usatvline Chapter 65 The "Privileges" of the Last Train
Chapter 65 The "Privileges" of the Last Train
Chapter 65 The "Privileges" of the Last Train (Combined Chapter)
1940年6月4日，02：15，敦刻尔克外围，D940公路末端。
The fog was thick, but it wasn't the miraculous fog that the British media had touted as the "Hand of God."
This fog is poisonous.
It was a mixture of tens of thousands of tons of burning crude oil, rotting seaweed, bloated corpses, and the coppery smell of abandoned steel rusting in salt water. As the convoy finally rolled over the last stretch of cratered gravel road and emerged from the windbreak, Arthur Sterling instinctively tightened the collar of his trench coat.
"Turn off the lights."
Arthur sat in the passenger seat of the lead half-track vehicle.
"Sir, if we turn off the lights, we might crash into the ditch," McTavish, who was in charge of driving, muttered under his breath. Although he said that, he still turned off the two headlights covered with red rags.
"We don't need the lights anymore." Arthur rubbed his temples wearily and pointed ahead. "Look."
McTavish squinted.
Even without headlights, the road ahead wasn't completely dark, thanks to the greasy grime on the windshield.
An eerie red light permeated the mist. It wasn't sunrise, nor the aurora borealis, but burning. Thousands upon thousands of sparks flickered along the coastline, like phosphorescent flames on the edge of hell.
This is the legendary "evacuation destination".
There was no scene of thousands of sails racing and bustling activity as I had imagined. There were no imposing battleships of the Royal Navy, no orderly queues for boarding, and certainly no "Thymes River boat fleet" with gentle smiles welcoming soldiers home, as depicted in propaganda posters—those things only appeared in London.
This is Dunkirk Beach, and here, there is only deathly silence.
A chilling silence.
The beach was piled high with supplies. Thousands of brand-new Bedford trucks, Bren gun vehicles, and even rows and rows of unopened ammunition boxes lay silently on the sand. Some were burning, crackling and popping; others were submerged in seawater, only their black roofs visible.
They resemble the skeletons left by prehistoric behemoths, bearing witness to the former extravagance and present disarray of the British Expeditionary Force.
And floating among these steel skeletons are real human corpses.
As the tide rose and fell, hundreds—perhaps more—of bodies dressed in khaki or grey-blue military uniforms bobbed in the black oil slick. Some lay face down, others face up, their swollen limbs gently lapping against the abandoned truck tires with the waves.
"My God—"
Major Ryder, sitting in the back row, let out a groan.
The major of the 2nd Battalion of the Norfolk Regiment, a clever man who had maintained a cynical attitude throughout the breakout and even quipped in the most critical moment that "running on two legs would only get you a German prisoner of war," turned unusually pale at this moment.
His hands trembled as he reached for the cigarette pack, only to find it was already empty.
"This is—this is what our Norfolk Regiment risked thousands of lives to get here—"
"Damn evacuation point?" Ryder's voice trembled, tinged with despair. "Where are the ships? Where are the main Allied forces? Damn it, where are the men?!"
Arthur watched this scene coldly.
"The person? Of course they're gone."
He pushed open the car door, his military boots making a sticky sound as they stepped onto the sand, which was a mixture of oil and blood.
"Ryder, if you expect Lord Gott to stand on the beach like a true knight until the last soldier leaves—you'd better go read some fairy tales." Arthur kicked open a discarded officer's trunk, and a silver flask rolled out.
"Headquarters withdrew to Dover on May 31st. It's June 4th now, Major. For the big shots in London, the show is over. We're just clowns who accidentally missed the final bell."
Behind them, more than a thousand French soldiers also jumped off the train one after another.
The hours of silence and the extreme tension of breaking out right under the noses of the Germans had left their muscles stiff and almost unable to bend. When their feet touched the soft sand, the tension that had sustained their taut nerves...
