noveltune Chapter 99 The Bicycle Project
Chapter 99 The Bicycle Project
Chapter 99 The Bicycle Project (Part 2)
June 6, 1940, 18:45, France, north bank of the Somme River defense line, temporary command tent of the British 51st Highland Division.
The air inside the tent felt somewhat oppressive and strange.
Five men are sitting here, and they will decide the fate of the 16,000 men under their command.
Seated to the left of the long marching table were the commanders of the three main brigades under the 51st Division: the 152nd, 153rd, and 15th...
Commander of the 4th Infantry Brigade.
These three brigadier generals were typical career officers in the old British Army: they had neatly trimmed mustaches, wore woolen uniforms that were ironed even during the retreat, and the red-edged collar insignia on their collars exuded a Victorian-era stiffness and arrogance under the dim kerosene lamp.
At the top of the long table sat Major General Victor Fortune, the division commander.
The major general didn't speak eloquently as usual. He sat there silently, clutching a teacup tightly in his hand. Most striking was the clearly visible, gradually bruising and swelling handprint on his left cheek.
That is the totem left behind after authority was shattered.
The handprint made the three brigadier generals present uneasy. They would occasionally glance out of the corner of their eyes at the young man sitting on the right side of the long table, who was using a German-made bayonet to pry open a can of luncheon meat.
Arthur Sterling.
His attire at that moment made the atmosphere in the tent extremely eerie and oppressive.
He wasn't wearing the dark uniform that symbolized the Cold Creek Guard's honor. Instead, he was casually draped in a captured, meticulously crafted black leather watch belonging to the Party Secretary.
The thick black leather looked somewhat stiff under the kerosene lamp, the hem of the coat was covered with dried mud and machine oil, and the silver skull collar insignia was faintly visible in the shadows. This "Grim Reaper's coat," which originally belonged to a high-ranking Nazi officer, was now wrapped around an Englishman like a trophy.
The coat was open at the collar, revealing a wrinkled British military uniform underneath, its collar stained with blood.
On those still-crisp British military shoulder boards, there were no stars representing the commander, nor the crossed swords representing the general. There was only a solitary crown.
Major.
According to the Royal Decree and Article 104 of the Army Service Regulations, a major must stand at attention and salute when he sees three brigadier generals and one major general, and may not speak unless asked by his superior.
But at this moment, the only law here is the low-frequency rumble of the twenty-four Panzer IV tanks idling outside the tent.
"This is utterly absurd."
Brigadier General Bernie, commander of the 153rd Brigade, slammed his pencil heavily onto the map, the tip breaking off. "We have a major general and three brigadier generals sitting here. And now, we're supposed to take the tactical orders of a—temporary colonel, or rather, really just a major?"
Brigadier General Bernie turned his head, his gaze sweeping over the can, and stared intently at Arthur: "Major Sterling, while your men did indeed hold off the German infantry advance, that doesn't mean you're qualified to command a full infantry division on a strategic retreat. We're concerned with the lives of thirteen thousand soldiers, not playing this game of individual heroism with some young nobleman."
"According to regulations, you should immediately relinquish command of your 'hybrid force' for unified deployment by the division headquarters."
Another brigade commander chimed in, "That's right. It's a waste to have those tanks and half-tracks in your hands. They should be distributed to the brigades as support firepower."
Arthur didn't look up; he didn't even stop picking at the meat.
"Sizzle." The sound of a bayonet scraping against a tin can was particularly jarring in the quiet tent.
He chewed slowly and patiently, his gray-blue pupils devoid of any warmth.
He watched quietly as the three brigadier generals before him argued fiercely about how to distribute the twenty-four Panzer IV tanks among the infantry brigades and how to fit the assault guns into their fire support schedule.
In their words, their armored unit, which had just fought its way out of a pile of dead bodies, seemed to have become an unclaimed asset on the bankruptcy liquidation table, and they were impatiently exercising their so-called "right of takeover".
They completely forgot that the owner of the asset was sitting right across from them, holding a dripping oil knife.
"Are you done talking?"
Arthur swallowed his food, wiped his mouth with a napkin, and then slammed the bayonet into the table.
"Knock!"
The blade pierced deep into the wood, right in the center of the map marking the retreat route.
"If I've finished speaking, I'll take my men and leave."
Arthur stood up, his grey-blue eyes devoid of warmth: "You can stay here and study the Army Regulations, discuss whose beard is more gentlemanly. You can also write a letter to Rommel across the way and ask if he will stop the shelling because of your higher rank."
"As for my tanks? They only protect those who want to survive."
After saying that, Arthur turned and left, his military boots making a dull thud on the wooden floor.
The moment his hand touched the tent flap.
"stop."
Major General Fortune, who had been silent all along, finally spoke.
