sovbooks Chapter 73 Tickets from London
Chapter 73 Tickets from London
Chapter 73: Tickets from London (Part 2)
09:10, Freight train station in North Fern, temporary armored command vehicle.
It's still raining.
This unique freezing rain of Flanders was like a layer of gray glue, sticking to goggles, to the bolts of guns, and to everyone's heart.
The soaking wet wool military coat, the unburnt diesel exhaust, the stench of a corpse soaked in rainwater, and the burnt smell of overheated metal were all mixed together in a nauseating way.
In the shadow of the half-collapsed platform at the train station, a frantic "surgery" was underway.
Dozens of mechanics and engineers, like a swarm of ants surrounding a dying behemoth, were scrambling up and down the six newly awakened "Desert Queens".
The mechanical winches creaked as crates of two-pound shells, scavenged from the beach, were roughly stuffed into the cold, steel cavities.
There was no exciting pre-battle mobilization, only the dull thud of tools hitting armor plates and the occasional low curses from Private Miller.
"Jeanne! Damn it, is that radio still not working?"
Arthur sat in the bedford truck, which had been temporarily requisitioned as a mobile command post, fiddling with a bloodstained silver command whistle in his hand.
"Young master, if you want me to use this pile of scrap metal to contact God, then I advise you to save your breath."
"
In a corner of the carriage, Jeanne irritably took off her headphones and kicked the side of the heavy, olive-green metal machine hard.
The French woman looked absolutely terrible. Her military uniform was covered in grease, her face was streaked with black and white, and her short, golden hair, soaked by the rain, clung messily to her cheeks, making her look like a wildcat that had crawled out of a coal pile.
This WirelessSet No. 11 is practically the epitome of industrial waste.
This device was originally designed as a short-range communication device for inter-tank coordination. It operates in the high-frequency band (HF) of 4.2 to 7.5 MHz, and in low-power mode, its effective communication range is only a mere 3 miles.
What does 3 miles mean?
That was designed so that the commander of this tank could discuss with the commander of the tank next to it what canned food to have for lunch.
Although Jeanne had used all her might to switch the power switch to "High Power Mode"
He pulled out the 9-foot whip antenna on the roof, which was swaying wildly in the wind and rain, but it was still to no avail.
Arthur was helpless about this.
According to the British Imperial Signal Corps' manual, the maximum reception range of Radio No. 11 was 20 miles.
But there's a damn prerequisite: it has to be on a sunny, open Salisbury Plain.
And now?
Outside the car, freezing rain poured down, and all around were reinforced concrete ruins. The air was thick with the electromagnetic signals of the Germans.
What's even more despairing is the distance.
Arthur looked out the rain-soaked car window at the gray western horizon and did some calculations.
The straight-line distance from Frey to Dover is at least 50 miles. In between lies the turbulent English Channel. The thick sea fog is a natural graveyard for radio signals, swallowing up even the meager signal from this old machine.
Use this thing to contact London?
Unless the Navy Department across the strait has gone mad.
Unless that group of bureaucrats sitting in Whitehall are currently using those strategic-level shore-based mega-launchers, with power outputs of thousands of kilowatts, to command the home fleet and are shouting themselves hoarse at the coordinate point of Furne.
Otherwise, you wouldn't be able to hear a single ghostly scream on this broken radio, except for the German "Palm Troopers' Song".
The French girl angrily slapped the vertical whip antenna sticking out from the roof of the car, swaying in the wind and rain: "And its ATP4 pentode is severely worn out, the anode voltage is very unstable. Apart from the hissing sound, I can't hear a single word."
Arthur didn't speak, but just silently looked at the machine. Although it was junk, it was the most powerful radio he could get his hands on at the moment.
He had it specially moved from the underground wine cellar of St. Nicholas Church—which was also the headquarters of the First Battalion.
That was Major Hawke's last legacy, and it is currently the highest-level communication equipment in the entire Cold Creek Guards 1st Battalion.
Over the past week, Arthur had, of course, tried to contact his superiors more than once. From Jeanne's initial platoon radio to the German's mobile radio, he tried almost every communication tool at his disposal.
