plumnovel Chapter 70 The Last Guard
Chapter 70 The Last Guard
Chapter 70 The Last Guard (Two chapters combined into one)
1940年6月4日，06：30，比利时·弗尔内市中心，冷溪近卫团第1营核心防御区。
If the suburban transportation hubs were a pot of boiled porridge, then when Arthur's convoy crossed the cordon of sandbags and Maxim machine guns in the city center, the world was abruptly cut in two.
The convoy drove over the last barricade guarded by military police.
There was no noise on this side.
There were no hysterical cries of fleeing soldiers, no cursing as they seized trucks, and no panic that spread like a plague.
All the noise was filtered out by the barricade; the place was dry, cold, and deathly silent.
Even the distant sounds of German artillery fire sounded completely different here.
It was no longer the aimless, swarming fire from the perimeter intended to create panic, but rather a rhythmic, muffled thud.
Boom, boom, boom.
That was the sound of heavy artillery clearing out fortifications at pinpoints. Each blast sounded like a giant blacksmith tirelessly hammering the anvil of the iron block called Flörn.
This is the front line of the killing.
Here, death is no longer a concept to be panicked about, but a business that requires precise calculation.
Arthur sat in the passenger seat of the half-track, peering through the broken windshield at the completely different world before him.
The city center of Förne had already been thoroughly ravaged by German Luftwaffe Stuka bombers and long-range heavy artillery. The once-prosperous Flemish-style red brick buildings were now nothing but dark ruins, and the streets were littered with broken bricks and shards of glass.
But amidst these ruins, a chilling order is growing wildly.
The defensive fortifications on both sides of the street were no longer the haphazardly dug foxholes found on the outskirts, but rather a live demonstration of infantry drills.
Those trenches were practically Euclidean geometric shapes drawn on the ruins with a ruler and a level.
Every corner of the trench strictly adhered to the right-angle zigzag design for protection against artillery fire, and the trench walls were cut as flat as possible. Even salvaged door panels were used to make standard retaining walls.
What's most appalling are those sandbag walls.
They weren't just randomly piled up; they were arranged strictly according to the "British masonry method" specified in the Royal Engineers Field Manual—one layer of headers, one layer of stretchers, interlocking in an alternating pattern. Each burlap sandbag was repeatedly pounded by the engineers with the back of their shovels until the soil inside was compressed as firmly as granite, turning into angular gray bricks.
At the intersection, rolls of barbed wire were stretched straight, forming a complex delaying net along with chevaux-de-frise at standard tactical intervals.
Instead of blocking the road, they insidiously left several seemingly safe passages.
But anyone with expertise can tell at a glance that the ends of these passages lead directly to the carefully calculated crossfire points of the Bren guns.
This is both defense and art.
This stubbornness in flattening sandbags even under the nose of death silently proclaims who controls this place—even if France is to be destroyed tomorrow, the Guards' trench line must remain straight.
Behind these fortifications was a group of men with equally sharp features.
They wore the same khaki combat uniforms as the fleeing soldiers outside, but even in the dusty ruins, their collars were still buttoned up tightly, and even the top button was not undone.
All the belt buckles had been wiped clean, and although they were inevitably covered in dust, the original color of the metal could still be faintly seen in the dim morning light.
"parking."
Arthur suddenly gave the order.
The convoy slowly came to a stop in front of a café whose roof had been blown off halfway.
In this café, now an open-air ruin, a sergeant from the Coldstream Guards sits on a chair with a broken leg. In front of him is half a broken mirror salvaged from the rubble, and a relatively clean white towel is spread on his knees.
At this moment, they were less than two kilometers from the German forward line.
But the sergeant was holding an open razor, carefully shaving the stubble on his chin with a critical eye.
His face bore black gunpowder stains, but the shaved areas revealed pale, bluish-white skin, so clean it even had an eerie freshness to it.
At his feet lay a Lee-Enfield rifle, its bolt locked, bayonet already fitted and gleaming coldly.
