Artillery Bombardment

At 4:17 a.m., a very faint gray-white light began to appear on the eastern horizon.

Lieutenant Erich von Klein leaned against his Panzer IV tank, watching the smoke dissipate between his fingers. They had been waiting in this forest for sixteen hours since yesterday afternoon.

"Smokers, bury your cigarette butts." The conductor walked over, his voice low. "It'll be soon."

The lieutenant pressed the cigarette butt into the soil and ground it with his boot. The forest was quiet, save for the sound of the wind rustling through the treetops. But if you listened carefully, you could hear something else beneath the surface: the soft clinking of metal, the low rumble of an idling engine, and the suppressed breathing of countless people. The entire forest was breathing.

He glanced at his watch. 4:22.

"Are you nervous?" The train conductor squatted down next to him and lit a cigarette.

"I don't know," the lieutenant said. "I just want to get started quickly."

The tank commander nodded and said nothing more. He was a veteran of the Polish campaign, with a shallow scar on his left cheek from shrapnel. The lieutenant had trained with him for three months and knew he was a man of few words.

A few bird calls came from afar—a signal. Everyone stood up at the same time.

4:35 AM. The gunner began the final check of the shells. The driver pressed the clutch, then released it. Short commands came over the radio, passed down the chain of command like ripples spreading across water after a pebble has been thrown in.

The lieutenant climbed onto the tank and squeezed himself into the cramped driver's compartment. Before the hatch closed, he took one last look at the sky. The east was brighter, and the clouds hung low, pressing against the mountain ridges.

4:47 AM. The sounds of engines warming up rose and fell, like some enormous creature awakening in the darkness. The lieutenant placed his hand on the control stick, the cool metal radiating from his palm.

At 4:58 AM, a single word came over the radio: "Ready."

The lieutenant took a deep breath and slowly exhaled. His palms began to sweat.

5 o'clock sharp.

There was no countdown. No signal flares. Only that calm voice over the radio uttered two words:

"attack."

Seventy-five kilometers away, Sedan.

Loran stood atop the tower of the divisional castle, facing east. He had woken up at four o'clock and, for some reason, couldn't fall back asleep.

A wind blew from the east, carrying the scent of forest and earth. As dawn broke, the Meuse River shimmered with a greyish-white light in the morning mist. Everything was quiet.

Then he heard that voice.

It was very faint, very distant, like a muffled rumble of thunder deep on the horizon. At first, he thought it was his imagination, but the sound continued, without stopping, becoming clearer and heavier.

That was the sound of cannons.

Thousands of cannons roared at the same time.

Loran gripped the stone against the breastplate. He had known this moment would come. He had rehearsed it countless times, filled his reports with warnings, and practiced with his small "fire brigade" over and over again. But when it actually happened, he found himself powerless to do anything but stand there and listen.

Listen to the steel tearing apart the dawn.

Meanwhile, in Paris.

Marchand was awakened by a phone call just as dawn was breaking.

The voice on the other end of the microphone was urgent and hoarse: "The German army launched a full-scale attack at 5:35 this morning. Luxembourg, Belgium, the entire border. Armored forces have appeared in the Ardennes direction, size unknown."

He held the microphone, but didn't speak. Outside the window, the golden dome of the Invalides was just being illuminated by the morning light. There were no pedestrians on the street yet, and the cafes were all closed.

"Feed? Lieutenant Marchand?"

"I'm listening," he said. "I'll keep you updated. I'll keep you informed as soon as possible."

Marchand hung up the phone, stood motionless by the window, his face pale, and beads of sweat appeared on his forehead, something he hadn't done in a long time.

Major General Gaston's private residence in the 16th arrondissement of Paris.

He was shaving when the phone rang. The razor hovered in mid-air as he looked at his face in the mirror, paused for a moment, then put it down, picked up a towel to dry his chin, and walked towards the bedroom.

"What is it?"

The voice on the other end of the phone was urgent and clear: "The German army launched a full-scale attack at 5:35 this morning. Luxembourg, Belgium, the entire border. Large-scale armored forces, at least three armored divisions, have been spotted in the Ardennes."

Gaston held the microphone, saying nothing. He looked out the window. Sunlight was already streaming into the room; his wife was still asleep in the next room, her steady breathing faintly audible.