If it weren't for the fact that he could still chat with Germans, Arthur would have suspected that all the radio stations were broken.
The matter is clear: in the past seven days, the entire British Expeditionary Force's communications and command chain has been completely crushed by the German armored tracks.
"Try again, Jeanne."
Arthur pulled a flattened cigarette from his pocket and twirled it in his hand. He had nothing else to do but wait for the Matildas to finish resupplying. "Turn the frequency to the First Army's backup command band. This is a regimental radio; its power is much greater than those toy radios we used before. If anyone is still alive, this is the only thing that can hear them."
"Perhaps God was just taking a nap?"
"Ha! God?" Jeanne scoffed, though she continued to curse as she worked.
She expertly rotated the huge frequency fine-tuning knob, her eyes fixed on the fluctuating ammeter on the panel: "If God really wore headphones, the first thing he would hear would definitely be the German 'Panzerfaust Song'."
Jeanne put her headphones back on, her fingers fine-tuning the rusty knobs, her tone laced with a desperate sarcasm: "Admit it, young master. When the First Army headquarters fled, they probably cut all the telephone lines in Europe."
Arthur peered through the crack in the rear door of the carriage at the soldiers outside who were silently wiping their weapons in the rain.
Since he took command, the unit has been frighteningly efficient, yet also frighteningly silent. They're like a group of death row inmates who know their sentences are coming to an end. They no longer complain, no longer pray, but mechanically execute every tactical maneuver, awaiting their final moment.
"Sizzle—sizzle—"
A sudden, sharp crackling sound from the headphones made Jeanne wince in pain. She was about to slam the broken headphones onto the table when her fingers froze in mid-air.
That's not background noise.
It was an extremely strong carrier signal with astonishing power, which brutally and ruthlessly tore through the thick electronic fog that shrouded the sky above Flörn.
There is no background noise and no signal attenuation.
The sound of the blade cutting in was terrifyingly clear, completely out of place in this battlefield filled with mud and the stench of blood.
"Damn it—"
Jeanne's eyes widened, as if she'd seen a ghost: "These people pretended to be deaf and dumb for a whole week while we were crying out to God for help. And now, young master, you've barely settled in, and the Pope's calling?"
"What?" Arthur looked up.
"A signal has entered the signal. It's not a public channel, it's—the highest priority encrypted band."
Jeanne swallowed hard, handed the earphones to Arthur, her eyes filled with complex emotions: "They specifically asked for you. Only you."
Arthur took the headphones, which were still warm from his body, and put them on his ears.
"—Calling the anvil." Repeat. "Calling the anvil."
The voice on the other end of the earphone was a man's.
The voice sounded somewhat aged, but the pace was unhurried and steady, the words seeming as if they had just been pulled from an Oxford dictionary. That reserved arrogance even gave Arthur the illusion that he was holding a gilded bone china teacup instead of a wireless communicator.
He wasn't calling out to a specific front-line position, but rather to a man named Arthur Sterling in the Flne region.
"This is Whitehall, London, Admiralty special communications channel. Please allow Major Arthur Sterling to answer personally. Repeat, highest priority, for Major Sterling only."
A deathly silence.
Everyone stopped what they were doing. McTavish, the guard next to them, looked up, and Lieutenant Gray, who had been standing guard at the intersection, also turned around.
All eyes were on Arthur.
This is even more outrageous than the fact that this antique radio can still receive a signal.
Arthur was also taken aback.
How did they even manage to find this godforsaken place?
He never expected to be able to contact London with this pile of junk, let alone think of crying to his cheap father in the House of Lords, the Earl of Stirling, for help.
When Jeanne brought out that antenna, he originally only hoped to pick up a few distress signals from neighboring friendly forces in this chaotic frequency band, gather up all the stray and lost small groups of troops, and take them away together.
His main target is still Niupot.
On the tactical map of the RTS system, the situation there is much better than in Förne and the previous Börg.