The confidence that had kept them from even taking a deep breath in the darkness vanished the moment they saw this desolate beach.
There were no cheers, no hugs. Not even a cry.
There was only endless silence. This silence was more despairing than the sound of German cannons. For cannons meant there was still fighting to come, but here, it meant being forgotten.
03:00, Dunkirk Port - East Breakwater Entrance.
The only light came from the east.
Through the thick black smoke, a narrow, man-made breakwater could be seen extending into the sea—the East Breakwater. At the end of the breakwater, a gray steel behemoth lay silently anchored, its smokestacks spewing black smoke and its stern churning white waves.
One S-class destroyer.
That was the only thing still lit up in this desolate sea.
It was scarred and battered, but at this moment, in the eyes of these soldiers who had groped in the dark for two whole days, it was more sacred than St. Paul's Cathedral and more magnificent than the Palace of Versailles.
Its smokestacks spewed thick black smoke, and the searchlights on the bridge occasionally swept across the sea, the beams of light cutting through the thick fog like the eye of God, scrutinizing this hell.
"It's the 'Shikari'!"
Major Ryder clung to the ship like a drowning man grasping at a straw, nearly tumbling off the half-track's side rail. Pointing to the ship, his previously dejected eyes lit up again: "It's the Royal Navy! The last ship! We made it! Thank God, we made it!"
The entire convoy came back to life.
The French soldiers, who had been slumped in the carriages like corpses, seemed to have been injected with some kind of final burst of energy. More than a thousand pairs of eyes, which had been numb and empty, focused on that point of light.
That was the hope of life.
A commotion arose in the carriage. Some people began to make the sign of the cross on their blood-stained chests, incoherently thanking the Virgin Mary; others let out suppressed sobs, the collapse of tense nerves suddenly relaxed.
Many more people struggled to jump off the bus, not even bothering to grab their crutches, and staggered towards the breakwater, supporting each other.
That primal desire to survive overwhelmed their extreme physical exhaustion, forming a silent yet surging tide of people. They stared at the ship with terrifyingly focused eyes, as if the ship would vanish into the mist like a phantom with the blink of an eye.
McTavish also breathed a sigh of relief, finally loosening his grip on the steering wheel and wiping his sweaty hands on his trouser leg.
Even the usually composed Jeanne couldn't help but hold her breath, and a look of relief appeared on her oil-stained face.
In that instant, everyone felt—the nightmare was over.
However, when they drove to the entrance of the breakwater, reality gave them a resounding slap in the face.
The entrance to the plank road has been blocked by hundreds of defeated soldiers.
"Get out of the way! Military police! Get out of the way!"
McTavish had to drive his half-track, almost crushing people's toes, to force his way through the crowd.
"No cutting in line! You damn frog! Go back to the back!"
On the pier, several Royal Navy sailors were holding Lee-Enfield rifles with bayonets fixed, their sharp, gleaming bayonets pointed at the crowd below, fiercely blocking a group of French soldiers who were trying to rush onto the pier.
"We're from the 12th Division! We're Allied too!" shouted a French captain in broken English, his face wrapped in bandages, revealing only one eye. "Let's go up! The Germans are right behind us!"
"I don't care if you're from the 12th Division or the 120th Division! This ship is full! Full, don't you understand?!"
A naval officer in a dark blue uniform stood beside the mooring bollard, waving a megaphone and roaring, his face flushed, "Get back! The next ship might not arrive for a while, so wait here! Anyone who tries to break through will be shot!"
The desperate shoving and cursing, mixed with the occasional explosions of German artillery shells in the distance, were a microcosm of the Allied forces' doom in Dunkirk.
Arthur parked his car on the outskirts of the crowd, coldly watching the scene of civilization collapsing right before his eyes.
Although he missed the climax of the so-called "Great Escape" a few days earlier, and the magnificent moment that London newspapers touted as the "miracle of Operation Dynamo," just looking at the frenzy of these hundreds of people in front of him, he could perfectly recreate the scene of those days in his mind.
