pappabearbooks Chapter 82 Pick Up Churchill
Chapter 82 Pick Up Churchill
Chapter 82 Pick Up Churchill
June 5, 1940, 8:15 AM. Picardy region, southeast of Abbeyville, France, D928 highway.
Atmospheric pressure is slowly decreasing, and the relative humidity in the air has reached 94%. A low-pressure front is about to pass through, and the cloud base remains at around 1200 meters, but this is not enough to prevent visual attacks from modern aircraft.
The Stirling battle group, consisting of more than sixty vehicles of various types, is maneuvering south along this rain-soaked French road at a constant speed of 18 kilometers per hour.
The composition of the convoy was nothing short of a dream to the regular army: leading the way were two Matilda I infantry tanks painted in desert camouflage, mixed with British-standard Bedford OY 3-ton trucks, French-made Renault AGR heavy trucks, and several extremely conspicuous Sd, Kfz, 251 half-tracks painted in the grey-green of the German Wehrmacht.
The diesel engines roared, the tracks crushed stones, and the suspension system groaned metallically on the muddy road.
Arthur sat in the passenger seat of a command-type Sd.Kfz.251 half-track communications vehicle.
This half-track armored vehicle, with a combat weight of nearly 8 tons, showcases the superb mechanical craftsmanship of the German company Hannover Mag.
The Maybach HL42TUKRM's six-cylinder engine delivers ample torque at low RPMs, while the staggered road wheels smoothly filter out road bumps, and the sloping armor plates gleam with a cool metallic sheen in the rain.
Although the silver cigarette case in Arthur's hand was empty, he continued to mechanically open and close the lid, making a crisp metallic clanging sound. His eyes seemed to be fixed on the windshield wipers that were constantly moving across the windshield, but in reality, his optic nerves had completely taken over the blue holographic interface on his retina that only he could see.
The warning lights on the RTS system are flashing three times per second.
That wasn't an ordinary contact alarm; it was the highest-level strategic warning determined by the system—red.
[Strategic Threat Detection: Extremely High Risk]
[Signal source identification: Lille-Southern Front Airport Group (already occupied area)]
[Detection targets: large-scale aviation fuel heat signals/dense radio communication frequency band activation/engine warm-up infrared characteristics]
[Unit Identification: German 8th Air Army]
[Specific wing simulation: 77th Dive Bomber Wing (StG77) / 2nd Training Wing (LG2)]
【机型识别：Ju—87B—2「Stuka「×42/Bf—109E—3（护航）×24】
Attack Vector: Heading 190 (Due South)
Relative ground speed: 320 km/h
[Target Area: Along the N1 highway and its branch lines south of the Somme River]
[Estimated contact time: 58 minutes and 12 seconds]
Arthur's pupils quickly adjusted their focus in the dim light.
Fifty-eight minutes, less than an hour left.
Wolfram von Richthofen, the Red Baron's cousin and the most ruthless and offensive tactician in the Luftwaffe, was now commanding his aerial killers to carry out the core tactical mission of the Führer's "Red Plan"—using "flying artillery" to physically eliminate all moving objects south of the Somme, clearing the way for the advance of the Kleist armored group.
Under normal circumstances, Arthur's ideal field of vision is only 15 kilometers.
But things are different now.
This is a strategic-level early warning.
Just like the previous system that announced the historic event of "the unconditional surrender of the Belgian army" to the entire server without any warning, when a large-scale military movement that can change the situation of the entire theater of operations occurs, the system will temporarily issue an "over-the-horizon" warning based on the intelligence chain logic.
Moreover, this is not logically abrupt. For all the Allied commanders currently in the inferno of France, as long as they are not out of their minds, they can all come to the same conclusion: with the clearing of the sky this morning, apart from that madman Göring, no one will leave thousands of planes to gather dust in the hangar.
The full-scale deployment of the German Air Force was inevitable.
Thus, from that God's-eye view, elevated to a strategic level, Arthur's gaze spanned hundreds of kilometers, clearly witnessing the horrific scene unfolding at the Lille-South Front Airport:
Those dozens of glaring red dots representing enemy aircraft were taxiing and gathering on the long concrete runway, then pulling up their noses, and then piercing through the clouds, taking off in a menacing formation.
If nothing is done, an hour later, around 09:30, this large convoy, completely exposed and lacking heavy anti-aircraft firepower, will be right in the Stuka aircraft's optimal bombing window.
This is a meticulously calculated death trap.
"parking."
Arthur pressed the microphone in his throat and decisively gave the order.
"Sir?"
McTavish, in the driver's seat, hesitated for a moment, but instinctively slammed on the brakes. The hydraulic braking system hissed as it deflated, the tracks slid two meters through the mud, and due to inertia, the vehicle lurched forward before coming to a stop.