The major general hadn't spoken until now. He raised his head, his bloodshot eyes sweeping over the three angry brigadiers before finally settling on Arthur's back.
He subconsciously touched the stinging handprint on his cheek.
It wasn't just pain. It was an extremely violent "awakening service." That slap shattered his class pride, but it also awakened his sense of honor and survival instinct as a Scottish Highlander.
"Shut up, all of you."
The major general was speaking to the three brigadier generals.
"Commander?" Brigadier General Bernie looked at him in shock. "What are you talking about? That young nobleman—that playboy—"
"playboy?"
Major General Fortune slammed his fist on the table and stood up abruptly. At that moment, he finally unleashed the fighting spirit befitting a battlefield commander.
He pointed outside the tent, to the still-burning positions on the south bank: "Have you ever seen a playboy lead a group of elite troops and forcefully push back Rommel's armored vanguard?"
"Have you ever seen any young master from Mayfair who dares to wait until the last second to retreat under the cover of 150mm howitzers?"
""
Major General Fortune stared at Arthur's retreating figure, shrouded in black leather, his gaze becoming unusually complex: "Don't be naive. That wasn't luck. That was tactics."
"Moreover, the legitimacy of the command has already been decided by the higher authorities."
Major General Fortune took a deep breath. He suppressed the churning feeling in his chest, a mixture of shame and helplessness, and delivered the harsh political reality to the three brigadier generals: "This is a direct order from Whitehall Palace. The Prime Minister needs that imperial hero to bring us all back alive, even if it's just for propaganda purposes."
"In the latest telegram, Colonel Sterling has been officially granted the highest level of provisional full authority over the theater of operations."
.
"At the same time, the wartime cabinet explicitly instructed me to serve as his deputy during the implementation of the 'Bicycle Project.'"
He said this to Arthur, indicating his obedience to orders, but also to the three brigadier generals: "Do you understand? Now even I, a major general and division commander, have to listen to him!"
"Following him might be the only chance for us to survive."
Major General Fortune turned around, pointed at Arthur, and said firmly, "From now on, the 51st Hill Division will be under the tactical command of Colonel Arthur Sterling."
"Anyone who has a problem with this, get out now and surrender to the Germans."
A deathly silence fell over the tent.
The three brigadier generals exchanged bewildered glances. They looked at the shocking red mark on their division commander's face, then at Arthur, who stood indifferently at the door. Ultimately, the desire to survive overcame the class pride that came with military rank.
They lowered their heads and stopped talking.
Arthur then turned around, walked back to the table, and drew the bayonet.
"Now that we've reached a consensus, let's talk about how to survive."
Arthur traced the line with his finger, the road from the Berthene River to Le Havre: "The good news is, that bridge—the Bridge of Death you've all been too afraid to cross—I've taken down the 88mm gun emplacement on the other side. The road is open."
"But that doesn't mean we can just drive right through."
Arthur stared intently at the map: "It's nearly forty kilometers from here to Le Havre, and it's all open ground. That's an absolute death zone; the Germans are already waiting for us outside."
"Rommel has stopped attacking not because he's afraid, but because he's waiting."
"He was waiting for Guderian's 19th Panzer Corps to flank him, and he was waiting for his heavy artillery to be loaded with ammunition."
"More importantly, he's waiting for dawn tomorrow."
Arthur pointed overhead: "If we march during the day, the German Stuka bombers will turn this forty-kilometer road into a fiery dragon. On this open plain, our convoy will be sitting ducks."
"Therefore, we only have one choice."
Arthur's fingers slammed heavily on the map: "Fully mechanized breakout."
"All the heavy equipment, all that unnecessary stuff—those damn filing cabinets, your china tableware, your cumbersome field kitchens, even those broken artillery pieces without tractors, just throw them all away."
"Apart from basic weapons, ammunition, fuel, and water, throw any non-combat supplies that would increase the vehicle's load into the river."
He raised his head, his gaze sweeping over the brigadier generals who still wanted to retreat with all their belongings: "Listen carefully, I don't intend for soldiers to run to the port on foot. That would be suicide."
"Squeeze everyone—I mean every single one of them, even if they're crammed onto the fenders—into trucks and half-tracks."
"My twenty-four Panzer IV tanks and six assault guns will form an armored box in the forward and rearguard positions. The infantry will be in the middle."
"We're marching at night. A full-speed, rapid march."
"If we haven't reached the port of Le Havre by dawn tomorrow—"
Arthur paused, staring intently at the group. "Then there's no need to run. We'll all die on the road."
June 6, 1940, 8:00 PM (Greenwich Mean Time). London, England, Whitehall, Admiralty Building, First Sea Lord's office.
London outside the window was shrouded in darkness, shrouded in blackout. Only the occasional beam of light from distant air raid searchlights pierced the night sky.
