Keep Moving Forward

Kleist nodded without speaking. He and his staff had already rehearsed these formations and missions dozens of times on the sand table, down to the hour and minute, the attack routes of each division, the assembly areas of each armored battalion, and even the crossing time of each bridge.

"Where are the units located now?" His voice was deep and steady.

The chief of staff pointed to the dense markings on the map: "The main force of the 19th Panzer Corps has assembled on the Eifel Plateau north of the Luxembourg border, and the 1st, 2nd, and 10th Panzer Divisions have all moved into their attack positions. The 6th and 8th Panzer Divisions of the 41st Panzer Corps are deployed to its south. The 15th Panzer Corps is further north, facing the Belgian border. All units are in a state of final readiness, radio silence is strictly enforced, and except for necessary communications, all communication will be conducted by motorized messengers and field telephones."

Kleist's gaze swept over the assembly markers. Seven full armored divisions, over 1,200 tanks, and an equal number of half-tracks, armored reconnaissance vehicles, self-propelled artillery, and motorized infantry. This steel torrent was about to surge into the forest valley deemed impassable by the French High Command.

He recalled his last topographical reconnaissance flight a week earlier, when, from the air, the Ardennes forests truly resembled a deep green sea, impassable by any path. But on the ground, his engineers and reconnaissance units had secretly marked every logging route, every dry riverbed, and every gentle slope that could accommodate tanks.

"What was the reaction of the Belgian and French forces?" he asked.

The intelligence officer looked up: "As of 6 p.m. tonight, no unusual movements have been detected in the enemy forces. The Belgian Ardennes Chasseurs are still patrolling as usual, and the French Ninth Army's troops along the Meuse River are on normal combat readiness and have not entered a higher alert level. According to telephone communications intercepted last night, the French 55th Division in the Sedan area is still conducting routine training, and some units have been granted leave this weekend."

A soft, suppressed laugh echoed in the room. Several young staff officers exchanged glances, their smiles tinged with contempt and excitement.

Kleist didn't laugh. He knew the French army all too well; more than twenty years ago, he, as a junior officer, had faced them at Verdun and the Somme. They weren't weak opponents, just bound by flawed theories and outdated thinking. Their soldiers would fight, would die, but at the wrong time and in the wrong place.

"We won our gamble on General Manstein's plan," the chief of staff said in a low voice, his tone tinged with barely suppressed excitement.

Manstein. His name went from obscurity to household name in just a few months. It was he who defied public opinion and resisted the opposition of conservative generals at Army Headquarters, shifting the main offensive from the traditional Belgian plains to the Ardennes region.

It was that accident—the plane that strayed and crash-landed in Belgium on January 10—that allowed the original Yellow Plan to fall into the hands of the French army, giving Manstein the opportunity to persuade Hitler.

Now, the main force of the French army is steadily advancing into northern Belgium according to the leaked plan, waiting to repel the "main attack" of the German Army Group B. Meanwhile, the real spearhead lies hidden in the shadows of the Ardennes Forest, about to pierce the French's unsuspecting flank.

Kleist recalled his last meeting with General Rundstedt two days prior. The elderly army group commander stood before the map, silent for a long time, before saying, "If successful, this will be the most brilliant surprise attack in the history of warfare. If it fails, our army group will cease to exist."

Now, the arrow is on the bowstring.

At the same moment, deep in the Eifel Plateau, at the command post of the 19th Armored Corps.

General Heinz Guderian stood beside an armored command vehicle, patiently checking the attack route map again by the dim light of a blackout flashlight.

The 51-year-old armored expert was stocky with a strong jawline and eyes that gleamed with an almost fanatical light. His 19th Panzer Corps was the spearhead of this offensive, with the 1st, 2nd, and 10th Panzer Divisions, totaling more than 500 tanks, which would traverse the Ardennes Forest along three parallel routes, heading straight for Sedan on the Meuse River, 60 kilometers away.

The beam of the flashlight moved slowly across the map, but Guderian's thoughts drifted back to that spring day seven years ago.

