back to those days of staring at a three-kilometer or even five-hundred-meter area, living in constant fear like a blind man.
The feeling is like a gamer who is used to 2K or even 4K resolution suddenly returning to the 1080P era.
Although it's called high definition, it actually looks no different from a mosaic.
In this battlefield where there are only two outcomes—life or death—resolution is life itself.
But now, with Edward Hawke relinquishing command and the official establishment of the title "Supreme Commander of the Furne District," the logical loop of the RTS system is complete.
[Authorization Confirmed: Defense of the entire territory of Flne has been taken over]
[Tactical map radius reset: 15 kilometers]
It was as if an invisible giant hand had brutally torn open the fog of war that shrouded the edge of the map.
The view that originally could only barely cover the suburbs suddenly expanded outward in an explosive manner.
Arthur's gaze instantly spanned kilometers of ruins and wilderness.
He could clearly see the freight train station to the north, highlighted as an "extremely high-value target," where several flatbed wagons loaded with supplies were quietly parked, but what exactly they were... damn it, he'd reached the edge of the map.
His gaze stretched westward until it reached the shoreline they had come from—Dunkirk Beach. Arthur could even see abandoned trucks, mountains of ammunition boxes, rows upon rows of destroyed artillery pieces, and countless rifles lying on the beach.
On the other side of the map, along the highways to the east and south, countless red arrows, symbolizing the enemy, are gathering. They resemble a group of sharks that have smelled blood, closing in on Flörné, the last breach in the defenses.
This is Arthur's current predicament—strolling in the Germans' backyard.
As those lines of green data slowly faded from his retina, Arthur felt no joy whatsoever at the prospect of a promotion.
Instead, he felt his whole body become heavier.
That weight didn't come from the promotion of power, but from something colder, larger, and reeking of decaying corpses—the ownership of three thousand four hundred and twenty-two lives.
That's his asset, and also his responsibility!
That's utterly absurd.
Theoretically speaking, he was promoted, and in a very short time.
He is now the acting battalion commander and regimental commander of the 1st Battalion of the Coldstream Guards, and the supreme military dictator of the Furney area. In fact, given the complete breakdown of the chain of command, he can be said to be the acting corps commander of the entire British Expeditionary Force I Corps (ICorps) in a practical sense.
As for Michael Buck, the First Army Commander who actually received a lieutenant general's salary...
Barker?
Both Major Ryder and his senior classmate said they suddenly lost contact a few days ago.
Nobody knows where that guy went, but Arthur can probably guess.
Ah, because history books remember it very clearly. That lord is probably sitting in the warm office of a Royal Navy destroyer, just like Commander-in-Chief Lord Gott, sipping a steaming cup of Earl Grey tea, gazing across the English Channel at the towering flames on this side.
Those important figures and so-called gentlemen took away their medals and dignity, leaving Arthur with only abandoned soldiers, a scene of utter devastation, and an expiring death notice.
But this just happened to benefit Arthur.
He began to take stock of this "legacy".
In the cold logic of RTS, stripping away emotions is actually the most efficient way to command.
On the tactical panel, these are no longer living, breathing people who can cry and feel pain, and whose wives and children are waiting for them at home, but rather 3,422 green dots.
They are human resources that can be consumed, units that are filled into trenches, and bargaining chips used to exchange for time and space.
This feeling of viewing his fellow human beings as "spending currency" actually made Arthur unusually calm.
Since the real commander has treated his men as expendable pawns, Arthur doesn't mind playing this game even more recklessly. The chips are already on the table; how can he not go all in on this vacant throne?
He ignored the seemingly absurd "Last Gentleman" buff on the system interface, despite its 30% attribute bonus. On this morning, about to be engulfed by steel and high explosives, even a straw or a bullet could be a lifesaver, let alone a strange rule about "keeping one's appearance neat."
If polishing boots could actually make bullets turn, Arthur wouldn't mind having the whole crew drink shoe polish like water.
He withdrew his gaze and re-examined the underground wine cellar that was serving as a temporary command post.
