Farm

Olivier pushed open the door of "Old Guy Hardware Store," the hinges creaking loudly.

LeBron, behind the counter, looked up, his one eye sweeping over the father and son, lingering on Lorraine for a few seconds before he snorted, "Olivier? Rare guests, and your son too."

Lorraine was somewhat surprised that the old man still remembered, and nodded: "Mr. LeBron."

"Just get to the point." LeBron wiped the parts in his hands without looking up. "Your father called last night, stammering, saying something about a young man having a bold idea that needs technical support. How bold? Want to build a flying car?"

Olivier glanced at Lorraine, signaling for him to speak.

Loran took a deep breath, pulled the sketchbook from the inside pocket of his coat, and turned to the first page, where he had drawn the outline of a Panzer IV tank based on a photo on his phone.

"I want to build a simplified, movable model of this."

LeBlanc glanced at the drawings and stopped. He put down the cloth he was holding, took the sketchbook, and stared intently at the lines and annotations with his one eye.

The room was silent for a full minute. The only sound was the crackling of the firewood in the fireplace.

"The German Panzer III or IV tanks," LeBron finally spoke, his voice hoarse. "The shape is quite accurate, sloped armor, staggered road wheels. Where did you get such detailed drawings?"

"Photos from some German military journals, combined with technical parameters, were used to deduce the results," Loran repeated a statement he had used in the General Staff.

LeBron lifted his eyelids, a sharp glint flashing in his cloudy eyes: "Can reverse engineering deduce the direction of the weld seam? Can it deduce the gear ratio estimate of the drive wheel and the idler wheel?" His finger pointed to a few lines of small print on the edge of the drawing.

Loran's heart tightened. He was so engrossed in drawing that he had even annotated the details he observed in the photos on his phone.

"I studied it quite thoroughly," he explained reluctantly.

LeBron stared at him for a few seconds, but didn't ask any questions. Instead, he turned to the next page, which showed the chassis modification plan.

"You want to modify a tractor chassis?"

"This is the most feasible solution. Civilian tractors have readily available power and transmission systems, requiring minimal modification work."

"It's also the weakest option." LeBron closed his sketchbook. "The tractor chassis can't support the weight, and the suspension is completely unsuitable for off-road driving. What you'll build is a metal shell that can only slowly climb flat ground and will stall as soon as it goes uphill."

Loran's heart sank: "Then what is your suggestion?"

LeBron didn't answer immediately. He turned and pulled an old wooden box from under the counter, opened it, and inside was a stack of even older, almost brittle drawings. He rummaged through them for a moment and pulled one out.

"Verdun, 1918." He spread out the drawings, which were hand-drawn in pencil of some kind of tracked vehicle. "The wreckage of the A7V tanks that the Germans abandoned on the battlefield, we secretly dismantled and studied. This is my idea for improving the transmission system, which I drew at the time, but I never had the chance to try it."

The design on the drawings was far more professional than Lorraine's sketches, with densely packed force calculations.

You mean...

"The tractor chassis won't work, but if you can get two sets, dismantle and rebuild them, and modify the transmission and road wheel layout using my approach," LeBron drew a line on the drawing with his filthy fingernail, "you can barely simulate the off-road capability of a tank. Of course, don't expect much in terms of speed; being able to climb a 30-degree slope would be a success."

Loran felt a surge of excitement: "You're willing to help?"

"I didn't say that." LeBron put away the blueprints. "First, you need a place. Second, you need to get at least two working, scrapped tractors. Third, steel plates, welding equipment, tools—all of that costs money. Finally, and most importantly..."

He moved closer, his single eye flashing with an emotion that Loran couldn't understand.

"You have to tell me, kid, what exactly are you planning to do with this thing? Play around with it? I don't believe it. Sell it to the military? You don't have that kind of connection. Keep it to yourself?" He shook his head. "There's something in your eyes that reminds me of those naive young men in 1914 who knew war was coming and frantically reinforced their trenches."

Lorraine and her father exchanged a glance.

"I want people to see," Lorraine chose to tell the truth, "to see that what we thought was impossible is actually possible. To see what the impending threat really looks like."

LeBron remained silent for a long time. The firelight flickered across his face.

"Moro's farm," he said suddenly.

Olivier paused, taken aback. "How did you know?"

"There are only a few places around Paris where this kind of thing can be done. The year after Moreau had his stroke, his son wanted to rent out that run-down farm and asked me if I knew any connections."

LeBron grinned, revealing his yellow teeth. "I told him to keep it, in case some crazy person needs it someday."

