Ready to Go

Loran divided the squad into two six-man teams. Team A, led by Sergeant Ramirez, focused on long-range reconnaissance and sniping harassment. Team B, led by Corporal Boucher, a former engineer, focused on close-quarters assault and demolition. He and Claude served as the core of the command, while also acting as tactical instructors and coordinators. The training was highly condensed and practical, covering high-intensity physical training, silent movement in woodlands, simple trap construction, silent radio communication procedures, multi-angle crossfire coordination, and most importantly, how to quickly disengage and regroup after encountering a strong enemy.

Numerous problems were exposed during training. Outdated and inadequate equipment was the norm; the precious ERG1938 radio frequently malfunctioned in the rain; teamwork required time to develop; a hunter-turned-soldier soldier, capable of ghostly stealth, was slow to react to tactical hand signals for squad coordination; soldiers from different units brought their own habits and a touch of arrogance, leading to occasional minor frictions. Loran had to expend considerable effort to mend these rifts, emphasizing that we were now each other's only backup.

He also seized every opportunity, using his position as a staff officer in the division headquarters, to gain a deeper understanding of the overall defense of the 55th Division and even the Sedan area. He examined more fortification drawings, attended operational meetings, and even managed to obtain intelligence summaries about the Belgian border and the daily activities of the German troops.

The information was rather trivial, mostly showing no abnormalities or routine patrols, but this made Loran feel even more powerless; the sea is often calmest before a real storm arrives.

During a training break, young Lefebvre, the hunter's son, wiped his beloved Lebel rifle and whispered to Lorraine, "Lieutenant, is all this training really useful? I've heard Maginot Line is impregnable, and the Germans might not even make it past us." His eyes held confusion, but also a hint of wishful thinking, a reluctance to face the terrible future.

Lorraine didn't answer directly, but instead asked him, "Lefebvre, if you were tracking a wounded wild boar in the forest, knowing it could rush out from any of the trails, would you just stick to the one you think is most likely, or would you be watching for every sound and be ready to react at any moment?"

Lefebvre thought for a moment: "I'll keep an eye on everything and have the shotgun ready."

"We are the shotgun that was prepared in advance," Loran patted his shoulder, his tone calm but heavy, "and we may be facing more than just one wild boar."

More than once, after checking the sentry posts or revising the training plan late at night, Loran would climb alone to an abandoned tower somewhere in the castle. From there, the lights of Sedan were sparse, and the Meuse River looked like a dark ribbon under the moonlight. Further away, towards the Ardennes Forest, lay a vast expanse of darkness.

He knew that in that darkness, Guderian's armored forces were secretly assembling, countless tanks, half-tracks, artillery, and trucks full of soldiers, like a slowly tightening steel noose, their target being the very land beneath his feet.

The enemy was poised to strike, and his options were limited. Changing the division's deployment? Impossible. Acquiring more heavy weapons? A pipe dream. He and Claude could only try, like Jingwei filling the sea, to make this small firefighting team a little sharper, a little more tenacious. He even began secretly preparing some last-ditch efforts, pre-stocking small quantities of ammunition, medical supplies, and non-perishable food at several key terrain hideouts, planning several alternative routes for retreating to Sedan from different locations or infiltrating the rear, and repeatedly instilling in his team the idea that in the event of mission failure, survival and information transmission were paramount—though this was somewhat unusual in the French army, which emphasized sacrifice, Lorrain persisted.

The atmosphere in Sedan was also subtly shifting. Initially, the residents felt a sense of novelty and security regarding the large number of troops stationed there. But as time went on, this stalemate of the sit-in war began to breed unease. The supply of goods in the market was inconsistent, and rumors began to circulate quietly. Small merchants from the Belgian border vaguely mentioned that "there are more German trucks than before," while well-informed individuals privately discussed the infighting among the Parisian high command. Some well-connected families began to quietly send valuables south or send away young children. Beneath the soldiers' clamor in the taverns, anxious discussions and pessimistic speculations about the country's future began to emerge.

