lovenovelstory Chapter 6 The Last Cup of Earl Grey Tea
Chapter 6 The Last Cup of Earl Grey Tea
If the devastating air raid just now was the opening ceremony of hell, then now, the survivors are standing in the embers, facing the patient judgment of death.
The massive explosion sent up clouds of lime dust that hung like a filthy, corrosive fog beneath the monastery's shattered dome. The air was thick with the bitter, almond-like stench of dynamite residue, the earthy smell of bricks being ground into powder, and, most chillingly, the warm, metallic scent of blood.
Arthur stood before the half-built altar, his feet resting on a shattered piece of stained glass—it had originally depicted St. George slaying the dragon, but now the dragon's head was gone, leaving only a broken lance.
His uniform was no longer the noble khaki it once was, but a mottled dark red stained with blood, mud, and dust. Yet, he still pulled a once pristine white, now dusty linen handkerchief from the pocket of his tattered jacket.
He lowered his head and slowly wiped the silver tip of the ebony cane in his hand.
Once, twice, three times.
His movements were gentle and focused, as if he were holding not a blood-stained stick, but a fragile piece of porcelain fresh from the kiln.
This almost morbid "decency" seemed so out of place, even absurd, in this monastery filled with severed limbs and wailing cries.
However, the terrified soldiers around them, and the young lieutenants who were still crying and shouting, felt a strange sense of calm as they looked at their commander, who was still making the unnecessary gesture of "wiping his cane" amidst the destruction.
Fear is contagious, but so is calmness.
It's like seeing the captain calmly adjusting his tie on a deck about to capsize in a violent storm. It's a false sense of calm, but in that moment, it's a life-saving tranquilizer.
"Sir."
A hoarse voice, heavy with exhaustion, broke the silence.
Lieutenant Jeanne emerged from behind a pile of still-smoking rubble. Her oversized French M1938 double-breasted coat was torn in several places, revealing the wool lining underneath. Her face was covered in soot, like a cat that had crawled out of a chimney, and her once bright amber eyes were now bloodshot.
But she was tightly clutching the "Radio Station No. 11" in her arms.
This 20-pound device, known as the "iron brick on the infantryman's back," is the core of the British Army's company and platoon-level communications system. Its metal casing is scratched by shrapnel, and its once straight whip antenna is bent to one side, like a broken reed.
"Is it still usable?"
Arthur did not turn around.
His entire attention seemed to be focused on the silver handle of the ebony cane, as he repeatedly wiped a dried bloodstain with a handkerchief. His movements were gentle and focused, as if it were the only work of art in this broken world worthy of his attention.
This is obviously acting.
Only he knew that his left hand, gloved with a dirty glove, was experiencing an uncontrollable physiological spasm—a high fever damaging nerve endings, a precursor to sepsis caused by a wound infection, and a severe protest from his overworked body to his brain after the excessive adrenaline subsided.
Every muscle is screaming "lie down," and every nerve is craving morphine.
But he had to use this almost obsessive wiping motion to mask this fatal weakness.
He silently shifted his weight onto his cane, disguising his trembling as the languor of a nobleman. For he knew all too well that in this damned monastery, he was not merely a commander, but a living totem.
As long as Lord Sterling remains in power, and as long as he can still be picky about this "trivial" obsession with cleanliness, these easily frightened birds will feel that even if the sky falls, there's still a tall guy to hold it up.
"The vacuum tube is still lit, it's a miracle." Jeanne handed over the heavy headphones, her eyes filled with complex emotions. "But I spent ages trying to get it working, and I only managed to pick up a faint signal on the 4.5 MHz band. All the other frequencies were filled with the Germans' 'Erica March' and those damned surrender broadcasts."
Arthur stopped what he was doing. He stuffed the dirty handkerchief back into his pocket, took the headphones with thick earmuffs, and put them on one ear.
The headphones were filled with a cacophony of static, the white noise of radio jamming, sounding like thousands of flies swarming around inside a glass bottle. This was a common German radio jamming tactic, a rudimentary form of electronic warfare—using high-powered transmitters to play music or noise on British communication frequencies to disrupt the chain of command.
But behind that maddening noise, a man with a thick Yorkshire accent was roaring at the top of his lungs, his voice coming out intermittently, like a candle flame that might be blown away by the wind at any moment.
