PFC Chapter 84 Colonel Sterling's "Private Air Force"
Chapter 84 Colonel Sterling's "Private Air Force"
Chapter 84 Colonel Sterling's "Private Air Force" (Large Chapter)
1940年6月5日，上午08：10。法国，康布雷（Cambrai）空军基地。
Front Command of the German 8th Air Force.
On the concrete track, the heat distorted the air.
Wolfram von Richthofen stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling window of the control tower, holding a Zeiss telescope, gazing at the spectacular view at the end of the runway.
That was the steel eagle of the Third Reich.
Two entire squadrons of Ju-87B-2 Stuka dive bombers, each carrying 250 kg SC250 high-explosive bombs under their fuselages and four 50 kg fragmentation bombs under their wings, were taking off in close formation, their engine roars shaking the earth.
Meanwhile, at the edge of the clouds higher up, Bf-109E-3 fighters from the 2nd Training Wing (LG2) were circling in formation, acting as close bodyguards for these airborne artillery units.
Richthofen lowered his binoculars, a smile playing on his lips—a smile that belonged to the Prussian Junker aristocracy, tinged with arrogance and reserve.
As the cousin of the legendary "Red Baron," he inherited the family's flying lineage, but he rejected his cousin's chivalrous ideal of "aerial duels." In the eyes of this general with a doctorate in engineering, war was not a contest of knights, but a mathematical problem about efficiency.
He elevated the tactic of "Close Air Support" to an art form.
In traditional military doctrine, the air force is an independent strategic force used to bomb rear factories or to seize air superiority. But Richthofen, in his Condor Legion during the Spanish Civil War, figured out a different logic: to turn aircraft into "flying artillery" for the army.
The core of this tactic lies in communication and speed.
By cramming an air force liaison officer into a tank, ground troops could call a Stuka as easily as calling a taxi.
Thus, under this tactical concept, when Guderian's armored spearhead encountered impenetrable bunkers or anti-tank positions, there was no need to wait for the slow deployment of heavy artillery from the rear. With just a radio call, within minutes, the Stuka would drop bombs precisely 200 meters in front of their own tanks amidst a whistling sound—a distance so close that German tank crews could even light a cigarette in the blast wave.
That's how precise it was. What? What if the bomb accidentally missed its mark by a few kilometers and hit General Guderian's half-track?
Alas, that's another sad story about the "Memorial Service for the Inspector General of the Armored Forces of the Third Reich," which is beyond the scope of this tactical manual.
In short, this crazy tactic of "opening a passage one meter in front of the tracks" is the catalyst for the blitzkrieg's invincible success.
As a traditional Prussian nobleman, he might have looked down on that vulgar Bohemian corporal deep down. But during the Weimar Republic, he was bound by the Treaty of Versailles.
For technocrats like Richthofen, turning the skies over all of Europe into a giant sandbox for testing his "air-land battle" theory was a huge undertaking.
He picked up the black bakelite microphone on the table and connected to the headquarters of Army Group A.
"Heinz, this is Wolfram."
Richthofen's voice was as relaxed as if he were inviting an old friend to go hunting in the Black Forest: "My children have already set off. Sixty Stukas, twenty-four Messerschmitts. This is just the first wave."
On the other end of the phone came General Guderian's distinctive, slightly hoarse voice: "Wolfram, don't blast the road too badly. My tanks still need to drive over it. You know the soil there; once you add the previous rain and craters, it's a swamp."
"Don't worry, Heinz."
Richthofen glanced at the clock on the wall; it was exactly 09:00 AM. "According to the reconnaissance plane report, that British convoy is parked on the road like a fat worm basking in the sun, completely exposed. Three thousand people, more than sixty vehicles. Such a dense formation is simply an insult to us."
"My pilots don't need to bomb the roads. They'll use machine guns and bombs to wipe the British off the road, leaving only charred wreckage for you to use as road signs."
"What about the Royal Air Force?" Guderian asked cautiously on the phone. "I've dealt with that AS before, he's got some skills. Although I don't believe he can conjure up a Spitfire, you should be careful."
Richthofen let out a disdainful snort: "The Royal Air Force? That miser Dowding would rather lock every single fighter in a safe now."
Richthofen gave a dismissive snort and pointed to a report beside him: "The Luftnachrichten (Air Force Signal Regiment) has just deployed the latest Freya radar to the coast of Calais."
This is GEMA's proudest masterpiece—a 2.4-meter wavelength, 20-kilowatt pulse power electromagnetic probe that can reach as far as Kent, England, 120 kilometers away.