This place, originally a church storage area for communion wine and candles, has now become a place filled with the smell of iodine.
The purgatory's forecourt reeks of blood and musty mold.
But this is not a chaotic purgatory.
Even in this desperate situation, the Coldstream Guard maintained an appalling sense of order.
Instead of haphazardly arranged stretchers, the wounded were neatly lined up against the wall. Although each wounded soldier's uniform was torn, it had been tidied up as much as possible. Those soldiers with broken legs or disemboweled by shrapnel did not let out heart-wrenching screams like the routed soldiers outside; they simply bit down on wooden sticks or belts and squeezed out suppressed groans from their throats.
Several medics were attempting a futile attempt to treat the patient with the last remaining bandages and morphine. Their movements were mechanical and precise, without any unnecessary words, as if they were repairing a series of sophisticated but severely damaged machines.
In the corner, the communications soldier, drenched in sweat, was still wearing his headset, making a one-way call to the radio station.
"Calling to the Sea God—This is the Anvil. Respond upon receipt. Repeat, this is the Anvil—"
The crackling sound of electricity echoed in the deathly silent wine cellar, like a mockery.
Arthur stepped over the pool of blood on the floor and walked to the only cot in the center of the room.
Major Edward Hawke tried to prop himself up with his good right hand.
This once-renowned "King of Balls" in London's social circles, the aristocratic officer who once made countless socialites blush on the dance floor of the Savoy Hotel, now looked like a wax figure drained of its blood.
His left arm is completely gone.
The empty sleeves were cut open, and thick bandages were wrapped around the stump, with bright red blood still seeping out, staining half of his body. Excessive blood loss had turned his lips a pale, bluish-purple, but even so, his collar was still buttoned up tightly, and a silver whistle, a symbol of his status, still hung around his neck.
"Arthur————"
Hawke's voice was as weak as a candle flickering in the wind, but he still managed to force a smile that was more like a grimace: "The basement here is very sturdy, at least it can guarantee that we won't be blown up after we die, and that we'll have a whole corpse."
Arthur did not laugh.
He looked at the senior student with no pity in his eyes; it was too cheap, not even worth as much as a bullet.
"Don't waste your energy, Edward."
Arthur reached out and pressed down on Hawke's still trembling right hand: "Make that communications soldier stop. Save the batteries."
"What?" Hawke paused, a hint of confusion flashing in his feverish, clouded eyes. "No, it's not over yet. Although we can't contact the Expeditionary Force headquarters, as long as we can still contact the brigade headquarters, as long as Colonel Harrison—"
"Colonel Harrison has gone to meet God."
Arthur interrupted him and recounted what had happened.
"The brigade headquarters—is it gone?"
He muttered to himself, his voice filled with an emptiness born of shattered hope.
The loss of the brigade headquarters meant the break of the chain of command. It meant that in this pocket surrounded by tens of thousands of German troops, they were no longer an army, but a group of completely abandoned orphans.
There will be no more reinforcements, no more orders to retreat, and no one will even approve the surrender.
"Right now, the highest-ranking officer in the entire Flney defense zone is in this room."
"The First Army is finished. The rest are just scattered sand."
"Now it's just you and me here, Edward. And you—" Arthur glanced at the other's still bleeding severed arm, "you don't even have the strength to hold a gun."
Hawke fell silent.
He lowered his head, looking at his amputated arm, then at the map of the defense zone on the wall. After a long while, he let out a long sigh.
It was a relief after being relieved of a heavy burden, but also a final sorrow for a commander.
He trembled as he reached out his right hand, removed the silver command whistle from his neck, and then pointed to the map hanging on the wall.
"You're right, Arthur."
Hawke closed his eyes, looking as if he had aged ten years in an instant: "This hand of mine can't even load a pistol anymore. A commander who can't even pull the trigger will only kill everyone."
"Take it."
He placed the command post on the blood-stained cot, his eyes bloodshot: "Since you were able to lead your men all the way back, it means you're tougher than me."
"These hundreds of lives are yours. Don't let them die a pathetic death."
