Veteran

It's not fear, but a hollow feeling of having all your hard work stolen.

All the tools, all the materials, all the time—it's all gone.

He walked up to the skeleton and ran his fingers over the rough welded seams.

The turret was only half completed; the side steel plates hadn't been welded on yet, revealing the hollow structure inside.

There was no engine, no driveshaft, no steering mechanism; all of those were taken away.

Who did it? The Gino brothers? Or someone else eyeing the value of this pile of scrap metal?

Loran crouched down to examine the ground.

There were fresh footprints in the dust, not just one person, at least three, and tire tracks, not from the Gino brothers' car, but more like a truck or van, much heavier.

They moved everything they could carry, so why leave this skeleton behind? Was it because it was too heavy? Or did they think this pile of welded steel was worthless?

The light from the kerosene lamp flickered, and Loran raised the lamp, carefully shining it on the base of the skeleton.

Then he saw it.

On the left side of the chassis, near the drive wheel, there was a small symbol drawn in chalk: a crossed hammer and wrench. It was exactly the same as the badge on the business card in the tool bag he had received earlier.

Skilled Workers Mutual Aid Association.

It wasn't a robbery.

Loran slowly stood up, shaking the kerosene lamp in his hand.

He walked around the barn, imagining his hard work being taken away, and now he could see it more clearly.

The tools were taken, but their placement was logical: welding guns and gas cylinders were placed together, power tools were placed together, and hand tools were categorized and boxed. This wasn't a chaotic looting; it was an organized move.

They took the tools and materials, but left the skeleton behind.

Why?

The sound of a car engine came from outside the barn door. Lorraine immediately blew out the kerosene lamp and hid behind the skeleton. In the darkness, he could hear his own heartbeat, heavy and rapid.

The car stopped outside the barn, the door opened, and footsteps sounded. This time, there were more than two or three people; at least five or six.

The door was pushed open. The beam of the flashlight swept across the interior of the barn, finally stopping on the tank frame.

"Here it is," an old voice said. Lorraine recognized it; it was LeBron.

Several flashlights lit up at the same time, instantly illuminating the barn. Loran cautiously peeked out from behind the skeleton.

Six men. LeBron stood at the front, his single eye gleaming strangely in the flashlight beam. Behind him were five men, all over fifty years old, dressed in work pants and thick coats, their faces weathered, some hunched over, some upright, but each with bright eyes—the sharp gaze unique to those who had experienced war and witnessed life and death.

One of them was using a cane, his right trouser leg hanging loosely. Another had severe burn scars on his face, and his left eye was almost completely closed. Yet another was missing fingers on both hands, which he replaced with modified tool hooks.

"Come out, kid," LeBron said. "I know you've got your back."

Loran emerged from behind the skeleton. He still held the kerosene lamp in his hand, half of the oil already spilled.

"My tools... are all gone," Loran said, his voice hoarse.

"We took it," LeBron said calmly, "including the money and blueprints you hid underneath. They're safe now."

Why?

LeBron didn't answer directly. He walked to the tank frame and carefully shone his flashlight on every weld and seam.

Several other elderly people also gathered around. Some touched the steel plate with their hands, some squatted down to check the tracks, and some tapped the road wheels with a wrench to listen to the echo.

"The welds are too rough," the old man with the burns on his face said, his voice sounding like it was being squeezed out of a broken bellows. "The stress is concentrated, and it can't withstand the bumps and jolts of off-road driving."

"The track tension is wrong." The one-legged old man pointed with his cane to the sagging part of the track. "It's too loose; it will derail at high speeds."

"The spring preload in the suspension system is uneven." The elderly man, missing a finger, used a tool to hook and point at the different load wheels. "The left one is stiff, the right one is soft, and it will tilt when turning."

Like doctors having a consultation, they surrounded the pile of steel, offering professional yet cold diagnoses. Loran stood to the side, feeling like a primary school student handing in homework that was being graded.

LeBron finally straightened up and looked at Loran: "You did this all by yourself?"

"Yes."

"How long did it take?"

"Starting in January, it lasted intermittently for two months."

"Two months, one person, and this is what happened." LeBron nodded. "Not too bad. But not good either."

He turned to the other elderly people: "What do you think?"

"The chassis structure is basically correct," said the elderly man with the burned face. "The size proportions are accurate, and the shape is like something from the Germans."

"The suspension principle is correct, but the machining precision is too poor," the one-legged old man added. "It's like knowing what to do, but the hand can't keep up with the brain."

"There's a problem with the choice of materials," the third elderly man said. He looked the youngest, but he was over fifty. "They used ordinary structural steel, which is too heavy. They should have used thinner steel plates with reinforcing ribs to reduce weight while maintaining strength."

After listening to everyone's opinions, LeBron turned to Loran again: "Do you know who they are?"

Lorraine shook her head.

"The last tank crew of World War I," Leblanc said. "In 1918, France formed its first tank unit. They were mechanics, drivers, and gunners. After the war, the unit was disbanded, and they went their separate ways. Some went to factories, some opened repair shops, and some couldn't do anything because they were crippled."