That would be a chaotic carnival that would render any naval regulations worthless.
On that sea churning with Stuka bombers, from the arrogant grey battleships of the Royal Navy to the weekend yachts on the Thames that only the middle class would drive, to the dilapidated trawlers reeking of fish—even a few makeshift door panels and a few gasoline drums strung together with ropes.
When the tracks of Nazi tanks approach, the human instinct for survival will override all dignity.
Anything that could float, whether it was a cruiser or a piece of rotten wood, would be clung to by countless desperate hands. People, like drowning ants, tried to grasp at even the smallest straw, just to escape this burning continent.
Now, this "feast" is over. All that remains are the last scraps and the "dregs" forgotten by the world.
Arthur jumped out of the car.
He straightened his trench coat, whose color was now unrecognizable, wiped the mud off his collar insignia, and strode toward the roaring naval officer.
"Give Way."
It wasn't a discussion, but a command.
McTavish and several fully armed Cold Creek Guardsmen immediately followed. The dark muzzles of their MP40 submachine guns—captured from the Germans—caused the surrounding commotion to fall silent for a moment.
The naval officer—judging by his rank, a lieutenant colonel—turned his head, his bloodshot eyes glaring fiercely at Arthur.
"Which department are you from? Didn't you hear me say we're full? Even if you were sent by Churchill, you still have to give me—"
The lieutenant colonel's roar suddenly caught in his throat.
Under the bright light of the searchlight, the captain first saw the badge on Arthur's shoulder—although it was covered with a thick layer of grime, the unique Coldstream Guard badge, representing the honor of the Royal Guard, was still clearly visible.
The roaring stopped abruptly.
In the strict hierarchical hierarchy of the British Army, the Coldstream Guards are the "Imperial Guards" at the top of the entire army. Even if there is only one person in front of them, even if it is a stray soldier, they are always given priority to evacuate, rather than the second-line filler troops who can be scolded at will.
"Officer? Which unit?"
The lieutenant colonel's tone softened slightly, but he still looked at the man, who was as dirty as a coal miner, with a hint of suspicion. Arthur looked utterly wretched; his face was covered in so much grease that his original skin color was obscured, only his eyes remained cold and piercing.
Arthur didn't speak, but expressionlessly pulled a worn, dark red military officer's ID card from his stained jacket pocket and handed it over.
The lieutenant colonel took it and glanced at it quickly under the light.
His pupils contracted sharply when his gaze fell on the gold-embossed surname on the ID—Stirling—and that familiar first name.
His body stiffened abruptly, as if he had been burned.
He raised his head again, staring intently at the face before him, blackened by gunpowder and stained with blood.
He tried to find traces of his memory through the mud and wounds. Finally, gradually, the disheveled face before him overlapped with the handsome, debonair face he remembered from the social pages of The Times, a face that frequently appeared at the Duke's dinners and the Royal Ascot.
"My God—"
The lieutenant colonel gasped, the shock even greater than when he had just seen thousands of fleeing soldiers.
"Sterling—Master Arthur?"
His expression then underwent a change that left Arthur in awe.
The face that had been etched with irritability, disgust, and arrogance crumbled in a fraction of a second, reforming into an expression that was a mixture of surprise, ingratiation, and extreme excitement. The speed of that transformation would put any West End theatrical actor to death with shame.
"My God, it's Master Arthur Sterling! You're still in France! This is a complete failure on the part of the Royal Navy!"
The lieutenant colonel practically tossed the megaphone to his adjutant. He wanted to shake hands, but seeing the thick layer of grease and blood on Arthur's hands, he awkwardly withdrew his hand and instead gave a perfectly standard military salute.
"I am Lieutenant Commander Jonathan Eubank, captain of the USS Shikari. It's a miracle to see you here! The Navy had thought you were missing!"
Arthur returned the greeting expressionlessly, his eyes cold.