"Arden?" he repeated the word, his voice a little hoarse.

"Yes, General. Arden."

He was silent for a few seconds. Many things flashed through his mind: the analytical reports from last autumn warning of the risks in the Ardennes, the speech of the young officer named Loran at the meeting, the image of the veterans driving their homemade tanks into the exercise field. He remembered them all. He said nothing, did nothing.

"How is the situation now?" he asked.

"The border guard brigade has lost contact. Belgium has requested assistance. The Ninth Army is organizing its forces."

"understood."

He hung up the phone and sat on the edge of the bed for a while. Then he stood up and started getting dressed. His hands were trembling, and he had to tie his tie twice before he could do it properly.

His wife woke up and asked groggily, "So early?"

"Something's come up at the military headquarters," he said, without turning around.

When he stepped out of the apartment, the sun was already quite bright. The bakery on the corner had opened, wafting the aroma of freshly baked bread. An elderly man walking his dog walked past him and nodded.

Gaston got into the car and started the engine. His hands were still on the steering wheel, but he didn't start driving immediately.

He thought: They really came from the Ardennes.

"But so what?" Gaston scoffed and drove toward an apartment building in District 16.

Colonel de Gaulle's residence in the 7th arrondissement of Paris.

Charles de Gaulle was having breakfast: bread, coffee, and today's newspaper. His wife, Yvonne de Gaulle, sat opposite him, quietly sipping tea. This had been their routine for many years.

the phone is ringing.

He put down the newspaper and got up to take it. Yvonne, with her hands folded in her lap, quietly watched his retreating figure, a hint of curiosity in her eyes, without moving.

"I am Charles de Gaulle."

On the other end of the phone was his adjutant, his voice almost distorted with tension: "Colonel! The Germans attacked this morning! Large-scale armored forces have been spotted in the Ardennes! At least three armored divisions are advancing towards Sedan!"

De Gaulle held the microphone and remained silent for three seconds.

"When did this happen?"

"5:35. The border garrison brigade has been scattered. The Ninth Army is organizing resistance, but the situation is unclear."

"understood."

He hung up the phone and stood there without moving. Yvonne looked at him and asked softly, "What's wrong?"

"The Germans have attacked," he said, his voice flat, "from the Ardennes."

Yvonne paused for a moment. She knew her husband, and she knew what Arden meant. She stood up, walked to his side, and without saying a word, simply placed her hand on his arm.

De Gaulle looked out the window. The sun was shining brightly, and the streets were quiet. In the distance, the church bells rang; it was seven o'clock.

He remembered the book published in 1934. He remembered those who mocked him at the Military Council. He remembered his colleagues who called him "radical" and "heretic." He remembered Lorraine's expression when he gave his presentation from the reviewing stand, the light in that young man's eyes.

"Yvonne," he said, his voice even lower than before, "pack the children's things. Be ready to leave at any time."

Yvonne turned pale, but she still hurriedly left the living room and began preparations as instructed.

Then de Gaulle picked up the phone and dialed the General Staff's number.

......

The office of General Bouchard at Les Invalides in Paris.

When Bouchard received the call, he was already dressed in his military uniform and sitting at his desk. He was always early. Sunlight streamed in through the window, illuminating the pile of documents on his desk. On top was a report, the version written by Lorraine. He hadn't filed it.

the phone is ringing.

"I am Bouchard."

"General, the Germans attacked this morning. In the Ardennes."

He listened to the report on the other end of the phone without saying a word. After he put down the receiver, his hand remained on it for a long time.

He stood up and walked to the window. Several gardeners were trimming shrubs on the lawn of the Invalides. In the distance, the silhouette of the Eiffel Tower was clearly visible. Everything seemed normal.

He thought of 1914. He thought of that summer, the same sunshine, the same tranquility, and then the war came, as if something insignificant had happened, it began silently. But war is cruel, he thought of Verdun, of the Somme, of those young people who never returned.

It's been 22 years.

He looked out the window and muttered something to himself. No one heard him.

He then returned to his desk, picked up the report, and turned to the last page. There was a handwritten note from Lorraine: "Even if these analyses are not adopted, even if everything unfolds as the worst predictions suggest, I still believe that after the disaster, France will need to know that someone saw the danger and tried to warn us."

