Telegrams

1940年3月24日，晚11点47分，巴黎「刺刀与玫瑰」酒馆

The kerosene lamp cast a flickering glow on the bar. Old Remy was wiping the last glass, his missing left ear looking like a tattered medal in the light. Only one table of customers remained in the tavern; in the corner, Loren and Marchand sat facing each other, separated by a wooden table stained with countless cigarette burns.

Marchand's face was as white as paper in the dim light. His right hand rested on the table, his fingers trembling slightly.

It wasn't fear, but a suppressed anger. A telegram lay open to his left, its thin pages trembling slightly in the night breeze seeping in through the crack in the door.

Lorraine finished reading the telegram. It was short, only three lines, but every word was like a nail:

"On March 23, it was confirmed that Major General Rommel, commander of the German 3th Panzer Division, had been frequently inspecting the east bank of the Moselle River recently. This division, originally stationed in Poland, had recently been re-equipped with one battalion each of Panzer III and Panzer IV tanks. Their movements are suspicious, and it is recommended that the alert level in the Ardennes be raised. —Source C"

In the lower right corner of the telegram was a small letter "R," circled in red pencil—Remier's codename, a top-tier undercover agent for the Military Intelligence Service in Berlin. Agents of this rank wouldn't easily send messages containing words like "suspicious."

"When did you receive it?" Loran's voice was very soft.

"An hour ago. It went through a transit point in Spain, taking three different routes."

Marchand picked up the Calvados in front of him and drank it all in one gulp. The strong liquor seemed to restore some of his color to his face.

"As is the normal procedure, this telegram would be analyzed by the intelligence department for three days and then archived in the 'to be verified' folder. It would take at least a week before it was actually sent to the decision-making level."

"But you can make it faster."

"I can," Mal admitted, "but that's not the problem."

He pulled another document from the inside pocket of his coat; it was a copy of the meeting minutes, dated three days prior.

Loran quickly browsed the pages, her heart sinking deeper and deeper.

The minutes record an internal meeting of the General Staff's Operations Bureau. Major General Gaston stated: "Excessive concern about the Ardennes direction has affected normal defensive deployments. Some officers are obsessed with 'hypothetical enemy breakthroughs,' wasting a great deal of manpower and resources that should have been used to reinforce the Maginot Line. This defeatist tendency must be corrected immediately..."

The list then included the names of several officers who "required attention," and Loran saw his own name, as well as Marchand's.

"They've already started making lists," Marchand said, his voice strangely calm. "The next step is investigation, interviews, and removal from key positions. When the Germans actually attack, everyone who's thinking straight will either be marginalized or shut up."

Loran stared at the two documents. One was an alarm from Berlin, the other a warning from Paris; danger was approaching from two directions simultaneously: the steel torrent from the east, and the bureaucratic noose from the west.

"The exercise must be moved up," Marchand suddenly said.

Loran looked up: "Ahead of schedule? Only four days left until the original plan."

"The original plan was March 28th. But Gaston issued an order this afternoon to move the spring tactical exercise forward to March 27th." Marchand tapped the date on the telegram with his fingers. "Moreover, the observer list has changed. The Commander-in-Chief has 'some unforeseen circumstances,' so the Deputy Chief of Staff will attend instead. The British observer group has also been reduced to two people, a very low-ranking one."

"They are diluting their influence."

"Not only that." Marchand pulled another piece of paper from his pocket, a map of the training ground area. "The exercise in the east zone has been canceled. It's been changed to an infantry tactics demonstration in the west zone, which is far from the wall and surrounded by open ground. Even if your tanks could get in, they would be stopped by the military police 300 meters away."

Loran felt a chill. All the preparations, all the plans, all the sweat of the old folks—would it all be wasted because of a bureaucrat's signature?

"Unless..." Marchand paused for a long time, long enough for old Remy to finish wiping all the cups and start turning off the extra lights.

"Unless what?"

"Unless the demonstration isn't in the training grounds," Marchand said in a very low voice, "it's outside the training grounds, but on the route all the generals take."

He unfolded the map and traced a winding road with his finger. It was a private road leading from Versailles to the training grounds, used only by vehicles of senior officers. A section of the road went through a forest, with dense oak trees and shrubs on both sides.

