As the sun set, the war-torn town of Abbeville was enveloped in a melancholic crimson hue. Located over a hundred kilometers north of Paris, it was a vital stronghold at the mouth of the Somme River. In late May, fierce battles erupted between the French forces and the formidable German armored divisions, particularly the Kleist armored group. Despite the involvement of a substantial number of British air forces, they suffered heavy losses to the German onslaught. With the German flag waving atop the city walls, the retreat route of the 300,000-strong Anglo-French coalition was cut off, leading to the commencement of the brutal Battle of Dunkirk a few days later.
With the restoration of food supplies, some restaurants reopened their doors. Moreover, with the partial lifting of restrictions by the lenient German city defense commander, the French were able to gather briefly at taverns after a day of hard work.
Ding dong...
As the door opened, the bell rang crisply. The overcrowded restaurant had hardly any empty seats left. When people noticed that the newcomers were three Germans dressed in gray uniforms, their badges indicating they were from the Waffen-SS, the atmosphere chilled to freezing point.
"Three glasses of brandy, no poison!" The burly and handsome leading German, carrying two leather bags, attempted to be humorous with a shout to the waiter behind the counter. However, his words immediately attracted many wary glances, and the air seemed to be filled with grinding teeth.
"It seems the French are not very friendly, huh?" The tall German soldier behind him, also of imposing stature, spoke in German, but given the geographical proximity and historical connections between Germany and France, there were many who understood each other's languages.
"Yeah, it's completely different from the atmosphere in Paris! Why did we come here to invite trouble?" The last German soldier, slightly slender but still almost six feet tall, grumbled in what seemed like a Southern German accent.
The atmosphere remained tense until the not-so-young or good-looking waiter walked over to take their order. Only then did the restaurant regain some semblance of noise, and several individuals who didn't want to sit with their arch-enemies—or didn't want to trouble themselves—promptly got up and left.
"A bottle of brandy, three glasses, with ice! And a serving of lamb chops, a bowl of mushroom soup, and a fried egg!" The leader spoke in imperfect French.
"No ice, no lamb chops, only bread, mushroom soup, and fried eggs!" The waiter glanced at his insignia—it seemed he was a Waffen-SS corporal.
The Germans seemed prepared, as they placed their leather bags on the table. With a thud, they revealed the texture of meat inside.
"There are fresh lamb chops inside, fried with your finest red wine!" he said arrogantly.
"I'll have a chicken soup, do you have chicken soup?" asked the equally tall soldier, sporting a private's badge.
"Yes!" The waitress replied impatiently, probably muttering something like "chicken butt soup" under her breath.
The last German to enter was just a private, and he spoke in German, saying, "Onion soup, smoked meat, surely you have that!"
Translated by the corporal at the front, the waitress, without even looking up, wrote on her notebook, "Yes!"
"That's all, hurry up with the food!"
The officer then took out another leather bag. Opening it, he revealed a large loaf of white bread, contrasting with the black bread resembling stones on the other tables.
As the waitress left with the beef and lamb chops, the Waffen-SS private muttered in German, "I hate it when inspectors come. The camp turns into a prison, not even allowed to drink!"
The private first class chimed in, also in German, "Indeed, we should have brought our own booze. These small taverns never have good wine and brandy!"
The corporal joined in, also in German, "Don't worry, the French surely have the best preserved wine cellars amidst the war!"
The other two laughed together, and naturally, the surrounding people cast another round of hateful glances.
The three engaged in some mundane conversation until the waitress brought the brandy and the deliciously grilled lamb chops, nonchalantly chewing amidst the curious gazes of the others.
After three rounds of drinks, the somewhat blurry-eyed private said, "Karl, are you on guard duty tomorrow at the north end of the airport?"
"Yeah!" The private first class's face flushed red.
The corporal gloated, "Ha, you're in for it then. There aren't many trees there, and the cold sea breeze in the afternoon will make you shiver!"
The private shook his head, "Actually, I'm worse off. You know, the south end of the airport has been smelling awful lately. Anyone who spends a day there will be knocked out by the stench!"
The private first class squinted and said, "Hey, not only is it where they buried the French who died in the Battle of Abbeville, but I heard they also buried the sick and starving prisoners who died recently in the POW camp there! How could it not stink?"
"Shh..." the corporal gestured for him to lower his voice, then whispered, "Don't talk about this on French territory. Hey, let's keep our spirits up for tomorrow! Those guys barely escaped death last time, we can't afford any slip-ups this time! I heard... they're heading to England this time, planning to crush the Limeys in one fell swoop!"
"Oh, the Limeys can't handle it anymore. This punch should break their last rib and end this war sooner!"