As the whistle, a symbol of power, left his hand, the system in Arthur's mind beeped slightly once more, announcing the complete success of this peaceful transfer of power.
Without hesitation, without refusal.
Although Edward Hawke had already effectively completed the transfer of power during the previous inventory of the Coldstream Guard's remaining combat strength and that conversation that sounded like a final farewell, and RTS acknowledged this.
However, in the real military, especially in the Cold Creek Guard Regiment which emphasizes legality and procedure, such private deals do not exist.
Power needs not only to be "granted," but also to be "demonstrated."
This was an essential ritual; he had to place the vacant crown on his own head in front of the staff, communications soldiers, and service personnel, in the manner of a supreme commander, thus completely extinguishing any hesitation that might exist in anyone's heart.
Arthur straightened up.
He straightened his collar, hung the silver whistle that symbolized command around his neck, then turned around, his azure eyes coldly sweeping over the staff officers and officers around him who were stunned and whose hands had slowed down upon hearing the news of the "annihilation of the brigade headquarters."
"What are you all looking at?"
Arthur's voice was neither loud nor soft, and he didn't roar: "Since everyone has heard it, I won't repeat myself."
"The current acting commander, Major Edward Hawke, is unable to perform his command duties due to serious injuries."
Arthur pointed to Hawke lying on the cot behind him, then stepped forward, his leather boots slamming heavily on the floor, taking center stage in the room: "According to wartime command regulations, and the current situation in the Flne defense zone."
"From this moment forward, I, Major Arthur Sterling, officially assume supreme command of the 1st Battalion of the Cold Creek Guards, as well as all British Commonwealth armed forces within this area."
His gaze swept across everyone's faces, forcing them to snap out of their shock. Of course, Arthur didn't give them any choice: "This isn't a discussion, this is an order."
His only response was deathly silence.
No one spoke, and no one dared to raise any foolish questions. In this basement, devoid of anything but despair, democracy and committee systems had long since been blown up along with Colonel Harrison. Drowning people don't question whether the straw offered to them is procedurally just; they simply cling to it desperately.
Moreover, they were members of the Sterling family.
A few seconds later, a series of synchronized, whip-like thuds of boot heels struck together—"snap!"
All the staff officers, adjutants, communications soldiers, and even the few medics still tending to their wounds straightened up at the same time. Dozens of hands rose simultaneously, placing them near their brows, their movements as precise as if they were still doing morning exercises at the Wellington barracks.
This is the Coldstream Guard. Even if they are about to die the next second, their military salute will never falter.
"very good."
Arthur didn't return the greeting, only nodding indifferently. It was all perfectly normal, and he didn't find anything particularly touching about it.
He didn't look at these people again, but turned around and strode to the map on the wall covered with red and blue pencil marks.
"Now, let's see how to bring this seemingly hopeless game to life."
"Listen up, everyone!"
"From now on, communications officer, shut down that damned radio! Unless you can get in touch with Churchill himself, don't let me hear that pointless noise again!"
"Yes, sir!" The communications soldier instinctively stood up and took off his headset.
He then turned his gaze to the first-class warrant officer standing in the corner, who was about to open a thick notebook; he was the quartermaster of the battalion headquarters.
"Close the notebook, Warrant Officer."
Arthur ordered, "I don't like listening to those time-wasting ramblings. Besides, although I've just arrived, I probably know more about this camp than you do."
The warrant officer paused, his half-open notebook frozen in mid-air: "Sir, is this the supplies list—"
"Rifle ammunition is still relatively plentiful, with an average of 62 rounds per person. The Bren machine guns still have many magazines left, but the spare barrels have reached the red alert line, with an average of only one spare barrel left per machine gun."
Arthur interrupted him.
At this very moment, on his retina, the data streams representing the supply inventory were being updated rapidly. All the ammunition boxes, all the weapon serial numbers, and even the number of cans of corned beef left in the corner of the mess hall were clearly visible.
He doesn't need to report at all; he is the data itself.
