Charles de Gaulle

April 3, 1940, 10:00 AM, near Les Invalides in Paris, the headquarters of the 3rd Armored Regiment.

The regimental headquarters was located in an inconspicuous Ottoman-style building, which appeared simple and even shabby compared to the magnificent General Staff building around it.

When Lorraine showed his identification at the door, the guard checked it carefully three times before waving him in.

This is the administrative center of the French armored forces in Paris, or more accurately, a small stronghold of the marginalized armored theorists.

Lieutenant Marchand was waiting for him at the top of the stairs.

"He's in a bad mood today," Marchand said in a low voice. "His expansion plan was rejected again at last night's Military Commission meeting."

"He" refers to Colonel Charles de Gaulle, commander of the 3rd Armored Regiment, one of the few officers in the French army who firmly believed that armored units should be used as independent assault forces.

In the mainstream view of the General Staff, tanks were merely auxiliary tools for infantry, and the theories put forward by de Gaulle in "The Making of a Professional Army," published in 1934, were regarded as radical heresy.

When Lorraine heard that Charles de Gaulle wanted to see him, he was so shocked that his mouth dropped open.

The constant tension made him forget that at this moment, there was a legendary figure living in the same city as him, and their residences were not even far apart.

"Why did you want me to see him?" Loran asked, forcing himself to remain calm.

"Because of your tank demonstration." Marchand led him upstairs. "General Bouchard showed him the report. He said he wanted to meet the young man who rang the bell with scrap metal."

They stopped in front of a door at the far end of the second floor. The sign on the door simply read: Commander's Office. Marchand knocked on the door.

"Come in." The voice came from inside, deep and slightly hoarse, but each word was clear and powerful.

The office was small, and books were piled up all over the floor.

A huge map of Europe hangs on the wall, with red and blue arrows densely marking the western front, showing the office owner's keen attention to the front lines.

A tall man stood with his back to the door by the window, his broad shoulders almost blocking out all the light.

He turned around.

Colonel Charles de Gaulle was taller than Lorraine had imagined, nearly 1.9 meters, which made the small office seem even more cramped.

He was wearing a standard dark blue military uniform, but the collar was open and not tied up. He had a long face, a high nose, and eyes that were deep-set under his brow bones, with a sharp gaze that seemed to be able to see through everything.

"Lieutenant Lorraine." De Gaulle extended his hand. His hand was large and had a strong grip. "I've heard so much about you. Please have a seat."

Lorraine sat down in the only empty chair. Marchand leaned against the door, not going out, clearly enjoying Colonel de Gaulle's trust.

"I've read your report three times," de Gaulle said bluntly, picking up the briefing on the possibility of a breakthrough in the Ardennes from the table. "The data is solid, the reasoning is rigorous, but most importantly, you've pointed out the core of the problem: it's not whether tanks can get past the Ardennes, but whether our minds can accept the fact that tanks can."

His voice echoed in the cramped space, each word like a hammer striking an anvil.

"Thank you, Colonel."

"You're welcome." De Gaulle waved his hand and walked to the map. "The ones who should thank you are those fools who are still sitting in their offices, thinking that the Maginot Line can protect them for life. Unfortunately, they won't thank you; they'll only try to shut you up."

He turned around and stared at Loran: "Do you know why?"

Lorraine shook her head.

"Because accepting your analysis means admitting that the entire defense system they've built over the past ten or twenty years is wrong. It means admitting that they've wasted billions of francs of the nation's wealth, the best years of an entire generation, building a magnificent tomb." There was a suppressed anger in De Gaulle's voice.

"For bureaucrats, admitting mistakes is more terrifying than losing a war."

The sound of a car passing by came from outside the window, and the office was quiet for a moment.

"I heard you're going to be transferred," de Gaulle suddenly said.

"That's the rumor, Colonel."

"Where would you like to go?"

"Obey orders, you can go anywhere."

De Gaulle smiled, a brief and bitter smile: "Standard answer. But if I were to advise, go to the front lines, the farther the better, from the General Staff. There, you can at least see what the real army looks like, not just arrows on a map and numbers in reports."

He took a book out of the drawer and handed it to Loran.

It is "Establishing a Professional Army," the spine of which is worn and the inner pages are filled with annotations.

"I wrote this five years ago, and nobody read it then," de Gaulle said. "Nobody reads it now, except to use it as ammunition against me. Take a look, if you haven't already."

Lorrain took the book, turned to the title page, and saw a handwritten inscription: "To the future French army—if it still exists. Charles de Gaulle, 1934."