On a huge oak chart table lay a hydrographic chart covering the entire English Channel and the North Sea. Countless lines representing shipping lanes, minefields, and submarine patrol areas crisscrossed the blue sea like a complex neural network.
Winston Churchill sat in a leather chair, his black suit taut. After his speech, he unusually tossed aside his cigar, crossed his arms over his stomach, and frowned.
Opposite him was Marshal Dudley Pound, First Sea Lord, who commanded the vast Royal Navy fleet.
The old admiral looked unusually tired, with heavy bags under his eyes, as if he might fall asleep in his chair at any moment.
On the sofa to the side sat General Hugh Dowding, Commander-in-Chief of the Royal Air Force Fighter Command. Churchill's impression of this man, known as the "father of the Spitfire," was that he was stingy and stubborn.
In the darkest corner of the room sat Earl Stirling.
He didn't even look at the nautical chart; he was simply quietly flipping through the Times, which would be published the next day.
The front page of the newspaper featured a photograph of Arthur in his military uniform.
The count remained silent. But his very presence was a silent, immense pressure on the three of them to oversee the battle.
"We have to get them out."
Churchill broke the silence, his stubby fingers jabbing heavily at two points on the French coastline—the port of Le Havre and Saint-Valéry.
"Dunkirk is over. It was a miracle. But miracles don't put food on the table."
"The 51st Highland Division is now cut off from retreat. They are being squeezed along the coastline by Guderian and Rommel like toothpaste. If we have just lauded Arthur in front of the whole world, portraying him as a hero of the Empire, and then watched him and more than ten thousand soldiers be wiped out in 24 hours—"
Churchill looked up, his gaze sweeping over Pound and Dowding: "That will not be just a military defeat. It will be a political catastrophe. It will be a total collapse of the credibility of the British Empire. Roosevelt is watching, Stalin is watching, even that clown Mussolini is watching."
"This is a matter of our face."
Field Marshal Pound took off his glasses, rubbed his temples, and said wearily, "Prime Minister, I understand the political necessity. But from the navy's perspective, this is a real nightmare."
"The Dunkirk evacuation had just exhausted every drop of fuel and every destroyer of the Royal Navy. Most of my ships were undergoing major repairs in the dry dock, and the rest had to go to the Atlantic for escort missions, or we would starve. The threat of U-boats was at its peak, and the German Air Force had absolute air superiority over the straits."
"Send ships to Le Havre? Forgive my bluntness, but that's suicide."
"but----"
Marshal Pound glanced out of the corner of his eye at the figure flipping through a newspaper in the corner. He saw the silver lion's head on the count's cane gleam coldly in the dim light.
That was not merely a noble badge; it represented the will of the military-industrial complex.
Pound gritted his teeth, put his glasses back on, and traced the location of the Portsmouth naval base with his finger: "Our 'Bicycle Plan' was originally a backup plan for evacuating the remaining logistics personnel from Le Havre." Pound explained, "We can't muster enough transport ships tonight, but I can still spare some older vessels. I can draw an advance force from the 2nd Cruiser Squadron and head south immediately."
The flagship Galatea.
"That's an Aretosha-class light cruiser. Although it only has a displacement of 5200 tons, its draft is relatively shallow, making it suitable for approaching ports like Le Havre where the water depth is limited."
"Although its anti-aircraft firepower is only barely passable, it has the most crucial thing," Pound tapped his fingers twice on the table: "three twin-mounted 6-inch main guns."
"Naval guns of this caliber are devastating to army armored forces without heavy cover. We can provide Colonel Sterling with real large-caliber direct fire support to help him open a passage to the port."
"And then?" Churchill pressed.
"Then it must leave immediately." Pound's voice turned cold. The Galatea could not remain on the French coast during the day. The German Stuka dive bombers would blow it to pieces.
"It will provide fire support tonight, then return at full speed before dawn."
"As for the 51st Highland Division—"
Marshal Pound took off his glasses and rubbed his bloodshot eyes: "As you know, this is not as simple as just bringing people back, Prime Minister."
"Let's look at the bill: the 51st Highland Division has about 13,000 men. Colonel Sterling's combat group, plus the stragglers he recruited, has about 3,500 men."
"A total of 16,500 soldiers."
"If it's just people, we need at least eight large passenger ships—for example, all the steam ferries on the Isle of Man route—plus 12 destroyers for escort and deck transport."
"But that's not the worst part."
Pound looked up at Earl Stirling in the corner, his tone tinged with a mixture of helplessness and admiration: "According to telegrams from the front, your son not only doesn't want to discard his equipment, he also intends to bring back all the spoils he's seized from the Germans."
"Twenty-four Panzer IV tanks. Six assault guns. Twenty French tracked vehicles. Eighty trucks."
