Prelude to the Storm

Leclerc's body was strapped with heavy objects and pushed into the raging Seine. There was no funeral, no tombstone.

The next day, an internal bulletin from the military police read out a brief message: "Second Lieutenant Leclerc died in the line of duty," with the cause of death remaining unclear.

In some higher-level files, he might be marked as a purged destabilizing factor. In this vast country, the cessation of a young heart's beating is too insignificant to cause even the slightest ripple.

But his final words, like a pebble thrown into stagnant water, though failing to create a huge wave, left an indescribable ripple in the heart of the executioner. The executioner later whispered to his companion, "That lad died like a true knight. He said...for freedom and peace."

At the same time, in the 5th arrondissement of Paris, at the Família Hospital Medical School.

The smell of disinfectant permeated the corridor, masking the fragrance of spring flowers outside the window. The corridor echoed with hurried footsteps, the rumble of carts, and the suppressed groans of patients. This was another front line of the war, unrelated to guns and cannons, yet equally crucial to life and death.

Charlotte Durand, dressed in a crisply washed nursing trainee uniform with her hair neatly tied back under her nurse's cap, was making her rounds with a serious-looking resident.

Her face was somewhat pale, with faint shadows under her eyes, but her bright green eyes were unusually focused as she quickly jotted down the doctor's instructions, deftly checking the patient's temperature and changing dressings.

Several weeks had passed since Lorraine left. Her initial worries and disappointment were transformed into action through an almost stubborn effort. While her literature studies were not yet complete, she enrolled in an emergency medical training program organized by the Red Cross, and thanks to her excellent grades and calm demeanor, she was recommended for practical training at this prestigious medical school.

Her father, Henry, initially objected, thinking it was too strenuous and too close to the front lines. But Charlotte calmly replied, "If war really comes, Dad, what's the use of hiding behind books? At least here, I can do something real. Maybe I can help him in the future, or someone like him who needs help."

She learned quickly, and she learned with great difficulty. How to stop bleeding and bandage with limited equipment, how to identify signs of infection, how to maintain clear judgment in the midst of chaos and noise, how to face pain and death without being crushed. She had seen young soldiers brought in with mangled limbs from training accidents, workers in arsenals with chemical burns, and ordinary citizens suffering from heart disease caused by chronic anxiety and panic. Each encounter with pain gave her a more concrete and brutal understanding of what Lorraine had described as impending. This was not an arrow on a map or a number in a report; it was flesh and life that screamed and bled, a devastating blow that countless families were about to face.

During her breaks, she would overhear rumors circulating in the hospital. Some military doctors rotating back from the front lines privately complained about insufficient equipment and shortages of medicine, especially anesthetics and blood plasma. Well-informed nurses whispered about the increasingly strange atmosphere on the eastern border, saying, "Even the birds are restless." And then there were surgeons who had experienced World War I, smoking late at night, gazing out at the deep darkness, muttering to themselves, "Soon, that smell... I can smell it, just like in the summer of 1914..."

Charlotte listened, offering no comment, but instead practiced tying surgical instruments with even greater effort, memorized medication lists and dosages more diligently, and observed her mentor more closely how he handled complex injuries. She wrote to Lorraine, simply stating that she was studying nursing, that everything in Paris was normal, and that her parents were well, so he shouldn't worry. She never spoke in her letters of the exhaustion of her sixteen-hour shifts, the nausea from treating festering wounds, or the panic of being awakened in the dead of night by the screams of wounded soldiers. She portrayed herself as a stable and reliable support system, at least on paper. Occasionally, in the dead of night, walking alone on the deserted streets back to her apartment, she would take out the photograph Lorraine had left behind, and by the dim light of the streetlamp, gently trace his serious profile in the photo with her fingertips, whispering, more like saying to herself, "I'm preparing, Mark. Your soldiers are not slacking off. I'm learning how to snatch people from the clutches of death, even if I can only snatch one at a time."

