The Return Journey

Chapter 108 The Return Journey

December 22, 1941, Moscow, British Embassy.

Loran stood by the window, clutching the Order of the Red Banner in his hand. The bronze edges were warm from his body heat, and the red enamel five-pointed star gleamed dimly in the morning light.

He had been standing by the window for almost an hour, from sunrise to when the sun was fully above the horizon, from the gray sky to the pale blue sky.

Moscow hasn't had such good weather in a long time.

He turned around and sat down at the table. Two letters lay open on the table. One was addressed to de Gaulle, thick and dozens of pages long, spanning from September to December, from Mozhaisk to the Red Square parade, from Kolokoltsev to Zhukov.

The other letter was newly written, very short, only a few lines long. He stared at those few lines for a long time, then tore the short one up.

He could not stay. Firstly, he was nominally French, and secondly, France had de Gaulle, Free France, and an army that was gathering in Africa, which was precisely the time when manpower was scarce.

He should go back to London, back to Free France; that's where he belongs.

He picked up the long letter and tore it up.

He stood there, stunned, staring at the fragments, remembering the words. He had written those words, one by one, in the trenches of Mozhaisk, in the embassy in Moscow, and in the ruins west of the city.

He had kept records for three months, but now they were all torn up. He couldn't write down what he saw in the Soviet Union and send it to de Gaulle.

De Gaulle was in London. The British needed this intelligence, and so did the French. But if his letters were intercepted and fell into the hands of the Germans, it would harm both the Soviets and the British. He couldn't take that risk.

He gathered the shredded paper from the table into the wastebasket, sat down, took a new sheet of paper from the drawer, spread it on the table, and picked up his pen.

He had to think carefully about every word.

General de Gaulle:

My mission in Moscow is over. The Germans have been driven back to 100 kilometers west of Moscow, and the Soviets are in pursuit. Moscow has held. When I arrived, the Germans were less than 30 kilometers from the city. Now they have retreated.

I met Zhukov and Stalin. I spent three months on the front lines, writing about my experiences in anti-tank tactics and urban warfare. The Soviet army adopted these suggestions with great success, and my mission was accomplished.

Now I need to go back. Back to London, back to Free France. Please give instructions for the next steps.

Marc Lorraine

He finished writing, read it over, folded it, and put it in the envelope. He wrote on the envelope, "To General de Gaulle, London." Then he stood up, took the envelope, and left the room.

Carl stood in the doorway.

"Help me mail it out." Loran handed him the envelope.

Carl took it, glanced at it, and nodded. "Any other letters?"

"there is none left."

Loran went back to his room and closed the door. He stood by the window, looking at the sky outside, and remembered the question Stalin had asked him when he first arrived.

"Where did you come from?"

He didn't answer. Now he knew the answer. He came from London, from North Africa, from Stoney.

Stoney is the starting point, North Africa is the road, London is a stop, Moscow is another stop, and he has to keep going; he can't stop here.

He turned around and began packing his things.

When Lorraine walked out of the embassy, ​​Karl was standing at the door.

Are you leaving?

"To the Kremlin. Goodbye."

Carl nodded dejectedly.

Lorraine walked west along the main street for about twenty minutes until he reached the Kremlin gate. The guards looked at his pass, saluted, and stepped aside to let him in.

He walked into the courtyard and climbed the steps of the three-story building.

Poskrebyshev stood in the corridor, notebook in hand. He saw Loran and nodded.

"Comrade Stalin is waiting for you."

Loran went inside.

Stalin sat behind his desk.

He saw Lorraine, put down the red pencil in his hand, and pointed to the chair opposite him.

"sit."

Loran sat down.

"Have you thought it through?" Stalin asked.

"I've made up my mind."

"Stay or leave?"

"Walk."

"Where to?"

"Back to London, Free France."

Stalin stared intently at Lorraine, then laughed heartily like an elder before looking out the window.

"You've done a lot here. Zhukov told me that your suggestions saved many lives. Kolokoltsev also told me that your anti-tank gun tactic destroyed dozens of German tanks. We need people like you here, but you still have to leave."

He turned around and looked at Loran.

"The Soviet Union valued talent, but you have already done enough. You not only improved tactics, but also showed us that what is in the textbooks is not necessarily the most correct, and that is the most important thing."

He walked back to the table, took an envelope from the drawer, and pushed it in front of Lorraine.

"This is for you," Stalin said. "Your mission report, written by Zhukov himself. He will write about what you did on the front, what suggestions you made, and how it went. This report will be sent to London, and your superiors will know what you did in the Soviet Union."

