BSI Chapter 5 The Scepter Before Sunset
Chapter 5 The Scepter Before Sunset
Azhebrook, Saint Eloi Convent, Provisional Headquarters of the 1st Guards Brigade, May 28, 1940.
They traveled for a day and a night.
If hell has different levels, then Azhaibrook is probably on the third level right now: chaos and despair.
The gravel road ahead had been transformed into a massive metal graveyard.
The Bedford truck violently crashed into the tailgate of the Morris artillery tractor, with several Citroën cars crushed and deformed in between, resembling a multi-vehicle collision on an overpass.
The air was filled with sonic violence: the shrill horns of car horns, the roars of fleeing soldiers, the wails of the wounded… These sounds bombarded the eardrums at high frequencies, eventually merging into a monotonous and oppressive buzzing. At that moment, even though you were clearly in the center of a noisy vortex, you had the illusion of being in a vacuum—it was so noisy that, in the end, the world became terrifyingly silent.
On the monastery's parade ground, several huge bonfires were burning fiercely. The British command was destroying classified documents, maps, and codebooks. Black ash danced in the air like snowflakes, settling on the soldiers' tired and numb faces, as if holding a premature funeral for the army.
Look.
Lieutenant Jeanne walked beside Arthur, carrying the heavy "Radio No. 11" on her back. Her amber eyes coldly swept over the British staff officer who was throwing documents into the fire, and a hint of undisguised sarcasm curled at the corner of her mouth.
"That's the efficiency of the British Empire. You may not have learned how to beat the Germans, but you are absolutely world champions when it comes to 'how to destroy evidence decently.'"
Arthur stopped and turned around. He didn't become angry or embarrassed as Jeanne had expected, nor did he ignore her.
Instead, he retorted slowly and deliberately in a tone of extreme arrogance and languor, honed in the most expensive clubs of London's West End:
"You flatter me, Lieutenant. But in terms of 'efficiency,' we still have much to learn from your country."
Arthur gently pushed aside an empty can blocking his way with his cane, a slight smile playing on his lips.
"After all, in less than three weeks, Guderian's tanks were able to cruise through the Ardennes Forest like they were on the Champs-Élysées. This kind of hospitality, of 'opening the door to thieves,' is something we can only dream of across the Channel. As far as I know, the typewriters in your General Staff are probably all burned out by now—because the speed at which you print 'surrender documents' can't keep up with the speed at which the Germans are advancing."
"you--!"
Jeanne was so taken aback by this vicious remark that her face turned red.
Her face, which had been covered in dust, was now flushed. Her amber eyes stared at Arthur, her tightly pursed lips trembling slightly. She looked like a Persian cat whose tail had been stepped on, her fur standing on end, yet she exuded a wild beauty that drew attention.
Arthur's eyes lit up when he saw her like this.
In this lifeless, despairing, and numb ruin, this vibrant anger is all the more moving.
"Don't look at me like that, Lieutenant. Anger may make you look better, but it won't stop German bullets."
Arthur laughed, a laugh tinged with the flippancy of dancing on the edge of a cliff. He took a step closer and whispered in a voice only the two of them could hear:
"Save your energy. If we're lucky enough not to die in this mud pit... after the war ends, perhaps I can give you a chance to show some hospitality."
He pointed southeast with his cane—that's the direction of Paris.
"Take me on a trip to the outskirts of Paris sometime. I've heard the cafes along the Seine are nice, as long as the waiters aren't all Germans in grey uniforms."
Jeanne was stunned. She looked at the British bastard in front of her, his face covered in blood, who still had the nerve to flirt with her at this critical moment, and for a moment she didn't know what to say.
"Madman." She gritted her teeth and squeezed out the word, "An incomprehensible British madman."
"Thank you for the compliment."
Arthur straightened his collar, looked away, and transformed back into the elegant Coldstream Guard commander.
"Now, stick close to this madman. Unless you want to stay and be a tour guide for the Germans."
Arthur ignored her taunts. He was busy marking the abandoned supplies on the RTS map in his mind.