"What is he doing?"
Major Ryder, sitting in the back seat, stared wide-eyed. "It's 6:30 in the morning. German tanks could be charging at any moment, and he's—shaving?"
Arthur took out a cigarette case from his pocket, but did not light it. He simply held it to his nose and smelled the tobacco, his eyes revealing a hint of admiration and undisguised arrogance.
Although the original owner of this body was a coward who would go weak at the smell of gunpowder, Arthur and the guards in front of him were in perfect harmony in their almost obsessive-compulsive aristocratic habits of "cleanliness" and "decency."
Even amidst the chaotic ruins, making themselves appear as well-dressed and respectable as possible was their common language.
"Did you see that clearly, Ryder?"
Arthur's voice was soft, but every word carried a sense of superiority: "That's why we are the Royal Guard, and you are just line infantry."
He looked at the soldiers who were tidying up the trenches as if they were flowerbeds in Versailles, like a group of loyal butlers who had just polished silverware: "For us Coldstream Guards, death itself is not terrible. It's just a professional hazard."
"What's truly terrifying is when death comes knocking at your door in a tuxedo, and you're disheveled and covered in mud."
He turned his head, looked at Major Ryder who was staring in disbelief, and a graceful smile curved his lips: "That is disrespect to His Majesty, and an insult to one's own name."
This is just insane stubbornness.
But on the battlefield, such stubbornness often translates into an impregnable defensive line. Because a man who insists on keeping his tie perfectly straight even in death will never allow the Germans to easily step over his corpse.
Arthur opened the car door, his leather boots stepping onto the cobblestone street.
The sergeant, who was shaving, saw Arthur in the reflection of the mirror. Instead of jumping up in panic, he calmly finished shaving, wiped the razor clean, put it away, and then stood up.
But when he saw Arthur's highly recognizable face, the face that frequently appeared in the social section of The Times, the sergeant's bloodshot eyes widened suddenly.
That look of resignation to death instantly turned into one of ecstatic joy, as if he had seen a ghost beforehand.
"Smack."
A textbook-perfect attention stance, the sound of heels clicking echoing in the empty street.
"Sir!"
The sergeant's voice boomed, carrying a pure East End London accent, as if he weren't in ruins ready to be blasted to smithereens, but rather receiving inspection on the manicured lawns of Buckingham Palace: "Major Sterling? God bless—is it really you?"
The sergeant's voice even began to stutter. His gaze swept back and forth over Arthur, as if he were a ghost that had risen from the dead: "We—we thought you—"
He subconsciously thought to say, "I thought you had already been killed by the Germans," or worse, "that you had been captured by the Germans and made into a noble prisoner to be used as a diplomatic bargaining chip."
After all, a few days ago, this young nobleman led a part of the Second Battalion to break away from the main force and escape via a side road, after which he completely lost contact.
But at the last moment, the sergeant changed his question.
They also received a notification from the Navy. In this desperate morning when everyone knew that "Operation Dynamo" was over and the last British destroyer on the breakwater had already weighed anchor, those of them who stayed behind to cover the retreat all tacitly agreed to a "rule":
Top aristocratic families like the Sterlings, who could even claim kinship with the Windsor royal family, must have already returned to England through some special channel. They should be sitting in their mansion in Mayfair right now, reading the newspaper and lamenting the deteriorating war situation.
After all, pieces are meant to be sacrificed, while players are meant to retreat.
So the sergeant abruptly changed his tune, his tone carrying a sense of awe for the "class privilege" that he took for granted, as well as a hint of regret that the other person was still in hell: "—We thought you had already retreated. After all, all the ships had left."
"I'm sorry to disappoint you, Sergeant."
Arthur returned the same crisp Guards salute. He wasn't angry at the other man's offense; instead, a self-deprecating smile played on his lips. "The Germans are still eating our dust. As for me? I thought the beaches of Dunkirk were too crowded, so I brought some people back to check out the scenery here."