He stood up, took a bunch of rusty keys from the wall, and tossed them to Lorraine.

"In Saint-Restaurant-Anchause, drive to the end of the old provincial road, there's an oak grove, and the farm is behind it. Here's the key to the barn. Moreau's son is in Lyon, he only comes back twice a year. Rent..." He paused, "...until you've actually built something decent."

Lorraine caught the keys tossed to him from the air, his throat tightening: "Thank you, Mr. LeBron."

"Don't thank me too soon." The old man waved his hand. "I'm just providing a place. You'll have to take care of the tractor, materials, and money yourself. Also, once you start, don't stop. In this kind of thing, giving up halfway is more dangerous than not starting at all."

It was already evening when I left the hardware store. The winter sky was overcast, and it looked like it was going to snow.

"What about the tractors?" Olivier asked as they walked down the street. "Two scrapped ones, even the cheapest ones would cost several hundred francs each. There are also steel plates, spare parts, and so on."

"I have savings," Lorraine said. "About two thousand francs from my university job. I originally intended to use it to marry Charlotte."

Loran spoke from memory, even though he himself hadn't expected to have this amount of money.

Olivier slowed down a beat.

"Does Charlotte know?"

"I don't know yet." Loran scratched his cheek. "I'll tell her after I make some progress."

He didn't really know when he could tell her, or even if he should tell her at all. The risk was too great; the fewer people who knew, the safer Charlotte would be.

Moreover, this might be a revolution, which is far more noble than love and romance.

"As for materials, Leblanc has some black market connections," Olivier said, "but that costs money. Two thousand francs won't last long."

"Then let's get started as soon as possible." Lorraine gripped the keys in his pocket. "Tomorrow I'll go to the farm first, then find a tractor."

The next morning, Lorraine boarded an early train to the Seine-et-Marne department.

The carriage was filled with the smells of coal smoke, wet wool, and cheap tobacco. Most of the passengers were farmers and peddlers, their baskets filled with frozen vegetables or repaired tools.

Several veterans in old uniforms huddled in a corner, whispering about how "we're going to fight again," their voices filled with exhaustion.

During World War I, France lost more than half of its young people, and now almost the entire population suffers from war phobia. Once German tanks set foot on this land, then what follows will be a devastating annihilation.

Loran sat by the window, his sketchbook spread out on his lap. He was checking the drawings one last time, using the last 7% of his phone's battery to confirm several key figures before the train departed.

Outside the car window, the scenery of the Paris suburbs gradually transformed into desolate fields. Frost covered the harvested wheat stubble, and bare trees stood like black skeletons against the gray sky. Occasionally, abandoned farmhouses could be seen, their roofs collapsed and windows empty.

Saint-Restaurant-Onsausé was a small station with only one platform and a station building painted a faded yellow. When Lorraine got off the train, the platform was deserted. The cold wind whipped up the withered leaves and gravel on the ground, stinging his face.

Following LeBron's instructions, he headed east along the old provincial road. The road was in disrepair, with cracks in the asphalt exposing the underlying gravel.

After walking about two kilometers, an oak forest appeared on the right. The leaves had long since fallen, and the twisted branches stretched out under the gloomy sky.

Deep in the woods, a rusty iron gate lay half-closed.

Loran pushed open the iron gate, the hinges groaning shrilly. A weed-covered path led inside, its tire tracks long since obscured by withered grass.

At the end of the path, the outline of the farm gradually became clear: a two-story stone house with its windows boarded up, next to which was a larger barn with peeling red brick walls and a dented tin roof.

He walked to the barn and took out his keys. The largest one went into the padlock, making a strained grinding sound as it turned.

Click.

The lock is open.

Loran took a deep breath and pushed open the heavy wooden door.

Dust fell from the door frame like an avalanche. Dim light streamed in through the holes in the roof, forming slanted beams of light amidst the swirling dust.

Then he saw it.

In a corner of the barn, under a tarpaulin, the outline of some kind of machinery was vaguely visible. Not just in one place, but in two, along with a pile of things covered with tarpaulins.

Loran walked over and lifted the first tarpaulin.

A farm tractor. An old Renault, with flat tires, peeling paint, and the foam in the driver's seat showing through a crack, but the overall structure looks intact, and the engine is still there.

He lifted the second piece.

The second tractor was older and a different model, but it was also a Renault. It was a tracked agricultural tractor, which was exactly what he needed; the track system could be directly adapted and modified.

Then he lifted the tarpaulin.

Below were piles of steel plates, angle irons, welding gas cylinders, toolboxes, and even a nearly new welding machine. Next to them were neatly stacked various parts such as bearings, gears, bolts, and nuts.

