Gray 55th Division

Night falls quickly in Sedan, the forest swallowing the last rays of light early on, and a few scattered lights shine through the windows of the divisional castle, like a few lonely stars in the darkness.

Lorraine did not return to the small dormitory room assigned to him.

His desk was in a corner of the staff office by the window, with his three days of survey notes, hand-drawn sketches, and the assessment report that was still in the process of being finalized spread out in front of him.

The glow of the kerosene lamp cast his silhouette on the stone wall, swaying slightly with the scratching sound of the pen tip.

The report was difficult to write. It wasn't a problem with the data or analysis; those had been rehearsed countless times in his mind.

The challenge lies in how to translate cold, hard simulations into concrete suggestions that frontline commanders can understand and implement, without sounding like a presumptuous prophet from Paris.

He wrote: "From the A7 outpost to Fenglin Road, the riverbank soil is soft, and the existing anti-tank ditch is not deep enough. It is recommended to deepen it to three meters and lay down tree trunk abatis..." and then stopped writing.

The 55th Division lacks engineering machinery, steel bars and cement, and most importantly, time. How feasible is such a suggestion?

The door was pushed open, bringing in a gust of cold air and the smell of smoke from the corridor.

Captain Claude walked in carrying two enamel mugs, placing one next to Loran. The dark brown liquid sloshed around, emitting the smell of cheap coffee and a hint of alcohol.

"A picky drink from the logistics department." Claude took a big gulp, grinned, and said, "Coffee grounds and cheap rum. It'll make you forget how sleepy you are."

Lorraine thanked her and took a sip. The taste was strong, but it did bring a sense of warmth.

"Still writing that report?" Claude leaned against the table, glancing at the densely packed pages. "Colonel Delater wants to see it at breakfast tomorrow. What are you going to tell him? That we can't hold out?"

Loran put down his pen and rubbed his sore eyes: "Tell him where the breach is most likely to occur, and how we can use our meager resources to make the Germans pay the highest price."

Claude paused, looking out at the dark courtyard. "Today on patrol, those lads, old Matt from the engineer company, little Pierre from the outpost, they were still discussing whether to go home to get married or go to Paris to find work after this sit-in is over." His voice trailed off. "They don't know, do they?"

"It's better not to know," Loran said, his voice a little hoarse. "What good will knowing do besides increase their fear?"

"You could die knowing why," Claude blurted out, with the bluntness typical of a frontline soldier. "My father died on Lady's Lane in 1917. In his last letter, he said they didn't even know which hill they were supposed to capture before they went up to the charge. He died confused."

He turned to look at Loran: "If you really know something, Loran, even if it only lets a few people die knowing the truth, it'll be worth it."

Lorraine met his gaze. Claude's eyes shone brightly in the dim light, possessing a sharpness honed by reality, yet without numbness.

"After tomorrow's report," Loran said slowly, "I want to visit each battalion and company. Not as a staff officer to inspect, but just to chat, hear what they think, and see how they are preparing."

Claude nodded: "I'll arrange it, but be careful, some old hands don't like pen holders from Paris."

Over the next few days, Loran followed Claude, becoming part of the complex collective of the 55th Division like a drop of water seeping into the sand.

They went to the 2nd Battalion's camp, on the north bank of a bend in the Meuse River.

The battalion commander was a ruddy-faced major who was fairly polite to Loran, but his words implied that "we know what's going on at the front."

Loran didn't say much, but carefully inspected the position. The machine gun nests had blind spots, the ammunition storage points were too close to the front line, and the breastworks of the infantry trenches were not high enough. He noted these down and, when offering suggestions for improvement, tried to use a consultative tone such as "Perhaps we could" or "Wouldn't this be safer?"

The major initially dismissed the idea, but his expression changed when he heard Loran accurately point out that a clearing in the woods on the opposite bank was an ideal German mortar position.

At a forward outpost, they encountered Sergeant Ramirez. A veteran in his forties, with an old scar on his cheek, he was taciturn. Loran noticed that he had propped up the tripod of his old Hotchkiss heavy machine gun with sandbags and planks, and had carefully tied strips of rag to the barrel to eliminate glare.

"This way we have a better field of vision and we can reduce our exposure," Loran said, squatting next to the machine gun.

Ramirez glanced at him, hummed in response, and said nothing more.

