Plan

Time flew by, and Loran's project was progressing rapidly. At the same time, he was becoming increasingly adept at his work in the General Staff.

Charlotte would occasionally visit Lorraine, revealing her dimples, and then complain that her father, Henry, had told her not to meddle in men's affairs.

Lorraine simply responded with a smile.

On March 15, 1940, 13 days before the spring tactical simulation.

The air in the conference room on the second floor of the General Staff Headquarters in Paris was stuffy and heavy.

Officers sat on both sides of the long table, from gray-haired old generals to tense young field officers, all their eyes fixed on the huge map of the Western Front on the wall. Dense red and blue arrows represented the hypothetical deployments of the French and German forces.

Colonel Derain stood before the map, his pointer lightly tapping the Ardennes Forest region: "According to the latest intelligence analysis, German troop buildup east of the Moselle River has increased. However, command assesses that this is more likely a diversionary tactic, aimed at luring our forces to redeploy troops from the Maginot Line."

An old general, his robes adorned with medals, scoffed: "If the Germans really dared to come from the Ardennes, our reserves could seal any breach within 24 hours. The problem is they can't; that place is difficult even for horse-drawn carriages, let alone tanks."

At the end of the conference table, Loran sat quietly with his notebook open in front of him, but he hadn't taken notes on a single page.

His gaze occasionally swept over the clock on the wall: 3:20 PM. Four days had passed since his last visit to the underground cavern. What were LeBron and his team doing now? Final adjustments? Or were they already finished?

"Lieutenant Loran."

Derian's voice brought him back to reality. All eyes turned to him.

"What were the conclusions of your armored forces mobility analysis report?" Deleon asked. "If, just if, the Germans really did attempt to cross the Ardennes, how long would it have taken their vanguard to reach the Meuse River?"

Lorraine stood up. He could feel Marchand's gaze coming from diagonally across from him, calm but sharp.

"Based on data and terrain analysis from the Polish campaign, General," his voice was exceptionally clear in the quiet conference room, "if weather conditions are good and roads are dry, it will take the German armored vanguard 48 to 60 hours to get from the border to the Meuse River bridge near Sedan."

A low murmur arose in the conference room.

"Impossible!" The old general slammed his fist on the table. "Crossing the Ardennes in 60 hours? Do you think German tanks can fly?"

"They don't need to fly, General," Loran said calmly. "They just need to be faster than we expect. In the Polish campaign, Guderian's 19th Panzer Corps advanced 80 kilometers in a single day, and that was under resistance."

"Poland is plains! The Ardennes are mountains and forests!"

"That's precisely the problem." Loran walked to the map, pointing his pointer to several key points. "We're assuming the Germans must advance along the main roads, but the Ardennes have numerous secondary roads, logging trails, and even dried-up riverbeds. These roads may seem insignificant on the map, but they're sufficient for single tanks to pass. If the Germans adopt a dispersed formation, advancing in multiple columns..."

"Enough," Major General Gaston, who was chairing the meeting, interrupted him. "This is the tenth time we've discussed this hypothesis. Intelligence has not detected any large-scale German troop buildup in the Ardennes, and the engineers have not reported any movement of bridging equipment along the border. We cannot disrupt the entire defensive deployment because of a theoretical possibility."

Lorraine wanted to say something more, but Marchand shook his head slightly, swallowed his words, and sat back down.

The meeting ended at 4:30. The officers filed out, whispering about dinner plans and weekend arrangements. The war still seemed far off.

As Loran was tidying up the documents, Marchand walked over.

"Come with me," the lieutenant said in a low voice, then turned and walked out of the conference room.

They walked down the corridor to a secluded stairwell. Marchand lit a cigarette, took a deep drag, and the smoke swirled in the dim light.

"You're in too much of a hurry," he said.

"Time is running out; the German troops have already made their move." Loran glanced out the window and couldn't help but sigh.

"I know," Marchand flicked his cigarette ash. "That's why we need to be even more careful. Major General Gaston is a close confidant of the Chief of the General Staff, and your public questioning of his judgment today has already raised concerns."

"I thought we needed to draw attention to this."

"It's necessary, but not in this way." Marchand shook his head. "If you embarrass him in front of everyone, he'll only be more determined to oppose any warnings about Ardennes now. That's called a contrarian mentality, and it applies to the old man as well."

Loran fell silent; he was right.

"How's the progress at the cave?" Marchand asked in a low voice.

"As planned. LeBron said it should be finished by the end of the month."

"Has it been tested?"

"We tested the hill climbing and turning last week, and it basically met expectations." Loran hesitated for a moment, "But Lieutenant, there's a problem. Even if the tank model can appear on the day of the exercise, how can we ensure that it happens to wander into the exercise area? There are military police guarding the training ground, and a cordon around it."

Marchand paused for a few seconds, then took a folded piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to Lorraine.

It was a simple map, marking the terrain, roads, and sentry posts of the Versailles training ground. Several locations were circled in red.