"...This is 'Hound'! Repeat! This is 'Hound'! We're in D4 zone! Requesting support! Damn it, even infantry will do! Can anyone hear us? Anyone will do!"
D4 defense zone.
Arthur's RTS mind quickly transformed this string of code names into precise coordinates on a mental map.
It was a gently sloping hill located two miles behind the monastery, controlling the main road from Azhebrook to the northwest, and the only way for them to retreat to the Azhebrook defense line.
If they get lost there, they'll really be put in cans.
Arthur took a deep breath and pressed the PTT (Push-to-Talk) button on the microphone. His voice instantly changed, no longer hoarse, but carrying a standard and arrogant aristocratic tone, as if he were reciting lines in a West End theater in London.
"This is 'Sunray' (British commander's code name). I am Major Sterling, interim commander of the 1st Guards Brigade. 'Hound,' reporting your situation."
The roaring on the other end of the radio abruptly stopped.
Then, a burst of ecstasy, like a drowning person grabbing a piece of driftwood, erupted, but this ecstasy lasted only half a second before being overwhelmed by a deeper despair.
"God! Finally someone answered! Sir, this is Captain Dawson of the 2nd Royal Artillery Regiment! We're finished! All finished!"
The artillery captain's voice was choked with sobs, and in the background came the muffled sound of an explosion—the sound of a 75mm tank shell hitting the ground.
"The German tanks are right under our noses! My forward observation post went silent two minutes ago! We only have two 25-pounder field guns still firing, but..."
"But what?" Arthur's eyes narrowed, and his fingers unconsciously tightened their grip on his cane.
"But we're out of armor-piercing rounds! We've even run out of high-explosive rounds! That damned logistics guy sent us a truckload of useless smoke grenades! I only have three shells left that can fire! Three! What are we going to use to fight the German tanks? Throw my boots at them?!"
despair.
This emotion spilled out along the radio waves, permeating the ruins of the monastery like poison gas.
The 25-pounder gun was the best field gun in the British Army during World War II, and remains the only support weapon capable of posing a substantial threat to German tanks. Its 87.6mm caliber, when firing armor-piercing or high-explosive rounds, was sufficient to penetrate the armor of a Panzer III tank at long range or stun its crew.
But without shells, it's just an expensive iron pipe.
The British company commanders standing next to Arthur—the only officers remaining after Colonel Harrison's death—heard the sound leaking from the earpiece, and their faces instantly turned ashen.
"Out of ammunition..."
A captain in a Scottish Highland regiment uniform covered his face in despair, his body sliding down the wall. "The retreat is cut off. The artillery is finished. We're surrounded."
"Let's break out separately!"
Another lieutenant, dressed in the uniform of the East Sari Regiment, even began to unbuckle his belt. It was a sign that he wanted to abandon his officer status; his fingers trembled as he fiddled with the buckle, his eyes unfocused and frantic.
"Dump the heavy weapons! This uniform will get us killed! Go find some French clothes, change into civilian clothes... If we can blend into the refugee camp, maybe..."
His voice was sharp and urgent, like a rusty saw severing the last nerve of "discipline" among the surrounding soldiers.
Several sergeants who were initially hesitant began to look around, and their hands unconsciously loosened their grip on their weapons.
Panic began to spread like a plague. It was a poison more deadly than mustard gas. The morale that Arthur had just painstakingly built up began to crumble in the face of this cruel reality and the temptation to survive.
In the RTS view, the blue bar representing the morale of friendly forces is visibly plummeting and is about to bottom out and turn red.
"Shut up."
Arthur coldly uttered two words.
But the lieutenant, already in a state of hysteria, couldn't hear him at all. He had already loosened his belt and was preparing to take off the uniform jacket that represented the dignity of a British officer.
"Don't be silly! If you don't want to die, then..."
boom!
A gunshot rang out, short, muffled, and without warning.
The lieutenant's voice abruptly stopped.
A dark red, round hole appeared between his eyebrows. His eyes widened, seemingly not understanding what had happened, before his body fell straight backward, crashing heavily onto the dusty floor. His half-undone belt hung loosely on his corpse, like a comical joke.
Smoke rose slowly from the muzzle of the Webley revolver in Arthur's hand.
There was no heated argument, nor any righteous warning.
Execute them directly.