Within the 55th Division, senior officers faced a double burden. On one hand, they had to prepare for a potential attack; on the other hand, they had to maintain the appearance of normalcy to avoid demoralizing the troops. The staff office phones rang more frequently, but the conversations were often vague. Colonel Delater's face grew increasingly grim; his reports requesting more resources mostly went unanswered or were met with bureaucratic replies such as "we'll coordinate," or "don't rush things."

One day in late April, the division headquarters even received a morale-boosting inspection. A general from the army group headquarters, surrounded by entourage and reporters, toured several well-preserved fortifications in Sedan, delivered a passionate speech, praised the 55th Division for guarding the heart of France, and shook hands with the soldiers and posed for photos. The scene was lively yet surreal.

Lorraine and Claude were ordered to lead the fire brigade in training far from the inspection route, and were not to be seen. After the general's jeep sped away, what remained on the battlefield was more empty talk and a strange sense of irony. An old soldier looked in the direction the general's convoy had gone, muttered a curse under his breath, and was glared at by the sergeant next to him, but no one argued back.

Loran became even more convinced that true preparation could only rely on themselves, on this undervalued squad. The training became increasingly rigorous; he introduced nighttime infiltration and counter-infiltration drills with a confrontational element, simulating the chaotic approach to the enemy after the defenses were breached. Exhaustion and pressure led to complaints from the team members, but several successful raids and Loran's clear and calm post-battle debriefings gradually made them understand the purpose behind these seemingly strange training exercises.

A rough cohesion based on shared secrets and a high-pressure environment began to form.

In early May, the weather suddenly cleared up and became scorching hot, as if summer had arrived early. The Meuse River became calm and clear, and the forests were lush and green. But this beautiful weather made Loran's heart leap into his throat. He remembered that the documents mentioned that the German army had taken the weather into account when choosing the date of the attack; clear and dry weather was conducive to the movement of armored forces and air support.

On May 5, Loran took the opportunity of a patrol to visit the C4 outpost, which was at the forefront. Corporal Bernard's outpost was still tidy, but he told Loran that the birds in the forest on the other side had been behaving strangely lately, taking flight more often than usual, and that at night they could occasionally hear a faint, continuous, low rumbling sound, not like thunder, but more like many heavy machines moving in the distance.

Bernard said he had reported it by phone, but the company thought it might be logging operations or that they had misheard him.

This was clearly just a pretense, and Sergeant Bernard was speechless.

Loran gazed at the opposite bank through his binoculars for a long time. The forest was silent, but under the sunlight, a very faint mist, different from natural moisture, seemed to float above some clearings. His heart sank. He knew it wasn't an illusion. The bowstring was stretched to its limit.

Back at division headquarters, he immediately sought out Claude and Colonel Delater, reporting Bernard's observations and his own ominous premonition. The colonel frowned, ordering heightened vigilance at all forward outposts and issuing another warning to headquarters. But the entire division, the entire Sedan, maintained that final calm before the storm. Orders were relayed down the chain of command, yet seemed unable to penetrate a soundproof layer of routine and wishful thinking.

On May 8, Loran gave the fire brigade a day off, allowing them to organize their personal equipment, check their weapons, and get some rest.

He knew that the final moment could come at any time. He checked all the contingency plans and contact information one last time, wrote a cryptic letter home to Olivier in Paris, and a short letter to Charlotte, saying only, "I'm busy with my mission, don't worry, take care," suppressing his deep worries and unspoken words in his heart.

Night fell, and he climbed the tower once more. The stars shone brightly, and the Meuse River flowed like a ribbon. Sedan slept soundly in the darkness, oblivious to everything. Only the wind rustled through the ancient walls, making a soft, mournful sound. Loran felt an almost tangible heaviness pressing on his heart—the powerlessness of knowing the exact shape and direction of disaster, yet being unable to cry out.

The fire brigade of twelve men, plus him and Claude, made fourteen in total. They were like a few pebbles about to be thrown into a raging torrent. How much of a ripple could they possibly create? Could they change the fate of even one soldier?