Loran looked at the envelope, stood up, and saluted.

"Comrade Stalin, may I leave now?"

Stalin looked at him.

"Is there anything else you want to say?"

Loran thought for a moment.

"Yes. The Germans will return. Moscow needs more defenses, more reserves, and more tanks. Winter is an ally of the Soviet Union, but winter will pass, and spring will come, and the war will continue."

Stalin nodded. "Anything else?"

"Furthermore, Free France needs Soviet recognition. Not just verbal recognition, but formal, diplomatic recognition. General de Gaulle is the legitimate representative of France. The Vichy government is a puppet of Germany, and the Soviet Union should establish diplomatic relations with Free France, not Vichy."

Stalin looked at him for a long time.

Are you speaking in defense of de Gaulle?

"I'm speaking for France."

Stalin's expression turned serious, and his tone became quite solemn.

"You don't understand politics. You need to think this over carefully. You should go back now."

Loran saluted, turned and walked out.

The corridor was quiet.

He didn't return to the embassy, ​​but headed west. He was going to see Kolokoltsev to say goodbye. He flagged down a truck heading west at the crossroads and climbed into the cargo bed. The cargo bed was filled with ammunition boxes, and he squeezed himself among them, leaning against the wooden planks.

After about two hours of driving, they arrived in Mozhaisk, where he jumped out of the car and walked into the city.

Kolokoltsev's battalion was still in that half-collapsed building in the west of the city. They seemed to be resting well, and the soldiers began to laugh and joke around.

Loran went up to the second floor and pushed open the crooked door. Kolokoltsev was sitting at the table with a map spread out in front of him and a pencil in his hand, drawing something. He saw Loran put down the pencil.

"You're here?"

"They're here."

"sit."

Loran sat down.

"I really have to go," Lorraine said.

Kolokolitsev paused, taken aback. "Where to?"

"Back to London."

Kolokolitsev nodded.

"Do you still have that thing you wrote?"

"Yes. I wrote part of it at the embassy, ​​but I haven't finished it yet."

"Can you send it to me when you're done writing it?"

"able."

Kolokolitsev sighed.

Will you come back?

Loran thought for a moment. "I don't know. Maybe not."

Kolokolitsev remained silent for a while.

"You're right," he said. "The Germans will come back, they'll reorganize, and when spring comes, they'll fight again. Where will you be then?"

"I don't know. Maybe in North Africa, maybe in Britain, maybe in France."

Kolokolitsev turned and looked at him. "Wherever you are, I wish you victory."

Loran stood up and extended his hand. Kolokoltsev grasped it; the hand was rough, the calluses on the palm were thick, and he gripped it tightly.

"Take care," Lorraine said.

"Take care of yourself."

Loran released her grip, walked out of the room, down the stairs, and out of the building.

When Loran returned to Moscow, it was already dark. The streetlights were on, casting a dim yellow light. He walked to the embassy entrance, where Karl stood, holding a cup of tea.

"You're back."

Lorraine nodded, walked up the stairs, pushed open the door, went inside, and placed a letter on the table.

Comrade Stalin:

Thank you. I'm leaving.

"Loran"

Stalin was more like an elder than a leader to him. The fact that he could face such great pressure without making a mistake shows that his mental and intellectual level was far beyond that of normal people. In contrast, Hitler was so cowardly that he shot himself.

Tomorrow, he's going to see Zhukov. Then he'll go to the airport. The plane will take off from Moscow, first to Arkhangelsk, and then to London.

He closed his eyes and fell asleep without realizing it.

The next morning, when Carl knocked on the door, it was still dark.

"The car has arrived; it was sent by General Zhukov."

Lorraine sat up, put on her coat, washed her face, and carried her suitcase to the door.

Carl stood in the corridor, holding a cup of tea.

"Drink before you leave."

Lorraine took the drink, took a sip, and went down the stairs.

A black ZIS sedan was parked downstairs. Loran got into the back seat, the car started, and drove west. He leaned back in his seat, looking out the window. Moscow was still asleep; the streetlights were on, casting a dim, yellowish glow.

The car drove for about forty minutes and arrived at the airport. The airport was small, with only one runway, a few simple hangars, and a two-story terminal building. Dawn was approaching, and a dark red light appeared on the eastern horizon.

There was a transport plane there, its fuselage painted with a red star. The engine was already running, and the propellers were spinning, buzzing and shaking the ground.