A deathly silence fell over the monastery. The suffocating panic was abruptly cut short by the gunshot. All eyes, filled with terror and awe, were fixed on the noble major who still held his gun at the ready.
Arthur lowered his gun expressionlessly, not even glancing at the corpse on the ground, as if it were just a bag of trash that had accidentally fallen to the ground.
He took out a handkerchief and gently wiped the gun barrel, which was not stained with blood. Then he raised his eyelids, and his gray-blue eyes showed no emotion, only a chilling metallic quality.
"Is there anyone else who wants to 'retire' from the military?"
The voice was so calm, as if asking who wanted tea.
"According to wartime regulations, anyone who deserts in the face of battle or incites a rout shall be executed immediately."
He stepped over the corpse and walked up to the sergeants who had just been about to discard their weapons. The men trembled in fear, almost instinctively gripping their rifles tightly and straightening their backs.
"This lieutenant has made the choice for you—he didn't want to fight with dignity, so I'm helping him make a dignified exit."
Arthur put away his revolver, picked up the microphone again, and instantly switched back to his previous calm and arrogance, as if the killing had never happened.
"Now, does anyone still have questions about my orders?"
No one spoke. Only the sounds of rapid breathing and the pulling of gun bolts filled the air.
In this ruin, the cold-blooded, mad nobleman before them seemed more frightening than the Germans outside.
On this battlefield on the verge of collapse, fear often maintains order better than hope.
Seeing that morale was improving, Arthur stopped focusing his attention on them.
He closed his eyes.
In that instant, the noisy world vanished. In its place lay a cold, precise, and brutal tactical map in my mind.
RTS God's-eye view activated.
His consciousness, like an eagle soaring at an altitude of ten thousand meters, instantly rose to the sky above Azhaibruk.
The gray and white lines on the retina quickly formed a complete picture of the battlefield.
The blue dot representing the "Hound" artillery position was flashing wildly at the edge of the map, appearing isolated and helpless. Around it, and directly in front of the monastery, large patches of red were spreading like cancer cells.
Arthur focused his attention on the streets surrounding the monastery.
The fog of war was forcibly dispelled.
He could clearly see that the German army had completed a textbook blockade at the three main street intersections less than 500 meters from the monastery.
Those were not ordinary German infantrymen.
Their collar insignia and sleeve patches were highlighted in the system, embroidered with the letters "GD" in cursive script—Gross German Infantry Regiment (Infanterie-Regiment Großdeutschland)!
Oh shit.
Arthur's heart sank, sinking all the way down to his stomach.
As a seasoned keyboard warrior who frequented various military history forums before his transmigration, he knew all too well what the term "Greater Germany" meant.
In the endless debates about the fighting capabilities of the German army in World War II, when people relish discussing how fierce the "Big Three" of the Waffen-SS—Totenkopf, Wiking, and Das Reich—were and how they could take on an entire Soviet army group single-handedly, they often overlook a force that stood at the top of the Wehrmacht's hierarchy of contempt.
That was the Great German Division.
That monster that, in the later stages of the war, was disguised as an "Armored Grenadier Division" but was actually a "Super Armored Division."
Arthur vividly remembers those stifling organizational charts: after Kursk, the unit's luxurious equipment was an insult to other German units. They possessed an independent Tiger heavy tank battalion and a fully-equipped Panther tank battalion, whose firepower and armor thickness even surpassed those of Hitler's SS favorites.
And now, standing in his way is the juvenile form of this monster—the Großdeutschland Infantry Regiment.
Even so, these were elite troops selected from all over Germany, the face of the Wehrmacht, and the prototype of the future steel monster.
Fate played a cruel and cruel joke on Arthur.
In countless simulation games and mental dramas, he had fantasized countless times about commanding this elite force clad in silver-gray uniforms, driving Tiger tanks to crush everything in their way.
That's the ultimate dream for every German football player.
But reality slapped him hard in the face: Yes, your dream has come true, you have finally met this legendary army.
However, you're facing the guns of their guns.
Holding a single-shot Enfield rifle, he led a group of terrified British farmers and Scottish drunkards to confront this future legend.
This isn't just hellish difficulty, this is a death trap.
From Arthur's omniscient perspective, this elite force is indeed demonstrating their breathtaking tactical prowess...