It was 1933. Hitler had just been appointed Chancellor of Germany by Hindenburg, while Guderian was merely a lieutenant colonel and chief of staff of the Inspectorate General of Transport of the Reich Army. During a demonstration at the Kummersdorf Proving Grounds, he was tasked with showcasing "tank-centric multi-service combined arms operations" to the newly appointed Chancellor.

He still remembers the scene vividly. Thirty model tanks advanced across a simulated battlefield, followed by infantry, artillery fire, and engineers clearing obstacles. The performance lasted only thirty minutes, but Hitler watched intently. After it ended, the Chancellor suddenly stood up, waving his arms excitedly and exclaiming repeatedly, "This is what I need! This is what I want to see!"

Although it wasn't a real tank, but merely a model standing on the red line with no combat capability, it was enough to drive this bearded man crazy.

Standing in the crowd, Guderian watched the small figure pace back and forth on the reviewing stand, a complex feeling welling up inside him. Born into a traditional Prussian military family, he was uninterested in politics and even wary of the Nazi Party's radical propositions. But now, he had finally found someone willing to listen to his ideas about armored warfare.

Prior to this, his articles published in Military Weekly and his ideas that he repeatedly explored in tactical exercises were mostly regarded as radical or impractical.

From that day on, Hitler remembered Guderian's name.

In July 1934, the German army formally established its armored forces, and Hitler personally appointed Guderian as Inspector General of Armored Troops. This position allowed Guderian to put his theories into practice. He systematically studied the military ideas of the British Liddell Hart and Fuller, and combined them with the lessons learned from World War I, gradually forming a tactical concept based on mechanized forces with close coordination among various branches of the armed forces.

In 1935, Germany established three armored divisions, with Guderian appointed commander of the 2nd Panzer Division. He vividly recalled Hitler's visit to the exercises, where the Führer was once again overjoyed by the overwhelming tide of armor. That same year, Guderian published "Attention—Armored Vehicles!", systematically explaining the high-speed offensive tactics of tank formations.

1938 was a pivotal turning point. In February of that year, Hitler dismissed a number of high-ranking generals, including Defense Minister Blumberger and Army Commander-in-Chief Fritzl, but publicly promoted Guderian to commander of the 16th Army. A month later, Guderian was ordered to lead the 2nd Panzer Division and Hitler's SS-Leibstandarte SS Adolf Hitler into Austria. In Hitler's hometown of Linz, the two enjoyed a brief but pleasant time together.

That autumn, Guderian once again led his armored forces into the Sudetenland. Although no battles broke out, Hitler was quite satisfied with his performance, especially admiring the well-trained troops he had built. However, towards the end of the year, Guderian inadvertently revealed his sympathy for Britain and France in a conversation. The perceptive Hitler immediately transferred him to the position of Inspector General of the Armored Forces, nominally in charge of all organization and training matters of the armored forces, but in reality, it was a mild warning.

In 1939, on the eve of the outbreak of war, Guderian was appointed commander of the 19th Army Corps, returning to frontline command. During the Polish campaign, he led his troops on a rampage, achieving an unprecedented speed of advance in modern warfare. After the campaign, Hitler awarded him the Knight's Cross of the Iron Cross and always invited Guderian to sit beside him at banquets as a sign of favor.

In February 1940, at a crucial moment in formulating the western offensive plan, Guderian was summoned to the Reich Chancellery in Berlin to report. It was the longest one-on-one conversation he could recall with Hitler. Standing before a huge map, he patiently and earnestly explained his plan: a forced crossing of the Meuse River on the fifth day of the offensive, and the establishment of bridgeheads on the opposite bank that afternoon. Hitler suddenly interrupted him, staring intently at him with his grey-blue eyes: "So what do you intend to do after that?"

Without the slightest hesitation, Guderian looked Hitler straight in the eye and replied, "Unless I have received other orders, I will decide to continue the westward advance the next day."

Hitler did not refute, but simply nodded. At that moment, Guderian knew that the Führer understood his intentions: the mission of the armored forces was not to break through the lines, but to tear apart the enemy's entire defense system and strike at its heart.