"This means we can't just send passenger ships. We need at least three 3-ton cargo ships with heavy lifting capabilities, or Southampton Railway's dedicated roll-on/roll-off ships."
Total fleet size: 23 ships.
"Prime Minister, in a port like Le Havre that lacks modern deep-water berths, it would take at least 6 hours to load a crew and heavy equipment of this size, even in peacetime without air raids."
"Six hours. Keeping 23 ships stationary on the water right under the noses of Stuka bombers is simply impossible."
Marshal Pound put his glasses back on and gave his final advice: "Therefore, we need time. We need the night."
"The earliest the truly large-scale evacuation fleet can arrive and begin operations is nightfall on June 7."
"Before that, they could only rely on themselves."
A deep silence fell over the room.
Everyone realized the cruel meaning behind those words.
This meant that Arthur Sterling and his troops had to hold out in the port of Le Havre alone for an entire day without naval support.
They faced a frenzied attack from two directions, Rommel and Guderian, with at least three times the number of their own troops.
"What about the Air Force?"
Churchill turned his head, his eyes, hidden beneath the brim of his black Humboldt hat, fixed intently on General Dowding.
He glanced instinctively at the old count in the corner, then looked back at Dowding. He was mentally prepared. He anticipated that this stubborn head of the "Fighter Command" would, as usual, produce a bunch of questions about fuel consumption,
The report on the battle loss ratio and the pressure on homeland air defense was used to refuse requests to send even a single aircraft across the strait.
"I don't want to hear any more of this nonsense about where our flamethrowers are." So Churchill decided to strike first. His tone suddenly and unexpectedly turned somber as he prepared to pressure Dowding. "Hugh, this is not a request."
However, to everyone's surprise, including Lord Stirling, Admiral Dowding did not immediately refute him as he had the first time.
The air force general, who was always worried and only believed in mathematical models, now had an extremely strange, even confused expression on his usually stern face.
"Prime Minister, you know my principles."
2
Daoding spoke slowly, his voice dry: "From a strategic standpoint, I oppose sending any Spitfire fighter jet across the strait. That would directly threaten the security of the Kingdom's airspace."
At this point, Dowding paused. He glanced instinctively at Earl Sterling, who was reading a newspaper in the corner, then pulled a neatly folded flight report from his pocket: "But—if it's to support Colonel Sterling..."
Daoding pushed up his glasses, his tone utterly incredulous: "I think those lads from the 11th Battalion will probably fight over the sortie slots."
Churchill paused for a moment, then asked, "What do you mean?"
"This is the report on the return of the previous 24 Spitfire fighters."
Dowding pointed to the document in his hand: "To be honest, Prime Minister, when I signed that order the day before yesterday, I was already mentally prepared for the loss of all 24 planes and pilots. Without radar guidance, deep into steep terrain, and with fuel at its limit, this should have been a one-way trip."
"But God help them, they all came back."
Daoding raised his voice a few decibels, even he himself couldn't believe it: "24 planes. Not one missing. There are very few bullet holes on the fuselage."
"Moreover, according to the pilots' accounts, they shot down at least 14 German bombers, including two He-111 bombers, with ground guidance."
He shook his head. Despite it being a resounding victory, he frowned: "Even with the guidance of our local radar network, we might never have achieved such a perfect exchange ratio."
"So even now I still don't understand how Lord Sterling did it."
Dowding stared at the location of Le Havre on the nautical chart, his eyes filled with awe at the unknown: "He has no radar station. No air search equipment. They're just a convoy."
"Could it be that he acted as the interception and control center of the entire brigade just by using his eyesight and mental calculations? That's impossible." Dao Ding laughed as he said this.
"So, Prime Minister. If the ground guide is still Colonel Sterling—"
"I can mobilize three full-strength Spitfire squadrons: the 609th, 92nd, and 74th Squadrons."
"Although we are operating at the absolute limit of our range, our loiter time is less than 20 minutes."
"But if he were in charge of those 20 minutes—" Dowding's eyes sharpened, "I believe those 20 minutes would be a nightmare for the German Air Force."
That's enough.
Churchill stood up, looked at Earl Sterling in the corner, and a satisfied smile appeared on his lips: "It seems that Arthur has not only won over the army, but even the Royal Air Force has become his fan."
"Old friend, look. For your son, for those Scottish children, the Empire is going all out."
The count closed the newspaper.
He stood up and gracefully straightened the hem of his suit jacket, as if he had just finished drinking tea at the club and was about to leave.
"very good."
The count's voice was quiet, yet full of authority: "Then send the message."
"Tell Arthur the ship is here. But until it arrives, he has to hold that damned port like a real Sterling."
There is one more chapter. This chapter fills the time gap between Arthur and the 51st Highland Division meeting up and the Galatea receiving orders to depart. Please point out any omissions or errors.
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