noveltune Chapter 72 The Sleeping Queen
Chapter 72 The Sleeping Queen
Chapter 72 The Sleeping Empress (Part 2)
June 4, 1940, 08:15, Dover, United Kingdom.
Although the flames of war across the Channel had not yet fully reached here, the anxious smell of sparks had already drifted into the noses of every British person on the damp sea breeze.
Thick morning fog enveloped Dover's famous white cliffs, and the docks were bustling with noise—the sounds of ship horns, the groans of the wounded, and the shouts of officers mingled together.
A battle-scarred destroyer—the Royal Navy's old S-class destroyer HMS Hikari.
Shikari, like an exhausted camel, slowly makes its way to the berth.
What terrified the waiting crowd was not the smoke and bullet holes on its hull, but its terrifyingly deep waterline.
It moved extremely slowly, not daring to make any sharp turns, as if the slightest increase in engine power would cause the overburdened warship to be completely submerged by the sea.
Because it is currently bearing a terrifying weight that a small boat with a displacement of only a thousand tons should absolutely not have to bear—more than 1200 people.
The decks, turret tops, passageways, and even under the lifeboat ropes were densely packed with ragged, expressionless soldiers—the last survivors of the French 12th Motorized Infantry Division.
This is the last ship.
With the cable of the "Hikari" being thrown onto the dock, the largest evacuation operation in human history—"Operation Dynamo"—came to a complete end.
Major General Jean-Pierre stood on the oil-splattered deck, his left arm, wounded by shrapnel, slinged to his chest, his uniform stained with gunpowder and dried blood. Yet he still struggled to straighten his back, trying to maintain the last vestiges of dignity of a French general.
Behind him were a thousand French soldiers who had lost their homeland, their weapons, and even their souls.
A neatly dressed Royal Navy rear admiral, accompanied by several adjutants, was already waiting on the dock. Upon seeing that the person stepping off the gangplank was actually a French general, the Royal Navy rear admiral responsible for receiving him was clearly surprised, but quickly composed himself and went to greet him.
"God bless you, General."
The rear admiral gave a crisp military salute, his tone filled with genuine respect and gratitude: "I am Rear-Admiral William Tennant, Commander of the Dover Port Area."
Tennant), responsible for organizing the Royal Navy's Dynamo Project. Welcome to the United Kingdom. You and your sailors are safe.
To bring these coalition forces back, Admiral Ramsay mobilized half of the Royal Navy. From the newest Tribal-class destroyers to minesweepers, they deployed more than 40 warships, even sending new ships still undergoing sea trials.
Tennant glanced at the exhausted French soldiers and said firmly, "You and your soldiers are safe. The Royal Navy's battleship squadron is patrolling the open sea; the German fleet can't get here."
Rang Sen returned a somewhat stiff military salute. His gaze passed over Major General Tannent's shoulder, looking at the busy yet somewhat chaotic but still orderly dock. His eyes held a complex expression, signifying that they had set foot on another piece of land far from their homeland.
"We're safe now—" Sen's voice was filled with resentment. "Yes, we're safe. But this safety came at the cost of shame."
Major General Tennant coughed somewhat awkwardly, trying to change the subject: "General, please don't think that way. Preserving manpower is for the future counterattack. We have arranged a special train for you to the temporary camp in south London. There you will find hot coffee, bread, and clean beds."
"No."
Sen decisively interrupted him.
The French general whirled around and gripped Major General Tennant's arm tightly with his intact right hand. Despite being exhausted and bleeding heavily, his eyes burned with an intense intensity: "It's not over yet! Major General! It's not over yet!"
"Over across the strait, it seems to be in Flörn! Yes, there! There's another unit fighting! It was by sacrificing themselves that they held off the German armored division, giving us the opportunity to board this ship!"
Rinsen grew increasingly agitated: "That's one of your British troops! The Coldstream Guards! They're still there! Right there in Flörn! Please, send ships to fetch them! Just two—no, one destroyer will suffice! They shouldn't be abandoned there!"