"But do you know what the radar operator saw?"
Richthofen spread his hands, his tone full of mockery: "Nothing at all. There's a dead line on those green cathode ray tubes. Manston Airport, Hogging Airport—all the British front-line bases are deathly silent."
"As long as they dare not fly across the strait, this is a one-sided live-fire exercise."
He hung up the phone, turned to the operations staff behind him, and said, "Notify the commander of the 77th Dive Bomber Wing (StG77) to be careful to control the altitude when dropping bombs and not waste ammunition. I want to see a report of a complete annihilation; the Führer is watching us."
In Richthofen's view, this was just like the battles in Poland and Belgium—a massacre destined to be a foregone conclusion.
09:05. Southeast of Abbeyville, France, on Highway D928. The assembly point of the "Sterling Battle Group".
This is damn "good weather".
The two days of torrential rain had long since stopped, replaced by the breathtaking sunshine of June in France.
The sky was an unreal deep blue, cloudless, and the visibility was astonishing.
For those on vacation, this kind of weather would be the perfect day for a day of picnics. But for the more than three thousand infantrymen crammed onto the exposed road, it was the perfect day for a "slaughter."
The sun relentlessly scorched the earth, and the helmets began to burn. The soaked uniforms, heated by body heat and the sun, emitted a foul-smelling vapor. Every soldier instinctively squinted, glancing with increasing fear every now and then at the overly clear, almost cruelly clear sky.
Without the obstruction of clouds, they were just a piece of meat on a baking tray.
The atmosphere was incredibly tense. Everyone heard that sound—the distant roar of a swarm of piston engines, exceptionally clear in this excellent acoustic environment.
Those were the footsteps of Death.
Major Ryder, the battalion commander from the Norfolk Regiment, was standing next to Arthur's Sd.Kfz.251 command vehicle, his face pale.
He kept wiping the sweat rolling down his forehead with a handkerchief—not only because of the weather, but also because of fear.
"Master Sterling! Look at this damn weather! Visibility is practically zero!"
Ryder pointed to the azure sky above, a sky so intense it filled him with despair: "In this weather, Stukas can see our truck license plates from three kilometers away! It's a large fleet! At least fifty of them! We're sitting ducks on the highway! We must evacuate immediately!"
As a traditional infantry officer, Ryder's advice was entirely in line with the Army Field Regulations.
When facing an enemy with absolute air superiority, breaking up into smaller units is the only way to survive.
But Arthur simply leaned against the armor plating of the half-track.
"Calm down, Ryder."
Arthur's voice was so calm that it infuriated Ryder. He didn't even glance at Ryder, his gaze fixed on a certain point in the void ahead, where the holographic interface of the RTS system was located.
From that azure, godlike perspective, he clearly saw two enormous energy streams about to clash in the sky.
To the south, sixty bright red hostile lights were approaching at a speed of 320 kilometers per hour.
Meanwhile, to the north, in the direction of the strait, twenty-four green friendly forces were drifting at an extreme speed of nearly 600 kilometers per hour, as if they had been injected with adrenaline.
That was two entire squadrons of flamethrower Mk.I.s.
It wasn't the 12 he requested. It was 24!
It seems that the old man in London and Churchill went to great lengths to save his life and to protect this "Parliamentary elite force."
"No evacuation needed." Arthur snapped his cigarette case shut, interrupting Ryder's rambling. "Pass on my orders: all vehicles, maintain formation and continue advancing. Anti-aircraft teams, take your positions, but do not fire first."
"What?! Keep going?!"
Major Ryder turned his head sharply, his eyes filled with fear. He glanced at the cloudless, unobstructed blue sky above him, and then at Arthur.
As a seasoned veteran, his survival instinct was screaming in every cell of his body: Run! Get off the road immediately! Get into the woods!
But he didn't move.
A few days ago, he might have pointed his finger at Arthur and berated him for noble arrogance and suicidal acts. But now, after a series of battles, all he felt in the face of this young man of the same rank was obedience.
Even if it means making him do something that seems like suicide, like right now.
Ryder took a deep breath, forcibly suppressing the fear that made him want to vomit.
"Sir, that's a large formation of German Luftwaffe aircraft. If—I mean if—your support were even a minute late—"
Ryder's voice was still trembling, but he didn't take a step back. He just stared intently into Arthur's eyes, trying to find even the slightest hesitation: "Our three thousand men will become a pile of mud on this highway."
"I know."