Because Nieuport controlled the sluice gate at the mouth of the Isel River, the German 2nd Panzer Division, responsible for besieging it, was hesitant to use heavy artillery and Stuka bombers, fearing that they might accidentally destroy the dam and cause seawater to flood in. If that happened, it wouldn't be as simple as getting stuck in the mud; the entire 19th Army would be turned into a fishpond.
So the war there fell into a strange state of stagnation.
Either the garrison runs out of food and surrenders, or Arthur leads his armored forces out in a surprise attack, hauling the garrison out along with them, creating an even bigger snowball.
This was Arthur's plan: to unite the defeated troops and band together for mutual support.
But now?
God not only answered Arthur's call, but also put the telephone line directly onto the desk in Whitehall.
The London side actually bypassed the Expeditionary Force Headquarters and the First Army, directly naming him and asking for this lowly major!
Arthur's mind worked quickly, and he figured it out almost instantly.
How could they know he was still alive? And even know with such precision that he was in Forne?
The only explanation is—Major General Mori.
It seems that the stubborn old Frenchman not only arrived safely in Dover, but must also be relaying messages to every Royal Navy officer he could reach, keeping in touch with the news that Arthur Sterling was still resisting in France.
Only in this way can we explain why the Navy Department, which is hundreds of kilometers away and high above, would suddenly use strategic-level communication resources to launch an attack on this noisy channel this morning.
The voice in the headset spoke again, a tone instantly recognizable as that of a superior: "Calling 'Anvil.' Repeat. This is Whitehall, London, Admiralty Special Communications Channel."
"Please have Major Arthur Sterling answer this call personally. Repeat, highest priority, only for Major Sterling himself."
Dozens of eyes were focused on Arthur.
McTavish, however, remained calm. The Scottish sergeant, who knew his family's background inside and out, simply stopped cleaning his rifle bolt silently, his face showing an expression of "I knew it" and "this is big trouble"—a rebellious young master who had run away from home to experience life had finally been cornered at the entrance of a slum alley by the family's old butler.
In contrast, Lieutenant Gray, who had been standing guard at the car door and was smugly pleased with himself for successfully currying favor with someone powerful, had a much more interesting expression on his face now.
His neck, which had been held as straight as possible, stiffly and haltingly turned. The second lieutenant, who had only recently graduated from military academy, had a face filled with terror and blankness.
What did he hear?
London? Whitehall? Admiralty?
These words seem as distant as an Atlantic Ocean, standing amidst the ruins of Flörn, a place filled with mud, the stench of corpses, fleas, and the roar of German heavy artillery.
Arthur pressed the microphone switch expressionlessly, his voice flat and devoid of any emotion: "I am Arthur."
"Thank God—Major Sterling."
The person on the other end of the phone was so excited that their voice changed.
It's no longer the machine that repeatedly calls upon some unknown line-filling unit.
Arthur could hear the exhaustion and relief in his tone.
Even across the English Channel, Arthur could clearly picture that scene in his mind:
In the naval operations room in Whitehall, covered with thick carpets, the group of old men adorned with medals were cheering and celebrating, then sprawling unceremoniously on the leather sofas, busy wiping the sweat from their foreheads, or excitedly unbuttoning the top buttons that were suffocating them.
now it's right.
It's worth noting that in the past hour, the Whitehall Admiralty building, which had just been temporarily halted due to the end of the generator project, was forced to resume construction entirely because of the news that "the only heir of the Earl of Stirling has been captured in northern France."
From Sir Dudley Pound, First Sea Lord and Grand Admiral of the Navy, to Alexander, First Sea Lord who had just succeeded Churchill as Admiral and was now in need of establishing his authority in the House of Lords.
These important figures, who usually only hang in gilded oil painting frames in the deep corridor next to Trafalgar Square and hold the fate of all the battleships of the Royal Navy in their hands, have all lost their usual composure of "remaining calm even if Mount Tai collapses before them".
They paced back and forth outside the communications room, which reeked of tobacco and static, like a group of anxious fathers waiting for news from the delivery room. The soles of their expensive leather boots were even getting hot from being worn on the floor.