Major General Tannent's expression changed.
He looked at his emotional French ally, and the respect in his eyes gradually turned into helplessness and indifference.
He gently but firmly brushed away Jensen's hand.
"I'm sorry, and I'm very sorry, General."
There was no personal emotion in Tannent's voice. This wasn't cold-bloodedness, but rather the ruthlessness and rationality that a commander must possess.
Although he knew that the troops abandoned on the other side belonged to the British Empire and shared his blood, in the face of a national crisis, some things were destined to be sacrificed—whether they were commoners, soldiers, or nobles.
"I regret to inform you, General, that Project 'The Generator' was officially terminated two hours ago."
Tannant pointed to the torpedo boats patrolling the sea in the distance, his tone full of warning: "The strait is now a hunting ground for the German air force and submarines. Just now, the Admiralty issued a death order: in order to protect the home fleet in response to the impending invasion, no Royal Navy vessel is allowed to enter the waters around Dunkirk."
"But those are your own people! Those are soldiers of your Great British Empire!" Jensen could hardly believe what he was hearing, and he roared angrily.
"That's the price of war."
Major General Tennant straightened his collar, his tone turning icy: "Our primary task now is to defend the last spark of Europe—the British Isles. We cannot risk more warships for the sake of a few hundred soldiers who are destined never to return. That is reality, General."
Having said that, he didn't intend to pay any more attention to the French major general who had already lost his composure, and turned to his adjutant behind him, saying, "Take this general to the lounge. Someone from London will come to make contact—"
"Wait, sir."
A tired voice suddenly broke in.
That was Lieutenant Commander Eubank, the captain of the HMS Hikari.
The naval lieutenant commander, whose eyes were also bloodshot, stepped off the deck. He looked as if he hadn't slept for three days; his uniform was soaked with seawater and sweat and smelled fishy.
Major General Tennant stopped and looked at his subordinate with some doubt: "Eubak? You've worked hard. Go and rest, leave this to me."
Eubank didn't move. He glanced at General Jensen, whose face was filled with despair, then walked to Major General Tannent and lowered his voice: "Sir, may I speak to you in private?"
Tennant frowned, but still followed him to the corner: "What's all this mystery? Is there something wrong with these Frenchmen?"
"No, sir. It's about the army unit that remained in Flörn."
Eubank took a deep breath, pulled a soaking wet cigarette from his pocket, and crushed it in his hand: "Do you know who that army major was who commanded the rearguard and got these Frenchmen onto my ship?"
"Who?" Tennant said dismissively, "Just some brave fool. Staying there at a time like this means either death or a prisoner-of-war camp."
"That's Arthur Sterling."
Eubank's voice was very soft, but he was certain that every syllable reached Major General Tennant's ears.
Tennant paused, seemingly searching for the name. A few seconds later, his pupils contracted sharply, because the name matched an identity, but he still wanted to confirm it again.
"Who did you say—?"
"Major Arthur Sterling. The Earl's second son, and currently the sole heir to the Sterling family."
Seeing the fascinating expression on his superior's face, Eubank wisely kept quiet.
A deathly silence.
Major General Tannant, who had just been spouting "the cost of war" and "realism," now seemed to be constipated.
Cold sweat trickled down his forehead.
Losing a few hundred ordinary soldiers is considered a "necessary sacrifice." But to hand over Count Stirling's only son, a future hereditary nobleman, to the Germans, especially after he has just distinguished himself in battle—
That wouldn't be called sacrifice, that would be called suicide, that would be called treason.
If the bigwigs in London, especially the Prime Minister sitting in 10 Downing Street smoking a cigar, knew about this—
"Damn it! Damn it! Why didn't you say so sooner!"
Major General Tannent suddenly flew into a rage, completely losing his previous composure. He spun around twice on the spot.
"Quickly! Contact the Navy Department immediately! No, contact Command Dover directly!"
