usatvline Chapter 69 For the British Empire
Chapter 69 For the British Empire
Chapter 69 For the British Empire
[Area cleared: Outer perimeter of western side of Flne]
[Current Status: Entering friendly-controlled core area]
[Morale Aura Effect: McTavish's "flaunting" behavior elevates the Sterling Combat Group's reputation among the rank-and-file soldiers of the Cold Creek Guards to "Mysterious Elite".]
[Warning: High-density source of chaos detected ahead. Large numbers of routs are gathering at the city entrance.]
If the flooded area west of Flörn is a desolate swamp, then this place is a major artery that has suffered a severe blood clot.
The convoy had to stop again as soon as it entered the main road on the outskirts of the city.
It wasn't because of the German roadblocks, nor because of the artillery fire, but because of our own people.
Even without looking at the densely packed cluster of yellow dots on the RTS map, the overwhelming noise and atmosphere of panic were enough for Arthur to tell what had happened here:
Defeat.
Moreover, it was the ugliest kind of total defeat, a complete loss of all dignity.
The narrow cobblestone road was crowded with hundreds and thousands of disorganized British soldiers. Most of them came from the Allied infantry divisions that had been scattered by Guderian, mixed with artillerymen who had lost all their cannons, as well as a large number of truck drivers and mechanics who originally belonged to the logistics line.
They were practically a group of forgotten, lost souls during the great evacuation.
They were among the millions of small boats that failed to make it onto the Dunkirk beach, or the unfortunate souls who were bombed back from the breakwater by German Stuka bombers.
In their desperate escape, this group of headless flies seized upon a rumor circulating among the fleeing soldiers: "Go to Flörn! The main force of the First Army is still there! They still have guns and cannons; they can still stop the Germans there!"
So they flocked here from all over the place.
They didn't come to fight. They just instinctively wanted to hide in the "iron wall of the First Army," trying to find even a second of safety at the feet of the giants.
They were less like soldiers and more like a flock of frightened sheep, blindly running around among the ruins.
There was no one in command, and no one cared about the defense line. Everyone kept their heads down, driven only by a primal instinct to "survive."
Arthur looked at the group of people coldly.
In his eyes, these were not the British army; they were clearly a swarm of locusts squeezing out the last bit of living space.
"Flute! Flute——!"
The half-track in front was honking its horn frantically, but in this hysterical chaos, the horn's sound was instantly drowned out by curses, cries, and the whirring of its engine.
"Get out of my way! All of you, get the hell out of my way!"
"My leg! Don't step on my leg!"
"Mom—I want to go home—"
Arthur sat in the passenger seat, watching everything indifferently.
He saw a private who had lost his rifle and was left with only half a water bottle trying to climb onto a fully loaded truck, but was kicked off by someone in the truck bed and fell heavily into the mud.
He saw several artillerymen surrounding a dead draft horse, not mourning it, but trying to cut flesh from its leg—though their eyes were filled with fear of the booming cannons behind them.
"This is what's called a strategic shift."
Arthur tapped a cigarette out of the pack, but didn't light it, just held it between his fingers: "When fear overwhelms discipline, an army ceases to be an army, but a mob in uniform. Look at them, they don't even need the Germans to lift a finger, they'll trample themselves to death."
The driver in the driver's seat swallowed hard, his hands gripping the steering wheel trembling involuntarily. This feeling of despair was contagious, like a plague.
"Sir, should we take a detour?"
Major Ryder huddled in the shadows of the back seat of the half-track, his eyes fixed on the outside through the mud-splattered bulletproof glass.
Among the fleeing soldiers who were pushing and cursing, he suddenly spotted a few familiar figures.
They were a few disheveled soldiers with the Norfolk Regiment’s distinctive yellow identification strips hanging on their shoulders, and the Britannia Goddess badge on their hats, a symbol of the glory of the British Empire, hanging crookedly on their coal-dusted foreheads.
Ryder recognized them.
These individuals were still listed as "missing persons" in the casualty reports of the Kassel defense battle.
Just a week earlier, Ryder had felt sorry for them, thinking that these men had fallen in the trenches fighting the Germans, shedding their last drop of blood for the King.
But now.
Not only did they not die, but they also discarded their heavy ammunition boxes, carrying stolen French sausages and personal belongings, and mingled with the crowd like rats, cursing their comrades in the most vicious language in their struggle for a chance to climb onto a truck.
Ryder's hand, which was on the car door handle, suddenly froze.
His instinct was to rush down and yell at them, to pull them back into line. But in that instant, an indescribable sense of shame made him pull his hand back as if he'd been electrocuted.