"So, for the victory of the war..."
"To crush the Limeys..."
"For more living space... Cheers!"
After a full 40 minutes, the three Waffen-SS soldiers, their hunger sated and their thirst quenched, rode off on their military motorcycles with sidecars.
The tavern suddenly became bustling with chatter.
"They're from the Das Reich, the Reich division! I recognize that insignia!" said a middle-aged man, taking off his duckbill cap, with a distinct sunburn mark on his forehead.
Another slightly older man said, "Notorious unit, they've executed prisoners and civilians in Poland and France! They were among the first troops to enter Abbeville."
"The evil fascists, they should all be hanged!" the waitress cursed indignantly.
"I heard them just now talking about the airport and generals!" said a man who happened to be sitting at the table next to the Germans, "It seems some high-ranking Germans will be taking a plane to England from here tomorrow, not just arriving by car, but having the plane refueled here!"
"Generals? Which generals? Their Nazi leaders?" several young people asked eagerly.
"I don't know, they didn't say names, but with such a big fuss, it must be significant! They said they're going to crush the British in one go, could it be the German High Command?"
"The High Command? Those people have nothing to do with us, let them go!" the slightly older middle-aged man said.
"Let them go? Let them win this war and then rule us steadily? No, absolutely not!" the man with the sunburn mark on his forehead said angrily.
"Should we inform Casse and have him find a way to alert the British?" the waitress asked. Casse was the leader of the local underground resistance group.
Some agreed, while others thought they shouldn't provoke the Germans. But the man with the sunburn mark on his forehead finally said, "If there's going to be sabotage, let the British do it. If we meddle, we'll surely face German retaliation!"
At that moment, the stout owner of the tavern walked over and said, "Hey, don't do anything rash that'll cost you your life! Disperse, disperse, go home and hug your wives, and you single men, just cover your cups and go to sleep. It's almost curfew time!"
The crowd dispersed in small groups, while the owner called over his assistant and gave some instructions. The young lad, who looked about sixteen or seventeen, quickly blended into the crowd and walked away.
November 25, 1940, exactly one month before Christmas. Soldiers belonging to the Luftwaffe and the Waffen-SS Totenkopf Division, stationed around the military airport in Abbeville, were armed to the teeth. The long vigilance line left no blind spots and even had inner and outer layers. Under such tight defense, any idea of sneaking into the airport from the German vigilance line was unrealistic.
At 11:04 AM, under the escort of an entire squadron of Bf 109 fighters, a Ju-90 bearing the emblem of the German High Command smoothly landed on the runway of the airport, surrounded by numerous anti-aircraft guns. Before the war, this type of large aircraft had served as a luxurious passenger plane for Lufthansa, capable of flying directly from Germany to England. However, due to ongoing activity of British fighter planes in the airspace of southeastern England, after taking off from Berlin, this aircraft could only fly along the northern part of the European continent, making a wide detour.
After the plane came to a stop, the Luftwaffe soldiers quickly refueled it using an oil tanker. Throughout the process, aside from the flight attendants and ground crew who inspected the engines and fuel lines together, none of the passengers left the cabin. Instead, two German generals who had been waiting at the airport were summoned to board. An hour later, the squadron of Bf-109 fighters taking off from this airport replaced the escort fighters that had run out of fuel, and amidst a deafening roar, the massive but unsuitable-for-bombing four-engine aircraft restarted its engines and flew westward for several dozen kilometers before, under the protection of many escort planes, turning northwest.
Almost simultaneously, at Ipswich Battlefield Airport in northeast London, soldiers swiftly removed the camouflage netting from the Spitfire fighter planes. The overcast weather felt somewhat oppressive, yet it provided excellent cover for the attackers. Just a few days earlier, the air defense battle over Liverpool did not bring hope to the British high command—although the Royal Air Force achieved significant results at a small cost, the Luftwaffe still dropped a staggering number of bombs on Liverpool. The dock area suffered heavy damage, along with the John Brown Shipyard and Vickers-Armstrong Shipyard, two of Britain's oldest shipyards. This led to the urgent relocation of the HMS Duke of York, a battleship of the King George V class.
With the sudden acceleration of the German offensive, the entire United Kingdom fell into an unprecedented state of tension. It was precisely because of this that the British would not easily abandon any opportunity to change the course of the war. Whether on the front lines or in the enemy's rear, whether dealing with frontline soldiers or decision-makers in the rear, as long as they could achieve a breakthrough at some point, there was a chance to severely dent the Germans' originally high morale. More importantly, if they could disrupt German deployments to gain precious breathing room, then the once-distant hope would suddenly draw closer!