The senior liaison officer in charge of making the announcements felt like he was going crazy.
He yelled at the top of his lungs for a full sixty minutes into that channel filled with static noise and German curses.
Every second, countless terrible images flashed through his mind—perhaps the precious young master had been blown to pieces by Stuka bombs, or perhaps their fragile radio had been crushed by German tank tracks.
Or perhaps they were too late; the young master had already run off somewhere else.
Only when he heard that lukewarm "I am Arthur" did he feel his heart start beating again, and the feeling of relief almost made him collapse into his chair.
"I am a senior liaison officer in the Office of the Under Secretary of the Navy."
He took a deep breath, trying to calm the urge to yell and shout along with the group behind him, attempting to regain the dignity of a Royal Navy liaison officer, but the excitement and lingering fear in his voice were impossible to conceal.
After all, according to Sir Pound, if he couldn't contact Young Master Stirling, then Old Master Stirling would cause trouble for Sir Pound, and Sir Pound would cause trouble for himself.
"Listen, Major. We thought we had lost you."
"In order to contact you, the home fleet even shut down all of Dover's shore-based radar stations for ten minutes, just to make a clean channel for this damn signal."
"To make a long story short, Major Sterling, London is very pleased to learn that you are still across the Channel and still command a well-organized armed force."
The word "gratified" was used very subtly.
To Arthur, the more accurate assessment was "panic."
Not to mention whether his father will unite the entire Upper House to cause trouble for these people.
If a top-ranking noble officer with the right to inherit a count's title were captured by the Germans at this critical juncture, or displayed on a lamppost in Flörn—
This would be an unbearable political disaster for Churchill's cabinet, which had only recently come to power and was already walking on thin ice.
"Get to the point," Arthur interrupted the pleasantries. "The German vanguard is less than two kilometers away. I don't have time for your nonsense."
"—Of course. Your pragmatism is impressive."
The voice on the other end paused, then began to build up, before lowering its volume and hinting at being one of their own: "Given the current situation, the Navy has, after an urgent assessment, determined that the Flney defense zone has no strategic value for continued defense. Furthermore, Project 'Dynamo' was officially terminated two hours ago, making a large-scale evacuation impossible."
"but----"
But what follows is often the key point: "In view of your special status, and in order to preserve the future military backbone of the British Empire, the Admiralty has arranged an evacuation route for you."
"A modified high-speed torpedo boat—MTB102—will risk docking in thirty minutes in the sand dune reef area three kilometers north of Förne. That is a blind spot for the German E-boat patrols."
"It will take you home, Major. Back to London."
"A private car will be waiting for you at the dock. You might even make it to the dinner at the Hotel Savoy tonight."
Arthur's fingers tightened slightly as he held the microphone.
Home. London. Dinner.
These words possess an almost magical allure on this rainy day filled with the scent of death.
But instead of answering immediately, he asked the question that made everyone hold their breath: "Where are my soldiers?"
Arthur glanced out of the carriage. Those young faces, those engineers whose eyes had been rekindled with hope because of their new equipment—he even thought of the wounded soldiers outside the Flner Cathedral, their legs broken, still loading bullets into their magazines.
"I have the remnants of the Cold Creek Guards here, along with an engineer company from the First Army, and brothers from various units, totaling 3,422 people. How many people can the MTB102 hold?"
There was silence on the other end of the phone.
It took about three seconds, or perhaps a century.
The voice rang out again, but this time, the feigned warmth vanished, replaced by the harsh reality: "That's a speedboat, Major. It's designed to carry only eight people."
"Besides the crew, you can also bring your key staff, such as Major Hawke, the battalion commander, or a few important retainers."
"As for the others—"
The other person paused, seemingly considering their wording, before finally choosing the most explicit statement: "They are soldiers, majors. They swear allegiance to the King. If necessary, they will understand the meaning of 'to die for one's country.'"
"It's cruel, I know. But it's not just for you, it's for the entire British Empire; it's a necessary political protection."
"The Sterling family line cannot be cut off. You understand what I mean; this is not only the Admiralty's intention, but also—the intention of certain high-ranking figures above."