He even subconsciously shrank deeper into his seat, afraid of being recognized by his subordinates.
As a major battalion commander in the Norfolk Regiment, and a member of an infantry regiment with a glorious tradition spanning centuries, the scene before him filled him with a suffocating feeling more unbearable than death.
If they were to die in battle, it would be a tragedy for the entire regiment. But for them to live like this is a disgrace to the entire regiment.
This is a disgrace to the British Empire, a stain written on every shining cap badge, one that can never be wiped away.
"A detour?"
Arthur chuckled and pointed to the core of the blockage ahead: "If you want to cure the blood clot, Ryder, you can't bypass it. You have to cut it open and drain the blood."
He shoved the car door open, his mud-covered high-top leather boots slamming heavily onto the ground with a sharp "smack."
"Everyone, get off the bus. Line up."
Arthur's voice was chillingly clear over the radio: "Open the safety. Let's go teach these headless flies a lesson."
At the center of the chaos was a Bedford 0Y 3-ton truck parked at the intersection.
This was originally a medical vehicle painted with the Red Cross, but now that sacred symbol is being defiled.
"Get out! All of you, get out of here!"
A burly major with a menacing face stood beside the truck bed, waving his cane and herding the wounded on board like livestock.
Judging from his collar insignia, he belongs to the Army Service Corps (RASC) – commonly known as a logistics soldier.
Behind him, a dozen heavily armed logistics soldiers were roughly dragging the wounded, some with bandages and others missing limbs, off the vehicle.
"This vehicle has been requisitioned! Can't you understand human language? This is an emergency requisition during wartime!"
The major roared, his fat face jiggling with his movements. Although his uniform was dirty, it gave him a greasy, prosperous air, clearly indicating that he had been skimming profits from the rear.
"Sir! Please! That's Corporal Wilson, his leg was just amputated, he can't move!"
A medic cried out and clung to the major's leg, trying to stop the horrific atrocity.
"Fuck you, corporal!"
The major kicked the medic in the face, the sole of his boot shoving the medic's face into the mud.
"I'm a major! My life is worth a hundred times more than a crippled corporal! This vehicle is for carrying classified documents!"
The so-called "confidential documents" were piled up by the roadside—they were several heavy oak crates.
Even from a great distance, you could hear the sounds of glass colliding and metal clanging coming from inside.
Those weren't documents at all; they were clearly wines, silverware, and even a few oil paintings looted from a nearby French estate.
For these spoils of war, and for the sake of a comfortable escape, he was going to leave more than twenty seriously wounded men to die on this cold roadside.
The area was surrounded by a crowd of fleeing soldiers.
Some were angry, some were numb, but most chose to remain silent.
In this morning of shattered order, morality has become an extremely expensive luxury. If you meddle, you might be the next one to be thrown to the side of the road.
Except for one person.
"Stop! You bastard!"
A roar came from the outer edge of the crowd.
Major Ryder pushed through the crowd and stormed in. His face was flushed a deep purple with extreme anger.
As a member of the Norfolk Regiment, he had seen bloodshed and sacrifice, but he could not tolerate such a massacre of his own people.
"Which section are you in? Tell me your name!"
Ryder rushed up to the major and grabbed him by the collar: "You're committing murder! According to the Wartime Regulations, I have the right—"
"Regulations?"
The major was stunned for a moment, then looked as if he had heard the biggest joke in the world. He slapped Ryder's hand away, a fierce glint in his eyes.
"I'll tell you what regulations are."
He suddenly pulled a Webley MkVI revolver from its holster and pressed the dark muzzle directly against Ryder's forehead.
A gasp of surprise erupted from the crowd.
"Get out of here!"
The major's face was contorted with rage, his finger already on the trigger: "This is wartime requisition! I'm a major, and you're a major, we're equals! Mind your own business! You think I won't kill you right now and say it was a German spy?"
Ryder was stunned.
The cold barrel of the gun pressed against his forehead; the breath of death was so close. He could see the bloodshot veins in the other man's eyes—a madness born of irrationality, a frenzy of bestiality.
Ryder's hand instinctively reached for his waist, but he knew it was too late.
"Hands up! Or I'll shoot right now!" the major roared hysterically, clearly in a bloodthirsty rage. "Throw these bastards down! Move the crates up! Now!"
No one dared to make a move.
Ryder clenched his teeth, a sense of powerlessness filling his heart. Was this the end of the British Empire? To die not from the enemy's charge, but from the greed of their own people?
"Da, da, da."
The crowd automatically parted to make way.