He was all too familiar with that look.
On the day of the breakout from the monastery, Lieutenant Colonel Harrison, who had been sent away by Stuka, looked at him with the same eyes.
That wasn't looking at a person, or even a comrade-in-arms.
He was looking at a gleaming medal, at a ticket to the Navy's high-ranking club, at a stepping stone to his future career.
If they can bring "the Duke of Stirling's second son" back to London unharmed, Captain Eubank's name will be on the First Lord of the Admiralty's desk tomorrow. That would be a greater achievement than sinking a German U-boat, and much safer.
"Captain Eubank," Arthur said calmly, "I heard your ship is full?"
Captain Eubank paused for a moment, then a knowing, greasy smile spread across his face.
"Young master, may I speak to you in private?"
He leaned slightly closer to Arthur, lowered his voice, and completely ignored the pairs of desperate eyes around them.
"The situation is terrible, young master. It's worse than what you saw on the battlefield."
Eubank sighed, but the glint in his eyes remained undiminished: "When I was resupplying at Dover headquarters yesterday, the atmosphere there was as oppressive as a funeral. Everyone's saying the winds have shifted up there."
"It's said in the officers' club in Dover that some people in London—you know, those respectable gentlemen who've always wanted to sit down for tea with the Germans—are now very loud. Apparently, if this evacuation fails, if these hundreds of thousands of people don't get back, they'll force the Prime Minister to negotiate with those Hans."
At this point, Eubank glanced at Arthur with an extremely worldly look, a look full of implication: "Right now, all of London is in a state of panic, the newspapers are full of bad news. The bigwigs in the Admiralty desperately need some good news," or rather, they desperately need some influential heroes to "go back alive and give the people a shot in the arm."
"And you, Master Sterling—"
Eubank flashed the smile of a salesman to a big client: "Think of it, the Duke of Stirling's heir returning victorious from battle"—that would be front-page headline even in the Times. If you can return in style, it would be a wonderful asset for the Prime Minister, the Admiralty, and even your father."
Arthur narrowed his eyes slightly. He sensed a rotten smell in the captain's words—the smell of politics.
Soldiers on the front lines are bleeding, while politicians in the rear are calculating how to use that blood to solidify their own positions.
"So?" Arthur asked coldly.
"So, regarding this ship—" Captain Eubank rubbed his hands together, lowering his voice so the fleeing soldiers wouldn't hear, "It's certainly full for others. The boilers on this old maid are protesting; adding even one more person might make it unable to move."
He paused, his gaze sweeping over the group of Sterling combat group members behind Arthur, who looked like beggars, and further away, over a thousand French remnants who were staring longingly at them.
"But there will always be a place for you."
"The cabins are indeed crammed with people, mostly scattered army infantry, and even some damned civilians and logistics personnel. But don't worry, just say the word, and I'll have the sailors clear the lower decks right now. We can get rid of those hundred or so unimportant people—they've already been on shore for so long, what's another wait for the next ship?"
"Even if it means clearing out my captain's cabin, even if it means throwing the first mate into the sea, we'll make sure you get back to Dover comfortably. After all—"
Captain Eubank revealed his tobacco-stained teeth, the fangs of power: "You are the pride of the Sterling family. The lives of all those common soldiers combined are not worth a single one of your fingers. Isn't that right?"
Arthur felt a churning in his stomach.
A strong sense of physical nausea shot straight to the top of his head. It was more nauseating than the smell of rotting corpses in the sewers, or the smell of gunpowder in Berg.
This is what is known as "privilege".
This is the truth about the British Empire.
In the face of life and death, life still has a price tag. And on Captain Eubank's scales, the lives of a thousand French soldiers, and even the lives of dozens of British infantrymen already on board, were not worth a single finger of Arthur Sterling.
The surroundings became quiet.
Although Captain Eubank deliberately lowered his voice, in the deathly silence, the French soldiers just a few meters away, as well as Jeanne and McTavish beside Arthur, could hear him clearly.
