novelAbuy Chapter 98 The Audience of the Gods
Chapter 98 The Audience of the Gods
Chapter 98 The Gods' Audience (Long Chapter, Bonus Chapter)
June 6, 1940, 21:00 (Central European Standard Time). 77 Wilhelmstrasse, Berlin, Third Reich. New Reich Chancellery, Führer's Office.
This grand building, designed by Albert Speer, was originally intended to overwhelm visitors with its immense scale. But tonight, this vast emptiness amplifies a dangerously potent acoustic effect.
"Snapped!"
A crisp cracking sound echoed through the 400-square-meter office lobby, the sound waves striking the marble walls and producing a series of unsettling echoes.
A valuable Bohemian crystal paperweight engraved with the imperial eagle emblem was slammed to the ground by a wolf.
It didn't shatter into pieces; instead, the immense kinetic energy directly transformed it into countless shimmering powders and sharp fragments, which splattered across the red granite floor.
The man with the mustache stood in front of the huge, custom-made European strategic map table.
He stood with his back to the door, his hands resting on the edge of the table. General Keitel and Major General Jod I, standing behind him, could clearly see that the Führer's left hand was trembling violently and uncontrollably behind his back.
Those were early pathological signs of Parkinson's disease, the result of the degeneration and death of dopaminergic neurons in the substantia nigra of the midbrain. But at this moment in the Imperial Chancellor's Office, this trembling was interpreted by everyone present as a pure, tangible rage.
The air in the office seemed to freeze. Only the clock on the wall ticked mechanically, each second a countdown.
"What is Rommel doing?"
The little mustache's voice was initially very deep, like air being squeezed out from deep within his chest.
But he whirled around, his face pale, his eyes bloodshot. That suppressed low voice instantly transformed into his signature roar: "What the hell is Rommel doing?!"
The roar startled General Keitel, who instinctively shrank back, nearly dropping the battle report folder he was holding.
The man with the small mustache strode up to the two men, spitting almost onto the face of the Chief of the Supreme Command of the French Armed Forces: "That's the 7th Armored Division! That's my Ghost Division! The elite troops that cut through French lines on the plains of northern France just two weeks ago!"
The mustachioed man's fingers trembled violently as he pointed to Abbeville's location on the map: "Now you're telling me, this steel torrent was stopped by a ragtag British army? By a hastily assembled bandit force that even had to steal anti-tank guns?!"
This is not the whole story of Little Mustache's anger.
He might be furious if it were just a tactical defeat, but he would never feel humiliated.
After all, they had just been badly bitten by the British Matilda tanks in the Alaska counterattack two weeks earlier.
For the Third Reich's armored groups, which possessed thousands of tanks, the loss of thirty-odd tanks was merely a negligible number in the battle damage report. Even if it were only the 7th Panzer Division, such a loss would be insignificant. As long as Rommel gave the order, they could continue to launch an armored offensive and tear through the defenses of the 51st Hill Division.
What truly stung the former artist's sensitive nerves was not the burning steel wreckage.
Rather, it was the intelligence report detailing the British unit's camouflage.
"They were wearing SS uniforms—"
The mustache's voice suddenly dropped, becoming cold and neurotic: "Arthur Sterling. That Englishman, he not only blocked my army. He's mocking me."
The little mustache's voice suddenly became low and deep, not only losing its previous roar but even turning into a neurotic muttering.
He began pacing rapidly back and forth in front of his desk, his trembling left hand gripping his belt tightly, as if desperately trying to suppress some murderous impulse.
"That's the Guard Flag Guard—the uniform belonging only to the purest Aryan blood. Each one is custom-made. It's a symbol of honor."
He suddenly stopped, staring blankly into the void, as if he could see countless invisible hands trading in that air: "Where did they get these? Hundreds? Thousands? It's impossible to gather so many just by stripping dead people of their clothes."
"Could it be that there's a problem with our logistics? Or is it—"
The man with the small mustache suddenly turned his head, a hint of suspicion flashing in his eyes. He glanced warily at Keitel and Yodl's pale faces: "Are there rats in Berlin?"
"Was someone in the Quartermaster General's office selling the Empire's face to the British for a few ounces of gold? Was there some betrayal outside this room that I hadn't noticed?"