"Come back—and take a look?" The sergeant paused for a moment, then understood the meaning in Arthur's eyes.
"Don't just stand there like an idiot."
Arthur stepped forward, straightened the sergeant's slightly tilted peaked cap, lowered his voice, and solemnly promised, "Pack your bags, Sergeant. Notify your platoon, and the others. Sharpen your bayonets."
"Of course I'm not back to die with you. I'm here to take you home. Everyone, take your gear and retreat."
Upon hearing the word "home," the sergeant's Adam's apple bobbed violently. It was a tremor of sudden relief, like grasping a rope in despair.
"Yes, sir!" the sergeant roared, his eyes reddening, but he quickly regained his composure. "But—whose orders are we supposed to take?"
"Who's in command now?" Arthur asked the most crucial question.
"It's Major Hawke, sir!"
The sergeant pointed to the dilapidated spire at the end of the street: "Neither the regimental headquarters nor Colonel Harrison have any news."
The sergeant's voice lowered as he pointed to the dilapidated spire at the end of the street, his tone uncertain: "We haven't been able to contact the regimental headquarters since communications were cut off a few days ago. Major Hawke is currently commanding the entire regiment in the basement of St. Nicholas Church. He's the highest-ranking officer among us, although one of his hands—"
The sergeant paused, his eyes dimming for a moment—a mixture of heartache for his superior's injuries and worry about the uncertain future: "But he's still holding on. As long as he's here, our battalion's flag will still fly."
Arthur nodded.
Edward Hawke, the battalion commander and his senior at Eton College. The man who once ran like a lion on the cricket field was indeed a tough nut to crack.
"Hawk? I understand."
Arthur adjusted his gloves, his gaze fixed on the smoke-filled horizon, but then, as if remembering something, his tone suddenly became as calm as if he were beginning to read a prepared obituary: "While I don't know where the regimental headquarters is, I do know about our brigade commander, Colonel Harrison—"
He paused, looked into the sergeant's expectant eyes, and decided to extinguish that illusory and pitiful hope in a dignified way.
Although deep down he had no affection for Colonel Harrison, who was trying to send him back to London like a deliveryman; in his view, the so-called "protection" was nothing more than currying favor with the Sterling family.
But he disdained to cover up his death with lies.
That is deceiving the living and disrespecting the dead. Regardless of what deals were made with one's family in life, giving colleagues a dignified farewell when death comes is the most basic courtesy of a gentleman. Of course, the matter of birth is another matter.
"I'm sorry, Sergeant."
Arthur removed his gunpowder-stained peaked hat, tucked it under his arm, and bowed slightly. It was a very brief, yet impeccably fitting, gesture of mourning: "In the monastery west of Azhebrew—we encountered the German Stuka."
He raised his head, his tone calm, as if stating a fact he had long accepted: "Although I'm not sure if God favored him at that moment, he left decisively."
"Like a true guard, I didn't suffer much."
In just two short sentences, the fate of that colonel brigade commander was sealed.
There was no excessive sentimentality, nor any gory description. On this morning when even survival required luck, "not suffering" was the highest praise a soldier could receive.
The sergeant's body stiffened abruptly, the last glimmer of hope in his eyes extinguished, replaced by a desolate stillness.
He didn't cry, not even his eyes turned red. He just clenched his teeth tightly and straightened his spine, which belonged to the Imperial Guard.
Sadness is a luxury that can only be enjoyed in times of peace.
Here, the only way to commemorate the dead is through revenge.
Looking at this classical scene before him, Arthur could only laugh.
If this loyal sergeant knew the truth—if he knew how Colonel Harrison, who usually presented himself as kind and respected to his soldiers, had, in his final moments, acted like a shrewd businessman, trying to persuade Arthur to abandon these "lowly soldiers" and escape alone by ship back to London to preserve his so-called "noble bloodline"—
His expression must have been even more complicated.
But Arthur had no intention of popping this beautiful bubble.
