"Watch out!" a French sailor shouted toward his comrade still standing on deck, but it was too late.
A massive explosion tore through the forward deck of the destroyer Le Hardi. Wood and metal were flung into the air as fire devoured what remained.
The sailor had been thrown to the ground. He lay there for a moment, panting heavily, sweat pouring down his face. Gritting his teeth, he forced himself back to his feet, grabbing a twisted piece of metal for support.
His eyes swept across the shattered deck, searching desperately for his comrade.
There was nothing. Only wreckage. Only flames.
He clenched his jaw and began to move away, step by step. The deafening sounds of battle around him felt distant now, muted, drowned out by the sharp ringing in his ears.
For a brief moment, he lowered his gaze as he walked, then raised his head again.
Something flashed at the edge of his vision. Too fast to fully register.
The next explosion was closer.
A violent blast engulfed part of the bridge, the impact striking just meters from where he had stood seconds earlier.
A British bomber roared overhead, streaking past the burning, crumpled metal colossus that the destroyer had become.
Such a sight had become common. Fires raged on both sides, the harbor and the open sea lit by burning ships and exploding shells. The British fleet, too, had suffered heavily under the relentless fire of the coastal artillery, several vessels damaged, decks scarred and burning.
Yet their main force remained usable.
The Hood and the Ark Royal.
The Ark Royal lay farther out, beyond the worst of the coastal guns.
Her dark silhouette was barely visible against the night, but above her the sky was alive. One after another, aircraft thundered off her deck, engines screaming as they made their way into the darkness.
Below, deck crews moved with hectic. Men ran, shouted, pointed, hands slick with sweat and oil as they prepared the next wave. Fires burned in the distance, reflected in the steel of the carrier's hull.
On the bridge, officers watched the horizon in tense silence.
"Launch the next strike," came the order, unwavering. "Target the battleships and the docks."
Aboard the Hood, Cunningham too remained calm, though confusion flickered behind his eyes.
"Such resistance... this is strange," he muttered, stroking his beard as he studied the ship sailing alongside his own, the flames reflecting in his pupils.
Then he turned forward again, his gaze hardening.
"Next barrage!" he shouted, louder than before.
At his command, the Hood's turrets erupted once more. A dozen shells tore through the night sky.
Whether by fate or by simple physics, one shell drifted slightly from its intended trajectory. It was a minor deviation, almost unnoticeable, yet enough to send it flying just a little farther than anticipated.
Suddenly, Gustaf's instincts screamed.
Goosebumps rippled along his arms as he blinked, and in the next instant a massive shockwave hurled him backward. For a brief moment, he perceived blurred silhouettes beside him. The Admiral. Meindl. Niemann.
Then his back slammed violently into the concrete wall.
Darkness swallowed everything.
While Gustaf lay unconscious, another British bomber tilted its nose downward, lining up on a tall structure that rose above the rest of the base. Even amid the chaos, the pilot sensed its importance.
Instead of continuing his run against the ships, he adjusted course and dove straight toward the already damaged building.
His finger hovered over the release lever, stroking the cold metal, shaking slightly with anticipation.
His eyes narrowed as the pressure increased, his world shrinking to the narrow tunnel of his sights. Then, without warning, his already limited field of vision widened again.
The aircraft shuddered violently.
Bullets tore into the fuselage. The plane shook uncontrollably as its nose dipped toward the buildings below.
He leaned back, arms stretching instinctively as the ground rushed closer. He screamed, shouted, pressed buttons, kicked pedals, but nothing responded. Black smoke poured from the shattered hull behind him.
Then came the impact.
A massive explosion tore the aircraft apart, metal scattering in all directions as it slammed into the ground. Bricks and asphalt were ripped apart, flung skyward in a storm of debris.
The blast claimed more than the machine.
Two French soldiers, manning an artillery piece, were erased in an instant, swallowed by fire, steel, and collapsing stone.
Above the destruction, a massive formation of aircraft appeared.