There was a note under the tarpaulin, the handwriting was messy:

Prepay the rent. Don't let me regret it. —LeBron

Loran stood in the cold barn, clutching the note, his heart pounding with excitement.

LeBron surprisingly gave his full support to the plan. The total value of these supplies was nearly two thousand francs, which would be equivalent to an entire fortune for an ordinary person.

Without much hesitation, Loran put down his backpack and began to take stock of the supplies.

There were about twenty steel plates, ranging in thickness from 3 to 10 millimeters, enough to weld a car body shell. The toolbox was fully equipped with wrenches, pliers, hammers, hacksaws, and even several files of different models.

The welding equipment looked well-maintained, and the gas cylinders were full.

He walked up to the tractor and tried turning the crankshaft. The first one was stuck, but the second one, the tracked one, still had a crankshaft that could be turned, offering hope for repair.

Loran spent the entire morning busy in the barn. He cleared a work area, organized his tools, and inspected the barn's structure. Several holes in the roof needed repair; otherwise, rain and snow would damage the equipment and materials. A pile of old planks and tarpaulin lay against the wall, likely remnants from the previous farm.

Around noon, he sat in the driver's seat of a tractor, eating cold bread and cheese he had brought from Paris, and spread out the blueprints to study them again.

According to the improvement plan provided by LeBron, he needed to disassemble the two tractors and redesign a transmission mechanism using the engine of the first tractor and the track system of the second tractor.

The hull was welded from steel plates, and its shape had to be as close as possible to that of the Panzer IV, with sloping front armor, turret, and side skirts.

The biggest challenge was the road wheels. Real German tanks used staggered road wheels, which had good shock absorption, but the structure was complex. He could only simplify it by using two rows of ordinary road wheels with springs in between for shock absorption.

The turret doesn't need to rotate; it just needs to be welded shut. The main gun is simulated using a single steel pipe.

Most importantly, it must be able to start, climb hills, and drive on unpaved roads.

Loran put away the blueprints and began disassembling the first tractor. The wrench made a screeching sound as it turned the rusty bolts, echoing in the empty barn. Oil stained his hands, and sweat slid down his forehead, leaving traces on his cold cheeks.

But he didn't stop.

In one afternoon, he disassembled the engine, transmission, and steering system. The parts were arranged by category on a tarpaulin. By dusk, the barn was piled high with the disassembled components.

Loran lit the kerosene lamp he had brought. In the dim light, he squatted beside the engine, cleaning the parts with kerosene.

While cleaning, Loran suddenly remembered that he hadn't reported to the General Staff today.

I glanced at my pocket watch; it was five in the afternoon.

It's too late. What will Colonel Derain think? Will Lieutenant Marchand become suspicious?

But at this moment, the wrench in his hand was more real than the documents in the office. The oil stains were closer to what he needed to do than the ink.

He decided to go back first thing tomorrow morning and make up an excuse that he was sick or that his father was unwell.

Now, he needs to finish checking the basic condition of the engine before it gets completely dark.

The cylinder block has no cracks, the pistons are still movable, and the crankshaft bearings are worn but usable. This old Renault engine has about 30 horsepower, which is enough for a simplified tank model.

As night fell, Loran locked the barn door and headed back along the old provincial road. The beam of his flashlight flickered in the darkness, illuminating a few meters ahead.

Halfway there, he started thinking about money.

He only had two thousand francs. He already had the tractor, and Leblanc had prepaid for the materials, but he still needed fuel, lubricant, possible replacement parts, food, and materials if the roof needed repairs. More importantly, he couldn't keep taking leave; his work at the General Staff had to continue—it was his cover and his source of information.

When I got back to Saint-Rest station, the last train back to Paris had just left, and the next one wouldn't arrive for another two hours.

Loran sat in the cold waiting room, calculating his expenses on his laptop under the dim light. Fuel would cost about 50 francs a month, food 30 francs, and miscellaneous 20 francs, bringing his fixed monthly expenses to at least 100 francs. His second lieutenant's salary was 450 francs a month, and after deducting living expenses, he could only afford to invest no more than 200 francs in the project.

too slow.

At this pace, even if we could come three days a week, it would still take three to four months to complete. And now it's December, with only a little over five months left until May of next year.

He needs to be faster.

Perhaps I could borrow some money from my father? Or is there any other way to get the money?

The train's whistle interrupted his thoughts as it pulled into the station. Loran put away his notebook and squeezed into the carriage with a few late-returning vendors.