"What happened? This is a soft ground section of road. If we stay here for more than ten minutes, the chassis will sink in." McTavish glanced at the oil pressure gauge on the dashboard and said with some concern, "And Matilda's radiator is already alarming."
Arthur offered no explanation.
He pushed open the car door, his military boots plunging directly into the icy muddy water that reached above his ankles.
A chill crept up his trousers, but he didn't react. He strode to the back of the convoy, his gaze sweeping over the long line winding along the road.
Sixty-eight vehicles, three thousand two hundred people.
Viewed from 2,000 meters above the ground, this is an extremely conspicuous black line, a target that no pilot can ignore.
He was faced with only two choices:
First, abandon the vehicle. Have the soldiers, carrying light weapons, disperse and hide in the poplar grove on either side, which is about a kilometer wide. This will maximize the chances of survival.
But the cost was devastating: losing their motor vehicles, heavy weapons, and supplies, they would become a group of refugees on foot for the next few hundred kilometers. Under the pursuit of German motorized infantry, the survival rate of such fleeing soldiers was less than 10%. This was something the Sterling Commando Group would never allow to happen.
Second, they could grit their teeth and keep going. They could gamble that the German pilots' bomb sights malfunctioned, or that damned God was on the British side today.
In Arthur Sterling's tactical dictionary, there is no word for "gambling," only "probability."
Now, the survival probability of the second option is infinitely close to zero.
Both of these options are dead ends.
Damn it.
Arthur cursed under his breath. He needed a third option.
He turned his head, his gaze falling on the still-intact Bedford radio command vehicle. That was the location of Captain Henry and his "Type-X" encrypted radio, which he cherished as his life.
Although this was a serious violation of the wartime principle of radio silence, and although a high-power shortwave signal would be locked onto by the German radio direction finding unit within three minutes, the risk was negligible in the face of more than sixty aircraft overhead.
Arthur pulled the latch on the back door and stepped into the radio compartment, bringing with him a chilly breeze carrying the scent of rain.
"Put your coffee down, Captain."
Arthur, watching Henry organize the codebook, decisively gave the order: "Raise the antenna. Full power. Connect me to the Royal Air Force 11 Fighter Group. I need to speak with the underground command center in Uxbridge."
Captain Henry's hand trembled, and scalding coffee splashed onto the back of his hand, but he didn't bother to wipe it off; his glasses nearly slipped off his nose. "Now? Sir, we're still in the silent period—"
"The quiet period is over."
Arthur raised his wrist and pointed to the watch face, where the second hand was relentlessly ticking: "Fifty-five minutes from now, the German 8th Air Force will turn this place into a crater. If you don't want to become an unrecognizable charred corpse, get on the air force. In plain text. Now."
"Open code?! That German—"
"They already know where we are! My reconnaissance instincts tell me that Richthofen's planes have already taken off!"
Arthur approached Henry: "Execute the orders, Captain."
Henry was completely intimidated by Arthur's fierce gaze. He swallowed hard and immediately turned around to start operating.
"Click, click."
As a series of switches were flipped, the indicator lights on the T1154 transmitter lit up, and a loud electrical hum filled the narrow carriage.
"Sizzle—sizzle—"
After a few minutes of background noise, an echo came from the speaker. It was a male voice, slightly distorted from being transmitted over a long distance.
The voice sounded very young, even somewhat immature.
That wasn't General Dowding, or even Major General Keith Parker. Judging from the voice, Arthur guessed it was just a regular operator following the standard operating procedures (SOP), or perhaps a second lieutenant on duty who had just graduated from military academy.
"This is the communications center of the Royal Air Force No. 11 Group. Signal received. Signal strength 3. Please identify yourself."
Arthur grabbed the microphone and pressed the launch button hard: "This is Sterling Fighter Group, Commander Major Arthur Sterling. Coordinates F-45 (Southeast quadrant of Abbeville). Our unit has detected a large German aircraft formation gathering, expected to arrive in our airspace in fifty minutes."
He thought for about a second, then his tone became extremely firm: "We need Combat Air Patrols (CAPs). I don't need the whole battalion. Give me a squadron of Spitfire Mk.Is."
12 aircraft. Just 12, carrying full-power munitions, with an interception altitude of 2000 meters.
There was a moment of silence on the other end of the radio.
Those were a breathtaking twenty seconds. Clearly, the other side was verifying the sudden call sign and checking the latest operational command database.
Then, the young male voice replied.
"Major Sterling, this is control center. Identities confirmed."
The operator sounded somewhat troubled: "Regarding your request—I regret to inform you. According to Air Staff Directive 101, which prioritizes homeland defense, and given that Project Dynamo officially ended yesterday, all fighter squadrons must currently remain on standby and undergo preparation at home airfields to preserve strength for a potential air battle over Britain."