The carriage was very quiet.
It was really quiet.
Although it was an encrypted line, the No.11 radio speaker had a serious problem with sound leakage.
Jeanne, who was standing nearby, heard it.
McTavish, who was wiping Thompson's submachine gun with an oilcloth, heard it.
Even Lieutenant Gray, who was standing at the car door with an expectant look on his face, heard it.
No one speaks.
The soldiers' movements slowed down considerably. The orderly, who was about to pour water for Arthur, froze in mid-air.
They were not angry.
If it were a Labour leader giving a speech in the street, or some hot-blooded, angry young man, he might start swearing at this moment.
But the soldiers didn't. They simply remained silent.
Because this was the British Empire in 1940. This was a rigidly hierarchical, clearly defined class society.
When the Titanic sank, the gentlemen in first class were always the first to leave.
This is the rule, and it's a matter of course in reality.
In this hierarchical society, survival is never a universal right, but an expensive privilege.
Those gentlemen whose titles included "Sir" or "Your Excellency" were always the first to get their first-class tickets to Noah's Ark.
And them?
These peasants from Manchester textile mills or Yorkshire farms were destined to be nothing more than the cheapest expendables in this massive war machine.
Their best outcome would be to become a cold statistic on the postwar Army's list of the dead, at least their families could receive compensation; the worst outcome would be a single, insignificant line on the yellow paper the city hall gave their mother—"missing".
But they felt there was nothing to complain about; the nobles went first, and the commoners followed behind—this had been the custom for centuries.
For this reason, Commander-in-Chief Lord Gott left, taking his medals and honors with him; and then immediately afterward, their corps commander, Lieutenant General Michael Barker, also left to have hot tea across the strait.
Now, according to the script, it's their commander, the esteemed Major Arthur Sterling, who is about to exit the stage.
So no one protested, and no one tried to stop them.
The soldiers simply lowered their heads silently and continued mechanically wiping the Lee-Enfield rifles in their hands.
Since the commander is leaving, let's polish the gun a bit.
After all, from now on, this fire stick will be their last friend in this world, and their only funeral attendant.
The glimmer of light that had just ignited in his eyes because of the "Queen of the Desert's" awakening was visibly extinguishing at a rapid pace.
They are waiting.
After the young lord put down the microphone and said "Good luck," he then led his confidants—perhaps Jeanne, perhaps McTavish, or perhaps Major Ryder—onto the speedboat bound for heaven.
No one will blame him. Really. Anyone would have left in his shoes.
Arthur held the microphone without speaking; he felt the heaviness in the air.
At that very moment, the RTS system interface popped up unexpectedly and proactively.
A huge dialog box, flashing a glaring red warning light, loomed across the center of his retina.
[Critical decision detected]
[Drills are in progress ————]
Option A: Accept "tickets from London"
[Tactical Assessment]: The epitome of rationality. Survival rate: 99.9%.
【analyze】:
Congratulations, Major. This is absolutely the optimal solution according to Nash equilibrium and game theory. You will be boarding that comfortable speedboat, sipping rum, and returning to the civilized world in an hour.
You will inherit a vast family fortune in three months and live a wealthy, respectable, and enviable life in a mansion in the Mayfair district.
You will become a member of the House of Lords and deliver moving speeches on "sacrifice and glory" on countless anniversaries.
As for these three thousand people?
Even if they all die here, crushed to death by tanks, or rot in prisoner-of-war camps. Even if history books portray you as a deserter, or your family has the power to make sure history books don't mention this part at all, so what?
The dead have no voice. History is written by the living.
The only side effect: Psychological assessment models show that you have an 85% chance of dying from severe alcoholism or suicide by gunshot before the age of 45—because every night when you close your eyes, you will see these three thousand wronged souls lining up at your bedside watching you.
Recommendation: Please book an appointment with one of London's best psychologists before selecting this option.
Option B: Unplug the damn phone line.