She knew her strength was meager and might be no match for the true torrent of war. But just as Lorraine was diligently honing his small "fire brigade" in Sedan, trying to create a ripple in the steel torrent.

Charlotte, too, is forging her own dagger, called "Salvation," in her own way. When the storm truly arrives, and Paris is no longer the rear, she will at least not stand futilely beside the ruins, waiting in panic. She will bandage her wounds, soothe the fear, light an alcohol lamp, and use the limited knowledge she has acquired to fight against endless pain and death.

May 5, General Staff Building, Lieutenant Marchand's office.

The news about Felix came through that secret channel, including the location, method, official conclusion, and the executioner's lament: "He said it was for freedom and peace."

These words struck him like a bolt of lightning, leaving him stunned and unable to recover for a long time.

Marchand leaned back against his desk, clutching the small, coded note in his hand. Outside, the sun shone brightly, and officers strolled leisurely on the lawn of the veterans' home. Inside the office, it was quiet, save for the rhythmic ticking of the wall clock.

He didn't move, his expression was blank, and even his breathing seemed to have stopped.

But the fingers holding the note clenched so tightly that the knuckles turned white and trembled slightly. Many images flashed through his mind: Felix listening intently in the "Bayonet and Rose" tavern, the shimmer of his blond hair in the dim light, the unwavering determination in his eyes when he mentioned his father's last words, and the final words that seemed to travel across time and space.

"Fight forever for a free and peaceful France."

"Freedom and peace." Marchand opened his mouth slightly and silently repeated it in his heart.

This is not an empty slogan, but a belief that Felix interpreted with his life, an ideal that his father watered with his blood, and something that is now being talked about in the salons of Paris, traded in the General Staff meeting room, and used as a bargaining chip in Marshal Pétain's calculations.

A chill surged from the top of his head, quickly freezing his body.

That wasn't sadness; sadness was warm tears, it was the burning anger of grief, mixed with something even more intense, ignited by Felix's dying light.

He once believed in the system, in order, and in the ability to awaken the country through internal efforts.

Felix's death was like a red-hot branding iron, not only burning away his last shred of illusion, but also confirming a truth in his heart.

Some values ​​transcend obedience and survival, and must be defended by someone, regardless of the cost.

Marchand slowly brought the paper close to the still-burning cigarette butt in the ashtray. The flame licked the paper, quickly turning it to ash. He watched the faint light die out, as if watching Felix's young life vanish in the darkness of the Seine. But something seemed to remain in the ashes, heavy, weighing on his heart, and moistening his eyes.

He stood up, walked to the window, and turned his back to the room. His shoulders seemed straighter than usual, as if bearing extra weight, yet also filled with new strength. For a long time, he gazed at the bright, peaceful scene outside the window and murmured to himself in a low but incredibly clear voice, as if responding to the young life that had vanished into the river.

"For freedom and peace, Felix. I remember."

From this moment on, Lieutenant Marchand's mission was no longer merely to issue a warning; it became to continue the fight. The torch that Felix Leclerc passed on with his life had to be taken up and kept burning, however faint, in the impending deep darkness.

He needed to be more cautious, and more decisive. He remembered Lorraine's words before he left, his scattered companions who still retained their sanity, and even Charlotte, the young woman who had been researching military geography in the library of the Eighth University and was now probably studying nursing in some hospital.

The network of resistance needs to be more resilient, its operations more covert, and its goals more clearly defined. It needs not only early warnings but also to preserve the seeds for the future, to retain the possibility of resistance for the true meaning of freedom and peace. And first and foremost, he must survive, outlive and outfight those traitors lurking in the shadows.

May 9, evening, a confidential conference room of the General Staff Department.

Marchand attended as the meeting's recorder. The meeting's theme was to summarize and analyze recent intelligence from various sources. The intelligence officer read the report verbatim: the German forces on the Western Front were generally silent, reconnaissance aircraft activity was within normal ranges, and radio surveillance had not detected any clear signals of large-scale troop movements; everything pointed to nothing happening.