Three infantry squads had already occupied three high points on the front of the monastery. Three MG34 general-purpose machine guns were mounted at the corners of the second-floor windows and the ruins, forming a crossfire network with no blind spots.
This former "Hitler Chainsaw," with a rate of fire of up to 800 rounds per minute, was slightly inferior to the 1200 rounds of the backup MG42, but for infantry without any armor protection, it was essentially no different, and was a highly efficient killing machine.
Behind the sandbags at the intersection, there is a low-profile 37mm anti-tank gun (PaK 36), which is jokingly called a "door knocker," but it is more than enough to deal with trucks and people.
Even at the street corner behind him, Arthur spotted an SdKfz 251 half-track armored vehicle warming up its engine, ready to support an infantry charge.
This explains why Colonel Harrison was in such a hurry to run away—the old fox may be stupid, but his survival instinct was right.
This place is simply undefendable.
Although the battlefield was chaotic, filled with blind shooting and disorderly running, for Arthur, who was well-versed in the entire history of World War II, the course of this game was clear enough to make him despair.
At the edge of his RTS radar, those densely packed red dots were not just simple infantry units; they represented an unstoppable historical torrent.
Although the "Gross German Infantry Regiment" in front of them was fierce, they were at most the first wave stirred up by this torrent, the first jab thrown by Heinz Guderian, who was known as the "father of Blitzkrieg".
This is Guderian's 19th Panzer Corps.
It was the elite of the German armored forces, the scalpel that tore open the heart of France.
Behind the "Grossdeutschland" regiment, deep within the fog of war undetected by radar, lurks a true Leviathan—the 10th Panzer Division.
It was a steel behemoth with hundreds of Panzer III and Panzer IV tanks. At this very moment, the vanguard of that division was probably already refueling the tanks through the breach opened by the Großdeutschland Regiment, preparing to launch a final, thunderous attack.
If we don't take advantage of this brief window of opportunity—while the monster is still adjusting its posture and only the vanguard infantry has arrived—to slip through the smoke and break out, then in half an hour the main force of the 10th Panzer Division will crush us...
This is no longer a battle, but an industrial crushing defeat.
Arthur glanced at the dozens of wounded soldiers around him, each armed with an Enfield rifle.
Using this bunch of routs who can't even muster enough anti-tank grenades to stop Guderian's armored corps? It's as ridiculous as trying to stop a tsunami with a soaked toilet paper.
"We have to go. Before this monster fully opens its mouth."
At the same time, Arthur noticed some subtle but crucial changes in the tactical interface in his mind.
With his earlier "killing the chicken to scare the monkey" shot on the ruins and his forceful takeover of command of more than a hundred fleeing soldiers, the "command radius" determined by the system experienced an explosive increase.
Yesterday, when he was only with McTavish and his five men, his God's-eye view was limited to a tactical area of one kilometer in radius—at best, a "platoon-level urban warfare view."
Now, with his official activation of the "2nd Battalion Commander" authority and the legal gathering of this remnant force, the fog of war has been forcibly pushed back, and his reconnaissance range has instantly expanded to three kilometers—a standard "battalion-level operational field of vision."
But this did not make him feel relieved; instead, it made him see his own "death star" more clearly.
In the RTS interface, despairing data bars appear above the heads of both sides: troop strength (HP) and morale (Morale).
Arthur glanced at the remaining British soldiers beside him.
The blue health bars above their heads were mostly broken yellow or even dying red—meaning the unit was in a "disorganized" state and under the negative buff of "extreme fatigue/injury." The morale bar, representing fighting spirit, had barely recovered a little thanks to the earlier speech, but it was only hovering on the edge of "wavering" and "collapse."
The system even thoughtfully provides a comprehensive combat capability rating:
[British Temporary Mixed Battalion] Strength: 128 men (incomplete) Equipment: Primarily light weapons, heavy weapons missing. Overall Combat Strength Rating: 23/100 Status Assessment: A group of frightened birds with sticks in their hands; immediate withdrawal from the battle is recommended.
Then, Arthur turned his gaze to the red square on the other side of the fog—the Großdeutschland Infantry Regiment.
The data there was absolutely astounding.
Each red dot has a nearly full green health bar. Their morale is locked at a "Fanatic" level, and they even have a series of buffs such as "Elite Training," "Mechanized Coordination," and "Blitzkrieg Boost."