Arthur Sterling.
He was wearing the standard uniform of the Cold Creek Guard.
But the uniform looked appalling at that moment. Large patches of dried, blackened bloodstains were on the khaki fabric, the blood of Germans splattered during the close-quarters combat in Berg yesterday; the collar and cuffs were covered in oil and mud, traces of his personal tank repairs.
However, although his uniform was so dirty it looked like he had just been pulled from a pile of corpses, he fastened every single button tightly, and the belt that symbolized his status as a Guards officer was tied around his upright waist, making him appear meticulous.
As he walked, he casually put on his leather gloves, which were stained with gun oil.
His expression was like that of someone strolling through the Sterling family’s meticulously manicured back garden, or a lion that had just had a hearty meal and was surveying its territory.
He walked very slowly, each step very steady.
Behind him, there was no large group of people, only the Scottish sergeant major with a fierce face and a cigarette butt in his mouth, holding a dangerous-looking MP40 submachine gun, the muzzle intentionally or unintentionally sweeping across the surrounding crowd.
"What a wonderful performance."
Arthur stopped three steps away from the two men, his gaze sweeping over the major and the pile of so-called "classified documents," a faint sneer playing on his lips. "I think the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art should award you an honorary degree, Major. This 'murder of comrades for wine' scenario is far too vulgar, even in a Shakespearean play."
The major turned his head sharply, his gun still pointed at Ryder, but his eyes had already drifted towards Arthur.
It was an excessively young, pale, and delicate face—the kind of "London young master" look that officers like him, who came from humble backgrounds and rose through the ranks, hated most.
But then, his pupils suddenly contracted.
He could see the red collar tabs under Arthur's coat, the shining "Order of the Garter" badge on the mud-stained peaked cap, and the rows of gold buttons on the uniform.
Cold Creek Guard Regiment.
The fat major's heart skipped a beat.
As an officer who had been working in Flörn, he certainly knew the name of this defense zone.
He assumed that the legendary "Red-Clad Killers" were currently engaged in bayonet fighting with the German Wehrmacht in the mud pits of the outer defense line, never expecting to encounter a living Guards Major here at this dirty rear intersection.
Although they all wear the same crown and the rank of major on their shoulder insignia, the difference between majors is greater than that between a person and a dog.
One was the logistics chief in charge of trucks and corned beef, and the other was a high-achieving student from Eton College, responsible for protecting Buckingham Palace.
In the presence of this true "Brahman," he, a major in the second-line troops, was like a groom who had stolen his master's clothes, both comical and humble.
"Who—who are you?"
The major squinted, and his hand holding the gun began to tremble violently and uncontrollably.
He may be crazy, but he's not stupid.
He looked over Arthur's shoulder and saw the half-track vehicle parked at the intersection, the murderous veterans inside, and the two Matilda tanks whose turrets were slowly turning and whose dark cannons were already pointed at them.
This pretty boy is no ordinary person; he's a lion that has just devoured a man.
Who I am is not important.
As Arthur spoke, he removed the glove from his left hand, then tossed the greasy glove into the mud at his feet like trash.
He took a step forward, completely ignoring the Webley pistol that could go off at any moment.
That look contained neither anger nor fear, only a deep-seated indifference.
As a gentleman who had been nurtured by both Eton College and the Royal Military Academy Sandhurst, Arthur disdained to bully the common people with cheap class superiority—in his education, that was a foolish thing only a nouveau riche lacking substance would do.
A true aristocrat knows how to win the heartfelt respect of a coal miner's son through proper etiquette and unwavering honor.
But faced with this scumbag in military uniform, Arthur decided to abandon his damned gentlemanly code.
So he changed his expression.
That was the look in his eyes when he judged "cleaning harmful data" in the RTS system, like a master walking in his own manor and suddenly seeing a stray dog covered in eczema defecating on his expensive carpet.
There's no need to get angry, much less roar.
I just felt it was dirty.
"The important thing is, you're blocking my way."
Arthur's voice was eerily calm: "Besides, the way you look in this rubbish makes this British military uniform—disgusting."
"stop!!"
The major's pride was wounded by the way the nobles looked at him like he was a stray dog, and he was pushed to the edge of a cliff by the fear of death. He completely broke down.
He abruptly moved the gun away from Ryder's head, pointing it firmly at Arthur's heart, roaring hysterically, trying to drown out his inner terror with his volume: "Don't come any closer! Get your men out of here! Give me your half-track!"
"Or I'll kill you too! I don't care which lord's son you are, I have a gun here! I'm the law!"