Arthur ignored the warrant officer's momentary widening of eyes and spoke rapidly and specifically: "We have twenty boxes of grenades left, mainly Mills bombs. As for heavy weaponry—"
Arthur paused for a moment, then added sarcastically, "That's a joke."
"The entire battalion only has one usable anti-tank gun left—the 2-pounder in the square, with only 12 armor-piercing rounds remaining. If the Germans come, even half an armored company, those shells won't even be enough to make a sound."
"There are still 14 Boyce anti-tank rifles left. But those things are no threat to German tanks whatsoever."
When Arthur mentioned the name, his tone was full of undisguised contempt, because that thing was just industrial junk.
According to the RTS, the tungsten-core armor-piercing rounds in that gun have a theoretical penetration depth of only 21 millimeters at a typical engagement distance of 100 meters.
What does this mean?
The German Panzer III tank had 30mm of side armor.
Unless the commander intends for soldiers to charge at a suicidal distance of 50 meters with it, gambling on the chance of hitting the engine grille at the rear of the Panzer IV, firing it at any angle and at any distance has no tactical value other than breaking the gunner's own collarbone and incidentally provoking the German crew inside to turn their turret around.
"As for those two 3-inch mortars?"
Arthur walked up to the warrant officer, gently patted the old soldier on the shoulder, and said coldly, "Reset the shells. The only use for them, besides adding to the load, is to melt them down and make crosses to put on graves later."
After saying that, Arthur withdrew his hand, his gaze fixed on the warrant officer's eyes, which were filled with shock and disbelief: "Was I accurate, quartermaster?"
The gray-haired first-class warrant officer gaped open.
This is truly bizarre.
At that moment, everyone was stunned. Keep in mind, this major had only been in the basement for less than five minutes! He hadn't even had a sip of water!
How did he know that? He could even casually recite data as precise as "62 bullets per person on average" down to the single digit?
Did he count every soldier's ammunition pouch as he fought his way in?
Hawke lay in bed, watching this absurd and shocking scene, and thought he must be delirious with fever.
He originally thought he knew this junior student well enough—a typical spoiled brat.
If it weren't for the untimely death of Arthur's eldest brother, the perfect heir of the Sterling family, in that accident, Arthur Sterling would now be sitting in a VIP box at Ascot Racecourse, embracing West End actresses, and squandering fortunes on horse racing and champagne.
That's the life he should have had.
But now, Hawke has to admit that time flies so fast, fast enough to completely change a person.
He suddenly realized:
Compared to his old classmates who watched Arthur grow up, the Germans squatting on the other side of the trenches probably knew better than them what kind of monster was hidden under the skin of this "playboy".
This level of insight is simply beyond the capabilities of ordinary people.
This one move alone is enough to prove the difference between the two in command – it's not a matter of experience, it's a gap in talent.
Handing over command to him was originally Hawke's "no other choice" due to his serious injuries, but now, looking at the figure with his back to everyone and in control of the entire situation, Hawke realized with immense relief that this might be the most correct and greatest strategic decision he had made during the entire French campaign.
"It seems the data is correct."
Ignoring everyone's reactions, Arthur stepped over the notebook on the ground and walked directly to the map on the wall.
Now that their true nature has been revealed—they are a group of beggars carrying fire sticks.
So, if you want to survive, you have to become a robber.
He was calculating rapidly in his mind.
He only has light weapons. Even if his core force consists of the "Super Guards" with a 30% bonus to all attributes, and even if they have the courage to die for their cause, the limits of flesh and blood are locked in the face of the steel torrent of modern warfare.
Arthur frowned, his gaze fixed on the dense array of red arrows around the edge of the map.
Thanks to the real-time feedback from the RTS system, he noticed a detail—the red arrows representing the various units of the German 1st Panzer Division were advancing at an unusually slow pace.
[Environmental Assessment: Severely Muddy]
[Enemy Armored Unit (Pz.III/IV): Mobility severely penalized; current movement speed reduced by 95%]
This is the real reason why Flne has not yet fallen.