"Tell them right now if there are any working boats there? Speedboats, fishing boats, even rowboats!"
"We need to reassess the situation! Immediately!"
At the same time, 08:35, in the abandoned freight train station in the northern district of Frenné.
Arthur was unaware of what was happening across the strait; his RTS map wasn't a telescope.
Even if he knew, he would only sneer. At this distance, no amount of bureaucratic rescue could compare to the tangible benefit of the Luger pistol in his hand.
It's still raining.
The cold rain mixed with coal ash and engine oil made the abandoned train station look even more eerie. Broken rails twisted like dead snakes in the rubble, and several blown-up carriages were still emitting black smoke.
This place is like a giant industrial graveyard.
But in Arthur's RTS view, the tomb gleams with an alluring golden light.
"parking."
Arthur raised his right hand.
Several Bedford trucks behind them came to a stop with a screeching sound of brake pads.
Before the car had even come to a complete stop, McTavish was the first to jump out of the passenger seat, the bolt of his Thompson submachine gun already cocked.
"Action! Quickly!"
Instead of yelling, McTavish lowered his voice and issued a series of rapid and clear instructions.
As the tailgate was slammed down, dozens of fully armed soldiers from the Cold Creek Guard Regiment quickly jumped out of the vehicle.
It was like a tactical performance that had been rehearsed thousands of times.
The soldiers automatically split into several combat teams the moment they landed.
The Bren gunners quickly seized the high ground on both sides of the ruins, set up their bipods, and their dark gun muzzles fanned out to block the blind spots on both sides of the train station entrance; the riflemen advanced in pairs, back to back, taking turns providing cover, and vigilantly scanning every window and roof that might be hiding a German sniper.
Although this was not theoretically the direction in which the main Allied forces retreated, nor the route of the German main attack.
But in this chaotic situation where the front lines are in complete disarray, no one can guarantee that they won't suddenly run into a lost German half-track reconnaissance vehicle around the corner, or an infiltrated SS motorized squad.
For the Cold Creek Guards, as long as the fighting continues, there is no such thing as a "safe zone".
As long as the ground beneath your feet isn't Buckingham Palace's parade ground, it's a KilIZone.
Jeanne jumped out of the passenger seat, carrying the heavy toolbox. She glanced at the desolate surroundings, her brow furrowed. "This is it? The artifact we're looking for is in these ruins?"
"Don't be fooled by appearances, Jeanne."
Arthur straightened the collar of his rain-soaked trench coat, his gaze fixed on the freight station ahead, heavily protected by layers of camouflage netting and sandbags: "Some beauties are just sleeping, waiting for a prince—or a bandit like us—to kiss them awake."
Just then, a series of rapid cocking sounds came from the fog ahead.
"Stop! Who's there!"
"Stop advancing! Or we'll open fire!"
Almost at the same instant the voice rang out, even before the words had fully landed, the three guards standing beside Arthur had already moved.
It was an almost instinctive action.
Two tall soldiers suddenly stepped to the side, using their broad backs to block Arthur, forming a human wall; while on the other side, McTavish instantly knelt on one knee, his Thompson submachine gun already at his shoulder, the dark muzzle pointing directly into the depths of the fog from which the sound came.
Their fingers were already on the trigger.
For these veterans who had just crawled out of piles of corpses, there was no room for hesitation. If even half a German word popped out of the fog on the other side, or if any outline resembling a German steel helmet appeared, these Thompson submachine guns would unleash a deadly hail of bullets within fractions of a second, tearing the enemy to shreds.
However, as the commander protected at the core, Arthur was the most relaxed one on the field.
Although he was very pleased with his subordinates' subconscious, textbook-perfect reaction to protect their commander, he had long since seen through the fog of deception through the tactical map of the RTS system.
There were no glaring red dots representing enemy forces, only a few yellow dots representing friendly/neutral forces flickering slightly.
There are no German SS here, only "our own people".
"Relax, McTavish. Turn the safety on."