"Colonel," Lorraine closed the book, "what should we do if the worst happens?"

De Gaulle remained silent for a long time.

He walked to the window and looked out at the Invalides Square. The sun was shining brightly, and officers strolled by in twos and threes, their steps leisurely.

"In 1916, I was captured in Verdun," he said suddenly, his voice soft. "The Germans put me in a prisoner-of-war camp. I tried to escape five times, and failed each time. On the sixth time, I succeeded. Why?"

He turned around, his eyes gleaming in the shadows: "Because the first five times, I only wanted to escape the POW camp. The sixth time, I wanted to escape back to France and continue fighting."

"What do you mean?"

"What I mean is that there are two ways to lose a war," de Gaulle said. "One is to lay down your arms and admit defeat. The other is to retreat with your weapons and wait for an opportunity to fight again. The first is called surrender, and the second is called strategic retreat."

"If Paris falls, if the government surrenders, if someone tells you the war is over, remember, the war is not over as long as there are French people willing to fight."

These words struck Loran like a bolt of lightning, reminding him of some vague memories.

He recalled the history books, in which the French government surrendered in June 1940, but de Gaulle flew to London and delivered the "Appeal to the French People," thus launching the Free French movement.

History is still on its predetermined course, even though de Gaulle did so much.

"I understand, Colonel." Lorraine stood up.

"No, you don't fully understand yet." De Gaulle shook his head. "But to fully understand, you need to experience it firsthand. I can only tell you: stay clear-headed, stay angry, and most importantly, stay hopeful. Hope is not believing things will get better, but believing that some things are worth persisting in, even if you can't see the outcome."

"Loran, you're a lot like an old friend of mine. You have a keen sense of military matters. Being ostracized isn't a big deal. The important thing is that you're still young and have plenty of opportunities to try and fail."

He extended his hand, and this time the handshake lasted longer.

"Take care, Lieutenant. We may meet again, in some unexpected place."

Marchand saw him out.

"He rarely talks this much to people," Marchand said. "He thinks you understand."

"All I understood was despair," Lorraine said.

"No," Marchand shook his head, "He wasn't talking about despair, but something even harder than despair: choosing to fight despite knowing that failure is possible."

They walked slowly along the wall of the Invalides. The plane trees in April were sprouting new leaves, which rustled in the wind.

"Felix wants to see you," Marchand said suddenly.

"Lieutenant Leclerc?"

"Yes. He said it's important and he has to say it in person." Marchand glanced at his watch. "Three nights from now, bayonets and roses. Can you come?"

"able."

"Okay. I'll arrange it." Marchand paused for a moment. "Also, General Bouchard asked me to tell you that the transfer order might come through next week, and the destination is Sedan, to the staff office of the 55th Infantry Division."

Sedan, a key fortress west of the Ardennes Forest on the banks of the Meuse River.

The course of history is always full of irony.

At the same time, in the study of a luxury apartment in the 16th arrondissement of Paris.

The heavy curtains were drawn tightly shut, and despite it being daytime, only a table lamp was lit in the room. Cigar smoke swirled in the lamplight, like some kind of ominous premonition.

Marshal Philippe Pétain sat upright in his armchair, his gray hair meticulously combed, and a glass of untouched water in front of him. His eyes, which had witnessed 1870, 1914, and 1918, were half-closed, as if he were dozing or deep in thought.

Major General Gaston sat opposite him, leaning forward and speaking in a low voice.

"So that's the situation. Marshal, Bouchard and his men are getting more and more radical. That young officer named Lorraine even predicted that the Germans could break through the Ardennes within thirty-six hours. Now the staff is in turmoil, and some people are starting to question the entire defense system."

Pétain slowly opened his eyes. His eyes were cloudy, but there was a cold light deep within them.

"Young people always like to predict disasters." His voice was old but clear. "In 1914, some young people also predicted that the Germans would invade from Belgium. And what happened? We won."

"But this time it's different, Marshal, the Germans' tanks, planes, and technology have changed."

"Technology may change, but war will not." Pétain shook his head. "War is ultimately a contest of people, a contest of wills. The French will is more resilient than the Germans'; we can afford to wait, but they cannot."

Gaston hesitated for a moment: "But what if the front lines really collapse?"

The room fell silent. The clock on the wall ticked, each second stretching out endlessly.

Pétain slowly picked up his water glass and took a small sip.

"France has experienced many defeats," he said slowly. "In 1815, in 1871, but we survived. Why? Because we knew when to fight and when to preserve our strength."

He looked at Gaston: "Do you understand what I mean?"