This is the lowlands of Flanders. Days of rain, coupled with the breached dikes, have turned the outskirts of the city into a vast swamp. The German Panzer III and IV tanks, though fast, found their prized mobility a nightmare in this muddy terrain. Their narrow tracks rendered them immobile in the mire.
In contrast, Arthur noticed a key difference in the data.
Although the two Matilda infantry tanks he brought were so slow on the way from Dunkirk that he wanted to curse, they were able to maintain a stable speed of over 15 kilometers per hour in the muddy outskirts of the city, thanks to their special suspension and wide track design.
Normally, 15 kilometers per hour is a snail's pace; but on this muddy ground today, that's racing.
This is a huge tactical timing point (window of opportunity).
But the problem lies in the quantity.
Arthur's strategic objective was very clear—he was there to rescue people, not to fight a war of annihilation.
Joking aside, he couldn't actually lead this group all the way to Berlin unless he had magic.
He didn't need to annihilate the heavily armed German 1st Panzer Division; that was something even God couldn't do. He only needed to use his slight speed advantage to carve a gap in the German encirclement, which wasn't yet fully closed, and jump out with his two or three thousand men.
To break through that iron wall, the two Matilda tanks they had left were clearly far from enough. Against the overwhelming tide of German troops, even pure infantry, the two tanks wouldn't even be a ripple; they would be submerged in an instant.
He needs strength.
A heavy, hard hammer, powerful enough to deliver the decisive blow and shatter the German blockade, and he only had one chance before the Germans called Stuka.
Arthur's gaze continued to wander across the map.
His gaze swept over the city center church, across several outlying streets, and finally settled on the northern edge of the city.
On a marker near the canal.
There was a black square drawn there, with the words "RE" (Royal Engineers) marked next to it—that was the train station that Arthur saw after the map was expanded, but damn it, the view ended there, and he couldn't even see the details inside.
"Where is this place?"
Arthur pointed his finger heavily at that spot and turned to look at Hawke.
Hawke struggled to lift his head, glanced at the location, and coughed twice: "Cough cough—there? That's the Flner freight train station."
"Why is there a platoon of soldiers here?" Arthur pointed sharply at the troop deployment marker. "With such limited manpower, why send a platoon to guard an abandoned station?"
"That was an order from above—the lieutenant general specifically gave these instructions before he went missing."
Hawke recalled: "A few days earlier, a military train coming from the direction of Calais was forced to stop there. The railway bridge had been blown up by the Germans, and the locomotive had also been destroyed, so the train was completely paralyzed."
"What's on top?" Arthur pressed, his speech noticeably faster.
"That was a military train that arrived from the German mainland two weeks ago—just when the German army had broken through Sedan."
Hawke shook his head, his tone full of helplessness: "This shipment was supposed to be sent to Egypt three months ago, to be assigned to the 7th Armored Division there to defend against the Italians. But because of that damned paperwork error, they've been gathering dust in a Southampton warehouse."
"Until two weeks ago, the old guys in the War Department finally remembered this batch of tanks. They didn't care whether the tanks were suitable for the European battlefield, and just loaded them onto a ship and shipped them to Calais, hoping to use them to block the Germans."
"And then?" Arthur asked coldly.
"And then?" Hawke scoffed. "The train had barely reached Flörn when the railway was blown up."
Moreover, the troops receiving the tanks at the front discovered that they were not only without ammunition, but their radios were also broken, and they hadn't even been given antifreeze—they were intended for desert conditions.
"So, in order to escape light, that unit refused to accept this burden," and the train was abandoned there.
"The lieutenant general thought it a waste to lose it, so he assigned an engineering platoon to guard it, claiming it was the king's property," when in reality it was just a pile of unwanted scrap metal. Those men probably didn't even know that London had already abandoned the area."
Arthur's eyes, however, grew brighter and brighter.
He astutely grasped the key phrase: prepared for the tropical desert.
This means that these tanks have a more powerful engine cooling system and dust-proof air intake filter than the standard model.