[Grossdeutschland Infantry Regiment (Advance Company)] Strength: 180 men (full-strength reinforced company) Equipment: Mechanized, heavy firepower configuration (machine guns/anti-tank guns/half-tracks). Overall combat strength rating: 95/100 Status evaluation: The Empire's war machine, capable of crushing three times the number of enemies.
"23 to 95..."
Arthur felt a sourness in his teeth.
It's like driving a nearly scrapped tractor and crashing it into a brand-new Tiger tank.
In any properly balanced RTS game, the only advice for this kind of data comparison is to "type GG and surrender".
But this is reality. There are no save/load saves, no surrendering.
"If we don't want to be ground into mincemeat by this 95-point meat grinder, we have to make good use of this one and only three minutes of smoke."
Arthur withdrew his gaze, forcibly suppressing the fear in his heart caused by the overwhelming disparity in combat strength.
We have to leave. Before the monster fully opens its mouth.
unless……
Arthur's "gaze" pierced through the smoke of the battlefield and once again fell upon the artillery position known as "The Hound".
He focused his gaze on the piles of ammunition next to the gun positions, as if he were checking unit inventory while playing Company of Heroes or Wargame.
Captain Dawson was right; the yellow ammunition boxes for high-explosive (HE) rounds were empty. The black boxes for armor-piercing (AP) rounds were also empty.
But to the side and behind those two 25-pound cannons, among a pile of supplies hastily covered by camouflage netting and clearly rejected by the artillerymen, Arthur spotted several crates painted with a distinctive grass-green mark.
The system label lit up instantly:
Ordnance QF 25-pdr Smoke Shell (Base Ejection) - 25-pound base-launched smoke grenade
Quantity: 40 rounds
Those were auxiliary munitions used to cover infantry charges and obscure the enemy's vision during attacks. These shells were filled with white phosphorus or smoke-generating agents, and upon impact, they would not produce lethal fragments but would only emit thick smoke.
In this kind of defensive warfare where the defender is on the defensive and needs to kill the enemy and stop the tanks from advancing, these non-lethal shells are usually considered garbage, or even worse than garbage—because they would block the defender's own view.
"Rubbish……"
Arthur opened his eyes, a crazy, almost neurotic smile curving his lips.
To ordinary people, it's trash. But to him, who has a "God's-eye view," it's the key to unlocking life, a cheat code in the real world.
Because the red dot marker in the RTS view is perspective.
The smoke could blind the Germans and block the scope of the MG34 machine gunner, but it couldn't block the system's judgment frame.
"Captain Dawson."
Arthur pressed the call button again, his voice no longer hoarse, but restored to that reassuring, cold calm.
"Listen, I'm going to give you coordinates. 150 yards in front of the monastery's main gate, at the intersection with the fountain. Fire all your shells over here."
"All of them?" Captain Dawson on the other end of the radio clearly thought he had misheard, or that signal interference had caused a misjudgment. "Sir, I told you, I only have smoke grenades! Those are base-ejection smoke grenades! What's the point of firing them? To give the Germans fireworks?"
“Exactly,” Arthur said coldly. “I want you to fire all the smoke grenades at that intersection. I want it to turn London into a foggy city in a minute.”
"This is absurd!"
Before Dawson could answer, the Scottish captain named McDonald, who was standing next to him, finally couldn't help but jump out.
He grabbed Arthur's arm in terror, trying to stop the madman from giving the order to commit suicide.
"Are you insane, Major Sterling?! We're on the defensive! We're surrounded!"
Captain McDonald's voice was shrill and almost shrill, and his spittle almost landed on Arthur's face.
"Smoke grenades are used by the attacking side to obscure their vision! If you put smoke in front of the defensive line, you're blocking our own line of fire! Our riflemen won't see anything! The Germans will take the opportunity to sneak up and stab us in the stomach with their bayonets!"
The captain pulled a crumpled booklet from his pocket; it was the British Army's Field Regulations. He waved it as if he were waving a Bible.
"This violates all the principles of the Infantry Manual! In defensive operations, line of sight is life! You're helping the Germans!"
The captain's screams echoed through the ruins, causing a commotion among the surrounding soldiers.
Yes, this doesn't make sense. This is definitely suicide.