He paused for a moment: "But they all remember how to build tanks. Or rather, how to turn a pile of steel into something that can fight."

Loran looked at the old men. In the dim light of the flashlight, their faces were like reliefs that had stepped out of the pages of a history book, covered with wrinkles, scars, and the marks of time, but their eyes burned with fire.

"Are you willing to help?" he asked, his voice trembling with disbelief.

"It's not helping you," LeBron corrected, "it's helping ourselves."

He walked to the barn wall, where an old French map hung, nailed up by Lorrain to study the terrain. LeBron's finger traced the Ardennes region on the map.

"In 1918, we were counterattacking in the Champagne region in Renault FT-17s." His voice was soft, but every word was like nails hammered into wood. "The German positions had barbed wire, machine gun nests, and artillery observation posts. Seventeen of our tanks charged in, and only nine returned. My best friend, Louis, had his tank hit directly by field artillery, and the people inside were burned to a crisp."

The barn was silent, save for the mournful sound of the night wind blowing in through the hole.

"After the war, we swore we would never let France experience that again." Leblanc turned around, his flashlight beam illuminating the tank's frame. "But now, it's all happening again. The Germans are sharpening their knives in the east, and we're building models here."

He laughed, but his laughter was bitter.

"But maybe this model will wake up those bastards sitting in their offices." He looked at the other old men. "So we came. Not to help you, kid. To make Louis and the others die with some value."

The old man with the burned face walked towards Loran, took out an oil paper package from his pocket, and handed it to him.

Loran opened it. Inside were the drawings that had been taken from him, but now they were covered with numerous red pencil annotations: revised plans, simplified designs, and suggestions for alternative materials—everything was professional and pragmatic.

"Your design has a foundation, but it's too idealistic," the old man said. "We've made some changes, using easier-to-obtain materials and simpler processes. The performance will be compromised, but the appearance will be the same, and it will actually move."

An elderly man with one leg walked over with a cane: "Starting tomorrow, we'll take turns coming, two or three of us each day, to help you catch up on the work. We'll bring the tools, and we have the channels for the materials. You'll be in charge of coordination, and we'll be in charge of the technical aspects."

"Why?" Loran asked again, this time with deeper confusion. "Why did you only appear now? Why did you help me?"

LeBron exchanged glances with several older men.

"Because of Lieutenant Marchand," LeBron said.

Loran was stunned.

"He came to see me a week ago and told me about you. He said you're a madman, trying to wake up the entire French army with a pile of scrap metal." Leblanc pulled a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket, unfolding it to reveal a copy of Lorrain's progress schedule, with Marchand's handwriting on it: "If he can really do it, maybe there's still hope."

"Marcham's father was my platoon leader back then," the burned-faced old man suddenly said. "He died in the Somme in 1916. His last words were: 'Tell them not to come here again.'"

He looked at Loran: "Now you're here again. With a bunch of blueprints, trying to do something before the war starts. Marchand trusts you, so we trust you too."

Lorraine felt a tightness in his throat. He looked at these old men, at the scars on their faces, their broken bodies, and the fire in their eyes that had burned for over twenty years without being extinguished.

"What do I need to do?" he asked.

"Three things," LeBron said, holding up three fingers. "First, provide the final design requirements: what your model should be, to what extent, and when it should be completed. Second, coordinate the schedule to ensure we're not disturbed while we work. Third…"

He paused for a moment, a sharp glint flashing in his single eye.

"Be prepared for the day of the demonstration. When this iron behemoth rolls out, you need to have something to say. Something that will resonate with those generals."

Loran nodded: "The demonstration is scheduled for March 28th, at the Versailles training ground, as part of the spring tactical simulation."

"Two more months," LeBron calculated the time. "That's enough. If the six of us work full-time, we can finish in three weeks, but we need a venue. This place won't do. The Ginobili brothers were scared off by the military police, but they might come back."

"Where to?"

The elderly people looked at each other and smiled.

"Do you know what lies beneath Paris?" the one-legged old man asked.

......

At three in the morning, Loran left the farm with the old people.

Instead of taking a car, they walked across the fields for about three kilometers to an abandoned quarry.

The quarry entrance was hidden by bushes, leading down a slope. LeBron led the way, his flashlight illuminating the path. The slope was deep; it took about five minutes to reach a huge underground space.

This place was once a quarry for building stone, abandoned after the war. The cave is ten meters high and three times the size of a barn. The walls are neatly cut limestone, and the floor is flat. In one corner are piles of old machinery wreckage and several large crates covered with tarpaulins.

"During World War I, this place was requisitioned as a secret military factory," LeBlanc explained. "It produced artillery shell fuses and mortar parts. It was mothballed after the war, but I know how to get in."

He lifted a tarpaulin. Underneath were not rusty machines, but a complete set of metalworking equipment: lathes, milling machines, drilling machines, and grinding wheels, all well-maintained and oiled.

"We come here occasionally these days," said the elderly man with the burns on his face. "To repair things and do some handicrafts. It's a way of preserving our skills."