Arthur did not speak immediately.
He slowly turned around and looked behind him.
The 1,300 survivors of the French 12th Motorized Division were standing at the entrance to the breakwater.
They were covered in mud, many having lost their shoes in the street fighting in Berg, their feet wrapped in blood-stained rags. Major General Rangsen leaned against the railing, his arm still bleeding.
They understood.
Even if they couldn't understand English, Captain Eubank's disdainful look and waving gestures—a universal body language—were enough for them to understand what had happened.
The ship is full.
But the commander can leave.
The price is sacrificing other people's positions, or leaving them here like trash.
If they were ordinary routed soldiers, a riot would probably have broken out by now. For a chance to escape, people can turn into beasts. Arthur had seen it far too many times: comrades shooting at each other to grab a truck.
But at that moment, there was no riot. No cursing. Not even pleading.
The French sergeant standing at the very front—Arthur remembered him; during the Battle of Berg, this sergeant had half his ear sliced off by shrapnel while covering his comrades, and was still wrapped in a blackened bandage—looked at Arthur, his eyes slowly dimming from initial longing, and finally settling into a heartbreaking calm.
He silently took a step back.
It was a silent concession.
Immediately afterwards, it was as if some unspoken understanding was spreading among the crowd.
The French soldiers who had been crowding at the entrance of the pier began to retreat one by one. Dragging their injured legs and helping their comrades, they slowly retreated from the pier into the muddy beach.
Splash—splash—
The only sound was the sound of footsteps in the water.
They completely cleared the narrow passage leading to the "Shikari," leaving it entirely for Arthur and the half-track behind him.
As Major General Mori watched this scene, the stubborn old man's eyes reddened, but he did not stop the soldiers. He raised his head and looked at Arthur, his eyes containing a thousand words—obedience to the strong, fulfillment of his comrades, and a kind of entrustment.
"Let's go, sir."
In the crowd, the sergeant with the missing ear spoke in a low voice in French, his voice hoarse but clear.
"You led us out of the encirclement, that's enough."
"Yes, sir. You can go." Another French recruit, only seventeen or eighteen years old, wiped away his tears, forcing a smile that looked more like a grimace. He clutched his empty rifle tightly. "We—we'll stay. We're out of bullets anyway, we can just bite them. The Germans will have to step over our corpses to get here."
"Let's go! Don't worry about us!"
"Give our regards to the Allied Command!"
"Tell them the 12th Division did not desert!"
The scattered voices coalesced into a low, resentful wave. These French soldiers, who just two days ago were filled with resentment at being abandoned by the British, were now willingly giving up their chance to live to this young British man.
Because in this chaotic, betraying, and collapsing battlefield, only this young Englishman treated them like human beings, leading them to fight like men to the very end. They regarded Arthur as their only brain, their only soul.
This trust carries a weight heavier than that of the destroyer.
Arthur stood rooted to the spot, his legs feeling like lead.
He felt countless eyes focused on his back.
McTavish still gripped his submachine gun, veins bulging on the back of his hand. The Scottish tough guy bit his lip hard, staring at Arthur's profile. He was waiting, but he said nothing.
Jeanne stood beside the truck, her oversized military uniform stained with oil. She didn't speak, but for the first time, a light called "expectation" shone in her stubborn, wolf-like eyes.
She was watching, trying to figure out what kind of person this man who was leading her out of hell really was.
And Major Ryder.
This clever, snobbish major, who was always thinking about how to save his own life, was now staring intently at Arthur. His eyes were complex, containing both the anxiety of "Hurry up and agree, what are you hesitating for?" and a faint expectation that even he himself was unaware of.
Everyone was waiting for this young nobleman to make a choice.
Will he, like those other hypocritical big shots, gracefully climb aboard the ship, stepping over soldiers' heads, to enjoy the privileges that rightfully belong to him? Or—
Arthur felt his throat go dry.