Arthur didn't even look at him, but simply raised his wrist to look at the second hand on the dial: "But I assure you, Ryder. Before we turn to mush, you'll see the Royal Air Force put on a show. Trust me."
There are only three words: Trust me.
But that was enough for Ryder.
"Damn it—I knew following you would cost me my life."
Ryder gritted his teeth and cursed, then whirled around, roaring at the Scottish soldiers who were preparing to jump from the wagons and escape: "What are you all looking at?! Didn't you hear the order?!"
"Sit back down! Clench your ass tight! Anyone who dares to jump off the train, I'll shoot them!"
"Anti-aircraft sentry! Set up that damn Bren gun! We have to keep going!"
This is what this unit looks like now. Despite the fear and despair, as long as that man named Arthur Sterling is still standing in the command vehicle, they will grit their teeth and walk into hell.
In the suffocating wait, Captain Henry, the communications officer, scrambled out of the Bedford command vehicle.
He waved a wet telegram in his hand, his face contorted in a near-maniacal expression: "Sir! Sir! Urgent telegram!"
Henry even forgot to salute, slamming into the mudguard of the half-track and handing the telegram to Arthur: "It's from London! A joint urgent telegram from the Prime Minister's Office and the War Office! Top priority!"
Major Ryder was stunned.
Arthur took the telegram and glanced at it.
There were only a few lines of text on it.
[To Arthur Sterling:]
[In view of your outstanding command and extraordinary courage in the Nieuport and Dunkirk sieges, upon the recommendation of the Imperial General Staff and with the personal approval of Prime Minister Winston Churchill:]
You are immediately promoted to Colonel.
[You are officially appointed Commander of the Cold Creek Guards Regiment and granted provisional wartime command of the breakout forces of the 51st Hill Division.]
[P.S. Your father asked me to tell you that he has a bottle of 1865 port at the Carlton Club in London. He's waiting for you to return and open it.]
Finally: Bring our children home. Britain is proud of you.
[Signature: Winston Churchill]
Arthur looked at the line "promoted to colonel" and a slight smile appeared on his lips.
Colonel.
This is a huge threshold in the tradition of the British Army.
This means that he is no longer a battalion commander who can only command a few hundred men, but truly qualified to independently command a regimental combat group.
Commander of the Cold Creek Guard, a position that usually requires seniority to reach at the age of forty, he has now achieved at the age of twenty-six.
This is a meteoric rise.
More importantly, there's the phrase "temporary command during wartime."
This means that, from a legal perspective, the command chain of this massive breakout force was completely restructured. Even the regimental commanders of the 51st Hill Division, who were much more senior than him, and even the brigade commanders scattered in various locations, became his subordinates under military law from this moment on.
He is the king of this unit.
"Did you see that clearly, Major Ryder?"
Arthur deliberately emphasized the word "major," then slammed the wet telegram, representing the highest power in the empire, heavily onto Ryder's chest with a dull thud.
"Now, get back to your command post. Tell your soldiers to clench their asses in the truck and not pee their pants."
Arthur straightened his collar, his gaze fixed on the roaring northern sky, a hint of arrogance on his lips: "Because the show is about to begin."
Ryder glanced down at the signature—Winston Churchill.
In that instant, all doubts, fears, and hesitations vanished, replaced by the obedience ingrained in a soldier's bones. He straightened up abruptly, standing at attention as if electrocuted.
"Yes, Colonel!"
Ryder uttered the new title, gave a flawless British salute, and then roared off to carry out the order.
Arthur turned to Henry: "What about the Air Force? Have you made contact?"
"We've made contact!" Henry exclaimed, trembling with excitement. "Just now! The channel connected!"
09:10. 50 kilometers north of Abbeville, at an altitude of 3000 meters.
Twenty-four Spitfire Mk.I fighter jets are speeding through the clouds.
That was a mixed formation of Royal Air Force No. 74 Squadron ("Tigers") and No. 54 Squadron. The black and white identification paint under the wings and the red and blue concentric circles on the sides of the fuselage were glowing coldly.
In the cockpit of the lead aircraft, Major Adolphus Maran, codenamed "Sailor," was constantly adjusting the throttle lever.
As the squadron leader of the 74th Squadron, this future super ace was not in a relaxed mood at the moment.
"Fuel consumption is too high." Maran glanced at the instrument panel, his brow furrowed. "We've mounted auxiliary fuel tanks, but it's still too far. We only have less than twenty minutes of loiter time over France."
This is a huge gamble.