Another old man lifted another tarpaulin. Below, piles of materials were visible: steel plates, steel pipes, angle iron, steel of various specifications, and boxes of bolts, bearings, and gears.

"I bought it on the black market, or salvaged it from a scrapped machine," said the elderly man missing a finger. "I've been saving it up for over ten years. I was hoping it might come in handy someday."

LeBron walked to the center of the cave, his flashlight beam sweeping across the open ground: "It's soundproof here, the ground is solid, there's a power outlet—I stole power lines from a nearby farm. And most importantly, nobody knows this place."

He turned to look at Loran: "Bring your skeleton over here. We can turn it into something real within a month."

Looking at the underground space, the equipment, the materials, and the elderly people, a sense of unreality washed over Loran, like a drowning person suddenly pulled ashore and taking their first breath of air.

"How about transportation?" he asked. "The tank frames are very heavy; how will you get them from the farm here?"

The old men laughed again.

"You think we came empty-handed?"

LeBron walked deeper into the cave, where a modified truck was parked. It had unusually large wheels, a reinforced chassis, and a hydraulic crane boom in the back.

“Pierre used to be in the motor transport unit.” He pointed to the one-legged old man. “He modified this truck; it can carry five tons. We can deliver your treasure over tonight.”

"What about the farm over there?"

"We'll clean it up, leave no trace," LeBron said. "If the Ginobili brothers come back, they'll just see an empty barn and think you've given up."

The plan was finalized within the next hour. The elderly men divided the tasks clearly: two went to the farm to dismantle the frame and load it onto the truck, two stayed here to prepare the equipment and clean the work area, and LeBron and Loran were responsible for coordinating and designing the final plan.

At four in the morning, the truck headed towards the farm. Lorraine sat in the passenger seat, while the one-legged old man Pierre drove, steering the wheel with only one hand and holding onto his cane with the other.

His right leg was amputated below the knee, but his driving skills were astonishing.

"1917, Alas," he began abruptly, his eyes fixed on the dark road ahead. "I was driving a supply truck carrying ammunition to the front. German artillery fire covered the entire road. A piece of shrapnel pierced the door and sliced ​​off my leg."

His tone was so calm, as if he were talking about someone else.

"I put on a tourniquet, drove another 15 kilometers to deliver the ammunition, and then I passed out." He glanced at Lorraine. "So don't worry about the transport. I've lost a leg, but I still have my hands."

Lorraine didn't know how to respond.

"LeBlanc said you work in the General Staff," Pierre continued, "Have you met those generals?"

"I've met him a few times."

"Tell them," the old man's voice suddenly turned stern, "that war is not an arrow on a map, not a number in a report; war is blood, fire, and driving fifteen kilometers forward even with a missing leg."

The truck stopped in front of the farm's grain silo. Several other elderly people were already waiting there, and they quickly dismantled the auxiliary supports of the frame, preparing to lift it.

Loran watched them work; these were elderly people in their fifties and sixties, with physical disabilities, but every movement was precise and efficient.

They know how to move heavy objects in the least strenuous way, how to secure them without damaging the structure, and how to collaborate to complete the task as quickly as possible.

This is an instinct honed on the battlefield, and even after more than twenty years, I haven't forgotten it.

The frame was disassembled into several parts and loaded onto trucks using a crane boom. By five in the morning, everything was gone. The barn was empty; even the welding slag and iron filings had been swept away.

Loran was the last to leave. He locked the door, the same old lock, but there was nothing left inside.

He glanced back at the barn.

For more than a month, he spent countless nights here, sweating, getting injured, feeling desperate yet persevering, and now he is leaving.

There was no lingering attachment, only a strange sense of relief.

When we returned to the underground cave, it was almost dawn, but here, there was no distinction between day and night, only the eternal dim yellow light.

The framework was reassembled. The elderly men gathered around it and began discussing the specific construction plan. They communicated rapidly in French mixed with industry jargon. Loran could only understand half of what they said, but he could feel the professional atmosphere. This was no longer an amateur attempt, but a real project.

LeBron pulled Loran aside and handed him a piece of paper.

"A new timetable," he said. "From now until March 25th, two months. The first month to complete the hull and turret, the second month to install the power and transmission systems, and the remaining time for debugging and testing. This is the most reasonable arrangement. Of course, it can all be done in a week, but I think a more sophisticated tank will make your words more convincing."

"Is it too late?"

“If the six of us work full-time, twelve hours a day, we can manage.” LeBron looked at him. “But there’s one thing you need to do: behave normally in the General Staff. Taking too many days off will arouse suspicion, so you can only come on weekends and evenings. We’ll do the work during the week.”

Lorraine nodded. That would be best; the older folks have far more experience and skill than he does, and his presence might actually slow things down.

"There's another problem," he said. "How will we get the tanks to the Versailles training ground on the day of the demonstration? They can't drive that far by themselves."

"We have a plan." LeBron smiled mysteriously. "You just need to worry about what to say. Leave the rest to us."

Before dawn, Loran left the cave.

The elderly men had already changed into their work clothes, lit their welding torches, and started working.