Loran didn't ask any more questions, but simply handed him a cigarette. The two lit it on Ramirez's helmet and smoked in silence for a while. As they left, Ramirez suddenly whispered, "That birch forest to the east has undulating terrain, suitable for hiding people. If they sneak over at night, the sentries won't easily spot them."

Loran took this well-intentioned reminder to heart.

They also visited the engineer company's warehouse. The company commander, a captain with a gloomy face, was worried about the lack of explosives and detonators. Loran saw the anti-personnel mines they had made using old shell casings, nails, and rudimentary fuses; they were crude and prone to misfires. He also saw the dragon teeth anti-tank obstacles that the soldiers had handcrafted from wood and barbed wire, but there were very few of them.

"They said the tanks wouldn't come, and the anti-tank mines they issued to us are all old relics from the stockpile, half of them are already ineffective," the engineering company commander complained.

Loran suggested that a simple anti-tank weapon could be made using cluster grenades or explosive charges, and drew a simple diagram.

The engineering company commander stared at the drawing for a long time, then scratched his head: "Theoretically feasible, but someone would have to carry him up..."

The atmosphere became somewhat heavy for a moment. A young sapper asked timidly, "Sir, are the German tanks really as formidable as the legends say?"

Loran looked at the still-childish face and calmly described the general appearance and firepower of the Panzer IV, without exaggeration, but also without concealing its threat. The young engineer listened, his face turning slightly pale, but his eyes showed not only fear, but also a kind of "I see" understanding.

After a few days, Loran got a bit tanned, and his military boots were covered in mud.

He was still an outsider, with a Parisian accent and the airs of the General Staff, but at least some soldiers would nod when they saw him instead of immediately looking away. The way he was addressed had also changed from the initial "that guy from Paris" to occasionally "Lieutenant Lorraine."

That afternoon, they arrived at C4, the most remote outpost in the defense zone. Only half a squad was stationed there, led by an old corporal named Bernard. Bernard was in his fifties and had served as an infantryman in Verdun during World War I. After retiring, he returned due to mobilization orders. He was a man of few words, but he kept the small outpost in perfect order. The bunkers were reinforced, the field of fire was clear, and he had even dug a small anti-artillery hole in a concealed spot.

After the examination, Claude and Lorraine sat at a simple wooden table, drinking herbal tea brewed by Bernard.

Bernard took out a tin box containing letters from home and several yellowed photographs. He pointed to a shy-smiling young man: "My son is over at the Maginot Line. That's good, it's safe there." He then pointed to a photograph of a husband and wife; the woman looked old, but her eyes were gentle. "My wife, she's not in good health. When I get back, I won't let her get out of bed."

It was just an ordinary, everyday conversation, but it made Loran's heart tighten.

He knew the location of this outpost; in the simulation, it was in the area that would be the first to be hit by artillery fire and easily crushed by armored spearheads. Bernard and his few soldiers had a pitifully low chance of survival.

As they were leaving, Bernard walked them to the woodland path outside the outpost. He suddenly called out to Lorraine, "Lieutenant."

Lorraine turned around.

Bernard's eyes, those of a seasoned veteran who had seen countless deaths, gazed at him calmly, his gaze as still as a lake: "You've been looking around these past few days, asking very detailed questions. Do you feel this place can't be held?"

The wind rustled through the treetops. Claude stopped and looked at Loran.

Loran was silent for a few seconds. Lying to this veteran who had weathered the storms of war seemed like a desecration. But he couldn't reveal the almost certain ending either.

"Corporal," Loran finally spoke, choosing an answer closer to the truth, "Every defensive line has weaknesses. Our mission is to make the enemy pay an unexpected price for breaking through here. You and your outpost have done better than many others. Keep doing so, stay vigilant, and make good use of every inch of the terrain."

There was no false comfort, no despairing prophecy. Bernard listened carefully, then slowly nodded, grinning to reveal teeth stained yellow by tobacco: "Understood, sir. Those sons of bitches will have to suffer for every step they take."

He saluted, his movements precise and disciplined, displaying the meticulousness of a soldier from the old days.

On the way back, Claude and Lorraine remained silent. The jeep drove along the bumpy forest road, the setting sun painting the forest in dark gold and blood red.

"He'll die here, won't he?" Claude suddenly said, his voice hoarse.

Loran looked at the trees rushing past the window and did not answer.

But he knew that everything he had seen and heard these past few days—those vibrant faces, each carrying its own hopes and fears; those worn-out but carefully maintained weapons; those efforts to strengthen defenses despite scarcity—all of it would be torn apart, crushed, and reduced to ashes by the impending storm of steel.

