Bayonets and Roses

Loran's mind raced. Deny it? But the paper clearly stated "tank model," "steel plate cutting," and "suspension system assembly."

Fabricated reasons? What reason could explain a second lieutenant in the General Staff making tank models in private?

Loran swallowed hard and chose the most dangerous strategy: partial confession.

"It's a personal research project of mine," Loran said, his voice remaining moderately calm. "You know, my analysis at the meeting was met with some skepticism. I think the problem lies in a cognitive gap; our officers don't intuitively understand what the mobility of armored forces means."

He paused, observing Marchand's reaction. The lieutenant's face was expressionless, his deep brown eyes like two still pools of water.

"So I thought that if we could create a simplified, movable model as a demonstration tool during simulations or presentations," Loran shrugged, "it might be more persuasive than a hundred-page report."

Marchand remained silent for a long time. So long that Lorraine could almost hear his own heartbeat pounding in his ears.

"Making military equipment models privately," Marchand finally spoke, each word spoken slowly. "Even if it's just a model, it requires reporting, security review, a clear description of its purpose, and approval from superiors."

"I know," Lorraine said, "which is why I haven't formally applied yet. It's currently just a proof-of-concept phase, using civilian materials and being conducted in my private time."

"Where will it be held?"

This question hangs like a cold knife between the two of them.

Lorraine met Marchand's gaze: "It's an abandoned farm belonging to a friend of my father's. It's in the countryside, far from sensitive areas, and it uses all civilian materials, including scrap tractor parts, old steel plates, and ordinary tools. There are no military supplies or technologies involved."

"Were there any other people involved?"

"No, just me."

Silence fell again. Marchand walked to the window, looking down at the Invalides Square, his eyes still sharp.

"Colonel Delian appreciates your insight," Marchand said with his back to him, "but he also reminded you that sometimes moving too fast is more dangerous than standing still."

"I remember."

"Then you should also remember that the General Staff has strict regulations." Marchand turned around. "Anything involving military equipment, even a model, its design, manufacture, and testing must be approved and safety assessed by the equipment department. Unauthorized actions will result in demotion or transfer at the very least, and more serious consequences..."

He didn't finish speaking, but his meaning was clear.

Loran clenched his hands, which hung at his sides. His nails dug into his palms, and the slight stinging helped him stay awake.

"Lieutenant," Loran said, "how long would it take if I submitted a formal application now and went through the process?"

Marchand did not answer immediately. He walked back to his desk, picked up the schedule, and carefully examined its contents. His gaze lingered particularly long on the items "interlaced road wheel suspension system" and "sloping armor welding process."

"Given the efficiency of the bureaucratic system, it would take at least two months," he said. "And it's highly unlikely to be approved. Model making is not within the scope of an analyst's responsibilities, the budget committee will question its necessity, and the security services will be concerned about the risk of leaks."

He put down the paper and looked up: "In other words, if you go through the proper channels, your 'demo project' will almost never get approved."

There's a strange implication to these words; they're not a threat, but rather a statement of a helpless reality.

Lorraine astutely grasped this point. "So you believe this project is valuable?"

"I didn't say that," Marchand immediately denied, but his tone wasn't forceful. "I was just pointing out the realities of the system. The General Staff is good at making plans, but not good at dealing with unplanned innovations."

He paused for a moment, seemingly considering his words.

"You just said that currently only you are involved, using civilian materials, and conducting this in a private location?"

"Yes."

Is the venue safe? Is it secluded?

"It's an abandoned farm, with no permanent residents within several kilometers. The barn has no windows, and the door can be locked," Lorraine replied cautiously. "I'm always very careful when I go there, making sure I'm not being followed."

Marchand nodded, his fingers tapping unconsciously on the table. Once, twice, three times.

"continue."

Loran was taken aback: "What?"

"Your project," Marchand said in a low voice, "continue working on it. But several conditions must be met: First, absolutely no military supplies, including waste, may be used. Second, no active-duty military personnel may be hired or invited to participate. Third, the finished product must not appear within the boundaries of any military facility unless formal approval is obtained. Fourth..."

He looked Lorraine straight in the eye: "If anyone finds out, investigates, or questions you, you must claim that this is a purely personal interest project, unrelated to the military. And you've never discussed this with me."

Lorraine felt a wave of dizziness. Was this acquiescence? No, it was more complex than acquiescence; it was a conditional permissiveness.

"Why?" he couldn't help but ask.

Marchand did not answer. He walked back to the window and looked out again.

This time, his gaze seemed to be directed to a more distant place, beyond the rooftops of Paris, beyond the Seine, and towards the eastern horizon.

"I spent three months in Poland last autumn," he said suddenly, his voice very soft. "As a military observer, I nominally witnessed the fall of Warsaw."

He paused for a long time, so long that Loran thought he wouldn't continue.

"The German tanks weren't what we imagined," Marchand finally continued. "They were fast, too fast. The Poles dug anti-tank ditches and set up obstacles, but German engineers could erect bridges in hours."

"Can you imagine Poland actually charging with cavalry? In 1939, cavalry charged at tanks."