Ten minutes earlier, he was having tea in the refectory of Bentley Abbey when he suddenly received a death order from Major General Keith Parker, commander of the 11th Group: "Take off. Two squadrons. Target Abbeville. Cover that damned Major Sterling at all costs. This is the Prime Minister's order."
-
"This is playing with the pilots' lives," Maran cursed inwardly.
Without radar guidance, searching for a ground convoy in a vast sea of clouds is like looking for a needle in a haystack. Moreover, the German 8th Air Force operates in this airspace, and an encounter would inevitably lead to a fierce battle.
"Captain, I can't see anything," the wingman complained over the radio. "The clouds are too thick. Have we overshot them?"
"Maintain heading 190." Although Malan spoke toughly, she wasn't sure herself.
Just then, a sharp static sound suddenly came through the earpiece, followed by a calm, clear, and even slightly lazy male voice cutting into their encrypted channel.
"74th Squadron, welcome to France."
Malan was stunned for a moment. The voice was too clear; it didn't sound like a ground radio broadcast at all, but rather like it was coming from the plane next to them.
"This is the lead aircraft of 'Tiger.' Identify yourself."
On the ground, Arthur sat in front of the Sd.Kfz.251 communications station, one hand on the microphone in his throat, his eyes slightly closed, his consciousness completely immersed in the RTS holographic map.
In his vision, it was a God-like clarity.
"I am Arthur Sterling, Colonel, Army."
Arthur emphasized the word "colonel," a new title he'd only held for a minute, and it fit perfectly now: "Listen up, brothers in the Air Force. I know you don't have radar, you're blind right now. But that's okay, I'm your radar."
"Now, adjust course to 195. Decrease altitude to 1500 meters. There is a layer of cumulus cloud 12 kilometers to your left and slightly ahead."
Ma Lan glanced subconsciously to her left and saw a thick cloud formation.
"What's behind that, Colonel?" Maran asked, his tone tinged with suspicion. "What if we go down and run into a German escort formation? Intelligence indicates that the German 2nd Training Wing is in this airspace."
"Yes, they were there. But they made a fatal mistake."
Arthur watched the German Luftwaffe commander's foolish maneuver: "The German fighters are too arrogant and flying too fast. That cumulus cloud cut off their visual contact."
"What I can tell you is that twenty-four Bf-109s are 4000 meters above the clouds and have come within 15 kilometers of the bombers. They have lost contact with the Stukas."
"Right now, those sixty Stukas are lined up below the clouds, ready to drop their bombs. No escort, no cover, completely exposed."
"You have a full three-minute window. By the time those Bf-109s overhead realize what's happening and emerge from the clouds, you'll have already wiped out the Stukas."
Malan's heart skipped a beat.
The main escort fighters were separated due to cloud cover and speed differences?
For fighter pilots, this was the "slaughter moment" they dreamed of most in textbooks. It meant they could relentlessly harvest those clumsy bombers like wolves among sheep, without worrying about their backs.
"Are you sure, Colonel? What if this is a trap—"
"Then drop the first bomb on my head."
Arthur interrupted him coldly: "But I guarantee you'll see the most spectacular sight of your life. Enough talk, you have 30 seconds of your best window to get in. Unless you want to go back and tell Dowding you missed the show because you were too scared to go through the clouds."
Maran took a deep breath. A hunter's intuition told him that the army colonel wasn't lying. That terrifying control over the battlefield situation couldn't have been fabricated.
"Attention all!"
Maran pressed the full-band radio broadcast button, his voice rising in a high-pitched voice: "Jailout external fuel tanks! Weapon safety on! Follow me! Turn 20 degrees left, through the clouds!"
"Target: Stuka below! Tally—Ho! (Enemy spotted!)"
Twenty-four Spitfire fighters flipped over almost simultaneously, their auxiliary fuel tanks detaching from their bellies, tumbling and plummeting through the air. They resembled a group of silver swords descending from the sky, piercing through the thick clouds.
09:12. 500 meters above the German Stuka formation.
Major Khorst, commander of the German 77th Dive Bomber Wing, piloted his lead aircraft, preparing to enter the attack route.
Below his cockpit, the British convoy was clearly visible. They looked like a swarm of desperate ants, huddled together on the muddy road. "Perfect target," Horst thought to himself. "It seems General Richthofen was right; the British have given up."
He activated the bomb sight, placed his finger on the bomb release button at the top of the joystick, and simultaneously turned on the terrifying "Jericho Horn" bagpipe switch.