This strange group—a noble officer with a blood-stained face, a French woman carrying a radio, and several fierce-looking Scottish soldiers—cut through the chaotic crowd like a sharp knife, heading towards the tightly closed oak doors of the monastery.
The military police at the gate tried to stop him, but upon seeing the crown insignia on Arthur's epaulets—the major's badge—and the dripping Thomson submachine gun in McTavish's hand behind him, they wisely chose to salute and let him pass.
Inside the monastery.
This place, once a sacred site for nuns' prayers, has now become a command center reeking of sweat and tobacco. Sunlight streaming through the stained-glass windows illuminates panicked faces.
In the center of the hall, dozens of staff officers were frantically packing their personal belongings. Before the altar, beside a huge map table covered with a green velvet tablecloth, stood a colonel with graying hair.
That was Colonel Harrison, the interim commander of the Azhebrook defense zone.
He was wearing a crisply pressed uniform, complete with a bright red silk scarf. Even though the outside world had collapsed, he was still elegantly sipping black tea from an exquisite bone china tea set.
In his original memory, the colonel always greeted Arthur with a smile, but it wasn't because of any "family friendship".
Are you kidding me?
Arthur's father—the powerful Earl Sterling—was someone whom even the First Minister of the Admiralty would tip his hat to, and whom even Lord Gott, the Commander-in-Chief of the Expeditionary Force, would treat with utmost respect.
A mere colonel in an infantry regiment? He doesn't even have the right to have tea at the Sterlings' house.
Colonel Harrison's concern for Arthur stemmed solely from the fact that before the campaign, the Sterling family's old butler had arrogantly made a phone call to the colonel, implying that if he could "take good care" of the young master in France, he might have a chance to be promoted to brigadier general after the war.
Yes, in this corrupt imperial system, the fate of a frontline commander doesn't even require the count's personal attention; a phone call from the butler is enough.
"My God..."
Colonel Harrison put down his teacup and looked at Arthur striding in, a genuine surprise in his eyes, as well as a kind of ecstatic joy at seeing that his "long-term meal ticket" had not expired.
"Lord! Thank God you're still alive!"
The colonel, disregarding any pretense of composure, walked straight around the map table to greet Arthur. He didn't embrace Arthur like an elder would, but maintained a subtle, respectful distance—between subordinate and superior, or servant and master—even giving a slight bow.
"I heard from the staff that the 2nd Battalion had lost contact, and I thought... Oh, look at you, you've suffered terribly. Damn Germans."
Colonel Harrison glanced disdainfully at Arthur's tattered uniform, then immediately turned around and yelled at the orderly beside him, as if to demonstrate his dutifulness to the young master.
"What are you standing there for? Pour Lord Sterling a glass of brandy to calm him down! And bring me my spare coat, don't let the Lord catch a cold!"
Arthur stood still, coldly watching this scene unfold.
In his RTS view, the red arrow representing the German armored forces had broken through the outer defenses and was less than three kilometers away. Meanwhile, the commander here was preoccupied with how to curry favor with a "noble young master" whom the family butler had spoken to.
"Colonel," Arthur said, pushing away the offered glass, his voice hoarse, "the outer defenses have collapsed. Guderian's 1st Panzer Division is advancing in. We need to organize a counterattack, or at least an orderly retreat, not sit here drinking tea."
"A counterattack?"
Colonel Harrison seemed to have heard some absurd joke. He leaned closer to Arthur, lowered his voice, and plastered a fawning smile on his face.
"My lord, please don't joke around. The war is over—at least in France. All we have to do is get you back safely. If anything happens to you, I won't be able to face your family."
The colonel pointed to a gleaming Horch luxury car parked at the back door—his personal vehicle, with his golf clubs and two large suitcases strapped to the roof.
"Listen, I've got it all arranged. We won't take the highway; we'll take the back roads to Dunkirk. My car has plenty of space in the back; that was reserved especially for you. We can go together and catch the last destroyer tonight."
The colonel's tone carried a hint of self-satisfaction.
"As for this place... let the reservists and the French hold it off. They can't hold it anyway. You are the hope of the Sterling family, your life is worth more than all the staff in this room combined."