There was a weariness in his voice that Loran had never heard before.

"I came back and wrote a report detailing everything. The speed of the armored group's breakthrough, the efficiency of air-ground coordination, and the flexibility of the command system. The report was filed with the rating of 'valuable intelligence, but the Polish experience is not applicable to the Western Front.' Because, you know, we had the Maginot Line."

Marchand turned around, his face regaining its usual calm expression.

"So, Lieutenant Lorraine, if your model can make even one person truly 'see' what the threat looks like..." Marchand shrugged, "then it's more useful than my report lying in the archives."

He walked to the door, then stopped.

Are you free tonight?

This question came suddenly. Loran paused for a moment, then said, "There should be... one."

"Seven o'clock, 'Bayonets and Roses' at the Veterans Crossing. I'll buy you a drink," Marchand said. "Some things aren't suitable to be said in the office."

Without waiting for Loran's reply, he pushed open the door and left.

The Veterans' Cross is located in the 10th arrondissement of Paris, near Gare du Nord. It's home to many shops and bars run by veterans, and "Bayonets and Roses" is one of the unassuming little shops there.

At seven o'clock in the evening, Loran pushed open the shop door. The interior was dimly lit, with World War I flags, rusted helmets, and yellowed photographs hanging on the walls. Behind the bar, an old man missing an ear was wiping glasses. In the corner, a few tables were occupied by customers, mostly older men dressed in civilian clothes made from old military uniforms, talking in hushed tones.

Marchand was already seated in the innermost booth, with two glasses of amber-colored liquor in front of him. He had changed out of his military uniform and was wearing a plain dark overcoat, looking like an ordinary citizen.

Loran walked over and sat down.

"Calvados apple brandy," Marchand said, pushing a glass towards him. "It's from Normandy, much better than those watered-down Parisian trinkets."

Lorraine took a sip. The scalding liquid slid down her throat, carrying the sweet aroma of apples and the burning sensation of strong liquor.

"Do you come here often?" he asked.

“Occasionally. The owner here, Remy, was my father’s comrade-in-arms back then.” Marchand pointed to the old man behind the bar. “A Verdun survivor, he lost hearing in his left ear from the shell. After the war, he opened this shop and took in many veterans who couldn’t find work.”

Lorraine looked around. Now he could see clearly that most of the guests were disabled—missing fingers, lame, or scarred. But they still sat upright, and their eyes held a sharpness unique to those who had survived the battlefield.

"Your father was also..."

"I died in the Somme in 1916," Marchand said calmly. "I was four years old when my mother remarried. I grew up with my uncle, who was also an officer, so I went to the Saint-Cyr Military Academy and took this path."

He took a sip of his drink, his gaze sweeping over the photos on the wall. The young faces smiled in the yellowed photographs; many of them never returned.

"Do you know why I made you continue with that project?" Marchand suddenly asked.

Lorraine shook her head.

"Because my uncle retired last week," Marchand said with a strange irony. "He worked in the General Staff for twenty years, and his last report was about 'how to strengthen the psychological deterrent effect of the Maginot Line.' You know what his suggestion was? Put up more morale-boosting posters behind the line."

Marchand laughed, but there was no warmth in his laughter.

"What I saw in Poland—tanks rolling over trenches, the screeching of Stukas diving, the chaotic calls on the radio—these were all 'special cases' to them. 'We are not Poland,' they said. 'We have the strongest defenses in the world, the best army.'"

Marchand swirled his wine glass, leaving streaks of amber liquid on the glass's surface.

"But I know that's not the case. I visited the Ardennes region last spring. How many fortifications were there? Less than a tenth of the Maginot Line. What kind of troops were stationed there? Second-line reserve divisions, with an average age of thirty-five, and their equipment was still from 1918. Why? Because everyone believed, 'Tanks can't get through there.'"

He looked up at Loran: "Your model, however crude or rudimentary, is made of steel and it can move. When those generals see it with their own eyes, even just a model, see it climb over what they thought was an 'impassable' slope, and hear the sound of its tracks grinding against the ground, that will be enough."

Marchand didn't finish speaking, but Lorraine understood.

"But this is very risky," Lorraine said. "And for you too."

“I know,” Marchand nodded. “That’s why we drink at ‘Bayonets and Roses.’ People here only care about their pensions and tomorrow’s bread; nobody pays attention to what two strangers are saying.”

He paused, then lowered his voice: "But I need to know your progress. Not the details, but roughly when it will be finished? When can we demonstrate it?"

Loran hesitated for a moment.

"The chassis is complete," Loran said. "The suspension system and tracks. Next up is welding the body, installing the engine, and tuning the transmission. If all goes well, it should be finished by the end of March."

Three months is enough time for him to finish the tank.

"The end of March," Marchand repeated, calculating something in his mind. "There will be a spring tactical exercise by the General Staff around that time, which will be attended by senior officers from all units. If there's any 'unexpected demonstration' that needs to be done in public, that's the opportunity."

Loran's heart raced: "Are you serious?"