"At nine o'clock on the morning of the exercise, all the generals' motorcades will pass through here." Marchand's finger stopped at a bend on the map. "The motorcades will be led by military police on motorcycles, but with large gaps between them. If, at this bend, a 'lost civilian mechanic's vehicle' suddenly drives out of the woods and stops in the middle of the road..."

Lorraine's heart pounded: "This is too dangerous! That's the generals' convoy! The military police will open fire!"

"So precise calculations are needed." Marchand's eyes were sharp as knives. "Thirty seconds after the lead motorcycle passes, the first general's vehicle reaches the bend. The tank must move out within those thirty seconds, stop in the middle of the road, and shut off the engine. The driver must immediately get out, raise his hands, and loudly explain, 'Mechanical failure, lost.'"

"and then?"

"Then the generals will get out of their vehicles to check. They definitely will, because the road is blocked. They'll see a 'tank' painted in German gray, parked on the private road reserved for high-ranking French officers." A cold smile appeared on Marchand's lips. "That scene will be ten times more shocking than what you see on the training ground."

Loran's mind raced, calculating the risks. More dangerous, more unpredictable, but if successful, the impact would be even greater.

The generals were not watching from a safe viewing platform, but were blocked in their path by this steel structure, right up close.

"Is there enough time?" he asked. "We need to replan the route, recalculate the time window, and ensure the elderly can be evacuated safely..."

"That's why I came to see you tonight." Marchand glanced at the clock on the bar. "There are 68 hours until the new plan is implemented. You must go to the cave tonight and finalize all the details with LeBron and the others. The transportation route, the hiding place, the timing of their appearance, the evacuation plan—every single step must be flawless."

He paused, his tone becoming unusually serious: "And this time, you must participate in the evacuation. After the tank appears, as the 'staff officer who happens to be passing by,' you must immediately step forward and explain to the generals what it is, using your most professional and calm analysis to tell them what this vehicle signifies."

"What about the drivers? LeBron and the others?"

"They'll evacuate beforehand," Marchand said. "After the tanks shut down, the drivers get off on the other side and disappear into the woods. There are backup vehicles there, and they leave the scene within three minutes. By the time the military police realize what's happening, they're already five kilometers away."

Loran remained silent for a long time. The wick of the kerosene lamp crackled, and the light dimmed for a moment.

Marchand walked to the door, then stopped. "Tomorrow I will send a detailed route map and timetable to the cave. You have one day to prepare. Remember, it's 9:07 a.m. on the 27th. You can prepare in advance, but you must not be late."

The door opened, letting in the winter night wind, carrying the damp scent of the Seine. Marchand's figure disappeared into the night.

Loran sat alone in the dimly lit tavern. Old Remy came over, took away the empty glass, and placed a new one on the table.

"That child is just like his father," the old man suddenly said, his voice hoarse like sandpaper scraping, "equally stubborn, equally unwilling to accept 'that's just how things are.'"

Loran looked up: "You heard everything."

"One ear is deaf, the other is still working." Old Remy sat down opposite, took an old pipe from his apron pocket, and slowly filled it with tobacco. "In 1916, on the eve of the Battle of the Somme, we sat like this, with Marchand's father and five other men. We knew the next day was a suicide charge, but we were still planning how to live a few more minutes and kill a few more Germans."

He lit his pipe, took a deep drag, and the smoke swirled in the dim light.

"Plans are always changing, son. On the battlefield, a plan doesn't survive the first shell. But the important thing is that you have a plan. With a plan, you'll know where to charge, when to lie down, and when to stand up and keep running."

Old Remy looked at Loran: "So don't be afraid of plans changing. What's scary is having no plan, no direction, just waiting for the shells to fall."

He tapped his pipe lightly on the table. "Go ahead. Go find LeBron and the others. Tell them old Remy said, 'Do it like it was in 1918.' They'll understand."

Two o'clock in the morning, underground cave

Six windproof kerosene lamps illuminated the cave. The tank was parked in the center, the mud on its tracks cleaned off, its German gray paint gleaming with a cold, metallic sheen under the lights.

It now looks complete, no longer a model, but a real, active steel machine, silent, heavy, and full of killing intent.

After Loran finished explaining his new plan, the cave remained quiet for a long time.