Later, people told him that during that period, Hitler would always call him to sit next to him at any banquet he attended. It was an honor, but also a burden. He found that his colleagues were beginning to distance themselves from him, and jealousy and resentment were secretly growing.

"General."

The staff officer's voice pulled Guderian back to reality from his memories.

"General Kleist has sent final confirmation that the morning mist along the Rhine will rise at dawn tomorrow."

Guderian took the telegram and glanced at the brief message: Morning mist on the Rhine; date of attack: May 10; time of attack: 5:35 AM.

He raised his wrist and looked at his luminous watch: 11:47 PM on May 9th.

Less than six hours left.

Guderian handed the telegram back to his staff officer and turned to look at the dark forest behind him. In the forest, his tank column was lined up, all lights off, waiting silently. The tank crews, wrapped in blankets, dozed against the steel, some praying softly, others staring blankly at the starless night sky.

He recalled Hitler's grey-blue eyes, a gaze that was sometimes fanatical, sometimes cold, and sometimes full of doubt. He remembered a glimmer of approval in those eyes when he spoke of continuing the westward advance during his briefing at the Reich Chancellery in Berlin.

But Guderian always kept one thing in mind: he was a professional soldier, not a Nazi. He adhered to the traditions of Prussian officers, believing that soldiers should not be involved in politics. Hitler understood this, and after several conversations, the Führer realized that Guderian could not be a political friend, but only a useful tool.

However, they were of one mind on armored warfare. Perhaps this is why, despite their frictions and disagreements, Hitler was still willing to entrust him with command of armored forces. Perhaps this is why, when Guderian insisted on "continuing the westward advance," Hitler ultimately acquiesced.

A cold wind blew through, rustling the leaves deep in the forest. In the silence, Guderian could hear a faint, continuous, low vibration, the slight rumble of countless tank engines in standby mode, like the beating of a massive heart.

He recalled that spring afternoon in 1933, when thirty model tanks rolled across the dusty training grounds of Kummersdorf, and the short man on the reviewing stand waved his arms and shouted, "This is what I need!"

Seven years have passed.

Now he has real tanks, five hundred steel behemoths awaiting orders to attack, and the "Scythe Plan" that will soon shock the world. Would that leader still say, "This is what I need?"

Guderian lit a cigarette and took a deep drag. The smoke was dispersed by the night wind, blending into the deep darkness of the forest. His fingers trembled slightly from the cold and anticipation, but he put his hand in his pocket so no one would see.

"Let the soldiers sleep a little longer," he said to his staff officer in a steady, low voice. "Wake everyone up at five o'clock."

The staff officer saluted, turned, and disappeared into the darkness.

At the same time, deep in the Ardennes Forest, at the assembly point of the German 1st Panzer Division.

Hundreds of tanks stood silently in a clearing in the woods, covered with camouflage netting, like a group of sleeping steel behemoths. Tank crews, wrapped in blankets, dozed off beside the tracks, while a few huddled together, talking in hushed tones, the glow of cigarettes flickering in the darkness.

A young tank lieutenant leaned against his Panzer IV tank, lighting a cigarette with his frozen hands. His name was Erich von Klein, from a Junker family in East Prussia. He had just graduated from military academy the previous year, and this was his first combat experience.

"Are you nervous?" asked the train commander next to him, a veteran who had fought in the Polish campaign.

The lieutenant didn't answer, but simply gazed into the darkness to the west. In that darkness lay Luxembourg, Belgium, and beyond that, France. The soldiers there were perhaps sleeping, dreaming, completely unaware of what was about to happen.

"I was nervous the first time too," the veteran said, lighting his cigarette. "But once the fighting started, it was fine. General Guderian once said, 'Hit a man with his fist, not his outstretched fingers.' We are that fist."

The lieutenant nodded and continued smoking. He recalled the scene of the general's last inspection of the troops before departure; the fifty-one-year-old man stood on the armored command vehicle and said to everyone in a steady voice, "Tomorrow we will make history. Follow me, don't stop, keep moving forward."

Keep moving forward, keep moving forward.