No matter how detailed his report was or how pertinent his suggestions were, perhaps it could only, as Bernard said, make the enemy suffer a little more.

However, as the jeep drove out of the forest and the outline of Sedan Fortress emerged in the twilight, the faint flame in Loran's heart had not yet been extinguished.

Perhaps one person's efforts cannot change the overall situation, but reminding one more machine gun firing line, reinforcing one more bunker, and preparing one more soldier like Ramirez might buy a few more minutes, save one more life, and leave a spark for any subsequent resistance in the final battle.

This is perhaps the most insignificant yet most genuine thing he could do.

As night completely engulfed the color, Loran finally finished writing his report.

On the last page, he didn't use any of the standard staff format; he simply wrote in clear handwriting:

"This report is based on on-site investigations and communication with frontline officers and soldiers. The weaknesses mentioned objectively exist, and reinforcement suggestions are made to the best of our ability. The officers and soldiers of the 55th Division are performing their duties diligently despite the shortages, but the defensive line is long, and both troop strength and firepower are severely imbalanced with the potential threats. It is recommended that the division headquarters take immediate action: 1. Adjust the limited forces to the most critical areas; 2. Strengthen forward early warning and communication support; 3. Build up a mobile reserve force, no matter how small; 4. Develop a tiered blocking and withdrawal plan for the worst-case scenario. Time may be running out."

He signed his name and the date: Lieutenant Mark Lorland, April 20, 1940.

......

The air in Colonel Delattel's office was thick with the lingering smell of cigarettes.

Loran's report lay open on the large oak table, next to a cup of coffee that had long since gone cold. The colonel's gray eyebrows were furrowed, his fingers unconsciously tapping the last few lines of the report's handwritten conclusion. Outside the window, the sky was overcast, leaden clouds hanging low, as if weighing heavily on the ancient castle and on the hearts of everyone present.

"Based on on-site surveys and exchanges with frontline officers and soldiers..." Delater slowly repeated the opening words of the report, his sharp gaze rising to look at Loran and Claude, who were standing at the table.

"You spent three days traversing the entire defense zone, checking the areas most likely to have problems. This report," he paused, his finger emphatically pointing to the line about the severe imbalance between troop strength and firepower and the potential threat, "is more sobering to me than any enemy situation report sent by the General Staff."

He didn't express worry or shock, but rather clarity. This word sent a chill down Loran's spine and gave rise to a faint glimmer of hope. At least, this commander on the front lines hadn't been completely deceived.

"Your suggestions," Delater flipped through the report, "adjusting troop strength, strengthening early warning and communications, stockpiling reserves, and developing delay plans are all standard responses, things we are doing, but far from enough. Resources, time, and constraints from higher-ups."

He closed the report, leaned back in his chair, and glanced between Lorrain and Claude. "Lieutenant Lorrain, you come from Paris, you've seen bigger scenes, and heard more insightful opinions. In your judgment, if we follow the standard recommendations in your report to the best of our ability under the current conditions, how long can we hold out when the Germans actually emerge from the Ardennes? The Meuse line, Sedan section."

The question was direct and brutal. Claude instinctively straightened his back. Lorraine took a deep breath, forcing himself to meet the colonel's scrutinizing gaze. Concealing or embellishing it was pointless.

"Colonel," his voice was clearly audible in the quiet room, "if the main German force attacks as planned, and we have adequate early warning and timely command transmission—this is a very ideal scenario—the forward outposts and first line of defense could be breached or lost within two to four hours of contact."

"It will take the German engineers time to build the pontoon bridge, but it will take longer for our reserves to move and organize a counterattack. Optimistically, we can rely on the main strongpoints and the second line of defense to delay them for twelve to twenty-four hours on the outskirts of Sedan."

"If the scale of the attack exceeds expectations, or if our command and communications are severely disrupted in the early stages, this time could be reduced to six to eight hours, or even less."

"Twenty-four hours, or six hours." Delater pondered these two times, his face expressionless. "And then? Sedan falls, the Meuse River defense line is breached, the German army penetrates deep into enemy territory, and the 55th Division is either annihilated or routed."

The room was deathly silent. Claude's Adam's apple bobbed, but he didn't speak. He had witnessed Lorraine's deductions in front of the map and knew that this was very likely the bloody truth.