Some lies are told to uphold the faith of the living; while some truths are more valuable to keep to oneself than to speak them aloud.
Just before getting into the car, Arthur's gaze swept over the other man's boots again—they were dusty but still gleaming—and he nodded in satisfaction: "Good boots, Sergeant. Keep it up."
"Don't let German blood taint it."
"Yes, sir!"
Under the sergeant's watchful gaze, the convoy continued its journey, its tracks crushing the bricks and stones on the ground, and finally came to a stop in front of the St. Nicholas Church (Sint-Niklaaskerk) square in the center of Flne.
This Gothic cathedral, originally built in the 12th century, has also met its demise. A corner of the massive bell tower was chipped off by a shell, and all the stained glass windows were shattered, like blind eyes staring at the square.
This is the command post of the 1st Battalion of the Cold Creek Guards Regiment, which is also the temporary headquarters of the entire regiment.
Several Bren gun vehicles covered in camouflage netting were parked in the square, along with the only remaining Ordnance QF 2-pounder anti-tank gun.
Its shield is painted with five striking white kill bars, clearly indicating that this is a well-traveled and "veteran soldier".
On the French front in 1940, this was probably one of the few hard currencies in the hands of the British Army that could send chills down the spines of German armored troops.
Compared to the 37mm thin toothpick in the hands of the Germans, which was jokingly called a "door opener" and only made a sound when it hit a tank, this 40mm caliber British product was simply a brutal industrial can opener.
Its solid armor-piercing projectiles possessed formidable muzzle velocity and kinetic energy. At a typical engagement range of 500 meters, it could easily tear through the frontal armor of German Panzer III and even early Panzer IV tanks.
Those five white bars are the best proof—meaning that five unfortunate German crews, thinking their armor was indestructible, were sent to meet their maker by this gun.
"Sir, I'd like to stay here for some fresh air."
As soon as the car came to a stop, McTavish adjusted his tactical vest and said, looking at the familiar foxholes around the square, "The air here smells much better than in the basement."
Arthur glanced at the seasoned veteran, a knowing smile playing on his lips.
"Alright. Go catch up with your old friends. Tell them we're not here to beg."
Arthur straightened his belt and, accompanied by Major Ryder and two communications soldiers, strode toward the heavy oak doors of the church.
Behind him, McTavish remained in the square.
The Scotsman leaned against the track of his half-track, pulled out an unopened pack of Lucky Strike cigarettes from the pocket of his tactical vest, tore open the foil, and the sound of his knuckles tapping the bottom of the pack was particularly crisp in the early morning.
"Click".
The lighter had barely lit up when several dark figures surrounded it.
There were seven or eight veterans crouching in the bunker. They were wearing standard British combat uniforms, with casualty stripes on their sleeves symbolizing their veteran status.
"Oh my, look who's here?"
A voice rang out, thick with a Birmingham accent and undisguised mockery, "Isn't this our Second Battalion's infamous 'solitary confinement regular,' the Scottish Mad Dog McTavish?"
The speaker was a sergeant major with a large beard, holding a dirty enamel cup filled with black tea that was as dark as soy sauce.
"I heard that to avoid being wanted by the military police, you went to work as a nanny for that famous playboy?"
The bearded sergeant walked up to McTavish, scrutinizing his oddly shaped tactical vest and the German-made MP40 submachine gun hanging on his chest with a critical eye: "What, working under that young master Sterling, you can't even afford a decent Enfield? You have to scavenge German junk?"
A low, muffled laugh rippled through the crowd.
This is the norm in the military. Those who stay behind look down on those who desert, and regular troops look down on ragtag troops. In their eyes, although McTavish also came from the Cold Creek Guards, now that he was hanging out with a nobleman's son known for "playing horse racing and sleeping with actresses," it was simply self-degradation.
McTavish was certainly not angry, nor did he need to be.
He didn't even lift his eyelids, but simply took a deep drag on that expensive American cigarette, and then slowly exhaled it towards the bearded man's mocking face.