Arthur reached out and gently patted the shoulder of the sergeant in front of him, signaling him to lower the barrel of his gun, which was about to go off accidentally. His tone was calm: "Don't be too nervous. Unless you want to scare our poor engineering brothers into wetting their pants."
"...Sir?" McTavish paused for a moment. Although he was a little confused, he still subconsciously lowered the muzzle of his gun because of his absolute trust in Arthur.
In that split second, "Snap! Snap! Snap!"
Several blinding beams of high-powered flashlights suddenly lit up, piercing through the thick rain and fog, shining directly into everyone's faces, illuminating Arthur and his group's figures brightly.
This was followed by a distorted shout: "Don't move! Put your hands up!"
A dozen or so British soldiers emerged from behind the sandbag fortifications ahead, their faces wary and even somewhat neurotic, dressed in engineering uniforms covered in mud.
They held their Lee-Enfield rifles ramrod straight, a dozen pairs of bloodshot eyes fixed on them, the dark muzzles of their guns pointing over McTavish's head, aimed directly at Arthur's chest, who was being protected in the middle.
The leader was a second lieutenant.
Although his military uniform was worn out, it was surprisingly clean, with even the brass buttons polished to a shine.
He gripped a Webley revolver, the standard issue pistol for British officers, tightly; his hand trembled slightly, but his eyes were unusually resolute.
Although they are not quite as good as the Cold Creek Guards, they are still considered elite compared to those ragtag units.
This is a forgotten unit.
Arthur saw their markings on the RTS map: [3rd Engineer Company (2nd Platoon) Directly under the First Army].
These are true ghosts. They have no radios, no vehicles, and are unaware that the outside world has been turned upside down. They are simply like gatekeepers, guarding that long-overdue order.
"I am Major Arthur Sterling, acting commander of the Cold Creek Guards, and currently the highest-ranking commander of the Flney District."
Arthur didn't reach for his identification; instead, he walked forward with his hands behind his back, facing the gun barrels. His composed gait, his attire, his accent, and his innate aristocratic air caused the soldiers opposite him to instinctively lower their guns.
"Major Sterling?"
The young lieutenant paused for a moment, his wariness easing slightly, but he remained blocking the road: "I am Lieutenant Thomas Gray, 3rd Engineer Company, 1st Corps. Sir, this is the direct jurisdiction of the 1st Corps headquarters. No one is allowed to approach unless you have a warrant from Lieutenant General Michael himself or the Expeditionary Forces headquarters."
""
Upon hearing those two names, the veterans behind Arthur let out a sneer.
Arthur waved his hand to stop his subordinate's rudeness, then looked at the dutiful lieutenant with an almost pitying gaze: "Lieutenant Gray, when was the last time you received an order from your superior?"
Lieutenant Gray paused, then said, "A week ago. That was the last time the supply truck came. What happened?"
"One week."
Arthur sighed, stepped forward, and gently brushed aside the revolver the lieutenant was pointing at him: "In this era, a week is enough to bring an empire to its complete collapse."
"Listen, son. There are no more warrants. Headquarters was disbanded on the 31st. As for your corps commander? He's probably having breakfast in Dover across the Channel."
"What?" Lieutenant Gray's pupils dilated sharply, and he swayed. "This is impossible—how could the military and headquarters possibly—"
Nothing is impossible.
Arthur's voice turned cold and cruel. He had to shatter the young man's illusions as quickly as possible and then reshape his worldview: "Look around you, Lieutenant. Why hasn't anyone brought you supplies for a whole week? Why can't we hear any heavy artillery support?"
"Because Operation Dynamo ended two hours ago. The First Army disbanded, the Second Army withdrew, and all the main forces of the expeditionary force withdrew."
"In present-day France, besides the Germans running around everywhere, there are only French people waiting to surrender and us who have been forgotten."
"What you are guarding now is no longer the king's property, but the spoils of war for the future German army."