[Tactical Assessment]: You are an absolute madman, Major, through and through. In less than twenty-four hours, you have twice torn up the Noah's Ark ticket that God offered you. The first time might have been called "heroic," but this time? In psychiatry, this is usually called "self-harm."
Survival rate: <12% (in real-time calculation).
【analyze】:
Foolish. Incomprehensible. A cancerous mutation of romanticism.
You're trying to head-on crash into the Third Reich's most elite armored division with a few newly repaired, dilapidated tanks and a bunch of infantrymen short on ammunition and medicine. It's a completely unprofitable trade.
You have relinquished your inherent noble privileges, forsaken the chance of life, and chosen to rot in the same mud pit with a bunch of peasants destined to die. This system cannot calculate the benefits of this option, because the dead need no benefits.
but----
The screen suddenly became chaotic for a moment, as if the cold, impersonal RTS system itself was experiencing an emotional fluctuation that could not be explained by algorithms.
—If you don't choose this, do you even deserve to be called a "player"? Since this game is already so bad, why not flip the table and smash the chessboard right in your opponent's face?
Arthur stared at the two completely different texts on his retina, especially the somewhat exasperated evaluation of "Option B," as if the system was urging him to leave as soon as possible because that was the optimal solution. But a machine without human emotions could only deduce the ending and a cold probability, ignoring many processes.
He suddenly burst out laughing.
That wasn't the relief of "finally figuring things out," but rather a mockery.
That's a disdain for "rational algorithms".
Have you figured it out?
Of course, he had already figured it out. In fact, one could say that the option itself was an insult to him.
If he cared about his life, if it was really just for that ticket from hell to heaven, he should have been comfortably sitting on that Royal Navy destroyer three hours ago, holding a hot coffee and watching the French coastline disappear into the distance.
Why did he go against everyone's survival instincts and, like a madman, go against the retreating crowd and plunge headlong into this meat grinder called Ferné?
Is it so that you can buy another ticket to go back after you come back?
That's not about survival; that's like taking off your pants to fart—it's both superfluous and disgusting.
He came back, of course, to save people.
He stands here to be the nail that pokes a hole in the sky.
"system."
Arthur coldly addressed the flashing red dialog box in his mind, his eyes both arrogant and sarcastic: "Don't use your simplistic algorithms for calculating gains and losses to judge me."
"I went through all this trouble to jump from that boring safe zone into this exciting arena. If I don't turn this place upside down and knock out a few of the Germans' teeth—"
"Then I overpaid for this return ticket?"
Arthur's smile vanished.
He shifted into a more comfortable position, leaning back in his chair, his voice becoming languid and dismissive. He deliberately raised his voice, making sure it penetrated the metal of the carriage so that every soldier waiting outside could hear it: "I'm sorry, sir. I think you've made a mistake."
"What?"
"I'm afraid I'll miss this ship," Arthur said slowly, taking a cigarette out of his pocket and putting it in his mouth.
The person on the other end was clearly stunned, then the reserved voice turned furious, even resorting to invoking the Admiralty: "Are you insane, Major Sterling! The German armored division is less than two kilometers away! This is your only chance of survival! This is a direct order from the Admiralty and the Cabinet! Do you intend to disobey?"
"I knew they were coming."
Arthur lit the lighter, the flame illuminating his eyes, which shone with an eerie light at that moment: "That's why I can't leave."
"After all, I just had a lot of trouble waking up several grumpy ladies."
Arthur glanced out the window at the six Matilda tanks, their engines already warming up and belching black smoke: "If I just leave like this, who's going to teach those ill-mannered Germans this lesson in—British etiquette?"
"Major! This is suicide! You are—"
"Tell the Navy that on behalf of the Sterling family, I thank you for your kindness."
Arthur's voice suddenly turned serious, interrupting the other man's roar: "But Lord Sterling is very busy right now."
"Unless each of my three thousand soldiers has a ship ticket in their pocket, I'm staying here and not going anywhere."
Having said that, he didn't give the other party any chance to react, and added the final blow: "Also, if Prime Minister Churchill asks in person, please pass on a message for me—"
"Tell him that the second son of the Sterling family is guarding the gate for him. Over."