This was his plan. Abandon the troops. Take the golf clubs. Send the "young master" back to collect his reward.
Sergeant McTavish, standing behind Arthur, clenched his fists, his knuckles cracking. Lieutenant Jeanne, on the other hand, gave a cold, utterly disgusted smirk, as if she were looking at a talking piece of garbage.
This blatant flattery is like a spoonful of cheap jam with too much saccharin; it tastes sweet at first, but leaves a nauseating bitter aftertaste.
Arthur looked at Harrison's smiling face and felt a wave of nausea wash over him.
Even as an egoist who has lived two lives, even if his primary goal is absolutely to "survive," at this moment, he finds himself unable to take the step toward the Horch car.
Why?
Why is that?
That vehicle was like a first-class ticket to Dunkirk, a shortcut to escape hell. Just get on, close your eyes, take a nap, and wake up to the chalk cliffs of Dover.
But when Arthur looked at the golf clubs strapped to the roof of the vehicle, he suddenly understood why he felt disgusted and why the soldiers loathed him so much.
Because this was not just an escape, it was a deal.
Harrison treated him like a rare and valuable piece of luggage, eager to transport him back to London to claim credit. As for the shipping costs? They were paid for by thousands of abandoned, cheap infantrymen.
At the table of this great defeat, their fates were already sealed: the winners would squeeze onto that small fishing boat bound for freedom and live to see the Germans take revenge on the beaches of Normandy in 1944; the losers would be torn to pieces by the Stuka, or rot in the coal mines of the Third Reich’s prisoner-of-war camps.
This is the exchange rate of war: the dignified retreat of one nobleman requires the despair of three thousand commoners as change.
And he, the second son of the Sterling family, a respectable nobleman, was actually just a giant baby who could be bailed out with a single phone call from the butler and had no ability to take care of himself.
An unprecedented sense of absurdity and anger overwhelmed Arthur's reason.
If he got on the bus, he would be admitting that he was a useless piece of trash who needed someone to clean up his mess even when he tried to escape. More importantly—Harrison was an idiot.
In his RTS God's-eye view, on what Harrison called the "narrow path," two red German armored reconnaissance companies were rapidly infiltrating.
Why entrust your life to a senile old fool who only knows how to drink tea, can't even read a map, and wants to escape with golf clubs?
Will we crash into the encirclement once again?
That's real suicide.
"Rather than sitting in your leather back seat getting blown to bits by a Stuka..."
Arthur said coldly to himself.
"...I'd rather stay in the mud. At least here, I have a hook, I have a gun, and I can decide where to run."
In this chaotic battlefield, only the gun in your hand and the map in your mind are your most reliable allies.
The nausea disappeared, replaced by absolute clarity.
"You mean," Arthur's voice suddenly turned icy, "that we're going to throw these thousands of soldiers, the entire defensive zone, at the Germans' mercy, so I can go back and prove to my good steward that you've done your job?"
Colonel Harrison was taken aback, clearly not expecting this spoiled brat who usually only knew how to enjoy privileges would refuse such "privileges".
"This is to preserve the elite bloodline of the British Empire! Lord!" The colonel's face darkened, attempting to intimidate with an elder's tone, "Don't be stubborn! This isn't horseback riding in Hyde Park! If you don't want to leave..."
Ugh—!
A sharp, mournful cry, as if from the depths of hell, suddenly pierced the church dome, interrupting the colonel's explanation.
That was the nightmare of every British soldier in World War II. "The Jericho Horn".
Stuka has arrived.
Everyone in the hall froze instantly.
But a second before that, Arthur had already moved.
In his RTS view, three huge, bright red arrows were rapidly plunging from an altitude of five thousand meters at a near-vertical angle toward the coordinates of the monastery.
That was the countdown to death.
"Air raid!!!"
Without any hesitation, Arthur shoved Colonel Harrison aside—which even saved the idiot for half a second—and kicked over the heavy oak map table, standing it upright.
"Everyone! Take cover!"
He roared, grabbed Jeanne and McTavish from behind him, and shoved them down behind the upright table, right against the base of the solid stone wall.
