Time passed slowly, yet quickly at the same time, as battle after battle blurred together. Four days had passed since Paul had interrogated the prisoners, whose information had proved quite useful. Together with small pauses, the 7th and 8th Panzer Divisions under Erwin Rommel and Heinrich Jaeger had defied every logic and expectation. They arrived at the coast of the English Channel on the 3rd of June, two weeks after the beginning of the offensive.
Other Wehrmacht and SS units had advanced as well, closing in on a single location: the small city of Dunkirk. It had become the refuge for hundreds of thousands of soldiers. Trapped within were around 100,000 French and 150,000 British troops. The number was lower than in the original timeline, as Britain had not been as prepared as it was originally. The rest of the unfortunate souls were made up of Belgian soldiers, remaining stubborn despite the surrender of the Belgian King only yesterday.
Paul stood at the edge of a medium sized cliff, the English Channel's water crashing violently against the stones below. His gaze was fixed on the horizon.
"How are you going to handle this, Churchill?" he whispered, before turning away. His small group of tanks drove off slowly, their heavy tracks leaving deep grooves in the wet dirt.
London, somewhere underground
Clack, clack, clack.
The same sound echoed through the silent room over and over again. It came from a burly man walking up and down the length of the floor, his walking stick poking the ground in a steady rhythm.
"Incompetence."
"Neglect."
"Arrogance."
The last word was more of a whisper than anything else, yet the two men standing before Churchill heard it clearly.
"Sir, I admit we have underestimated the German Blitzkrieg, but..." an older man began.
"Blitzkrieg?" Churchill asked, stopping in his tracks.
"That is what they call the German tactics of utilizing fast armored units," the man answered promptly.
"Mhm," Churchill muttered, raising his pipe and taking a large puff.
"Tell me, General Ironside, since you are so smart. How are we going to get out of this misery you created?" Churchill asked, his voice rising, his eyes narrowing.
"A counterattack," Ironside whispered, receiving a skeptical gaze from both Churchill and the general standing beside him, General Lord Gort.
"A counterattack, you say? I am no General, sir, but you just briefed me on the disastrous supply of ammunition our troops have. Additionally, we have a significant lack of tanks compared to the Germans. Is that not what you told me yourself?" Churchill asked, stepping closer.
"If only we had better prepared," he added, whispering once again. "But Chamberlain, that fool..."
"Sir, our only option now is to evacuate. We simply cannot risk nearly our entire expeditionary force. These soldiers are the backbone of our army. If we lose them all, it would be..." General Gort began, his voice trailing off, his eyes filling with fear.
"Evacuation? That means France is lost, does it not?" Churchill asked, finally sitting down, sweat glistening on his forehead.
For a moment, there was only silence. Both generals were unwilling to answer.
"Bloody tell me!" Churchill shouted, his fist striking the table with a heavy thud.
"Yes," Ironside answered, his head tilted downward.
Churchill looked down for a moment, his forehead wrinkled. The weight of the world seemed to settle on his shoulders in the quiet of the bunker.
"Fine, fine. We cannot lose them. That is what you said, so we will evacuate them. But do we even have the capabilities for it?" Churchill asked, looking up again with a sharp, renewed focus.
"Well, not really. But we could use civilian ships as well. Then, perhaps, we have a chance," Gort answered. "And we would need every plane we can get to cover the retreat as best as possible."
Churchill looked at the two Generals before him with an expectant gaze.
"What are you doing?!" he shouted. "Go and organize it!"
"Yes, Sir."
"Yes, Sir."
Both answered in unison, quickly leaving the room.
"Why should I stay in this hole as well? It is not like the Germans are bombing London," Churchill muttered, grabbing his walking stick and following the two Generals out.
Hours later, Dunkirk
Explosions erupted virtually everywhere throughout the city and its surroundings. Most of them came from the sky, which was now blanketed by Luftwaffe planes. Black clouds of smoke burst between them. These stemmed from the anti aircraft guns the British had deployed across the area.
Then, another bomb was dropped. Its metal carcass whistled through the air as it fell rapidly downward. The houses grew larger and the faces of people below became visible for a split second.
And then
A deafening explosion erupted beside a British anti aircraft position. Soldiers screamed and coughed, choked by the rising dust.
"James! James!" someone shouted through the roar.
"Ahh, ahh!" Screams like this came from virtually everywhere. At least, that was how Michael perceived it. Slowly, he stood up. He looked down at his beige uniform and checked for any injuries.
"Hah, hah," he stammered. His breath came in quick, shallow gasps. He pulled himself up and began to walk. First he moved slowly, trying to orient himself, then more quickly, until he was running. He jumped over a row of sandbags, turned a corner and quickened his pace even more.
