Heading South, Not North

Tobias pushed open the glass canopy above the cockpit, and a gust of salty sea air rushed in. (This glider had been modified, after all—it had more than just the rear hatch. Ha!)

"Wow, what great weather!"

Although the sky was filled with thick clouds, there was still some light on the sea. More importantly, the usually fierce winds of the English Channel were nowhere to be found, and the rolling waves appeared unusually gentle.

"Quick! Inflate the raft!" Logan issued the order with a hint of nervousness, his eyes scanning the surroundings warily. Moments later, a dark shadow silently passed overhead, sending a chill down everyone's spine. Fortunately, Logan quickly realized it was one of their own. Under his watchful gaze, the DFS 230 light assault glider bounced a few times on the water before coming to a safe stop.

In no time, Logan's paratroopers had untied the large bundle fixed to the upper machine gun position and pushed it into the sea. A British-style inflatable life raft quickly took shape. Next, the paratroopers began transferring their equipment from the glider to the raft. Tobias was the last to leave the glider—as the pilot, he was responsible for opening a special valve at the bottom, allowing the glider to slowly sink into the depths.

"From now on, English only!" Logan solemnly issued the new command after everyone had transferred to the raft.

The soldiers picked up their oars and began paddling with effort. A few minutes later, the other glider also disappeared into the sea, replaced by an identical rubber dinghy.

The sea was calm, and after about the time it took to smoke two cigarettes, the two life rafts successfully rendezvoused.

"Everything's fine, no one's hurt!" Leutnant Lenz Steffenberg, the commander of the second assault team, reported in German.

"English! From now on, speak English!" Logan cautiously reminded him. He glanced at the pitch-black southern horizon. According to the original plan, the landing site was about 15 nautical miles north of Dunkirk. If they relied solely on manpower to row, it would take only five to six hours to reach the shore.

After bidding farewell to his glider, Tobias had been busy observing and calculating with his sextant. Logan finally couldn't help but ask, "Tobias, how accurate is that thing? Nautical miles?"

The sergeant put down his instrument and replied in English, "Sir, it can only give us a rough idea of our position. And from now on, please call me John. John Cork!"

"Alright," Logan said, slightly embarrassed. He turned to the other paratroopers and said, "Remember the names on your documents. Now, row south!"

The paratroopers took turns rowing in pairs. After nearly an hour, a faint orange light appeared in the distance, different from the starlight. It was just a sliver, like the first light of dawn in the east, but the compass clearly indicated it was to the south.

"Major, listen..."

The tall, lanky figure at the bow was Luftwaffe Private First Class Mark Ella, standing at 1.89 meters tall. Before the war, he had been a goalkeeper for a team in Munich. Logan had been passionate about soccer since middle school and had even been the "captain" of his class team, though his height had limited his prospects in the sport. Now, things seemed to have changed. Once the war was over, Logan might even be able to showcase his soccer talents again—after all, the total football tactics of the 1940s and 1950s would leave traditional teams in the dust!

In the air, besides the sound of waves and wind, there was another faint noise—like the drumbeats of an ancient battlefield or the distant rumble from beyond the horizon.

"Sounds like a ship... let's stop rowing!" whispered the Luftwaffe corporal sitting next to Logan. His full name was Tino Grote, born in 1906, and he held several "mosts" among the paratroopers participating in Operation Cyanide: the oldest, the most diverse work experience, the most cities visited, and, as he claimed, the most... resilient. This former restaurant waiter, stoker, sailor, and even boxing sparring partner had hopped on the German rearmament bandwagon two years ago, becoming a member of the elite paratroopers. Of course, his salary was also significantly higher than that of an ordinary army soldier.

Logan raised his right hand, signaling the paratroopers to stop rowing. Everyone froze, barely daring to breathe. The strange noise grew closer and clearer. While the horizon remained dark, the unknown began to breed tension and fear. When the sound of splashing waves became unmistakable, a dark ship silhouette of indeterminate size finally appeared on the water!

"Get down!" Logan whispered to his paratroopers. Judging by the dark, blurry outline, it was at least a medium-sized vessel. If nothing went wrong, it would be carrying hundreds of Allied soldiers evacuated from Dunkirk. If they were discovered now, even if Logan and his men could bluff their way through, they'd likely be "rescued" and taken to Britain!

The atmosphere was so tense it felt almost suffocating. Logan thought to himself, "Worst case, we'll just go to Britain and cause some chaos!"

The paratroopers crouched low, trying to hide in the limited space of the life raft. Time ticked by, and the rumble of the ship's engines became unmistakable. With powerful propulsion, the sharp bow easily cut through the waves, leaving a non-linear wake.

The two parties never got too close, and the ship didn't have a single light on during its voyage. After half an hour, the annoying rumble finally faded into the distance.

Everyone let out a huge sigh of relief.

Tino Grote expertly pulled out a pack of cigarettes from his jacket pocket, took one, and stuck it in his mouth. Facing Logan's questioning gaze, he whispered, "Don't worry, sir, I won't light it. Just easing the craving!"

The craving... Logan had never smoked before the age of 20, but just a month before his 21st birthday, he not only learned to smoke but also went on a binge-drinking spree for several days. He was just one step away from visiting a "gentle harbor" for some fun.

As the sea breeze blew, Logan realized his forehead and temples were drenched in sweat. He also pulled out his pack of cigarettes and stuck one in his mouth—although the British Expeditionary Force's losses were far less than the French, the amount of supplies abandoned during the retreat was still staggering. For the Germans, equipping these paratroopers with authentic British gear was no challenge.

With their leader setting the example, the paratroopers followed suit.

After a short break, the paratroopers picked up their oars again, and the two life rafts continued their slow journey south. After rowing for a while, Tobias suddenly elbowed Logan, signaling that something was happening to the north.

Once again, human ears tried to mimic the sensitivity of a cat's, and while the effect was limited, the group of German paratroopers in British uniforms still managed to detect the approaching ship from the north ahead of time.

Once they confirmed the ship's outline wasn't that of a warship, everyone on the two life rafts waved and shouted with all their might, desperate to be noticed!

Before boarding, Logan even instructed his men to splash some seawater on their faces and bodies and toss away a couple of their caps. The more disheveled they looked, the better.