"First Squadron, follow me. Target: the tanks at the head and tail of the convoy. We're going to block them up—"
He hadn't finished giving his orders.
A sharp, dense whistling sound, which he vaguely recognized somewhere, suddenly drowned out the roar of the Stuka's engines.
That wasn't the sound of bagpipes.
That's the roar of a Rolls-Royce Merlin engine running at full speed.
Horst instinctively looked up at the rearview mirror.
In that instant, he felt as if all the blood in his body had frozen.
A large hole appeared in the clouds above and behind him. Countless black dots were rapidly magnifying, and the dense flames at the leading edge of the wing instantly enveloped his vision.
That's fire-breathing.
The British have come up with a new fire-breathing weapon!
It's two whole squadrons of flamethrowers!
"Jager! Achtung! Spitfire!"
Horst screamed hysterically into the radio.
But it was too late.
The Spitfire's dive speed exceeded 600 km/h, while the Stuka, fully loaded with bombs, could only reach less than 300 km/h.
The Stuka is agile against tanks and ground targets. But against flamethrowers... sorry, that thing is just too slow.
"Da da da da da!"
Eight Browning machine guns, each with a .303 caliber, fired simultaneously.
The dense barrage of tracer rounds lashed out like a fiery whip, striking the fuselage of Khost's wingman.
The thin aluminum sheeting was torn apart instantly, and the canopy shattered into countless fragments. The Stuka didn't even have time to perform any corrective maneuvers before its wing fuel tanks were hit.
"boom!"
A massive, orange-red fireball erupted to Horst's right. The shockwave shook his aircraft violently.
Then came the second one, and the third one.
Fire rained down from the sky.
The once orderly formation of German bombers instantly descended into chaos. The clumsy Stukas, desperate to evade the attack, frantically jettisoned their bombs and attempted evasive maneuvers. But burdened with heavy bombs, they were nothing more than toys in the face of the Spitfire.
Ground, Sterling Battle Group.
The soldiers had been huddled in the ditch, covering their ears and waiting for death to come.
But the expected explosion did not occur; instead, a series of muffled sounds came from the sky.
Someone mustered up the courage to raise their head.
"My God—"
The Scottish sergeant stared wide-eyed, not even noticing the cigarette that had fallen into the muddy water.
The clouds were torn apart.
The once invincible Stuka fleet is now being slaughtered. Those fighter jets, marked with red and blue concentric circles, are like a group of elegant yet deadly knights, drawing deadly arcs in the sky.
A Stuka, trailing a long plume of black smoke, crashed into the distant fields like a kite with a broken string.
-
"boom!"
A huge explosion was heard.
After a brief silence, a long-suppressed, deafening cheer erupted from the ground.
"It's our plane! It's a Spitfire!"
"Kill them! Take these Germans down!"
"Long live Scotland! Long live the Air Force!"
Some young soldiers even knelt in the mud, crying out to the sky. It was an outpouring of relief at escaping death, and gratitude for regained hope.
Major Ryder stood beside the command vehicle, staring blankly at the sky. He saw a Spitfire fly low over the convoy after shooting down an enemy plane; the pilot even waved to the ground—a victor's salute.
"Damn it—" Ryder muttered to himself, turning to look at the half-track vehicle in front of him. "He really conjured up the Air Force."
Arthur remained seated in the car, not joining the cheering.
On his RTS interface, the red dots are rapidly decreasing, while the green dots remain strong.
But he noticed another piece of data.
[Friendly Unit Status Warning: Low Fuel (Yellow)]
[Status of some units: Very low fuel (Red)]
The Spitfire's limited range is a major weakness. This long-range raid from their homeland, coupled with intense air combat, has left their fuel tanks nearly empty.
Major Malan's anxious voice came through the headset: "Ground, this is Tiger. We've shot down at least fifteen, the rest escaped. But—damn it, we don't have enough fuel to return. Four planes' fuel gauges are already at zero."
"We might have to make an emergency landing on the beach, or parachute out."
Inside the train carriage, Captain Henry looked at Arthur nervously: "Sir, the Air Force says they can't get back."
Arthur's eyes flickered.
Parachute out? Or crash-land and burn the plane?
Absolutely not.
At this critical juncture, every Spitfire was a vital part of the British Empire. Moreover, it was Arthur Sterling's future capital in the military—if he not only rescued the pilots but also brought back all 24 intact aircraft, General Dowding would have to tip his hat in respect when he saw him.
He quickly zoomed in on the RTS map to search for the surrounding terrain.