This illogical paranoia sent chills down the spines of the two generals. But within the Führer's closed-loop logic, it all made perfect sense.
"No matter where it came from—it's unforgivable."
The bearded man's breathing became increasingly rapid, and the anger at the defilement of his "work" once again overwhelmed his suspicion: "He skinned my proud Guardsman and put it on his filthy Scottish soldiers. He used my 88mm anti-aircraft guns—masterpieces of Imperial Industry—to slaughter my tanks."
"This is a ridiculous parody. This is a desecration of the Third Reich."
For Little Mustache, this symbolic insult was far more disgusting than the loss of an armored regiment. He could not tolerate his elite troops becoming props in the hands of the British, mere background figures in an absurd drama.
Dr. Joseph Goebbels, the propaganda minister who had been standing in the shadow of the huge red velvet curtain, took a small step forward.
His deformed right foot made a slight scraping sound as it dragged across the floor.
"My Führer," Goebbels' voice was gentle and rational, attempting to calm the Führer's anger, "we can suppress this news domestically. We can claim it's a false report fabricated by British intelligence. After all, the Somme battlefield is still within our control, and there are no third-party journalists present."
"blockade?"
The bearded man suddenly turned his head, his blue eyes fixed on Goebbels, filled with disappointment and contempt for his loyal subordinate.
"Didn't you listen to the radio, Doctor?"
The man with the mustache pointed to the radio on the table: "Churchill has already broadcast it to the world on the BBC! He told every single detail! How Sterling broke through the lines, how he used our cannons, how he humiliated Rommel!"
"Now even the headquarters in Tokyo, the White House in Washington, and even the Kremlin in Moscow know!"
"If we block the news now, we are telling the world that the Third Reich is lying and covering up its defeat."
The little mustache walked back to the map.
His fingers finally stopped trembling. He stretched out his right hand and, with his long-nailed index finger, fiercely poked at the black dot in Abbeville. His fingernail tore through the drawing, leaving a deep scratch on the spot where the French town was located.
"Since he wants to be a hero."
The man with the mustache's lips twitched, revealing a chilling smirk: "Then grant his wish. Let him be a martyr."
He turned to Yodl and issued the "Abbeville Extermination Order," which would be repeatedly mentioned in later military history: "Send a telegram to Rommel immediately. If that doesn't work, send it to Hoth. Tell them I will not accept any excuse for a tactical retreat, nor will I accept the nonsense of regrouping the offensive."
"Get that Sterling alive. I want to take him back to Berlin, set up a gallows in the Great Deutsches Place, and let all the citizens of Berlin watch him struggle like a dead dog."
"If you can't catch him alive, destroy him."
"Mobilize Hermann Göring's air force. Use Stukas, heavy bombs, and large-caliber artillery. Bomb every inch of Abbeville, Le Havre, and that damned High Ground Division into scorched earth."
"I want to turn the Somme into a graveyard for the British again. This time, there will be no tombstones."
15:00 PM (Eastern Time). Washington, D.C., 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. The Oval Office, White House.
Afternoon sunlight streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows, filtered by the heavy curtains, forms beams of light in the air, creating a Tyndall effect effect. Blue smoke swirls and curls within these beams.
President Franklin D. Roosevelt (FDR) sat in his specially made wheelchair with a tartan wool blanket covering his knees to conceal his legs, which had atrophied and deformed due to polio.
But in this room, no one paid attention to those legs. All eyes were fixed on the urgent intelligence summary that had just arrived from the London embassy in his hand.
Roosevelt removed the Camel cigarette from his lips and exhaled a puff of smoke.
He looked up and, through his frameless pince-nez glasses, gazed at the tall figure standing by the window.
"George."
Roosevelt's voice carried a hint of inquiry: "Regarding that story just broadcast in London—that British Colonel Sterling. Putting aside the political propaganda element of that fat man Qiu, from a professional point of view, is what he did feasible from a military science perspective?"
Army Chief of Staff General George Marshall turned around.
This meticulous and aloof professional soldier had a furrowed brow at this moment. He was also holding the same report in his hand, on which the line "88mm anti-aircraft gun direct fire" was heavily marked in red pen.
