Chapter 8: The Acting Troupe

Although they had chosen a beach landing spot far from the channel, Logan and his paratroopers were still startled by the excited British soldiers on the shore, who were attempting to wade out to their boats. Out of instinct honed over time, the German paratroopers immediately aimed their rifles at the enemy. If someone had fired at that moment, bloodshed would have been inevitable. Fortunately, faced with the menacing barrels, the almost frenzied individuals halted their steps in the cooling seawater.

A middle-aged man, appearing to be an officer, stepped forward and loudly questioned, "Are you heading for the ship? Where is the ship? Can you make room for our wounded soldiers?"

Due to poor lighting and the disheveled appearance of the man, Logan couldn't immediately discern his rank. He holstered his gun and gracefully leaped into the waist-deep water, replying menacingly, "Boarding the ship? Can't you see that vessel? If you wish to become roast chickens, feel free to row our boat over!"

The "Black Elf" had long become a floating inferno—perhaps it was no longer even afloat.

Logan waved dismissively, "Leave the boat to them, brothers. Let's go! There are more important matters waiting for us!"

The British soldiers who had come ashore were all taken aback. In a situation where they were heavily surrounded on land and only had the sea as an escape route, the boat meant hope. Although these two wooden lifeboats couldn't row back to England, they would undoubtedly give them an advantage when a larger ship approached for evacuation!

The officer fell silent, and the surrounding British soldiers voluntarily made way, looking at this "British officer" with a Scottish accent and his similarly dressed soldiers in British Expeditionary Force uniforms as they waded ashore with immense respect.

After walking along the beach for a while, Logan finally breathed a sigh of relief. His feelings at this moment were probably akin to those of a lover who had hastily fled the scene after being caught cheating with a boxer's wife. However, the scene on the beach quickly dispelled his unnecessary thoughts. Despite the dim light, it was still possible to see the endless sea of people: a large number of disheveled British and French soldiers crowded the beach like vagrants, and with one bomb dropping, it might send dozens of unlucky souls to heaven. Anyone witnessing such a scene might think that the Allies were finished, but history had played a big joke; the Dunkirk evacuation was undoubtedly one of the greatest miracles of the war!

"Hey, buddy, where's the Allied command headquarters? I need to find it immediately!" Logan stopped a British officer wearing a lieutenant's insignia and asked.

"What? The Allied command headquarters? I don't know! Maybe it's still behind the German tanks!" The young but disheartened officer replied indifferently.

Logan asked several more people, both British soldiers and Frenchmen, none of whom knew whether their headquarters were still operational. However, they provided some valuable information: it seemed that there was some kind of headquarters in a castle on the outskirts of Dunkirk.

So, with his armed paratroopers, Logan continued toward the direction away from the beach. They asked as they walked, but not a single person inquired about their identities or intentions—faced with imminent danger, everyone seemed to be thinking about how to save their lives under the pressure of the Germans. As for the formalities of the past, they were probably less important than dog excrement now!

"Are you referring to General Gort and his headquarters?" A British sergeant, who seemed to have had a drink or two, reluctantly stopped and pointed northward, "That's not the Allied command headquarters; that's our Expeditionary Force command headquarters! See that oddly shaped castle on the hill? That's it! It's quite sturdy, very sturdy. No need to worry about Jerry's bombs!"

Suppressing a hint of excitement in his heart, Logan patted the man's shoulder and said, "Alright, thank you! You've done a service to the British Empire!"

The sergeant showed no signs of excitement, "A service? Ha, it'd be good if they could send me back to Britain soon! Damn war! Damn Jerries!"

"Don't worry, buddy!"

Logan couldn't help but mock inwardly: If the operation succeeds, not many of you will make it back to England. You'll all end up in Adolf Hitler's prisoner-of-war camps doing hard labor!

Walking through streets littered with collapsed houses, the group left the Dunkirk city area. The castle on the hill was clearly visible, but it was still quite far away. When they finally arrived, feeling a bit weary, they stood before the oddly shaped castle. Perhaps in the previous century or the one before that, it had played a role in repelling British naval fleets, but now it served as a temporary shelter for a group of British officers. The vicissitudes of history were truly thought-provoking!

A clean-shaven British captain stopped the armed group and, after asking their purpose, requested to inspect Logan's credentials.

Logan naturally pulled out the officer's ID forged overnight by the German intelligence department from his pocket. He wasn't sure if it would pass scrutiny, but at least his face should maintain the appropriate calm and a hint of anxiety.

"Major Robert Shute, Commander of the 2nd Battalion, Royal Scots Fusiliers?" This was said with a somewhat skeptical tone. In the British Army, many infantry units still used traditional designations, and it was clear that soldiers of the Fusiliers Regiment weren't going to war with old-fashioned flintlock rifles, just as the Rifle Regiment had long since switched to modern Lee-Enfield No. 4 rifles.

In his Scottish-accented English, Logan replied calmly, "Yes! I have an urgent matter to report to General Gort! It must be reported in person!"

"Follow me then!" said the captain, with Logan and his documents in tow, heading towards the castle.

Inside the castle, lights were on, and officers seemed to still be working late into the night. Logan glanced around the guard post; the guards had built two machine gun positions with sandbags, each containing a Vickers machine gun mounted on a high tripod, capable of attacking both ground and air targets.

Including the machine gunners, there were a total of five guards visible.

Two minutes later, the captain and another officer emerged from the castle.

"Major Robert Shute, I'm Colonel Staff Thomas Lingen from the Expeditionary Force Headquarters. What urgent matter do you need to report to Lord Gort?" This man had a worn-out complexion but bright, alert eyes, and his imposing demeanor surpassed even that of his captain colleague.

Logan deliberately spoke loudly, "The situation is urgent, and I must report to the General in person! It directly concerns the fate of over 30,000 British soldiers, and there's no time to waste!"

Even the guards on the other side of the gate cast curious glances.

The colonel gave Logan a displeased glance. "Then come with me!"

This was the expected situation. Just as Logan was about to follow the colonel inside, the earlier captain untimely interjected, "Major, please leave your sidearm behind!"

Without hesitation, Logan opened his holster and handed over the Webley-Scott revolver.

The performance wasn't brilliant, but at least it didn't raise suspicion. The German paratroopers, clad in British Army uniforms and adorned with the badge of the Royal Scottish Flintlock Rifles, silently stepped aside, ready to obey the orders of Acting Deputy Commander Lieutenant Brent Stephenberg at any moment.