"At 10:00 AM on March 28th, the 2nd Armored Division will conduct a breakthrough drill, using the eastern section of the training ground." Marchand pointed to the map, "Their training area is near the southern wall, where there is a section of dilapidated fence, behind which is a forest. If 'a homemade vehicle belonging to a civilian mechanic' happens to be testing in the forest, and 'coincidentally' goes out of control due to mechanical failure around 10:15 AM, breaking through the fence..."

He looked up: "Do you know what time 10:15 is?"

Lorraine shook her head.

"That's the time the observation group will arrive at the East Reviewing Stand," Marchand said. "At that time, the three generals from the General Staff, the two Deputy Secretaries of the Army, and the British Military Observer Group will all be present."

Lorraine felt his palms sweating: "That's too risky. What if the military police open fire on the spot..."

“They won’t,” Marchand said confidently. “First, it’s clearly a model vehicle, unarmed. Second, it would have German markings painted on it, which the military police might misjudge under pressure, but the generals would see clearly. Third, and most importantly…”

He paused, his gaze complex. "There will be reporters there. I've already arranged for military reporters from Le Parisien and Le Figaro to 'happen' to be there. If the gendarmes fire on an unarmed model car, it will be a bigger scandal than the model car itself in front of the reporters."

The plan was frighteningly meticulous. Loran looked at Marchand and suddenly realized that this young lieutenant had been preparing for this moment for a long time, far longer than his own tank model.

"Why are you doing so much?" Lorraine couldn't help but ask. "You could have just stood by and watched."

Marchand finished his cigarette and stubbed it out on the windowsill.

"You don't need to know that. You just need to know that we are comrades-in-arms on the same front."

The stairwell fell silent. In the distance came the clicking of a typewriter and the sharp ringing of a telephone in an office.

"I need specific routes and timelines," Loran concluded.

"Tomorrow. Same place, bayonets and roses." Marchand glanced at his watch. "Now you should go back. Remember, for the next two weeks, keep a low profile in the General Staff. You're a diligent but unassuming analyst, nothing more."

......

In a small café near the Eighth University, Charlotte sat by the window with a cup of tea that had gone cold in front of her.

Across from her, Professor Michelle was carefully reading a document, records of the "Veterans Technical Training Program" that she had borrowed from the Ministry of Education archives through her father's connections.

The project was established in 1922 to help disabled veterans learn new skills, but it was canceled in 1935 due to budget cuts.

"Look here," Professor Michel said, pointing to a page. "The last complete report of the project, dated 1934. Among the veterans who participated in the training, 37 had advanced qualifications in 'heavy machinery repair and modification.' The training took place here, at the Saint-Denis workshop in the northern suburbs of Paris."

He turned to the next page: "After the project was canceled, the whereabouts of most of these people were not recorded. But there were a few, you see, Pierre Leclerc, a tank mechanic in 1918; Jean-Louis Moreau, a field engineer; Henri Dupont, an armored vehicle driver..."

The professor looked up, his eyes sharp behind his glasses: "What your friend needs are precisely these people's skills."

Charlotte's heart raced: "Will we be able to find them?"

"I've tried," the professor shook his head. "The address is old, and the phone line is down. After the war, many veterans chose to live under assumed names. They've been through too much and don't want to get involved with any 'official' affairs anymore."

He paused, then lowered his voice: "But last week, I heard something. My nephew Emil, the one in the scrap metal business, said that recently someone has been buying large quantities of specific-sized steel plates and bearings on the black market, materials used for modifying heavy vehicles. The buyers are secretive, it's a cash transaction, but it reveals one message: 'For veterans.'"

Charlotte gripped her teacup tighter: "What do you think...?"

"I don't think anything of it," the professor said cautiously. "I'm just telling you what I know. If someone wants to secretly carry out mechanical engineering, needs the skills of veterans, and doesn't want to attract official attention, then procuring through the black market and recruiting manpower through networks of old comrades is the most reasonable way."

He closed the file and pushed it in front of Charlotte: "The person you're looking for might be in some underground workshop, doing something they consider important."

Outside the window, the rain was pouring down harder. Rainwater trickled down the glass like tears.

"What should I do?" Charlotte asked.

The professor looked at her for a long time, and finally sighed: "Does your father know you're investigating these things?"

"have no idea."

"Then don't tell him." The professor stood up, took a few bills from his wallet and placed them under his teacup. "Sometimes, young people take risks for their beliefs, and the best help the older generation can give is to pretend they didn't see it."

She picked up her umbrella, walked to the door, and then stopped.

"Charlotte, in the autumn of 1939, I had a student, a German Jew, a physics genius, who applied for asylum in France. I wrote a letter of recommendation and used my connections, but his visa was still rejected. The reason given was 'limited quota'."

He turned his head, and the raindrops shimmered in the lamplight outside the window.

"Last week I received news that he and his family tried to illegally cross into Switzerland, were arrested at the border, and are now being held in a 're-education camp' in Germany." The professor's voice was soft. "Sometimes I think, if I had tried harder back then, if I had gotten a few more people to help, would the outcome have been different?"

Without waiting for Charlotte's reply, he pushed open the door and stepped into the rain.

