Building Tanks

Lorraine complied, walking to the desk and standing at attention. Delian's gaze lingered on him for a moment, his hawk-like eyes devoid of any extraneous emotion, only displaying professional scrutiny.

"Sit down." The colonel gestured to the hardwood chair in front of the table. After Loran sat down, he cut straight to the point. "Your remarks at the previous meeting were quite bold. Lieutenant Marchand was very interested in some of the technical details you mentioned."

Lorraine remained calm: "I am merely stating an analysis based on publicly available information, Colonel."

"Public information?" Derian took out a copy of Lorraine's briefing from the drawer. "These details about armor thickness and tactical call signs are not what ordinary scholars can read in newspapers."

The air in the room fell silent for a moment. Loran knew he had to give a reasonable explanation, but he couldn't reveal the existence of the phone.

"Colonel," he began cautiously, "I have long studied German military documents, including technical journals and exercise reports. Much information is hidden in the background of photographs and the arrangement of data tables. I have some basic engineering knowledge and can deduce approximate parameters from photographs. As for tactical call signs, those are hypothetical associations based on historical naming patterns."

Delian listened quietly, tapping his fingers lightly on the table.

Lorraine's explanation packages unconventional sources of information as an extreme analytical ability; a "gifted researcher" is always more acceptable than a "prophet of unknown origin."

"Your father said you have a knack for finding connections that others overlook." Delon set the briefing aside. "So, as the new analyst, how do you plan to proceed with your next steps?"

Lorraine was well-prepared: "I want to systematically analyze the combat data of the German armored forces in the Polish campaign, not just the macro battle reports, but also the details, such as marching speed, engineering support efficiency, and actual performance in different terrains. Then I will create more intuitive analytical materials, including charts and sand table simulations."

"A very solid plan." Derian nodded. "You'll have access to relevant unclassified reports from the archives. What support do you need?"

"Initially, all we need is a quiet workspace to store documents and basic tools," Loran replied. "Ideally, not in the main headquarters building, so as not to disturb others."

Derian paused for a moment. "There's an unused storage room in the basement of the old building. You can clear it out and use it. I'll have my adjutant give you the key and access pass." He paused, his tone becoming serious. "Remember, Lieutenant Lorran, your task now is to prove your worth as an analyst. With solid results, not more startling guesses. Report your collected data and any interim conclusions regularly."

"Understood, Colonel."

Derian gazed at him: "Your father is an old friend of mine. He is proud of you, but also worried that you are too fixated on certain ideas. In the military, especially in the General Staff, sometimes moving too fast is more dangerous than standing still."

"I understand, Colonel. I will proceed with caution."

The conversation was drawing to a close. After Delian explained some routine work matters, Lorraine saluted and left.

As I stepped out of the General Staff Building, the winter sun was blinding and cold.

Loran took a deep breath, his body trembling slightly beneath his military uniform, not from the cold, but from the invisible constraint he had felt during their conversation.

He was given a workspace and access to materials; that was the first step.

But Derian's words also clearly defined the boundaries: within the system, he could only be an "analyst" and could only do "solid research." Any action that went beyond this scope would be viewed with suspicion or even suppressed.

Lorraine walked heavily across the square in front of the Invalides. Officers strolled by in twos and threes, discussing dinner arrangements and weekend leave. Occasionally, someone would mention "defense lines" or "exercises," their tone as relaxed as if they were discussing the weather. This tranquility made Lorraine feel suffocated.

Charts, reports, and scenario simulations—are these really enough?

He recalled the dismissive expressions of the generals at the meeting, that arrogant "young man, what do you know about war?" Words and numbers were merely abstract symbols to them, unable to shake their deeply ingrained beliefs. They needed a more direct impact, something that could break their mental inertia, something that would instinctively make their bodies feel threatened...

and many more.

Loran stopped abruptly.

An almost absurd thought suddenly entered his mind, so clear that it surprised even himself.

What if I built one myself?

It's not a chart, not a model, not anything theoretical.

A real, mobile steel construct that looks like a German tank.

The idea was so outrageous that Loran's first instinct was to suppress it. How could this be possible? Him alone? Using civilian resources? To build tanks?