LeBron was the first to speak: "In the middle of the road? Blocking the general's convoy?"

"Yes."

"The gendarmes will open fire," said Jean-Louis, whose face was burned.

"So we need precise timing." Loran spread the map Marchand had given him on the ground and pointed it out to the old men. "Thirty seconds after the lead motorcycle passes, we have thirty seconds to drive the tank to the middle of the road, shut it off, and withdraw. The backup vehicle is here, in the woods, seventy meters away."

Pierre, an elderly man with only one leg, leaned on his cane and looked closely at the map: "Road conditions? Width? Slope?"

"The asphalt road was eight meters wide, with a 5% inward slope at the bend," Loran recalled the details provided by Marchand. "The tank drove out from this side, uphill, and stopped in the middle of the road. After turning off the engine, you got out from this side and ran into the woods. It took ten seconds for the support vehicle to start, fifteen seconds to get here, and five seconds to get in, for a total of thirty seconds."

"Seventy meters in thirty seconds." Henry, who was missing a finger, looked at his leg. He had rheumatism and couldn't run fast.

"I'll carry you," Pierre said. "You're missing a leg, but you can still carry people."

The old men began to discuss the details, using their battlefield survival instincts to calculate every aspect: how many seconds it would take for the tank to start and reach full speed, the turning radius, how far it would glide due to inertia after the engine was turned off, the fastest way to climb out of the driver's compartment, and so on.

Lorraine listened and took notes. This wasn't a mechanical problem, it was a tactical one, and these men were among the earliest French tank crews from World War I.

The discussion continued until 4 a.m. The final plan was finalized:

Late at night on March 26, the tanks were transported to the designated hiding place in the woods.

At 8:00 a.m. on March 27, the elderly people entered their seats for a final check-up.

At 9:05 a.m., the engine was warmed up.

At 9:06:30, the leading motorcycle passed by.

At 9:07:07, the tank drove out, and at 9:07:15, it stopped in the middle of the road and turned off.

At 9:07:20, everyone got off the bus and evacuated.

At 9:07:50, the pick-up vehicle left the woods and headed towards the alternative route.

"So," LeBron finally said, his one eye sweeping over the other elderly men, "who's driving?"

All the elderly people raised their hands at the same time.

For the first time, laughter echoed in the cave, a hoarse laugh, tinged with smoke and worn by time.

"Let's draw lots," Pierre said. "Like in 1918."

LeBron took six welding rods from his toolbox, broke them into different lengths, and held them in his hand. The old men drew them one by one. Jean-Louis, the old man with the burned face, drew the shortest one.

He looked at the welding rod tip in his hand, then at the tank; its one intact eye shone brilliantly in the firelight.

"Okay." That was all he said.

To do something lightly and without fear.

March 25, 5:00 AM, Paris streets

When Lorraine stepped out of the subway station, it was still dark. The drizzle had turned into freezing rain, stinging her face. The streetlights cast blurry halos in the rain and mist, making the whole city seem like it was submerged in the ocean.

He should have gone back to his apartment to sleep for a while, but he didn't.

He walked along the Seine, the cold water flowing in the darkness, its sound muffled like a sigh.

Lorraine thought of Charlotte. He hadn't contacted her for a week; their last meeting was ten days ago, a quick coffee at a café where he said, "I've been very busy lately," and she replied, "I know."

How much did she know? How much did she guess?

He walked to a bridge and stopped. The river below was so black he couldn't see the bottom; he could only hear the ceaseless flow of the water. Like time, like history, it flowed on in its destined direction.

Two days later, that tank will appear on the generals' road.

Whatever the outcome, everything will change—his military career, the lives of the elderly, and perhaps even the fate of this country.

Or perhaps nothing will change. The generals might simply angrily order the military police to drag "this piece of junk" away and then continue watching infantry drills at the training ground. The next day's newspaper might only have a small corner headline: "Civilian model machinery wanders onto military road; perpetrator warned."

But at least they tried.

At least, while this country is asleep, there are a few people awake, doing something.

Lorraine took Charlotte's letter out of his coat pocket. He always carried it with him, folded it neatly, and placed it near his heart.

He opened it and, in the dim light of the streetlights on the bridge, read it again.

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