Suddenly, another shell exploded only meters behind him. It was artillery this time. The blast tore open the facade of the house he had been standing next to only moments before.
Michael looked back for a fleeting second. His eyes were wide with horror before he turned and started running again. A large group of soldiers stood before him, blocking the road.
"Hey, watch out, you twat!" one of them shouted, spitting on the ground. The man's accent sounded weird somehow, yet Michael continued. He adjusted his collar and scrambled up a small hill. He slowed his pace steadily as he arrived before a stony ruin. It was the remains of what had once been a castle.
"Hey!"
"Hey! Stop!" a soldier shouted, standing before the gate and holding out his hand.
"What are you doing here, Lieutenant?" the soldier asked, raising his rifle slightly.
"I have" he stammered, breathing heavily from the run. "I have orders for General Brooke." He continued, pulling an envelope from his breast pocket and holding it out to the soldier.
"Orders?" the man asked skeptically. After thinking for a moment and mustering Michael, he let him through.
Quickly, Michael made his way through the castle. He navigated narrow aisles filled with British officers. Some were wounded, leaning against the walls or sitting on the ground. Then he reached a large open space with a massive hole in the ceiling.
"They are still holding the line but..."
"General Brooke!" Micheal shouted, seeing the man with a group of officers.
All heads turned toward the young Michael, looking at him with skepticism.
"What is it?" Brooke asked, turning around.
"I have orders for you," Michael answered.
"Orders? What about Major Sheepstead?" Brooke asked, looking confused.
"He was" Michael paused. "Killed by a bomb."
Brooke sighed before stretching out his hand. Michael quickly handed over the paper. Brooke skimmed the lines before tilting his head upward suddenly. He looked through the large hole in the ceiling as small raindrops drifted through it.
"God has mercy on us, after all."
"Gentlemen, London has sent evacuation transports. They should arrive within the hour."
Some officers sighed in relief. Others tilted their heads toward the ceiling as well, watching the air battle raging above where British planes had finally arrived. Then suddenly all of them tilted their heads to the side, toward the direction of the entrance.
"Gunshots?" an officer asked, baffled.
Indeed, gunshots could be heard. They were muffled through the thick stone walls, but they were audible. Screaming and shouting followed.
"What is this?" Brooke asked, looking confused.
The officer from before shook his head. He walked toward the entrance, pulling out his pistol. Slowly, he turned around the corner. The others watched eagerly. They heard no more gunshots. For a moment, nothing happened. Then a single gunshot echoed through the halls, louder than the ones before.
The officers all tensed up. Michael had already moved toward the far end of the room. Slowly, all of the officers pulled out their pistols. Two guards who had been standing in the room raised their rifles as well, nearing the door.
Then came a damp sound. Something dropped and rolled slowly on the ground. One of the guards stepped onto something hard and looked down.
"Noooo!" he shouted. The explosion drowned his words. His body disappeared in the dust. The other soldier managed to lunge away into safety, trying to stand up again.
Then shouts erupted. They were not British. They were not French. No, they were German.
Soldiers kicked open the door and opened fire. The first attacker fell through the collective fire of the officers. They had searched for cover by flipping over a large wooden table. But more and more soldiers rushed inside. All were equipped with brand new German submachine guns and clad in beige British uniforms.
"Fire!" one of them shouted, presumably an officer.
The gunfire was intense. Several German corpses littered the floor, but groans of pain could be heard from those behind the table. At least from those who were still alive. Slowly, one of them raised his pistol into the air to surrender. Beside him lay General Brooke, bleeding from his stomach.
"What are you doing?" Brooke shouted, but he could not stop his officer. "Surrendering?!"
The officer shook his head before raising himself slowly from cover. His hands were high in the air.
"Drop the pistol!" one of the Germans shouted in English.
The officer obeyed and threw it behind him against a wooden crate.
What no one noticed was that the crate was not empty. Nor was it filled with equipment. A quiet, muffled breath came through the cracks. Michael pressed his hand against his mouth, trying not to go crazy. He watched as the German soldiers arrested General Brooke.
One of them was awfully familiar to him. It was the same man he had bumped into on his way here. The one who had called him a twat.
"Do you have no honour?!" Brooke shouted toward the Germans clad in British uniforms.
"Honour? What do you take us for? Aristocrats? We are paratroopers, not spoiled brats," the soldier answered, revealing his background.
Michael's gaze, through the small gap in the crate, moved to the pistol lying right before him. It was the weapon the officer had thrown away moments ago. His eyes portrayed a kind of desperate determination...
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100 chapters guys
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