But once the idea arises, it grows wildly like weeds.

Why not? A voice deep within Loran asked in return. You've seen what they look like, you remember the key data. You're not building a real tank that can go to the battlefield, just a realistic enough replica to be driven and demonstrated.

Yes, a simplified version of the "Tiger" or "Panzer IV" tank, using a scrapped tractor chassis, welded shells from old steel plates, and powered by a car engine.

It doesn't need real artillery, complex observation and aiming systems, or even armor that can withstand bullets.

It just needs to look like it, move like it, and make that roaring sound of a steel monster.

Imagine this: in the courtyard of the General Staff, right before the eyes of those generals, such a steel behemoth rumbles by, crushing the soft soil, climbing gentle slopes, turning, braking—the visual and auditory impact would instantly shatter any illusion that tanks could not traverse the Ardennes Forest.

They will see with their own eyes that such a thing truly exists and can move through complex terrain.

The Germans, on the other hand, possessed hundreds or even thousands of more advanced and powerful versions.

The idea became clearer and more concrete, even showing a surprising feasibility.

Lorraine felt her heart race.

This is insane, but it may truly be the only way. Working within the system in a conventional manner will never awaken a sleeping person; he needs a heavy blow, a visual bombardment.

Moreover, it must be completely independent of the military system.

If it were done through official channels, the idea would be nipped in the bud. He needed to do it secretly, using his own power, and out of everyone's sight.

Problems arose one after another: venue, materials, technology, funding, and most importantly, how to accomplish all of this without arousing suspicion?

But at this moment, these difficulties became a challenge in Loran's eyes. He thought of LeBlanc, the eccentric old man who could modify chargers, and his father Olivier's mechanically savvy old comrades.

It will probably take about a month to complete all of this, maybe longer, but it's better than doing nothing.

Loran swallowed hard; this insane plan had taken root in his mind and could never be eradicated.

He knew this could ruin his fledgling military career; if he were found to have built military equipment without authorization, even just a model, it would be enough to land him in a military court.

He also knew that this might be seen as crazy by everyone.

But the countdown to May 1940 ticked in his mind, each tick like a final warning bell.

Either do something, even if it seems impossible, or sit idly by and watch everything happen, then spend the rest of your life in regret.

Loran took a deep breath, turned around, and pondered the specific plan.

He needed to go to his father first. Olivier might object or worry, but at least he could give him some practical advice on how to find a site, how to obtain materials, and how to carry out such a project without alerting the military.

Then, he needed to design the blueprints. The precious photos and data on his phone had to be converted into detailed blueprints, and with only 15% battery left, every use had to be carefully calculated.

When Lorraine arrived at her father's apartment, it was already completely dark.

Olivier was cooking soup in the kitchen, his movements a little clumsy but still precise with his one arm. Hearing the door open, he didn't turn around: "There's some leftover bread from yesterday in the fridge, heat it up yourself."

"Father, I need your help." Loran took off his coat and went straight into the kitchen.

Olivier then turned around and saw the determined look on Lorraine's face. He frowned and said, "Sit down and talk. Have some soup first."

The two sat down at the small dining table. Lorraine didn't touch the soup spoon, but went straight to the point: "If I need to find a place—a place big enough, secluded enough, where I can do some machining—do you know of any suitable spots?"

Olivier put down his spoon, his eyes fixed on his son: "Machining? What are you going to do?"

"I need to build something," Lorraine said candidly, "something that will allow those who don't believe tanks can cross the Ardennes to see the threat with their own eyes."

The room was quiet for a few seconds. The soup pot on the stove was bubbling.

"You're going to build tanks." Olivier's voice was calm, not a question, but a statement.

Loran nodded: "A simplified version, but it must be drivable and look realistic enough."

"You're insane," Olivier said, but there was no blame in his tone; it was more like stating a fact. "Do you know how much this will cost? How many people will it require? And what if it gets discovered..."

“I know,” Loran interrupted him. “That’s why I need to be completely independent of the military. I can’t use military resources, I can’t go through official channels, I can only do it privately, using civilian methods.”

Olivier stood up and walked to the window. A thin layer of frost covered the windowpane, and the streetlights outside cast blurry halos of light on the frost. He remained silent for a long time, so long that Lorraine thought he would refuse outright.