"Old Harry, your mouth still stinks. Just like your socks that haven't been washed in three months."
McTavish tossed the freshly opened packet of Lucky Strike over to him.
The bearded man instinctively caught it, and after seeing the logo on the cigarette pack, his eyes lit up—in those days, American cigarettes were hard currency, more valuable than bullets.
"Oh, looks like that young master gave you quite a bit of good treatment." The bearded man skillfully pulled out a hair and tucked it behind his ear, his tone softening slightly. "Since you're here, find a place to lie down. But I must warn you, there's no champagne or caviar here, and nowhere to change your young master's diapers."
"I heard he trembles at the sound of cannon fire?" a younger corporal interjected, his tone full of curiosity and disdain. "I read in the newspaper that the Sterlings are good at spending money, but they can't even cock their guns properly."
"diaper?"
McTavish laughed when he heard that.
He laughed so hard his shoulders were shaking, then threw the half-smoked cigarette butt on the ground and crushed it out with his mud-covered boots.
"Come with me."
McTavish turned around and waved to the two Matilda tanks parked at the entrance to the square.
He walked over to the tank called "Avenger" and patted its rough cast armor.
"Open your dog eyes and see what this is."
The bearded sergeant leaned closer for a look, then snorted, "Tch, just a bite taken from the Germans' 37mm 'knock-on' (a type of armored vehicle). Even my grandma's dentures could leave a deeper mark. What does that prove? That this junk hasn't fallen apart yet?"
"That's right, it really is just a scratch mark."
McTavish nodded, his eyes suddenly turning fierce and murderous: "But do you know why we changed to this car?"
He suddenly turned around and grabbed the tarpaulin from the back seat of his half-track vehicle.
With a "whoosh".
The mountain of spoils was exposed to the morning sun.
It wasn't gold or silver treasures, but something that shocked all the soldiers—bundles of German M24 long-handled grenades, several brand-new MG34 general-purpose machine guns, and on top of them, several officers' peaked caps that had been flattened.
The bearded sergeant picked up a hat casually. His hand trembled slightly when he saw the silver key on the cap badge and the double lightning bolt insignia on the collar tab.
"The SS—Leibstandarte SS Adolf Hitler?"
The bearded man gasped. As a veteran, he knew one thing very well: it was better to fight against the better-equipped and more heavily armed armored division of the National Defense Army than to provoke this group of mad dogs with double lightning bolts on their collar insignia.
On this battlefield, one could surrender to the Wehrmacht, but usually only death awaited the SS.
"We wrecked a French B1 heavy tank in Berg. It was a big guy, but unfortunately it couldn't move anymore."
McTavish's voice rose and fell, as if he were recounting something that even he himself found frightening: "Just two days ago, Major Arthur led us and ran into this bunch of lunatics."
"Without support, without heavy artillery, he led us straight into the German headquarters."
McTavish drew the captured Luger pistol from his waist; it was a finely crafted officer's sidearm, with the original owner's name even engraved on the grip.
He skillfully twirled his gun, then pointed the dark muzzle at the young corporal who had just spoken rudely, startling the man into taking a step back.
"Kid, do you know who owns this gun?"
McTavish said grimly, "It was an SS battalion commander. The major led us into their headquarters and captured him. It was fucking thrilling."
"Guess what that playboy did with the prisoner in the end? Did he hand him over to the military police?"
Should we invite him for a cup of tea?
McTavish shook his head, a chilling smirk playing on his lips.
He pointed to the tightly closed church door behind him: "Major Arthur had someone find a rope, and in front of the whole city, he personally executed that SS captain—"
McTavish made an upward lifting gesture: "He was kicked down and hanged on the city wall."
"And our B1 was also scrapped during the retreat from Berg."
The entire room fell silent.
This was more convincing to the soldiers than any claim that their tanks had withstood an 88mm gun. Because withstanding an 88mm gun required luck, while personally executing SS officers required a brutal savagery even more ruthless than that of the Nazis.