However, at the end of the report, the intelligence officer added in a flat tone: "In addition, according to our limited channels in Aachen and sporadic reports from friendly forces along the Belgian border, there has been an abnormal increase in nighttime vehicle noise levels in the eastern edge of the Ardennes Forest over the past 72 hours, accompanied by faint light activity that continues into the late night."

"Assessment: This could be a routine German military exercise or logistical movement; further observation is needed."

A slight commotion arose in the conference room, and several officers exchanged glances.

Major General Gaston cleared his throat and said, "Noise in the forest? Lights? It could be logging, or it could be the Belgians conducting some kind of exercise. We don't need to overanalyze it to avoid panicking. Just continue to strengthen routine surveillance."

No one raised any objections. General Bouchard was not present. Marchand was writing with his head down, the pen scratching across the paper, his face expressionless. But his fingers, gripping the pen, trembled slightly with the force of his grip.

He knew it wasn't logging or a friendly military exercise. It was most likely the steel behemoth making its final adjustment in its lair, the last slight tremor before the bowstring was fully drawn.

The warning had been issued, in the faintest way, reaching the very core of the nation's defenses, only to be easily ignored, like brushing away a speck of dust.

At this moment, Marchand recalled Felix's last words, which were not only a declaration of faith, but also a silent indictment of all the foolish people in the face of the impending disaster.

The meeting ended, and the officers filed out, discussing dinner and weekend plans. Marchand was the last to leave. Standing at the door of the empty conference room, he glanced back at the huge map of the Western Front, his body trembling involuntarily.

The Ardennes Forest was a deep green, a symbol of safety. His gaze seemed to pierce through the map, revealing countless burning engines deep within the forest, crisscrossing and advancing densely among the trees like a locust swarm.

Death has already extended its cold fingers toward France's throat.

He gently closed the door, leaving the map and the deadly paralysis that permeated it behind him.

Paris was still bathed in the sweet fragrance of chestnut blossoms and the warm glow of dusk.

In Sedan, Lorraine and his squad practiced their nighttime communication signals at the last minute. At the bottom of the Seine, Felix's unclosed eyes gazed into darkness deeper than the waters where he sank, yet the light of his unwavering faith had quietly ignited in the hearts of the living. At St. Father's Hospital, Charlotte had just assisted with an emergency debridement surgery. Washing the blood from her hands, she walked wearily but calmly towards the duty room to record the patient's information. Outside the window, the city lights gradually came on, seemingly oblivious to the darkness that was about to engulf everything.

No one knows the exact time, but some enormous and ominous countdown has reached its final few ticks.

The silence of the Ardennes Forest reached its peak; it was a silence that swallowed all other sounds.

......

Late at night on May 9, 1940, a command post bunker near the German border town of Bitburg.

Rough wooden planks covered the concrete floor, and the air smelled of engine oil. In the communications room deep inside the bunker, the telegraph machine emitted a monotonous, rhythmic clicking sound, and an intelligence officer, wearing headphones, whispered the encrypted messages.

General Ewald von Kleist stood before a large battle map, his back to the other officers in the room. He was fifty-nine years old, his lean frame encased in a crisp gray uniform, his shoulders slightly hunched forward, like an old wolf about to launch an attack.

On the map, red arrows shoot out densely from the German border, traverse the complex terrain of Luxembourg and the Ardennes region of Belgium, converge near Sedan to form a thick line of attack, and then cut westward toward the English Channel.

"Army Group A, comprising the 4th, 12th, and 16th Armies, and Kleist's Tank Group." His chief of staff read the final confirmation telegram in a low voice. "The 4th Army is responsible for the right flank, covering the main force. The 12th Army is in the center, undertaking the main attack in the Sedan direction. The 16th Army protects the left flank, preventing the French from attacking from the Maginot Line. The Tank Group is organized into three panzer corps: Guderian's 19th Panzer Corps, Reinhardt's 41st Panzer Corps, and Hoth's 15th Panzer Corps."