Time is no longer measured in days, but in hours, or even minutes.

The tranquility of Sedan is reduced to a thin, almost translucent layer.

In May, the air in Paris is filled with an almost ethereal sweetness. Chestnut trees are in full bloom, their creamy white inflorescences like tiny candles illuminating the tree-lined boulevards. The outdoor seating areas of cafes are always packed, with people chatting about the upcoming summer holidays, newly released movies, or amusing anecdotes among friends.

Late at night, in an unknown warehouse.

Lieutenant Felix Leclerc leaned against the cold brick wall, his wrists and ankles tightly bound with rough hemp rope, the skin chafed raw, the blood already dried and blackened. The miniature film containing evidence of Gaston's meeting with Laval, during one of his futile struggles, he had painstakingly pushed out of his shoe heel with his teeth and swallowed it, mixed with blood and foam. Now, only a burning pain and a strange sense of relief remained.

The interrogation went on for several rounds. The leader lost his initial patience, his tone becoming cold and blunt: "Lieutenant, you are hindering the efforts of some great men to seek peace for this country. Marshal Pétain, Monsieur Laval, they have a long-term vision; they know how to ensure France's survival and avoid repeating the mistakes of Verdun. What can your naive loyalty and passion change besides your own destruction?"

Felix lifted his swollen eyelids, his blue eyes still holding a stubborn light in the dim light. He licked his chapped lips, his voice hoarse but clear: "Peace should not be begged for at the cost of freedom and dignity. My father died in the Somme in 1918, fighting for a free, independent, and dignified France, not a tattered shell that needs to be bought with compromise and betrayal." He paused, then said, word by word, "My father and I, the men of the Leclerc family, will always fight only for freedom and peace—true freedom, true peace, not the kind you speak of."

The leader seemed stung by these words, a flash of anger crossing his face before turning into a deeper coldness: "Stubborn to the end. You will disappear along with your freedom, without a trace, as if you had never existed."

After this failed attempt to extract information, the other side seemed to have given up completely. The leader gripped Felix's chin, leaning close, his voice filled with icy disgust: "You think you're protecting France? Lieutenant, you're hindering its rebirth! If your father saw you like this, he'd regret giving birth to such a fool!"

Felix coughed up a mouthful of bloody saliva, then managed a weak smile, a smile filled with unparalleled pride and resolve: "No, he will be proud of me. The Leclerc family knows why they fight and why they die."

This seemed to have exhausted the other person's last bit of patience. The man straightened up, waved to the person next to him, his eyes indifferent, as if dealing with a piece of useless trash. "Get rid of it. Clean it up. Report that he was attacked by resistance fighters during the patrol and unfortunately died in the line of duty."

There was no solemn trial, no final statement. Felix was roughly dragged up and shoved into the trunk of a car without license plates. The car drove for a long time in the night, finally stopping near a secluded section of the Seine's embankment. He was pulled out, the fishy smell of the river hitting him in the face.

The moonlight was faint, illuminating the leader's expressionless face and the silenced pistol in the hand of the man next to him.

Felix did not beg for mercy, nor did he even glance at the gun barrel again. He turned his head and looked towards the direction of Paris, where the lights were dim.

He remembered the blurry smile on his father's photo, his always silent uncle who raised him alone after his mother's early death, Lorraine's focused analysis of the situation under the dim lights of the tavern, Marchand's words to him that "sobriety is a rare quality," and the old soldiers who drank silently in "Bayonets and Roses," their wounds scarred yet their eyes sharp.

He knew he wouldn't live to see the storm pass. But some sparks need to be ignited, even if it means using life as fuel.

He took one last look at the city he loved so deeply but was about to face a test, and with his last breath, he spoke softly but with unusual clarity to the gunman, as if declaring to the night sky and the river:

"Tell those who are still asleep, or pretending to be asleep, that Felix Leclerc, like his father, will fight forever for a free and peaceful France. Until the very end."