Two Messerschmitt fighters peeled away, banking sharply as they turned back after finishing off the stray plane. They rejoined the formation, settling into position along its outer edge.
The shape became clear.A crescent.
At its center flew enormous transport planes, vast and heavy, their silhouettes unmistakable.
Slowly, they filled the sky above Toulon.
Their legendary presence sent a wave through the battlefield. Morale surged among many of the soldiers below, though some began to realize, with unease, that these were German aircraft.
Slowly, Gustaf opened his eyes.
He coughed, rubbing dust from his face, when pain suddenly shot through his nerves, climbing up his side and tearing a groan from his throat.
"Ah," he rasped, clutching his ribs.
Still, he managed to pull himself upright. Stumbling, he made his way toward the edge of the shattered building, now torn wide open toward the sea.
The sound made him look up.
Blood trickled down from a wound on his head as he raised his gaze.
For a moment, he could only stare.
Hundreds, no, countless dark specks appeared beneath the aircraft. Not planes.
Men.
Painfully slowly, the corners of his lips curled upward, relief plain on his battered face.
From the massive, unknown planes, not only men but also large crates were ejected, falling slowly toward the streets below.
The rest of the formation continued toward the British fleet, hungry for their blood.
Gustaf turned, limping away, glancing at Meindl, whose chest still rose and fell with shallow breaths. Gustaf walked past him, down the intact part of the building. Finally, he reached the exit, stopping to draw a deep breath. His energy was fading, but he had to reach the paratroopers.
He pressed on through the destroyed streets. Explosions around him sent vibrations up through his feet and into his body. The battle still raged—perhaps even fiercer than before.
"But with them we can—" Gustaf murmured, suddenly stopping.
Before him stood a small group of French soldiers, at the forefront Girard, smiling and revealing his golden tooth.
"Haven't I told you? Germans," he said to the other soldiers, who raised their rifles.
Slowly, he pointed directly at his gold tooth."Where is it, German?" he asked.
Gustaf scanned his surroundings, searching desperately for an escape.
"We are no enemies anymore, French," he said quietly. "You have capitulated. The British are attacking now. So what are you doing?"
"Is that true?" one soldier asked another."Why should he lie?" the second replied.
"Shut up, goddammit!" Girard shouted, clenching his teeth as he drew his pistol.
"You want it, huh?" Gustaf asked, his voice low and dangerous, his left hand already hidden behind his back. Then suddenly he shouted:
"HERE IS THE GOLD!"
But there was no gold in his hand. Instead, he threw a small, dark, round object under the confused stares of the soldiers, before sprinting into a narrow alley beside him.
An explosion erupted behind him, screams following immediately. Footsteps thundered after him. Gustaf limped forward, bullets kicking up dust around him, and shouts rang out from behind.
"German… German!" Girard called out, his voice tinged with amusement. Bullets sprayed toward Gustaf, striking only bricks as he ducked and stumbled onward.
But his speed faltered. Another barrage of bullets cut through the air. Gustaf suddenly lost strength, his body collapsing onto the cold ground, blood pouring from a wound in his shoulder.
"Well, well, well," came a voice from behind.
Girard stood over him, pistol raised, a familiar, terrifying sight. Gustaf had already closed his eyes. The only sound was the crackling of fire and the drip of rain falling through the night sky.
A shot.
Silence.
Gustaf slowly rose, tilting his head.
Dark leather boots, dozens of them. His eyes scanned the face of the man before him, and then, suddenly, the Gustaf laughed.
"HAH!"
General Kurt Student extended his hand toward Gustaf, who slowly took it. He leaned onto the back of another German paratrooper as Student was briefed.
"Sir!" a paratrooper saluted sharply.
"95% of the force has landed," the soldier reported. "There haven't been any conflicts with the French yet. The first group has reached the coastal guns and is manning the still-empty positions. The second group is waiting for the artillery we dropped by prototype. And the third group is on its way toward the French ships."
Gustaf, listening, weakly interjected: "The French ships…?"
"Indeed," Student replied. "We brought sailors with us. They will attempt to get the ships moving and return more fire."
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