Lieutenant Gray stumbled back a step and leaned against the sandbag. His lips trembled as he looked at Arthur, then at the cold-eyed, murderous soldiers behind Arthur.
He saw the truth in those people's eyes—the eyes of someone who had truly seen hell.
"Then—what should we do?"
The lieutenant's voice even trembled with tears. He had held out here like a stray dog for seven days, seven days! Hungry and soaked in the rain, he thought he was protecting vital assets for the empire, only to find himself abandoned.
Moreover, there is a high probability that he will not be able to go home and will die on this land.
Now, all that awaits him is this foreign swamp reeking of corpses and mold, and a rotten wooden plaque with no name even carved on it.
Thinking of the white cliffs of Dover, the apple orchards of Kent, and the meat pies his mother baked—he couldn't help but burst into tears, and several British soldiers behind him also cried.
"What should we do?"
Arthur, however, laughed heartily; the more desperate they were, the greater his prestige became.
He reached out and patted Lieutenant Gray on the shoulder, pointing to the flatbed train behind them, completely covered by tarpaulins: "It's simple. We'll divide up these unwanted 'assets'."
"Take me to see them, Lieutenant. Let me see what treasures you're risking your lives to protect."
Lieutenant Gray nodded blankly. Since his faith had collapsed, obeying this seemingly powerful major seemed to be his only lifeline.
He led Arthur and his group deeper into the platform.
On a broken flatbed truck, six huge bulges were covered by thick tarpaulins, like sleeping behemoths.
"Make your move." Arthur nodded to the soldiers behind him.
Several guardsmen climbed onto the train, grabbed the edges of the canvas, and with a forceful yank, "whoosh!"
As the canvas slid down, a striking and incongruous color suddenly burst into everyone's view under the gloomy, gray Flanders sky.
That's yellow.
It wasn't just ordinary yellow, but a geometric camouflage pattern of pale yellow, rock color, and slate blue—the standard British Army "Caunter Scheme."
In Forne, a place filled with black ash, mud, and red brick ruins, these six tanks painted in tropical desert camouflage are like six bikini-clad strippers who suddenly burst into a funeral—absurd, eye-catching, yet possessing a deadly allure.
Matilda II infantry tank.
Even with such ridiculous paint jobs, they cannot hide the suffocating sense of oppression they exude.
They have disproportionately wide tracks, rounded and thick cast turrets, and armor plates on the front of the vehicle as thick as walls.
Arthur stepped forward, his gloved hand stroking the tank's cold, rough cast armor, the data on his retina flashing wildly:
[Vehicle Name]: Matilda I Infantry Tank (Specialized Version)
[Status]: Stored/No fuel/No ammunition [Armor]: 78mm front/70mm side (with side skirts)
[Commentary]: In this era, this was a mobile idol. Unless the Germans used their 88mm anti-aircraft guns at full range, this was absolute defense.
"This is the heavy blow we've been looking for."
Arthur turned around and looked at Lieutenant Gray: "Why don't you start them? Even with just these few, you could fight your way out."
Lieutenant Gray gave a wry smile and spread his hands. "Sir, you're quite the joker. This batch of tanks was prepared for North Africa; there's not a drop of oil in them. The batteries are empty too. Most importantly—"
He pointed to the rather short 40mm (2-pound) cannon barrel: "No shells. Not a single one. When the quartermaster brought them here, he forgot to attach the ammunition wagons to the back. We're guarding these iron coffins, and there's nothing we can do about them."
"No oil? No electricity? No shells?"
Arthur's smile grew wider; he was very satisfied with this arrangement.
If it were someone else, this would indeed be a pile of scrap metal.
But for Arthur, who has a "three-lights obsession," this is the final piece of the puzzle.
"Jeanne!"
Arthur whirled around: "Tell this lieutenant what's in our truck!"
Jeanne sighed, slammed the toolbox down on the rails, and gave a helpless but confident smile: "What else could it be? Brothers, this madman made a fortune in Dunkirk."