Even Sergeant McTavish, a staunch supporter of Arthur, frowned. As a seasoned veteran, he knew all too well what losing sight in a defensive battle meant—it was a one-sided massacre.
He silently replaced the expensive Thompson M1928 submachine gun in his hand with a new 50-round drum magazine, but his eyes were full of doubt.
Arthur did not shake off the captain's hand.
He simply turned his head slowly, staring coldly at the other person with his gray-blue eyes, which appeared exceptionally bright and even somewhat eerie due to the high fever.
That look in his eyes was like looking at a cockroach crawling on a dining table—a mixture of disgust and pity.
"The Infantry Drill Manual?"
Arthur chuckled softly, his voice filled with disdain for dogmatism.
He reached out, pinched the booklet in the captain's hand between two fingers, pulled it out gently, and then tossed it into the nearby fire like trash.
The flames instantly engulfed the dogma.
"That book is written for the sergeant majors sitting in their Whitehall offices drinking tea, Captain. On the battlefield these days, its only use is in case you run out of toilet paper."
Arthur abruptly shook off the captain's hand, straightened his crooked collar as if it were the most important thing in the world.
He looked around at the questioning eyes and decided to teach them a lesson.
"Use your pig brains to think."
Arthur pointed in the direction of the monastery gate.
"The Germans' MG34 machine guns were right there on the street corner, staring at our teeth. They had crossfire, anti-tank guns, and half-tracks. And what did we have? A few dozen Enfield rifles and a few submachine guns."
"If we rush out now, we'll be riddled with bullets before we even see the Germans' faces. Visibility? That's superfluous for us now, because the Germans have far better vision than we do!"
"If we don't blindfold them, we won't even have a chance to surrender and raise the white flag; our hands will be broken."
Arthur picked up the microphone again, and this time, his tone carried an undeniable killing intent—the will of a dictator.
"This is an order from the Guards Command, 'Hound.' Forget the damn manuals. If we're all dead in five minutes, your artillery positions will be next."
"Set the fuse to instantaneous. Rapid fire in three minutes. I want to see the London fog reappear in France. Shoot them all out, leave none behind!"
"implement!"
Arthur hung up the phone and tossed the receiver back to Jeanne.
Jeanne took the microphone and looked at him. An unusual light flickered in her amber eyes.
As an intelligence officer, she understood the insane plan—this British madman intended to drag the Germans into a chaotic quagmire while everyone else went blind.
But the problem is...
"How do you plan to fight?" Jeanne asked in a low voice, in a tone only the two of them could hear. "We can't see anything in the fog."
Arthur turned his head, looked at her, and smiled slightly.
"I have my ways, Lieutenant. In this world, some people see the way with their eyes, while others..."
He pointed to his temple.
"...It's used here."
He's taking a huge gamble.
He gambled that his RTS view could penetrate the white phosphorus smoke, and that the damned system's detection wouldn't be affected by physical obstruction. If he lost the gamble, they would be like a swarm of headless flies, crashing into the German machine guns.
But his face showed not a trace of hesitation. One of the essential lessons for nobles is to pretend they have a flush, even when they're dealt a bad hand.
"Sergeant."
Arthur's fingers, gripping the cane, were slightly white, a result of his injury.
"Yes, sir." Sergeant McTavish, though still having doubts, chose to obey.
"Take your men and fix the bayonets."
Arthur drew his MP40 submachine gun from his waist, pulled the bolt, and inspected the weapon, which did not belong to the British army.
"Also, take the safety off your Thompson. It's a good gun, a bit heavy even though it's an American-made one, but at this zero-visibility distance, it's the best broom."
Click. The crisp, pleasant sound of the bayonet locking into its slot echoed through the ruins.
The sergeant turned around and gave a sinister smile to the trembling recruits behind him—including Jenkins, who was gripping his rifle tightly.
"Did you hear that, boys? Follow the lord."
The sergeant lowered his voice, his tone as if he were imparting some kind of survival secret.
"If you get lost in the fog, don't panic. Just listen for someone speaking German, or smell sauerkraut..."
He patted the Thompson submachine gun in his hand, the heavy barrel making a dull metallic clang.
"...Just fire in that direction. God will take care of distinguishing friend from foe."
Just then, a sharp whistling sound came from the distant sky.
That was the sound of a 25-pound shell cutting through the air.
"The show is about to begin," Arthur whispered.