"Mr. President."
Marshall walked to the European theater situation map on the wall, picked up his baton, and pointed to northern France: "If I were a tactics instructor at West Point, I would give this operation a zero and recommend that the commander be sent to a mental hospital."
"From the perspective of the tactics manual's logic, this is insane."
Marshall's voice was calm and objective, devoid of any personal emotion: "He went deep behind enemy lines alone, without any air cover, logistical supply lines, or even intelligence support."
"And what's even more interesting is that he was trying to operate the enemy's complex weapon systems. The 88mm Flak 36 isn't a rifle you can just pick up and use. It requires precise ballistic calculations, complex fuse settings, and an extremely high level of coordination."
"If any link goes wrong, such as a breechblock malfunction, an optical sight misalignment, or if Rommel's armored forces reacted three minutes faster—this force would be crushed in an instant."
"Using the enemy's weapons to fight the enemy is a brilliant idea in theory. But in practice, it is usually tantamount to suicide."
Marshall paused for a moment.
He put down his baton and his gaze fell on the name on the report—"Arthur Sterling".
His usually icy tone underwent a rare, subtle shift, revealing a barely perceptible respect between soldiers: "But regardless, Mr. President, he did it."
"This is an undeniable fact. He not only survived, but also dealt a heavy blow to the German aces."
"This proves a crucial point: the British army's 'bone density' is harder than we thought. Although Dunkirk was a strategic disaster, as long as they had officers like these, and the will to launch a counter-offensive in dire circumstances, Great Britain would not surrender in the short term."
"They won't kneel down as easily as the French."
Roosevelt nodded.
He stubbed out his cigarette in the crystal ashtray, a glint of shrewdness flashing in his eyes. It was the keen insight of a politician when he saw a turning point in the game.
"Then it seems my judgment was correct."
The president reached out and placed the battle report on the table.
Below the battle report was a draft document entitled "Lend-Lease Bill (Draft)".
Confidential documents (Draft).
Prior to this, the document had been shelved due to opposition from congressional isolationists. Roosevelt had been hesitant, wondering if sending guns and cannons to the British would ultimately become spoils of war for the Germans.
But now, the sound of cannons fired by Arthur Sterling on the banks of the Somme dispelled his last doubts.
"This investment is not just throwing money away."
Roosevelt's fingers tapped lightly on the cover of the draft document, the sound particularly clear in the quiet office: "Since the British are still fighting, since they still have this 'Lone Star' burning brightly."
"Then we'll send them torches."
"George, notify the Ordnance Department. Compile a list of the 50 old destroyers in stock, along with that batch of Enfield rifles. We need to prepare for shipment."
22:00 (Moscow time). Moscow, Soviet Union, Red Square. General Staff Building of the Soviet Army, Office of the Inspector General of Armored Forces.
There are no cigars here, only "Mahe tobacco" and black tea.
General Georgy Zhukov sat behind the desk piled high with drawings and documents.
At this time, he was not yet the marshal he would become, but as the Soviet army's most knowledgeable expert in armored warfare, he did not focus on the rhetoric about "courage," "freedom," or "dignity" in Churchill's broadcasts.
To a pure materialist, those are all abstract superstructures.
His gaze, like a vernier caliper, precisely locked onto the data regarding "physical penetration" in the intelligence.
"88mm Fl36/37 — Armor-piercing capped round — Penetrates the surface armor of a Panzer IV tank at 1000 meters — Causes secondary explosion —"
Zhukov looked at the technical analysis briefing sent by the intelligence officer, his thick fingers slowly moving between the lines of data, finally stopping at a line of text: "Direct fire anti-tank effectiveness: Excellent."
He was lost in thought.
At this time, Soviet tank design was still in the exploratory stage. Although the new T-34 tank had been finalized and entered small-scale production, it was still equipped with a 76mm L-11 gun. In the wider force, T-26 and BT series tanks, equipped only with 45mm guns, were prevalent.
"The German anti-aircraft guns actually have this kind of anti-armor potential."
Zhukov looked up at the trembling technical officer standing to the side: "Comrade Ivanov, what about our anti-aircraft guns? How does the ballistic performance of that newly commissioned 85mm M1939 anti-aircraft gun (52-K) compare to the German 88mm gun?"