The veterans looked at each other. The initial disdain and mockery in their eyes were being replaced by a chill.
Although everyone has always taken a "half-believing, half-believing" attitude towards McTavish, the group's well-known Scottish alcoholic.
But the evidence presented before us cannot be faked.
The finely crafted Luger pistol engraved with the name of an SS officer couldn't be faked; the flattened peaked caps with badges of skulls or keys couldn't be faked; and the broken windshield of the 251 half-track couldn't be faked either—all of those things were looted from the Germans.
This team doesn't smell of defeat.
Veteran's eyes are sharp. Those fleeing for their lives only complain that their belongings are too heavy, wishing they could throw away even their water bottles, like those routed soldiers; only those prepared to kill will act like greedy robbers, wishing they could empty the German arsenal.
These guys are clearly the latter.
Everyone's gaze involuntarily fell upon the tightly closed church door.
Behind that heavy oak door, the name that once only existed in the gossip section of the Daily Mail, providing London ladies with fodder for afternoon tea conversation, the "playboy" always associated with horse racing and female celebrities, suddenly lost its frivolous glitter in their minds.
Instead, it presents a chilling, predatory face.
A nobleman who dared to hang SS soldiers on the city wall.
This sounds more reassuring than any grand statement.
That figure was no longer the young master in a tuxedo, holding champagne at a ball.
Instead, he was a madman covered in blood, standing on the corpses of SS soldiers, laughing and joking in a scene of carnage.
McTavish holstered his Ruger pistol, looked at his stunned comrades, and coldly added the final blow: "Compared to him, I think that regimental commander who only knows how to recite orders and shout for cover when bombed is like a woman who only knows how to embroider."
"In this damned place, gentlemen can't save us."
McTavish patted the bearded man on the shoulder and grinned. "But a butcher can."
Meanwhile, at the entrance to the church's basement.
The air here was much colder than outside, and Arthur immediately smelled the faint scent of blood in the air.
Arthur stepped down the stone steps, one by one.
On the walls on both sides of the staircase, rows of portraits hung. Some were tilted due to the tremors, and some had shattered glass frames, but they still stubbornly remained hanging there.
Those are portraits of the successive battalion commanders of the Cold Creek Guard.
From the 17th-century Roundheads wielding matchlock guns, to the Duke of Wellington's men in scarlet uniforms at the Battle of Waterloo, to the ghosts in gas masks amidst the mud of the Somme.
Three hundred years of war history are displayed in this basement, which could collapse at any moment.
Even in this desperate situation where they were on the verge of total annihilation, this army did not abandon their ancestral tablets. They even assigned a guard to stand at the top of the stairs to wipe the dust off these portraits.
"What a bunch of adorable lunatics."
Arthur stopped in front of a portrait of the unit's commander during the Crimean War. The man in the portrait had an arrogant look in his eyes and a hint of disdain for death on his lips.
Arthur looked at the portrait as if he were looking in a mirror.
He could feel the monster called "ambition" awakening within him.
In the face of this industrialized war that often involves millions of troops, the so-called "soldiers" are essentially just a series of cold statistics on the staff's operational map, expendable supplies that can be sacrificed at any time.
As long as the British Empire's conscription system continues to function, and as long as eligible men in the country are not all dead, those recruit training camps can, like an assembly line factory, continuously turn farmers and workers into sandbags to fill trenches.
Although the expeditionary force in 1940 numbered only 400,000, most of them were professional soldiers of the British Empire.
They treated war as a craft and killing as a job.
And the three million Allied troops who landed in Normandy four years later? The vast majority of them were just armed civilians in military uniforms.
For those mass-produced cannon fodder, as long as they can survive the first week in the mud and learn not to wet their pants when they hear the sound of cannons, they are already considered qualified "veterans".
Especially this unit in front of us.
This is an army that cannot be "mass-produced".