"I'm just stating the facts," Marchand said in a businesslike tone. "The spring exercise is scheduled for March 28th at the multi-training grounds near Versailles. There will be a live-fire exercise, and each branch of the armed forces will showcase new tactics and equipment."

He looked at Loran: "If your 'personal interest project' happens to be 'test-driving' at that time, and happens to 'accidentally' enter the exercise area..."

"That would get you arrested on the spot," Loran quickly tried to stop him.

"Or," Marchand said slowly, "it could become an unavoidable 'sudden event,' forcing everyone to confront the issues they've been avoiding."

The two stared at each other in silence.

Behind the bar, old Remy started playing records, military songs from World War I, with a desolate melody.

"I need time to think about it," Lorraine said.

"You have a week." Marchand finished his drink, put down his glass, and said, "Give me your answer by this time next week. If you decide to do it, I'll tell you the specific dates, the route, and the blind spots. If you decide to give up..."

He shrugged: "Then we've never had this drink, and I've never seen any progress chart."

Marchand stood up, took a few banknotes from his coat pocket and placed them under his glass, nodded toward the bar, and then pushed open the door to step into the cold winter night.

Lorraine sat alone in the booth, looking at the remaining brandy in his glass.

In the photographs on the wall, the eyes of those young soldiers seem to be looking at him. Eyes from 1916, eyes from 1939, across time and space, asking the same question: What would you do?

At the same time, Charlotte sat in the Sorbonne University library, with a thick book, "European Military Geography," open in front of her.

But she couldn't concentrate on reading a single word.

It's been three days. A full three days, and Loran hasn't contacted her.

During her lunch break, she went to Lorraine's apartment. No one answered the door when she knocked. The neighbor lady said that he "has been coming home very late lately and leaving again before dawn."

"His hands are always covered in dirt, like he works in a car repair shop," the neighbor grumbled. "How did an office-based military officer end up like this?"

Charlotte thanked him and walked down the stairs, her steps becoming slower and slower.

A car repair shop? Oil stains? Staying out all night?

She remembered the tiny cuts on Lorraine's hands and the lingering smell of engine oil from two weeks ago. She remembered her father saying that the coffee shop owner had mentioned the stains on Lorraine's hands when she paid the bill.

A vague conjecture gradually took shape in her mind. It was too crazy, but it made a lot of sense in the current state of Loran.

If he really is doing that, that "impossible thing" he mentioned in the coffee shop.

Charlotte stepped out of the library, the cold winter wind clearing her head somewhat. She needed evidence, she needed confirmation.

Instead of returning to her apartment, she headed towards the engineering building at the Eighth University. She remembered there was a mechanical engineering lab there where students and professors often worked on various projects.

At the laboratory entrance, she met Professor Michelle, an old friend of her father and the head of the Department of Mechanical Engineering.

"Charlotte? What a rare guest." The old professor adjusted his glasses. "Looking for your father? He wasn't here."

"No, Professor, I'm here to see you." Charlotte took a deep breath. "I'd like to ask you some technical questions."

In the office, she tried to make her question sound natural: "If a historian wanted to create a movable mechanical model, such as a simplified model of a vehicle, what would they typically need?"

Professor Michelle raised her eyebrows: "A vehicle model? What kind?"

"It can be driven. It doesn't need to be fast, but it needs to be able to drive on uneven ground."

"That would require a power system, a small engine or electric motor, a transmission, and a suspension system." The professor casually sketched on a piece of paper. "The car body can be made of lightweight materials, such as aluminum or thin steel plates. The steering mechanism and braking system aren't too complex, but they do require basic machining skills."

"What if this person hasn't received professional training?"

"Then you'll need someone to guide you, or detailed blueprints," the professor said. "And you'll need space and tools. Welding equipment, cutting tools, assembly platforms—this isn't something you can do in your own living room."

Charlotte's heart sank. She thought of Lorraine's apartment; it was impossible for him to do this kind of work there. He must have somewhere else.

"What about materials? Like steel plates and parts, where can we get them?"

"Scrap metal markets, car dismantling yards, or..." The professor paused, lowering his voice, "...the black market. During wartime, supplies are controlled, and many materials can't be bought through legitimate channels. But some people have connections, as long as you can afford it."

Money. Where did Loran get the money? He had only been working for a short time and had limited savings.

unless...

Charlotte remembered that Lorraine had mentioned he had "savings for the wedding." At the time, she smiled and said there was no rush, they could take their time.

"Professor, if someone were doing something like that," she finally asked, "but didn't want anyone to know, where would they choose to go?"

Professor Michel took off his glasses and wiped the lenses slowly. When he put them back on, his expression turned serious.

"Charlotte, your father is an old friend of mine," he said. "There are some things that perhaps shouldn't be asked in too much detail. If that person is doing something important, and that thing needs to be kept secret."

He took a business card from the drawer and pushed it in front of Charlotte.

The business card reads: Émile Dupont, Scrap Metal Recycling, Saint-Denis, a northern suburb of Paris.

"My nephew," the professor said simply. "He's been in this line of work for over ten years, knows a lot of people, and knows a lot of things. If your friend needs help, he can go to him. Just say I introduced him."

"Thank you, Professor."