Zhukov stood next to the plane.

"They've arrived?" Zhukov said.

"They're here."

Zhukov looked at him for a few seconds. "I had someone copy what you wrote and distribute a copy to each regiment. It's very practical content."

Loran did not speak.

Zhukov took something out of his pocket and handed it to Loran. It was a fountain pen with a red star engraved on its black cap.

"This is for you. Send it to me when you're done writing it."

Lorraine took it and put it in his pocket.

Zhukov extended his hand.

"Take care of yourself."

"You too, Marshal."

Lorraine picked up his suitcase and boarded the plane.

It was raining in London when the plane landed.

Fine, dense droplets drifted down from the gray-white sky, striking the porthole and leaving slanted streaks of water.

Looking out the window, Lorraine saw the wet track reflecting a hazy light.

The pilot poked his head out of the cockpit.

"arrive."

He carried his suitcase to the cabin door, and a cold wind blew in. He took a deep breath.

He's back in London.

As I stepped off the gangway, my legs felt a little weak. Having spent three months in the Soviet Union, I was used to bumpy trucks, swaying trains, and airplanes that rose and fell. Now, standing on the concrete ground, I felt the ground was shaking.

He stood there for a while, waiting for the dizziness to pass, then picked up his suitcase and walked towards the terminal.

The terminal was small, consisting of only one room, a few rows of wooden chairs, and a counter. Behind the counter sat a man in uniform, reading a newspaper.

He saw Lorraine, put down his newspaper, and glanced at the tear in his overcoat caused by shrapnel.

"From Moscow?"

"right."

"Identification documents".

Loran took the pass out of his pocket. The man took it, looked at it for a moment, and then handed it back to him.

Welcome back to the UK.

Loran nodded, picked up his suitcase, and walked out of the terminal. A black sedan, splattered with mud, was parked at the entrance.

He was leaning against the car door, wearing an old trench coat with the collar turned up, and holding an unlit cigarette in his hand.

"I'm back," he said.

"I'm back."

Let him open the trunk, Lorraine put the suitcase inside, and got into the back seat. Let him start the engine, and the car drove out of the airport, heading towards London.

"Does General de Gaulle know you've arrived?" Rang asked.

"I don't know. I didn't send a telegram."

She glanced at him in the rearview mirror. "So, when do you plan to see him?"

"Tomorrow, today is a day off."

Rang nodded, and the car drove for about an hour before entering central London. The scene on the street was much the same as when Lorraine left; there were bombed ruins everywhere, and people walked back and forth among the ruins, holding black umbrellas, heads down, and hurrying along.

The car stopped in front of the gray building in Carlton Gardens. Lorraine opened the car door, got out, and asked someone to take a suitcase from the trunk and hand it to him.

"The room is the same one, but the sheets have been changed and the heating has been fixed."

Loran took the suitcase, walked up the steps, and pushed open the door. He went up to the third floor, opened the door to his room, and went inside. The room was small, containing a bed, a table, a chair, and a wardrobe.

A table lamp with a green shade sat on the table. The windows were closed, and the curtains were drawn tightly. He placed his suitcase at the foot of the bed, took off his coat, and hung it on the hanger.

He stood in front of the mirror and looked at himself. His face was thinner, his cheekbones were higher, his eye sockets were deeper, and his lips were covered with dry, cracked cracks, like someone who had just crawled out of the ruins.

He didn't want to see anyone, talk, or answer any questions. He just wanted to be alone.

He spent three months in the Soviet Union, talking every day. He talked so much that his lips became thin and his voice became hoarse.

This time, he fell asleep.

When Loran woke up, she was hungry; her stomach was empty, as if it had been hollowed out.

The corridor was dark. He walked down the stairs, where a light was on in the lobby on the first floor, where a man sat on a chair by the door, holding a cup of tea.

"woke up?"

"woke up."

"There's food in the kitchen, bread and soup."

Lorraine walked into the kitchen, took a pot off the stove, lifted the lid, and steam billowed out, carrying the aroma of vegetables.

Let him in and place a cup of tea in front of him. "What news did you bring back from Moscow?"

Loran thought for a moment.

"The German troops have retreated."

"Anything else?"

"There's still a lot to do, but I'm very tired right now."

Rang nodded, a hint of apology on his face, and walked out of the kitchen with his teacup. Lorraine sat alone in the kitchen, watching the flames on the stove. The flames were blue, flickering quietly.

Loran couldn't understand why someone would start a war when everyone could live peacefully like this.