His gaze swept over the areas that had turned red (occupied) or gray (bombed), and finally settled on an inconspicuous town called Gamaches, fifteen kilometers southwest of the convoy.
On the map, there is a green supply icon: [French 10th Army Logistics Fuel Transfer Station].
Although the surrounding defenses had collapsed, this field warehouse hidden in the woods miraculously escaped discovery by the Germans, and its inventory showed: [100 Octane Aviation Fuel: Ample].
"Tiger, don't rush to parachute, and don't even think about burning the plane with a lighter."
Arthur pressed the microphone: "Get your asses in the cockpit. Listen to me."
"Heading 2-1-0, distance 15 kilometers. There is a temporary grass runway built by French engineers on the east side of Gamache town."
Major Malan hesitated for a moment: "Colonel, our intelligence indicates that area is already uninhabited. If we land, we won't have any fuel."
"There's oil there."
Arthur interrupted him decisively: "That's a hidden French logistics depot, piled high with 100-octane fuel they didn't have time to transport. It's safe there now; the German advance troops bypassed it."
"You land, fill up your tanks, and then fly back to Kent."
Arthur paused here, then said, "The Spitfires are too expensive; the British Empire can't afford to lose them now. Don't burn them in the French mud. Fill them up with fuel and bring them home. That's an order."
There was a full five seconds of silence on the other end of the radio.
For the pilots who were already resigned to certain death or capture, this order was like a godsend.
This army colonel not only gave them the opportunity to hunt down Stuka, but also gave them a way to return home with honor.
"My God—" Major Maran's voice trembled with extreme gratitude, "You even know about places like that? Who are you?"
"I am your radar," Arthur replied calmly. "Go. Don't disappoint Churchill."
"Roger that! Thank you, Colonel! The Royal Air Force owes you a big one!"
"Attention, all tigers! Follow me! Target: Gamash! Let's go home for dinner!"
Watching the Spitfire fighters turning in the sky, Arthur released the microphone, a satisfied smile curving his lips.
Now, the Air Force can no longer shirk this debt of gratitude.
09: 25.
The surviving Stuka fled back to the base like a stray dog.
General Richthofen stood on the tower, listening to the report with a livid face.
-
"Breath-breathing? In Abbeville?"
He smashed the binoculars in his hand, sending shards of glass flying.
"Have the British gone mad? Without radar or ground guidance, how did they manage to intercept my entire squadron so precisely?"
This was completely beyond his tactical understanding. It was a complete defeat in terms of both intelligence and command.
The staff officer beside him carefully handed over a newly intercepted radio message: "General—according to the interception, it appears that the radar guiding these flamethrowers is not from a radar station on British soil, but rather from the ground."
Richthofen squinted, recalling the name Guderian had mentioned.
Arthur Sterling.
09:40, Sterling Battle Group.
The sky finally returned to calm.
Arthur jumped out of the command vehicle. By then, the rain had stopped, the clouds had dispersed, and a ray of sunlight shone directly on the muddy road.
The soldiers around him looked at Arthur with awe, especially the new recruits from last night. Some of them even burst into tears when they saw those long-unseen Royal Air Force fighter planes.
With this officer in charge, they probably wouldn't be abandoned pawns anymore, everyone thought.
Arthur straightened his uniform, which was covered in mud.
"Sir?" McTavish leaned closer, his face full of awe. "We won?"
"No, Sergeant."
Arthur pulled the crumpled telegram from his pocket; it was Churchill's "ticket" to the event.
He turned around, looking at the endless convoy and the three thousand pairs of eyes that had been rekindled with hope. He knew that from this moment on, this unit truly belonged to him.
"This is just an admission ticket."
Arthur jumped onto the hood of the Sd.Kfz.251 command vehicle, slapped the armor plating hard, and his voice pierced through the still-suppressed cheers: "Attention, team! Stop watching!"
"The Air Force guys are doing a great job. And we still have enough fuel and ammunition."
He drew his Browning pistol from his waist and pointed it south: "Target: Saint Valéry!"
"Now that Churchill has set the stage, let's put on a grand show for the Germans! Let Guderian see what an invincible British army is like!"
"Get on the bus! Let's go!"
"Buzz"
The tracks kicked up mud, and the engine roared up again.
On this war-torn French land, the once-forgotten lone army finally revealed its ferocious fangs.
Meanwhile, Arthur Sterling, the newly promoted colonel, is leading his private army toward a battlefield destined to be recorded in history.
I'd appreciate recommendations, monthly tickets, tips, and subscriptions. It doesn't seem too late.
>