Charlotte sat alone in the café, looking out at the gray, misty streets. Paris in the rain was blurry and fragile, like a watercolor painting about to be soaked through.

She remembered the oil stains on Lorraine's hands, the growing weariness and determination in his eyes, and the tone in which he said, "They will come from the impossible."

Now she knows. He not only said it, he did it.

In his own way, with steel and sweat, he tried to sound the alarm.

Charlotte took her notebook out of her bag and turned to a blank page. She began to write, quickly, almost without thinking:

A letter to Lorraine:

Mark, I don't know where you are or what you're doing, but I know it's important.

If you need help, any kind of help, I'm here.

I am not a weakling who needs protection; I am a comrade-in-arms who can be trusted.

Whatever you're fighting against, remember, you're not alone.

I'm waiting for you to come back safely.

Charlotte.

After she finished writing, she tore off the paper, folded it, and put it in the inside pocket of her coat, close to her heart.

Then she stood up, paid the bill, and walked into the cold March rain.

She knew what to do next.

In the underground cave, time flows at a different rhythm.

LeBron squatted beside the tank hull, measuring the thickness of the steel plates with a micrometer, his one eye fixed intently on the scale. Henry, missing a finger, adjusted the tension of the drive belt with a modified tool hook. Jean-Louis, his face burned, lay on the hood, listening intently to the engine's hum, his one good eye closed.

The tank was almost finished. The German gray camouflage paint had dried completely, gleaming with a cold, hard sheen under the dim light. The steel pipe faking the main gun on the turret was polished smooth, and the welded hatch could be opened. There was no real breechblock inside, but it was realistic enough to fool the eye. The tracks were covered with fresh mud, left from the test runs outside the quarry last night.

"The steering is still a bit stiff." Pierre, the one-legged old man, sat in the driver's seat, his hands gripping the control lever. "It takes about three kilograms more force to turn left than right."

"It's a gear backlash issue," LeBron said without looking up. "We need to take it apart and adjust it. We'll get it done tonight."

"Is it too late? There are only two weeks left."

"We'll make it." LeBron stood up, stretching his aching back. "Back in Verdun, we fixed five broken-down tanks overnight. This is nothing."

The other elderly people laughed, their laughter echoing in the underground space with a metallic quality.

They surrounded the tank like children about to go to war. Rough hands traced the steel surface, inspecting every weld and every bolt.

This is not a work of art, nor even a proper war machine, but it can run, climb hills, turn, and looks real enough.

It's so real it can wake you up.

"That child didn't come today," Henry said suddenly.

"They're putting on a show at the General Staff," LeBron scoffed. "It's harder than here. We only have to deal with the steel; he has to deal with the entire bureaucracy."

"Can he handle it?" Jean-Louis asked worriedly. "It takes a lot of courage to stand before the generals and speak to them."

"He did." LeBron recalled the look in Lorraine's eyes when he first took out the blueprints, a look filled with fear and determination that he knew all too well. "Before the 1917 charge, all the green recruits had that look in their eyes. Some survived, some didn't, but at least they charged forward."

The cave fell silent.

Pierre climbed out of the cockpit, supporting himself with his cane: "Is the route finalized? How do we get it there?"

"The kid Marchana gave us the plan." LeBron took a map from his toolbox and spread it on the ground. "Use a modified truck, transport it in the middle of the night. There's an abandoned hunting lodge in the woods south of the training ground; hide the tank there beforehand. On the morning of the exercise, we'll drive it to the designated position."

"It's very risky," Henry said. "The military police will be patrolling."

"So we need precise timing." LeBron pointed to several markers on the map. "Marchandt provided the patrol schedule. We have a fifteen-minute window."

Jean-Louis crouched down to examine the map, his burned face appearing even more grotesque under the light: "What if we fail? What if we're caught red-handed?"

"Then we'll say we're amateur mechanics who made a model to exhibit and got lost." LeBron grinned, revealing yellow teeth. "The worst-case scenario is that we old guys end up in jail. We've had enough of living anyway."

"But that child, Loran..."

"He knows nothing," LeBron said seriously. "We made the plans, we carried out the transport, and we conducted the demonstrations. He just happened to work in the General Staff, happened to have some knowledge of armored tactics, happened to be on site, and happened to be shocked by our 'accidental intrusion' and offered his professional commentary."

He looked at the other elderly people: "Remember this? All the responsibility lies with us crazy old men. That child still has a future."

Silence returned to the cave. The old men looked at each other, then nodded almost simultaneously.

This is tacit understanding, the tacit understanding between those who survived the battlefield.

They began packing up their tools, preparing for tonight's debugging work. The welding torch was lit, the cutting sound rang out, steel clashed against steel, and sparks flew.

Inside this underground cave, six old men and a steel construct are making final preparations for a "performance" destined to be forgotten by history.

Meanwhile, on the ground, Paris was still asleep.

Soldiers on the Maginot Line played cards behind concrete fortifications. Generals at the General Staff discussed post-war promotions over a candlelight dinner. The newspaper headline read: "Peace on the Western Front, Hopes for Peace."