"Request rejected."
Damn it, I got rejected.
Arthur's jaw muscles tensed instantly: "Rejected? Did you hear me, Lieutenant, or rather, Second Lieutenant? I am Arthur Sterling. I have three thousand veterans who fought their way out of Dunkirk, and vital air force intelligence assets. I'm not kidding you, we're requesting tactical cover!"
He emphasized the word "Sterling".
"Yes, sir. I know your identity, and I also know that your father is the Party Whip."
The operator's voice remained hesitant, but her attitude was unusually firm: "We have all heard of your deeds, and we deeply respect them. However, this is an order personally signed by Admiral Dowding: no single-engine fighter jet may cross the strait to perform escort missions without radar guidance. This has nothing to do with your title; it is a decision based on strategic resource control."
"Strategic resources?"
Arthur's anger began to simmer in his chest, a primal hatred of a frontline officer for bureaucracy at home: "The German bombs will be falling on my soldiers' heads in an hour. You're talking to me about resources? Aren't these three thousand lives resources?!"
"I'm so sorry, Major."
The operator's tone even carried a hint of perfunctory sympathy: "This is a math problem. In the event of the Battle of Britain, every Spitfire would be priceless. We cannot risk our lives to rescue a regimental unit that is likely to be annihilated. Please understand."
"Understand? You want me to go talk to Stuka's bombs about understanding?"
Arthur chuckled coldly, his voice tinged with anger: "Listen, Lieutenant. I don't need you to conduct long patrols. Just 12 aircraft, even Hurricanes will do, as long as they're in our airspace by 09:15 and disperse their bomber formation. It won't cost you much fuel."
"I'm sorry, sir. There are no planes. Not a single one."
The operator seemed to be losing patience, or rather, he was eager to end this incredibly stressful conversation. In this rigid bureaucracy, refusing a crazed frontline major was the proper course of action, while disobeying General Dowding's order to "preserve strength" was a death sentence for one's career.
"We cannot disobey orders. Good luck, Major Sterling. God bless you. Call ended."
"Click."
""
busy tone.
That damned, emotionless busy tone that represents the civilized world.
Arthur stood there stiffly, holding the microphone. He stared at the black bakelite receiver, wishing he could crush it into powder.
Outside the carriage, the rain was pouring down harder and harder, pattering against the canvas on the roof.
Captain Henry huddled in a corner, trembling as he watched his superior, who had maintained an aristocratic demeanor until just moments before their meeting the previous night. He could sense that Arthur Sterling's military discipline was crumbling, being replaced by something more primal and dangerous.
"Wish me luck?"
Arthur laughed in exasperation; it was a physiological reaction to extreme anger.
"God bless? Fuck God! Fuck Dowding! Fuck strategic decisions!"
He turned around and kicked the carriage wall, leaving a black boot mark.
"Sir—" Henry said softly, a hint of fear in his voice, "What do we do now? Abandon the car and run into the woods? We still have an hour—if we run now, maybe—"
Arthur did not answer immediately.
He turned around and looked outside through the rain-soaked car window.
The soldiers sat in the back of the truck, using the brief lull in the march to clean their rifles or share biscuits that had already begun to harden. Major McKenzie was bandaging a young soldier's ankle.
They trusted him. They believed they could survive by following Sterling.
If they abandon their vehicles now, this unit is finished. Without heavy weapons, vehicles, or supplies, they can only hold out for two days on this plain teeming with German troops.
If they continued on, without air cover, they would be sitting ducks.
This is a dead end.
Unless—someone can break this chessboard from a higher place.
Arthur straightened his collar, though it was covered in mud. His gaze quickly cooled, the anxiety deep in his pupils replaced by a deeper, darker resolve.
That's a sign of the return of reason.
Since the door of rules is closed, let's blow it open. Since the normal chain of command has failed, let's resort to unconventional methods.
Since you're talking to me about rules, regulations, and strategies...
Then I'll talk to you about politics, privileges, and blackmail.
"Stand that antenna up! Turn the power up to maximum!"
Arthur suddenly turned around and roared at Henry without the slightest hesitation in his voice.
"Who should we contact? Our superior? Or the Air Force?" Henry leaned out of the car window, his face filled with terror. "They've already refused—"
"No. Fuck the Air Force. Fuck Dowding."
Arthur flung open the car door and jumped in. He pulled the Browning high-powered pistol from his pocket and slammed it heavily on the radio table.
"Switch the frequency to 6480kHz. Encryption level: highest."
"Connect with the Admiralty and the Sterling family."
Arthur's voice sounded like it came from hell: "I'm looking for Lord Sterling and Winston Churchill."
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