Gaston felt a sweat break out on his back: "You mean if the war goes against us, we should consider negotiations?"

"Negotiation," Pétain repeated the word, as if savoring its taste. "Yes, negotiation. Not for surrender, but to protect the lifeblood of France, to protect this country from utter destruction. Sometimes, a dignified peace is more valuable than pointless sacrifice."

He paused for a moment: "In 1917, the army mutinied, and I was the one who stabilized the situation. That's when I understood: a soldier's life is more important than honor. The survival of the nation is more important than victory."

That made sense, but Gaston felt something was off. He wanted to say something, but Pétain raised his hand to stop him.

"I know what you're thinking, Gaston. You're thinking: this is defeatism." The old man smiled, a smile devoid of warmth. "But I ask you: if you know you can't win, and you still send hundreds of thousands of young people to their deaths, is that patriotism? That's stupidity."

He stood up, his movements slow but steady. "Go and prepare. Keep an eye on Bouchard. If that young man named Loran gets in too much trouble, transfer him away, far away. Also, those veterans, make them disappear."

"Yes, Marshal."

"There's one more thing." Pétain walked to the window, opened it a crack, and looked out at the sun-drenched street. "Contact Laval. Tell him the time is almost here."

Pierre Laival. Former Chancellor, a renowned "pacifist," who advocated reconciliation with Germany.

Gaston's heart began to pound.

He understood, he understood everything. Pétain wasn't making worst-case scenario plans; he was already laying the groundwork for a postwar France, one he would lead, one that had achieved a "decent peace" with Germany. This man wanted to be the president of France!

"I understand, Marshal." Gaston stood at attention. "I will arrange everything."

"Go, and remember, be careful, very careful."

Gaston saluted and turned to leave. As the door closed, Pétain remained standing by the window, watching the city about to be engulfed in flames.

"France," he murmured softly, "my France."

......

Three days later, one evening in the 10th arrondissement of Paris, at the "Bayonets and Roses" tavern.

The pub closed early today. Old Remy hung up a "Temporarily Closed" sign, pulled down the blinds, and left only a dim light on the bar counter.

The basement was even darker, with only a few candles providing light, and the air smelled of dust and wine.

This used to be a storage room, and now it's filled with old furniture, with a rough wooden table in the center.

Lieutenant Felix Leclerc sat at the table, a glass of brandy in his hand, but he didn't drink it. He had changed out of his military police uniform and was wearing ordinary dark civilian clothes, his blond hair gleaming slightly in the candlelight.

Footsteps came from the stairs. Marchand came down first, followed by Lorraine.

This was the first time Felix had formally met Loran, and he carefully examined the young man.

He was younger than he had imagined, pale-faced, with bloodshot eyes, but his back was very straight.

That posture wasn't the standard military posture trained in military academies, but rather a kind of inner determination.

"Lieutenant Leclerc," Marchand introduced, "and Lieutenant Lorraine."

The two shook hands. Felix felt that Lorraine's hand was cold, but her grip was strong.

"I've read your report," Felix said bluntly. "Your analysis of the Ardennes is brilliant, and also terrifying."

"Thank you." Lorraine sat down. "Lieutenant Marchand said you have something important to discuss."

Felix pulled a notebook from his pocket, turned to a page, and pushed it to the center of the table.

"Over the past three days, I have carried out four special missions, all of which were ordered directly by Major General Gaston." His voice was calm, but every word was very clear. "The first time, I escorted a civilian visitor from the Swiss border to Paris. I'm not sure of the visitor's name, but he spoke German with a Berlin accent."

"The second time, I was transporting a batch of documents to the Ministry of Defense's underground archives late at night. The document boxes were very heavy, and I accidentally tripped and fell, causing a crack in the box." Felix looked up at Loran. "The documents inside weren't in French, they were in German. I recognized a few words: 'ceasefire terms' and 'division of occupied territories'."

"The third time was yesterday afternoon. I escorted Major General Gaston to a private apartment in the 16th arrondissement. He stayed there for two hours and came out looking very serious." Felixton paused. "I checked the owner of that apartment and found it was registered under a shell company, but after tracing the flow of funds, I discovered that the ultimate beneficiary was Pierre Laval."

"The fourth time, just this morning." Felix's voice was even lower. "Gaston asked me to destroy a batch of communication records. Not burn them, but completely dissolve them with a special chemical agent. I kept a fragment."

He took a small, charred piece of paper from his notebook, no bigger than a fingernail, with half a word on it: "übergabe".

In German, it means "transfer" or "surrender".

The basement was deathly silent. The candle flame flickered in the eyes of the three people.