Click.
Arthur did not press the end call button.
He reached out and grabbed the black power cord connected to the radio, pulling it sharply.
Sparks flew everywhere.
As the thick cable was violently severed, the haughty voice from London vanished completely, along with that suffocating "aura of civilization," severed entirely.
The carriage fell silent once again.
But this time, the silence was no longer deathly gray.
The annoying background noise on the radio disappeared, and the air was so quiet that you could hear the raindrops hitting the tank armor plates and the muffled rumble of German artillery in the distance.
Lieutenant Gray, standing at the door, gaped, frozen in place like a fool.
Unlike Lieutenant Grey, Jeanne didn't gape like a fool.
She wasn't surprised at all.
After all, on the docks of Dunkirk, she and Sergeant McTavish and others had witnessed firsthand how this madman jumped off the destroyer that could have taken him home, and then casually asked for a cigarette.
For someone like Arthur Sterling, if he actually scurried off on that speedboat like a dog with its tail between its legs, that would be a miracle.
But even so.
Watching the young major casually toss away the wire in his hand, and seeing his "I'm not leaving" attitude, Jeanne still felt a lump in her throat and her nose sting.
She took a deep breath, suddenly raised her arm, and roughly rubbed her eyes with her greasy sleeve, roughly wiping away the moisture that hadn't even had time to condense, adding another black oil stain to her face in the process.
Then, with her bloodshot eyes wide open, she exploded at Arthur: "You bastard!"
Jeanne pointed at the smoldering, completely broken No. 11 radio, her voice trembling with exasperation and a hint of tears: "Do you know how hard it is to level that damn anode voltage?! I nearly died just to get that frequency knob to the middle! Couldn't you have been a little gentler when you pressed the switch? Did you have to unplug the wire?!"
After uttering this illogical remark, she turned around, her back to Arthur, her shoulders trembling slightly, and her voice suddenly lowered: "—Well done, sir."
"If you actually dare to leave us here and run away, I might just throw some sand into the engine of your Avenger."
In the corner, Sergeant McTavish, the Scotsman who hadn't said much throughout, suddenly lowered his head.
"Click!"
A crisp, heart-stopping metallic clang rang out.
That was the sound of Thompson's submachine gun bolt being pulled back to its lowest position.
Immediately afterwards, a second and a third sound came from outside the carriage—
The sounds of countless bolts being pulled converged into a wave of steel.
There was no particularly inspiring speech.
There was no tearful gratitude. That kind of acting is too cheap.
But everyone knew that from this moment on, even if Arthur Sterling ordered them to stab Churchill in the backside with bayonets, these men would rush forward without hesitation.
They were no longer "abandoned First Army soldiers" or "orphans without mothers".
They were Arthur Sterling's men.
This loyalty is no longer based on the coin bearing the king's image, nor on the rank on his shoulder insignia, nor on the silver whistle on his chest, but on an older, bloodier, and more solid contract—a bond of life and death.
【hint】
[Morale threshold exceeded detected]
[All raid morale status changed to Fanatical]
[Gain Commander-Exclusive Aura Trait: Band of Bastards]
Effect: When the commander is present and refuses to retreat, the unit is immune to all morale-damaging effects and will never rout. Furthermore, its combat effectiveness increases significantly as the distance to the commander decreases.
Note: Since you're going to lead them to hell, they'll tear down hell to pave the way for you.
Arthur casually tossed away the broken piece of wire in his hand and dusted off his hands.
"Alright, what are you all looking at?"
He raised an eyebrow: "Are you expecting me to hand you out candy?"
Arthur stood up, straightened the collar of his trench coat, put the silver whistle back around his neck, then strode to the carriage door, kicked open the warped iron gate, and roared into the wind and rain, "Lieutenant Gray! Get your 'Queens' moving!"
"Since London didn't give us tickets, we'll go get them ourselves!"
He pointed south, to the battlefield covered in smoke and mud: "Target—the flank of the German 1st Panzer Division!"
"All troops, attack! Fight your way home!"
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