Before Colonel Harrison could react, the world was destroyed in the next second.
boom--!!!
A 50-kilogram aerial bomb precisely pierced the monastery's fragile dome, landing directly in the center of the hall—the very spot where Colonel Harrison had just been standing.
The massive explosion instantly engulfed everything.
Flames, shockwaves, rubble, and glass shards, mixed with human tissue, erupted in all directions like a volcanic eruption.
Arthur felt as if he had been slammed against a wall by an invisible giant hand. His eardrums went deaf instantly, and the world turned into a silent black-and-white film.
He saw Colonel Harrison disintegrate in that instant. His crisp uniform, the red scarf he used to curry favor with the powerful, and the unfinished cup of black tea all turned to ashes in the orange-red fireball.
This insignificant man, who wasn't even worthy of being his father's friend and only fit to obey the steward, vanished along with his petty schemes.
Then came the second and the third.
The entire monastery trembled and wailed. The load-bearing pillars broke, the roof collapsed, and dust blotted out the sun.
I don't know how much time passed.
The explosions ceased. They were replaced by the agonizing screams of the wounded and the crackling of burning wood.
Arthur struggled to push away the broken planks pressing down on him. He coughed violently, each breath inhaling scalding hot lime powder.
The upright oak table and the thick stone wall saved their lives.
"Sergeant? Jeanne?"
"Cough cough... Alive..."
Arthur nodded and stood up, leaning against the wall. Thankfully, it was only a 50kg bomb; if it had been a 250kg aerial bomb, there wouldn't be any survivors here.
But the scene before us still resembles the end of the world.
Colonel Harrison, the chief of staff, the operations director... the entire command center of the Azhebrook defense zone was physically wiped out in that dive bombing.
The survivors cried out in the ruins. The few surviving company commanders and junior officers stood there, bewildered and terrified, like a flock of sheep that had lost their leader.
Despair spread like a plague through the ruins.
If no one steps forward, this group will collapse within ten minutes.
Arthur took a deep breath.
He glanced at his feet. There stood Colonel Harrison's belongings—a command cane inlaid with silver tips.
Arthur bent down and picked up the cane.
He took a handkerchief from his pocket and slowly wiped the blood and dust off his cane. Then, he straightened his tattered uniform and straightened his back.
In the RTS view, the red dots representing German tanks have approached the perimeter of the monastery.
He is now the highest-ranking military officer here, and the sole representative of the Sterling family.
Ironically, it was the "privilege" that the butler had secured that allowed Colonel Harrison to concentrate all command here, and now, this power vacuum awaits Arthur to fill.
"Quiet."
Arthur spoke.
boom!
He raised his MP40 submachine gun and pulled the trigger at the ceiling.
"Colonel Harrison is dead. Now..."
Arthur slammed his cane heavily on the ground with a thud.
"...I am the highest-ranking officer here."
A captain looked up, his eyes unfocused: "Major? But..."
"No buts, Captain," Arthur interrupted him, his voice carrying the arrogance characteristic of hereditary nobility. "I am Lord Arthur Sterling, commander of the 2nd Battalion of the Coldstream Guard. By the King's Ordinance, I have assumed command."
"I know what you're thinking. You're wondering, what can this tea-drinking playboy do?"
Arthur gave a cold laugh.
"Let me tell you, I'm more afraid of death than any of you. I haven't lived enough; I want to go back to London and squander my inheritance. So..."
He pointed outside the monastery.
"If you want to live and go home, then pick up your guns and listen to me."
"I am Lord Sterling. My family may not know how to win, but we certainly know how to survive."
It was a lie, and it was also a promise.
silence.
A few seconds later, Sergeant McTavish was the first to step forward, standing to Arthur's left. Lieutenant Jeanne silently slung the radio over her shoulder and stood to his right.
The scepter was already in his hand. Now, he had to lead his men and fight his way through before sunset.
I have some things to do this afternoon, but I'll update twice when I get back tonight if I have time. The contract will be signed by tomorrow at the latest, so those who want to invest should hurry up.