This is not simply a collection of human heads, nor can it be armed by simply issuing a few Enfield rifles. This is a spiritual totem forged through three hundred years of blood and fire, built from the skulls of countless predecessors.
From the day General Monk established his legion, to the phalanx at Waterloo, and then to the mudflats of the Somme.
This is a force called "tradition".
It is invisible and intangible, yet it can make these people, when faced with certain death, willingly fight tanks with bayonets just to avoid tarnishing their cap badges.
This was the private property of the British Empire, and also the most expensive bargaining chip in Arthur's eyes.
If he could control this force, if he could make these arrogant imperial guards completely devoted to him—
So when he returned to London, to Westminster, a place rife with political intrigue and power struggles, this army was his strongest trump card, the "sword of kings" in his hand.
Arthur reached out and gently straightened the crooked portrait.
"Don't worry, everyone."
He muttered to himself in the empty stairwell, "Now that I'm here, the history of the Cold Creek Guard will not end today."
"It will only find a more interesting owner."
He turned around and continued down the steps. The sound of his leather boots on the stone steps echoed in the narrow space, like the heavy beat of war drums.
The basement door was right in front of us.
A dim kerosene lamp shone through the crack in the door, and the faint crackling of a telegraph machine could be heard.
Arthur straightened his collar, making sure every button was fastened, and then pushed open the door.
[Current Location: Temporary Command Post of the 1st Battalion, Cold Creek Guards Regiment]
[Area Characteristics: Hold the Line (Morale is locked, will not collapse due to casualties)]
[Personnel quality: Extremely high (all veterans, 80% of the personnel are elite soldiers)]
[Commander Status: Major Hawke (Seriously Wounded/Weak/Awaiting Replacement)]
Lines of green data appeared on Arthur's retina.
He saw the person lying on the cot in the center of the room.
Major Edward Hawke.
He was not only Arthur's senior at Eton College, but also the undisputed "King of Balls" during the pre-war London social season.
If you were to open the social section of The Times in 1938, or if you were lucky enough to peek into the diaries of those young ladies from Mayfair who were just entering the world of fame and fortune, the name Edward Hawke would appear far more frequently than any other cabinet minister at the time.
Like Arthur, he was also a predator at the very top of this ancient class system.
After all, it's hard to find a name in the Coldstream Guard's long officer roster that doesn't have blue blood flowing in its veins.
This is a place that looks not only at military rank and seniority, but also at family tree.
Here, the so-called "class difference" does not refer to the chasm between nobles and commoners, but merely:
Is your family crest a hereditary duke dating back to the time of William the Conqueror, or a "country gentleman" with only a few thousand acres of land in Yorkshire and a few dozen servants?
It's just a difference between high-ranking nobles and low-ranking nobles.
For someone like McTavish, who relies purely on seniority, reaching the rank of sergeant Dangdang is basically the limit.
At this moment, the former darling of the ball lay on a blood-stained cot. His left arm was gone, the severed area wrapped in thick bandages, still oozing blood. His face was as pale as a sheet of paper.
Nevertheless, he still maintained his last shred of dignity.
His orderly had just shaved him and combed his hair meticulously. To his right lay the famous Webley Command Revolver, muzzle pointing outwards.
Hearing the door open, Hawke turned his head with difficulty.
When he saw that the person was Arthur, a very complex smile appeared on his bloodless face. It was a smile of surprise, relief, and above all, a tacit understanding between kindred spirits.
"Arthur Sterling?"
Hawke's voice was soft, sounding somewhat unsteady due to blood loss, "I heard a new batch of people came here—I didn't expect it to be you."
"No one but the Sterlings would drive a convertible around the battlefield."
Arthur walked to the bedside, took off his dirty gloves, and grasped Hawke's cold but intact right hand.
"You look terrible, Edward. You looked much better when we met at the Savoy Hotel."
"Yes—back then I still had two hands, and I could still hold a champagne glass."
Hawke gave a bitter laugh and tried to sit up, but the intense pain made him gasp.