"LeBron," Olivier said suddenly.

Loran paused for a moment: "That old man who repairs electrical appliances?"

"He was our regiment's mechanic during World War I, and later specialized in battlefield modifications." Olivier turned around, his eyes complicated. "He could turn a wrecked truck into a mobile command post, and he could get captured German machine guns to use French bullets. After the war, he opened that hardware store, but I know that the stuff in his basement was ten times more than what was on display in the store."

Do you think he will help?

“He would be interested in ‘technical challenges’,” Olivier said, walking back to the table. “But first, you need a venue. A place away from the city, with enough space, and not too suspicious.”

Loran's heart raced: "You have an idea?"

Olivier pulled an old address book from a drawer; the pages were yellowed and curled. He turned to a page, his finger pausing on a name.

"Jean-Pierre Moreau, my former platoon leader. After the war, he bought a small farm in the Seine-et-Marne department, about thirty kilometers from Paris. Three years ago, he had a stroke and became paralyzed on one side, so the farm is basically abandoned. His son works in Lyon and has been trying to get rid of the land, but can't find a buyer."

"A farm..." The image immediately flashed in Loran's mind: open land, abandoned barns, and seclusion away from the road.

"Moro owes me a life." Olivier's voice lowered. "In Verdun, when the Germans' poison gas bombs were falling, I dragged him into the air-raid shelter. He always said, 'I'll do anything you need.'"

Loran felt a mix of emotions welling up inside him: hope, gratitude, and a touch of guilt.

The father was using the connections he had built up during the war years to pave the way for his plans.

“But even a farm needs money,” Olivier continued. “Rent, materials, tools, fuel—you’ve only just received your wages for a few days, and my pension is barely enough to make ends meet.”

"I'll figure something out," Loran said. "Perhaps we can pay the rent in installments. As for materials, we can start with scrap parts; Mr. LeBron might have some connections."

Olivier looked at him with a gaze that seemed to pierce through time, seeing those equally young, reckless faces in the trenches many years ago.

"Tomorrow," he finally said, "tomorrow I'll take you to see LeBron and hear his opinion. Then, if he still says you're crazy, we'll abandon the idea. If he thinks it's feasible..." Olivier paused, "we'll go see Morrow."

"Thank you, Father." Lorraine's voice was a little strained.

Olivier waved his hand, ladled out another bowl of soup, and pushed it in front of him: "Eat first. If you're really going to do something this stupid, you'll need the energy."

At 11 p.m., Loran returned to his apartment.

He turned on the desk lamp and took his phone out of his coat pocket. The battery level was 14%.

He took a deep breath and pressed the power button. The screen lit up, and he quickly went into the photo album, finding the tank photos—a close-up of the side of a Panzer IV Ausf. A, details of the road wheels of a Panzer III, and a blurry but clearly discernible photo of a German tank formation in motion.

Then he took out his sketchbook and pencil.

He first drew the overall outline: approximately 5.4 meters long, 2.9 meters wide, and 2.65 meters high. The turret is angled forward, and the front armor of the hull has a noticeable slope, which is the most obvious difference from the vertical armor of French tanks.

Next, let's look at the details: six pairs of staggered road wheels, a typical feature of German medium tanks. The drive sprocket is in front, and the idler wheel is in the rear. The main gun on the turret is simplified to a single steel pipe; it doesn't actually need to fire, but it has to look like one.

The most difficult part was the internal layout. The engine was rear-mounted, and he could only rely on memory and speculation for the transmission system and the cockpit, but at the very least, the chassis and running system had to be able to actually work.

The pencil scratched across the paper. Loran was completely absorbed in the world of drawing, forgetting the time and his fatigue.

He marked the dimensions and wrote down the notes:

"The active gear ratio needs to be calculated," "The suspension system needs shock absorption," "Is the steering mechanism modeled after that of a tractor?"

At two in the morning, Loran put down his pencil. His sketchbook was already filled with more than a dozen pages, including overall three-view drawings, exploded views, and detailed drawings of key components. Although rough, it already had a basic framework for construction.

He glanced at his phone; battery level: 11%.

That's enough, at least for now.