Is this what he wanted?
Is this the destination he sought—Dunkirk—as he frantically weaved between the German 5th Panzer Division and the Totenkopf Division since arriving in Azhebrook on May 27, blowing up bridges, killing, deceiving, and even turning himself into a bloodthirsty butcher?
Just take this step.
As long as you step onto that springboard.
Tomorrow night.
Yes, we just need to wait until tomorrow night.
He could lie in the enormous enamel bathtub at Sterling Manor, with its gilded lion paws. The bathtub was big enough to fit two adults.
The servants will prepare hot water at the right temperature and add a few drops of lavender essential oil from Provence.
He could immerse his entire body in hot water to wash away the damn grease, and wash away the gunpowder and bloody smell that had accumulated in his pores for three days and three nights.
He could hold a glass of 1892 Bordeaux red wine in his hand and watch the firelight flicker in the fireplace.
He could sleep on soft, sun-scented silk sheets instead of in a flea-infested trench or a urine-smelling half-track.
No shelling. No screams. No that damned "March of the Warriors." Only silence, and the glory of returning as "war heroes."
"Go up, Arthur."
A voice inside me was screaming wildly—the instinct for survival, the roar of my comfort-seeking genes.
"This is what you deserve. You're not a saint. You've saved so many people; you've created a miracle. No one will blame you. Even these French people are begging you to leave. It's reasonable. It's logical. It's—a privilege."
That voice was incredibly seductive. It was as sweet as a siren's song.
Captain Eubank continued his incessant chatter, a fawning smile on his face: "Young Master? Please? Watch your step, the wooden planks are a bit slippery—I've already had someone clean the cabin, we'll make room for you soon—"
Arthur lifted his foot.
His leather boots were less than ten centimeters from the springboard.
However, at that very moment...
He saw the boots.
Those military boots, covered in filthy curtain fabric, mud, and worn beyond recognition, were ones he had personally wrapped himself in to deceive the Germans and to ensure a silent retreat for his men.
He also noticed Captain Eubank's shiny, spotless navy leather shoes.
At that moment, the wind stopped.
Arthur felt an indescribable rage, or rather, a kind of arrogance that had been crossed, explode from his chest.
That damned, hypocritical, arrogant aristocratic pride ingrained in the Sterling family began to take hold.
Let him wag his tail like a stray dog, kick away the soldiers who risked their lives for him, step on their corpses, and climb onto this ship.
Why should he accept the charity of this greasy, repulsive captain, who's as disgusting as Harrison?
Is this what they call "decency"?
No.
The Sterling family can die, can be defeated, can fall bloodied on the charge, but they must not look so pathetic. They must not slip away like petty thieves who stole bread.
He didn't want the dirty hands of such people to touch his medals.
Arthur's feet were suspended in mid-air.
Captain Eubank's outstretched hand froze, the obsequious smile still lingering on his face.
Everyone was watching him.
The waves crashed against the breakwater, making a monotonous thud.
"Young Master Sterling, please board the ship. First class is ready."
Captain Eubank turned to the side, made an extremely gentlemanly "please" gesture, then glanced at the mud-covered French soldiers in the distance, made a false sign of the cross on his chest, and said casually, "As for the French—since they've already been forgotten once, they probably won't mind waiting a little longer. Even if they all die here, God will bless their souls in heaven."
Arthur slowly withdrew his foot, his military boots slamming heavily onto the muddy boardwalk. He straightened his collar and stared at the impeccably dressed naval lieutenant commander before him with the same look one would give someone trash.
"Stop with that disgusting face, Eubank."
"God bless you?" Arthur retorted sarcastically, then suddenly moved closer to the captain, grabbing his collar. "No, Captain. You've got one thing wrong."
He patted the captain's stiff cheek: "I want to go home, but I don't want to crawl back like a stray dog."
I'll post a long chapter first, and there will be another one tonight.
>