This is the moment Arthur has been waiting for.
According to the RTS system's assessment, the health bar above the fat man's head had completely changed from the [yellow] representing friendly forces to the [bright red] representing hostile targets.
Since it's a red-named monster, there's no need to hesitate.
Arthur indeed stopped, tilted his head slightly, and his eyes became completely indifferent. It was the coldness he possessed when he surveyed the battlefield and calculated death data in the system—so-called "divinity" was, in the eyes of mortals, absolute cruelty.
"I have a suggestion for you before you fire."
Arthur said softly.
next second.
He moved.
There were no fancy moves, no cinematic flying kicks. Arthur simply performed the most basic tactical maneuver—a wrist-breaking disarming maneuver from close combat (CQC).
That's what he learned from improving his RTS skills and fighting the German army in Borg.
With his left hand, he reached out and precisely grabbed the major's wrist as he held the gun, his thumb pressing firmly on the acupoint between the thumb and index finger.
At the same time, he gripped the barrel with his right hand, used the lever principle to snap it downwards, and then twisted it outwards.
"Click."
The sound of bones cracking echoed clearly throughout the venue.
"Aaaaaah—!"
The major let out a pig-like scream, his wrist bending at a bizarre ninety-degree angle. The Webley pistol slipped from his hand, but Arthur caught it firmly before it hit the ground.
But it's not over yet.
Arthur then kicked the major in the back of the knee.
With a thud, the two-hundred-pound fat man knelt heavily on the ground, right in front of Major Ryder.
Everything happened in the blink of an eye.
It wasn't until the major knelt in the mud and screamed in agony that the dozen or so support soldiers around him snapped out of their daze.
"Splash!"
Almost instinctively, they raised their Lee-Enfield rifles.
But that's all.
No one dared raise their guns an inch, much less pull the bolt. They were horrified to discover that the well-equipped, menacing veterans opposite them had their guns already pointed at them.
As warehouse managers who deal with reports and canned corned beef year-round, they are well aware that:
If a firefight were to break out, these logistics personnel, who would take ages to figure out even how to use the safety mechanism, wouldn't even be able to get past half a magazine in front of this group of ruthless individuals who had just crawled out of piles of corpses in Berg or Flörn.
That won't be a battle. It will be a one-sided, one-sided slaughter.
Arthur fiddled with the heavy Webberly pistol in his hand, opened the cylinder to take a look, and then disdainfully tossed it to Ryder, who was also in a daze.
"Take it."
Arthur pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his hands. He looked down at the fat man still rolling on the ground and said in a flat tone, "In the British army, there are only two kinds of people who can point a gun at their comrades' heads."
"One type is the military police. The other is a traitor."
He turned away from the fat man, not even glancing at him again, and simply called out softly, "McTavish."
The Scottish sergeant behind him had been waiting impatiently for a long time.
"Yes, sir."
McTavish grinned. He didn't even raise his submachine gun to aim; relying on the muscle memory of a veteran, he held the gun in one hand and casually pulled the trigger at the back of the major's head.
"Bang!"
A short, muffled gunshot rang out.
It's like smashing a rotten watermelon.
The major's screams abruptly ceased. A 9mm Parabellum pistol bullet had precisely ripped open his skull. Red and white matter splattered out, splashing onto an unidentified statue of the Virgin Mary by the roadside, staining the merciful stone statue crimson.
The corpse twitched twice and then remained still.
The entire venue fell into a deathly silence.
Only the distant rumble of German heavy artillery continued, as if providing accompaniment to the execution.
The dozen or so logistics soldiers who were carrying the stolen goods were so frightened that their hands trembled and the boxes fell to the ground with a "crash." The expensive bottles of Lafite wine inside shattered all over the ground, and the purplish-red wine mixed with muddy water flowed out.
They dropped their rifles in terror, and no one dared to move.
Everyone held their breath, staring at the young major standing next to the corpse.
Arthur turned around, stepping through the muddy water mixed with red wine and blood.
His gaze slowly swept over everyone present—the logistics soldiers who were stunned with fear, and the numb, defeated soldiers.
"Is this your military discipline?"
Every word Arthur spoke felt like a hammer blow to their hearts: "For a few bottles of red wine, for a few silver forks, you're going to throw your comrades who shed blood for the Empire like trash on the roadside?"
He walked over to the medic who had been kicked down, reached out and helped him up, even brushing the dirt off his shoulders. Then he walked back to the center of the field, pointed to the body on the ground: "Remember this image."
"You have utterly disgraced the British Empire. I know what you're thinking—you think the war is over, that as long as you escape back to Dunkirk, back to that damned ship, you can go home to your mother."