The technical officer immediately stood at attention and quickly opened the data manual in his hand: "Very close, Comrade General. In fact, on some parameters such as muzzle velocity and projectile kinetic energy, our 85mm gun is even slightly superior to the German 88mm gun."
"very good."
Zhukov nodded, picked up the clumsy fountain pen, and wrote a line in his notebook:
[Urgent Recommendation from Guan Gan on the Vehicle-Mounted Development and Anti-Tank Effectiveness of the 85mm Anti-Aircraft Gun]
"Now that the British colonel has proven that this path is viable, we cannot fall behind."
Zhukov closed his notebook, his eyes hardening: "Establish a dedicated research group immediately. Send letters to Kotin and Morozov."
"If the German tanks continue to increase their armor thickness, we need a weapon that can, like Colonel Sterling, crack a turtle's shell at a distance of 1500 or even 2000 meters."
"I don't want a day when German tanks are charging at the gates of Moscow, and we have to steal enemy artillery like that Englishman did."
At this time, Arthur was unaware that his tactical adventure in Abbeville had inadvertently accelerated the birth of another steel monster thousands of kilometers away.
Guided by that document, the T-34/85 project, which was originally scheduled to begin in 1943, was launched ahead of schedule in the summer of 1940. This red tank, equipped with an 85mm high-pressure cannon, would emerge two years earlier than the historical timeline, becoming the gravedigger that would later bury the Nazi empire.
But one thing is fair—for every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction.
The wheels of history not only shifted here, but also leaped forward a step.
At the same time Zhukov gave the order, several blueprints for Guan Qian's heavy tank were urgently retrieved from sealed archives at the Krupp factory in Essen, Germany, and the Henschel headquarters in Kassel, Germany.
Now that the British have proven that the 88mm gun can be fired horizontally, the Führer's crazy idea of "putting the 88mm gun in a rotating turret" is no longer just wishful thinking.
A monstrous project codenamed "VK45.01" is being forcibly accelerated in the rage of this night.
The "Tiger," which was originally going to remain asleep for a long time, is about to open its bloodthirsty eyes prematurely because of Arthur Sterling's kick.
June 6, 1940, 22:00 (Greenwich Mean Time), London, England, Whitehall basement, Cabinet War Room.
The air here is still murky. But the atmosphere has subtly changed.
The telephone rang incessantly, and staff officers ran through the narrow corridors carrying documents.
Winston Churchill had just returned from the broadcast. He stood before the enormous world map, a perpetually burning cigar between his fingers, enjoying the compliments of the new First Lord of the Admiralty, Alexander, and the Imperial Chief of the General Staff, Lord Ironside.
Sudden.
The heavy, rust-resistant, explosion-proof steel door was pushed open.
The word "push away" here is not a literary embellishment.
There was no knocking on the door, nor any announcement from the guards.
Even the two royal military police officers at the door, who were usually responsible for blocking all non-cabinet members, subconsciously took a step back and gave a standard royal salute when they saw the newcomer.
An old man walked in.
He wore a sophisticated, dark gray, Savile Row, bespoke three-piece suit. The collar was crisp, and half an inch of pristine white shirt peeked out from the cuffs. The cufflinks were two dull obsidian stones.
He held an ebony cane in his hand, the top of which was a roaring lion made of pure silver.
His hair was silver-white and meticulously combed. In his breast pocket was a white silk handkerchief folded into a perfect triangle.
In this underground operations room filled with ink stains, messy documents, and anxiety, his appearance was like a classical oil painting forcibly hung on a cement wall riddled with bullet holes.
Out of place. Yet possessing absolute dominance.
The moment he stepped into the room, the previously noisy staff headquarters fell silent.
The typist stopped typing, and the communications soldier covered the microphone.
Even Lord Ainside, the Imperial Chief of Staff, subconsciously straightened his body, adjusted his top button, and bowed slightly in greeting.
Because the visitor was Archibald Stirling, the fourteenth Earl of Stirling.
This name represents more than just a noble title.
He represents the board seats of Vickers and Armstrong, representing the old families in the House of Lords who still wield the invisible power of the British Empire.