She turned and waved towards the trucks: "Unload! Get those barrels of diesel fuel down there! And those three train cars full of 2-pound armor-piercing rounds!"
"Miller! Don't just stand there like an idiot! Bring the cables and the jack!"
"Lieutenant Gray, tell your men to stop standing there! If they want to live, come help! Wake these big guys up!"
At Jeanne's command, the entire train station instantly erupted in excitement.
The once lifeless sappers were overjoyed when they saw the boxes of brand-new armor-piercing rounds being unloaded from the trucks and the barrels of diesel fuel emitting a pungent smell.
That was the hope of life.
Arthur looked at the bustling scene before him.
Engineers and mechanics climbed up and down, cables were connected, sparks flew. Crates of shells were passed into the turret with a dull metallic clang.
He noticed a detail.
These "desert-specific" Matildas, in addition to their absurd camouflage, also feature thick side skirts and huge dust covers over the engine air intakes.
In North Africa, this is to prevent sandstorms from jamming the engine.
In Forne, a city ruin filled with rubble, barbed wire, and broken glass, these dust covers will perfectly prevent the tracks from getting stuck by foreign objects, while the side skirts provide additional lateral protection.
This is a monster born for urban warfare.
Fate is truly wondrous. A miscalculation, a bureaucratic oversight, ironically provided Arthur with the perfect weapon in this desperate situation.
Twenty minutes later.
"Buzz—cough cough cough—boom!!!"
With a burst of thick black smoke, the two AEC diesel engines of the first Matilda tank roared like a beast awakening.
Then came the second, the third —
The roar of the engines of the six steel behemoths combined, causing dust to fall from the roof of the train station and even the ground to tremble slightly.
That was the sound of power.
That was the most violent aesthetic of the industrial age.
Lieutenant Gray looked at the tanks whose turrets were slowly turning and spewing black smoke, his eyes welling up with tears.
He had originally thought these were his coffins, but now he realized they were his ark.
Arthur walked up to Matilda, the lead vehicle with the number "T-1089".
He reached out and patted the heavy armor, feeling the vibrations from the engine.
"Sir, they don't have names yet."
Jeanne wiped the engine oil off her face and walked over, saying, "The previous units didn't have time to put code names on them yet."
"Then let's learn and apply it immediately."
Arthur looked at the absurd desert camouflage, at the yellow that seemed out of place in the rainy weather.
"What's your name? Nemesis?" Lieutenant Gray asked tentatively, looking at the conspicuous yellow paint job. He felt that a fierce-sounding name was needed to boost morale at a time like this.
"No."
Arthur did not answer immediately.
He glanced at the pale yellow camouflage that stood out starkly against the gray Flanders mud, almost absurdly, and immediately thought of the car parked behind the church, the one that had fought its way back from Dunkirk and had been painted "Avenger" by Miller and the other veterans.
"We already have one Avenger; we don't need a bunch of vengeful goddesses."
Arthur shook his head, a slight smile playing on his lips. He climbed onto the side of the tank, patting the rough-cast turret from above, his voice cutting through the engine's roar: "Then give them a unified name, let's call them—Desert Queens."
Queens).
"Although there's no sand here, only mud and Germans."
Arthur surveyed the soldiers around him, their faces now filled with renewed hope, and shouted, "But since they've come to the ball in their most dazzling gowns, let them be the deadliest queens of this swamp ball!"
【hint】
[Heavy equipment already included: Matilda II infantry tank (desert-specific version) 6]
[New Unit: 3rd Engineer Company, 1st Army (32 men/specialized in vehicle driving)]
[Current Armored Combat Strength Rating: Overpower]
Arthur jumped off the tank, straightened his wind-blown trench coat, and gave Lieutenant Grey and Jeanne a cold yet elegant smile: "Alright, now that the queens are awake..."
"Then let's teach the Germans a lesson."
"Tell them what the hospitality of the British Empire is all about."
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