In that damned North African desert, this was essential for survival; and in the ruins of Vörne, filled with mud and rubble, it also meant they were more durable than delicate German tanks!
"Specialized tank? Has the model been confirmed?"
"It looks like... Matilda Type I? But they're all painted that conspicuous yellow-sand color, making them easy targets."
Arthur slammed the map shut, a wild smile playing on his lips.
As long as it's Matilda, whether it's yellow or pink, as long as it's an infantry tank and has that 78mm thick frontal armor, it's the queen of this ball tonight.
No shells?
He does!
Back when he left Dunkirk Beach, driven by the instinct of a hardcore gamer who "never wastes any map resources," he ordered his soldiers to empty the abandoned British field ammunition depots.
Although only two tanks were repaired due to time constraints, there was definitely enough ammunition.
Now, the three Bedford trucks parked in the church's backyard are not filled with air or fleeing valuables, but with three whole train cars piled up like mountains of 2-pound tungsten-core armor-piercing rounds!
That was a "backup plan" he had prepared for unforeseen circumstances, but he didn't expect it to come in handy so soon.
As for the radio being broken?
That's the communications soldier's job!
"How many vehicles are there in total?"
"It seems like there are six? Or eight? They're all still on the flatbed trucks and haven't been unloaded yet."
Hawke didn't understand why Arthur was so interested in a pile of unusable scrap metal. "Arthur, it's useless. Those tanks have no ammunition, no—"
"Jeanne!"
Arthur didn't even listen to Hawke's discouraging words.
He slammed the map shut, turned around, and yelled at the stairwell leading to the ground.
A few seconds later, the French woman, dressed in oil-stained overalls and with a large wrench hanging from her waist, appeared in the doorway. She was clearly outside with Miller, still tinkering with the not-quite-repaired Matilda, and had a black oil stain on her face.
"What are you doing? Why are you shouting like that?"
Jeanne wiped her hands impatiently. Although she still addressed Arthur as "Sir," her tone now lacked any reverence for him—they were comrades-in-arms who had weathered many storms together. "If you want me to fix that damn radio, young master, I suggest you save your breath. The vacuum tubes on that thing are burnt to a crisp."
Sterling's battle group is currently short-handed, so Jeanne is now in charge not only of the radio, but also of logistics and everything powered, including trucks and tanks.
"Fuck the radio station."
Arthur strode to the door, grabbed Jeanne's shoulder, and his intense gaze startled the fiery French communications officer.
"Take your toolbox! Take all the spare parts! And call all the mechanics in your engineer platoon, even anyone who's ever repaired a tractor!"
"What are we going to do?" Jeanne asked instinctively, stunned.
Arthur glanced back at the map on the wall, then at Hawke, who was lying on the hospital bed looking bewildered.
He straightened his collar, making sure the command post he had just taken over was in the center, and then gave a naive smile: "Go collect scraps."
"We must awaken several slumbering queens."
"Tell that sappers platoon guarding the station that if they dare to stop me from receiving the King's property," I'll shove them into the exhaust pipes of tanks!
Arthur released his grip and strode out, his boots clicking sharply on the stone steps. "Level one alert! Everyone except the necessary sentries, take ropes and jacks, and come with me to the train station!"
"We're going to form an armored company—this very morning!"
A brief silence fell over the basement as Arthur's figure disappeared through the doorway.
Hawke lay in bed, listening to the urgent assembly whistles outside and the veterans' energetic cursing.
Arthur Sterling, who used to only discuss tie patterns and horse racing odds, now seemed—damnly reliable.
"madman."
Hawke stared at the ceiling, and the bitterness on his lips finally turned into a genuine smile.
"He's really crazy."
"Hopefully the Germans will like this surprise he's prepared."
The essence of blitzkrieg lies in the fact that not only can the enemy not find my location, but even my allies cannot. A promised update will definitely be released, and a promised no update might actually happen; it's a mix of deception and reality.
— Arthur Sterling, a military strategist. (P.S.: Requesting votes, requesting votes, and more requesting votes! Please continue following this series, please continue following this series, and more following this series!)
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