And now, more importantly, he is Arthur's father.
Churchill put down his whiskey glass.
His signature, bulldog-like, tough smile softened slightly. He took two steps forward and adopted a serious expression with a hint of awe.
"count."
Churchill's voice rang out in the quiet room: "You've come at the perfect time. Did you hear the broadcast just now? Your son—Arthur—has performed a miracle. He is the pride of the Empire."
The old count did not respond.
He didn't even look at Churchill's outstretched hand.
He walked with steady steps, his handmade leather shoes making a clear, rhythmic tapping sound on the marble floor.
"Tap, tap, tap."
He walked straight to the huge battle map. His gaze passed over all the markings representing legions and fleets, landing directly on that small circle on the northern coast of France—Abbeyville.
He stood there and stared for a full ten seconds.
For those ten seconds, no one dared to speak.
Then, he slowly turned around. He placed his hands on the silver lion head of his cane and looked calmly at Churchill.
Behind that calm lay a sense of oppression accumulated over centuries by the elite nobility. It was a power that didn't need to be expressed through roars.
"Winston, we've been friends for thirty years. So I don't need to say anything formal."
The Earl of Stirling spoke slowly, but everyone instinctively looked at the old man: "My son has indeed not disappointed the British Empire. He has not disappointed His Majesty the King. And of course, he has not disappointed me, his father."
"You've made him a global hero. That's great."
The Earl nodded slightly, clearly satisfied with Churchill's arrangement: "This will help boost the low morale at home. I also understand that you need this political bargaining chip to ask Roosevelt and those shrewd American businessmen for money, or to humiliate that short Frenchman Renault who only wants to surrender."
At this point, the count suddenly paused.
His body leaned slightly forward, and a cold glint flashed in his grey-blue eyes, which were exactly the same as Arthur's.
That's the look that only appears in the eyes of a hunter when he's hunting foxes in the Scottish Highlands, just before he pulls the trigger.
"But Winston."
"Heroes and martyrs may be separated by several pages in the dictionary. But on the battlefield, they are only separated by a fine line."
The count raised his cane and tapped it lightly on the marble floor.
"bite."
A crisp sound.
"If you're going to let him die there to make this political show go on to the extreme; if you're going to use his corpse to gain more sympathy from Americans—"
"Then I can assure you."
The Earl stared into Churchill's eyes, his tone still elegant, but the words chilling: "This wartime cabinet may face a very serious crisis of confidence. The Conservative Party's 1922 Committee may reconsider who is best suited to lead the country in this darkest hour."
This is a threat.
A blatant, undisguised threat, a political bayonet held to the prime minister's throat.
The staff officers in the operations room lowered their heads, pretending to read documents, barely daring to breathe. They were witnessing a power struggle at the highest levels of the empire.
Churchill's eye twitched.
He knew all too well the Earl of Sterling's capabilities. Without the Sterling family's production capacity in the military industry, and without his strong base of votes in Parliament, his position as Prime Minister, which had been in power for less than a month, could collapse at any moment.
Archibald.
Churchill pulled another cigar from his pack, using the act of lighting it to mask his momentary unease. He took a deep drag and exhaled the smoke. "You're overthinking it. Arthur isn't just your son; from tonight onward, he's the son of all England. More than anyone, I want him back alive. He's the flag, and the flag cannot fall."
"That's good."
Upon hearing this, Earl Sterling smiled slightly.
The suffocating sense of oppression vanished instantly, and he transformed back into the elegant, non-aggressive old gentleman.
He straightened the hem of his suit jacket, as if he were not the one who had just threatened to overthrow the cabinet.
"In that case, Winston."
"Then get the Royal Navy and Royal Air Force moving. Don't let those ships sit rusting in the harbor, and don't let those planes just circle over Kent."
The Earl turned and walked toward the door. As he passed the still-shaken General Ismay, he stopped and uttered his last words: "Bring my son, and those Scottish lads, back."
"Now."
Now I can ask for recommendations, monthly tickets, and tips with a clear conscience, please!
By the way: I caught a cold today and will be resting during the day tomorrow. I'd like to ask for leave from everyone and will update later in the afternoon or evening. That's all.
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