"They're preparing to surrender," Marchand finally said, his voice hoarse. "They're already preparing to surrender before the war has even really begun."

“Not preparation,” Loran corrected, “it’s negotiation. Pétain, Gaston, and Laval are already in contact with the Germans to discuss the terms of France’s surrender.”

He recalled de Gaulle's words: "As long as there are French people willing to fight, the war is not over."

Now he understood that the real enemy might not be in Berlin, but in Paris.

"What should we do?" Felix asked. "I'm a military policeman, and my duty is to obey orders, but I simply cannot accept obeying these orders."

"Your duty is to defend France," Lorraine said, looking at him, "not to protect those who are prepared to betray France."

Felix remained silent for a long time. The candlelight cast flickering shadows on his young face.

"My father died in battle in 1918," he finally said. "In his last letter, he wrote: 'Tell Felix that I died for France so that he could live for France.'"

He raised his head, a resolute glint in his eyes: "If this is the France he sacrificed for, a country ruled by capitulationists and traitors, then I would rather betray it than fail to save its true soul."

The words echoed in the cramped basement. Marchand nodded, and Lorraine nodded as well.

Three young people made a silent pact in a Paris basement on the eve of war.

"What's next?" Marchand asked. "We can't publicly accuse Marshal Pétain; no one will believe us."

"We don't need public accusations," Lorraine said. "We need evidence, solid evidence. Evidence that proves they colluded with the enemy."

"How do I obtain it?"

Felix pondered for a moment: "I'll try to get involved in Gaston's next secret meeting. If there are communications, I'll try to make copies; if there are documents, I'll try to photograph them."

"It's too dangerous," Marchand said.

"In 1918, when my father charged down the Somme, nobody told him it was too dangerous," Felix smiled, a sad but resolute smile. "Besides, I had an advantage; I was a military policeman, the last person they would suspect."

Looking at the blond young man, Lorraine recalled the freckled policeman who had helped him up by the Seine five months earlier.

There are still people like this in this country, holding fast to a faint light in the darkness.

"We need a network of communication," Lorraine said. "If things are exposed, if Paris suffers misfortune one day, we need to ensure that information can still be transmitted and the resistance can continue."

"I have some people," Marchand said. "There are still some clear-headed people in the General Staff, not many, but reliable."

“Me too,” Felix said. “Some people in the military police also disapprove of the current atmosphere.”

"The veterans," Loran said, "LeBron and the others are heading south tomorrow. But they can establish a base there, gather intelligence, and assist with the evacuation."

The three quickly discussed the matter. A rough but feasible network began to take shape: Marchand was in charge of high-level intelligence, Felix was in charge of monitoring the surrender faction, Loran was in charge of analysis and early warning transmission, and the veterans were in charge of establishing the southern node.

"There's one last question," Marchand said. "If Paris really falls, where will we go? Where will it be safe?"

Lorraine thought of history.

In June 1940, the French government first moved to Bordeaux, and then to Vichy.

"The South is not necessarily safe," he said. "If the surrender faction comes to power, they will control all of France, including the South."

"Where to?"

Loran remained silent for a few seconds.

He couldn't say London, he couldn't say that de Gaulle would go there to establish Free France; the time hadn't come yet.

"We need multiple routes," Loran finally said. "The north, the south, even overseas. We'll decide where to go as the situation develops, but the principle is that we can't put all our eggs in one basket."

Felix nodded: "Wise."

The wall clock struck ten. The candle was almost burned out; the flame grew weaker and weaker.

"It's time to go." Marchand stood up. "Let's split up and leave, five minutes apart."

Felix went first.

At the top of the stairs, he turned to look at Lorraine and said sincerely, "Lieutenant, take care. I hope that next time we meet, we can still drink together peacefully like this. Getting to know you was the best thing I ever did."

"I hope so," Lorraine said.

Felix disappeared above the stairs, and five minutes later, Marchand left.

Lorraine sat alone in the dark basement, listening to the faint sounds coming from the tavern upstairs. Old Remy was tidying up the glasses, humming an old song from World War I.

He recalled de Gaulle's words: "Stay sober, stay angry, stay hopeful."

Now, he has companions.

A sober, angry, and hopeful companion.

The candle finally went out, and darkness swallowed everything.

Loran stood up and walked up the stairs in the dark.

When the basement door was pushed open, only a small lamp illuminated the bar area. Old Remy, wiping glasses, didn't look up: "Gone?"

"I'm gone."

"Be careful on the road," the old man said. "It's been a bit unsafe at night lately."