"Don't move," Arthur said, pressing him down. "Save your energy."
Hawke took a few breaths, his gaze passing over Arthur's shoulder to Major Ryder behind him and the empty doorway.
"If you've come to save us, Arthur, you're too late."
Hawke's gaze fell on the radio control unit that was still emitting a faint electrical hum.
The communications soldier was sweating profusely, his fingers frantically tapping on the transmitter, trying to call Dunkirk, Dover, or even any friendly unit he could hear.
But the only response he received was the rustling sound from his headphones, as silent as the Dead Sea.
The radio wasn't broken, and the phone line wasn't disconnected, but no one was answering the phone anymore.
He turned his head and looked at Arthur, his eyes filled with a profound desolation. Arthur, of course, understood what had happened.
Just two hours earlier, Lord Gott's headquarters sent a final "good luck" telegram to everyone before cutting off the signal.
"We are an island, Arthur."
"As for the First Brigade?" Hawke gave a bitter laugh. "That designation no longer exists. Or rather, Flney is now the entire First Army, and the final battlefield for all of us."
"There are probably still more than three thousand people crammed into this city—the remnants of the First Brigade, scattered artillerymen, and lost engineers."
Hawke pointed to the ceiling, as if he could see the carnage through the thick concrete slabs: "But that wasn't the army, that was just three thousand lambs to the slaughter. The only ones who could still grip a rifle and weren't scared out of their wits by the German bayonets were me and these few hundred fools who didn't want to leave."
At this point, Hawke looked at Arthur, a hint of tragic resolve in his eyes: "If you've come to take my place in death, then you're most welcome. The scenery here is nice, and the graves are ready—we can pick the spot closest to God."
Arthur did not answer immediately.
He looked around the dimly lit basement.
Looking at the staff officers silently cleaning their weapons, looking at the communications soldier who was still unwilling to give up and trying to catch a trace of the motherland's voice in the static, looking at the picture on the wall that had been scribbled all over with red and blue pencils...
A map representing the defensive zone surrounded by death.
This was the last backbone of the British Empire.
Even when interrupted, it refused to bend even an inch.
"I'm not here to die, Edward."
Arthur turned around and walked to the map.
He pressed his finger heavily on the red circle representing Ferné on the map, then whirled around: "I'm not here to save you either."
He doesn't need those three thousand burdens; he only needs this sharp knife.
"I'm here to take over the inheritance."
Arthur walked up to Hawke, looking down at his former senior. In those deep blue eyes, Hawke saw neither the frivolity of a "playboy" nor the panic of a defeated soldier.
What he saw was an ambition only born conquerors possessed, a cold indifference that would mortgage one's soul to the devil in order to win.
Tell me, senior.
"After weeding out those screaming trash, how many capable fighters are left in the First Battalion—our true Coldstream Guard? How many unbroken bones remain?"
Hawke was stunned.
He had a feeling: this person wasn't here to be buried with him, he was here to turn the tables.
He took a deep breath and straightened his back with all his might—even in his hospital bed.
"Of the three infantry companies, two are still in ruins. B Company has lost more than half its strength, while C Company remains intact. Heavy weapons are almost gone, with only a few anti-tank guns and mortars left."
Hawke glanced at the portraits of past battalion commanders on the wall, a proud smile curving his pale lips: "And we still have these 582 lives, a few boxes of grenades, and—"
"And the Cold Creek Guard's three hundred years of honor."
Arthur smiled.
That was the first genuine smile he showed after entering the basement.
That's enough.
Arthur drew his sidearm—a revolver—from his waist, weighed it in his hand, and then looked at Hawke: "For the Cold Creek Guard, death is just another form of changing of the guard."
"Tell our soldiers to tie their ties properly and polish their boots."
"Because next, we're going to take the Germans to hell for a dance. I don't want them to embarrass the Cold Creek Guards when they meet Satan because of their disheveled appearance."
That's all for today. Take a rest tonight.
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