Arthur sneered, then suddenly raised his voice: "Dream on!"
"The German tanks are just five kilometers away. Their Stukas are above the clouds. At that distance, exposing your back to the enemy is suicide!"
He looked around, and no one dared to meet his gaze: "Here, all military ranks, seniority, and noble titles are null and void."
"Here, there are only two kinds of people: the living and the dead."
"Would you rather die under the tracks of the Germans, or at the hands of my military police? Choose one."
A commotion arose in the crowd. It was fear, but even more so, a tremor of having found a pillar of support.
In chaos, what people need is not democracy, nor reason. What they need is a strongman, a strongman who can tell them what to do, even if it means ordering them to die.
As long as I can survive.
Arthur turned around and looked at Major Ryder, who was still staring blankly at the Webley pistol.
Major Ryder.
"Yes, sir." Ryder instinctively stood at attention, his voice a little hoarse.
"From now on, everyone here—including these damned logistics soldiers and those scattered First Army infantrymen—will be under your command."
Arthur pointed to the pile of "loot" and the truck: "Dump that junk. Put the wounded back in the trucks. Get the men who can still handle guns out here and form a makeshift infantry company. You have ten minutes to get them into formation."
At this point, Arthur suddenly raised his voice: "You can call me cruel, you defeated soldiers. You can even call me a butcher in your hearts."
"But in ten minutes, you'll be calling me 'sir.' Because only I know how to get you out of here alive."
"Did you understand?"
Ryder looked at the noble officer in front of him, who was much younger than himself.
Looking into those unfathomable eyes, at the still-steaming corpse on the ground, and then at the soldiers around him who, though terrified, finally had a glimmer of light in their eyes.
Ryder took a deep breath.
He tucked the blood-stained Webley pistol into his belt, then straightened up abruptly, brought his feet together, and gave the most perfect military salute of his life.
This military salute isn't for those with rank; it's for the strong.
"Yes, sir!"
Ryder turned and roared at the still-stunned fleeing soldiers, his voice regaining the authority he once held in the Norfolk Regiment: "Did you all hear me? Are you deaf! Everyone, the wounded, get in the trucks! The rest of you, line up! You there, smash that case of wine! If you dare to hoard any more spoils, that fat guy will suffer the same fate!"
"Get moving! For the British Empire!"
"For the British Empire!"
The crowd finally started moving.
No longer the aimless frantic running around, but a fear-driven efficiency. Trucks were started, the wounded were lifted up, and the roads began to clear.
Arthur stood by the roadside and put his leather gloves back on.
McTavish walked over to him, handed him a cigarette, and casually kicked the corpse on the ground as if it were a boulder blocking his way.
"Well done, sir."
The Scotsman grinned. "I had no idea you knew that. What is it? Close combat?"
"No."
Arthur took the cigarette and had McTavish light it for him. He looked at the street gradually returning to order and exhaled a puff of smoke: "That's a hemostatic agent."
He turned around and looked at the city center shrouded in smoke in front of him.
"If the trash isn't cleaned up, it will trip up the real warriors."
"Let's go, McTavish. Let's go see Major Hawke, who's still holding out, and see how many tough guys the Cold Creek Guards have left."
The convoy started again.
The tracks crunched over the bloodstains on the ground with a chilling creak.
But amidst the roar of those two Matilda tanks, something long forgotten was quietly growing within this cobbled-together force.
That wasn't just a simple will to survive.
It was the fangs of a beast, awakened by power and bloodshed.
[Tactical Settlement]
[Emergency incident completed: Gangrene removed]
Evaluation: You have successfully cleared the blood clot that was causing the blockage in your blood vessel. Although the method was forceful, the effect was significant.
[Resource Integration]
Temporary command granted to 240 armed personnel (including infantry, artillery, and logistics personnel).
Morale status adjustment: Reset from [Extreme Panic] to [Forced Obedience].
Note: They are still afraid of Germans, but they are even more afraid of you.
[Character Data Update]
Key figure: Major Ryder's status change: Command ability greatly improved / Loyalty locked (Source: Awe)
[Gain reputation traits]
Unlock title: The Cold Dictator
Trait effect: In areas of collapsed order, your deterrence rating against friendly forces increases by 50%.
Description: "In chaotic times, the devil often provides a greater sense of security than the saint."
Arthur glanced at the RTS rating on his retina and a faint smile appeared on his lips.
"For the British Empire?"
He silently recited the slogan in his mind.
No.
It was for the Sterling family scepter.
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