Bouchard put down the report and closed his eyes. Sunlight shone on his aged hands, hands that had signed countless death notices, hands that ached from signing so many, and now trembled uncontrollably.

He opened his eyes, picked up the phone, and dialed the Operations Department of the General Staff.

"I need to know the exact location of the Ninth Army. And the Second Army. The sooner the better, I need to get to the battlefield as soon as possible." His voice was devoid of any fear, only carrying the seriousness expected of a wartime officer.

......

Ardennes Forest.

The shelling lasted for twenty minutes. Then came the second round, and the third round.

At 5:35 a.m., the first assault team crossed the border. The Belgian outpost had been bombed into ruins and encountered no resistance.

At 5:47 a.m., engineers began clearing road obstacles. Fallen trees were bulldozed, anti-tank ditches were filled in, and minefields were marked.

At 6:02 AM, the vanguard of the 1st Armored Division crossed the border and entered Belgian territory.

Guderian stood in the command vehicle, the radio constantly crackling with reports from the front. His staff marked the location of each unit on the map, red arrows slowly but steadily pointing westward.

"Order the 2nd Armored Division to speed up," he said. "Keep up with the lead troops."

"Yes."

The command vehicle began to move, following the tank column. Its tracks rolled over the newly filled anti-tank ditch, over the stone monument bearing the national emblem on the Belgian border. The monument cracked into pieces and lay scattered in the roadside grass.

Guderian did not look at it.

He looked ahead, at the tanks that kept surging westward, at the dust flying in the forest and the trees that had been flattened.

At 7:00 AM sharp, the first batch of troops arrived at the first designated assembly point 10 kilometers inland, 20 minutes ahead of schedule.

"Keep going," he said. "Don't stop."

Sedan.

When Lorraine came down from the tower, the division headquarters was in complete chaos. Telephones were ringing incessantly, messengers were running around, and officers were arguing loudly in front of maps.

"...The border garrison brigade reports being shelled and communications have been lost!"

"The Ninth Army is ordered to remain in place and await further instructions!"

"Belgium is requesting assistance!"

One piece of bad news after another, accompanied by endless panic, overwhelmed all other sounds. Almost all the officers in the division were trembling, unable to respond effectively with their limited forces in the first instance.

Colonel Delater stood before the map, silent. His chief of staff was briefing him urgently, but he remained focused on the map, his brow furrowed.

Loran walked over and stood on the periphery of the crowd.

"...The Ardennes? They really came from the Ardennes?" A staff officer's voice was filled with obvious shock. "How is that possible? How did tanks get through that area?"

"Intelligence says they've crossed the border, at least one armored division, and possibly more."

"An armored division? Where did it come from?"

Loran didn't speak. He looked at the area marked "impassable" on the map, watching the red arrows slowly but surely extend westward.

He thought of Corporal Bernard, the World War I veteran stationed at C4 post, who just last week had been talking about the birds flying strangely across the river.

He remembered Ramirez. The silent machine gunner who used sandbags to elevate the gun mount, saying it would improve the field of vision.

He remembered everyone in the "fire brigade." Twelve men, two light machine guns, a few old-fashioned rifles, and a bunch of homemade explosives.

They will die. Many people will die.

He didn't know how much he could do.

Delater suddenly looked up, his gaze sweeping across the crowd: "Lieutenant Loran."

"arrive."

The colonel looked at him, and in those grey eyes there was something Lorraine had never seen before. It wasn't fear, nor anger. It was a deep, weary understanding.

"Take your men," he said, "and go to the front lines. I need to know where the Germans are."

"Yes."

Loran turned and walked out. Behind him, the staff's argument continued, the phone was still ringing, everything was in chaos, like an anthill suddenly awakened.

He walked through the corridor and pushed open the door to the division headquarters.

Outside, the sun had already risen. Sunlight shone on the ancient castle walls and on the soldiers running around in the courtyard. In the distance, the Meuse River glittered in the morning light.

To the east, in the direction of that forest, the sound of cannons can still be faintly heard.

Very light, very far away. Like a thunderstorm falling on the horizon.

Loran took a deep breath and walked toward the "fire brigade" barracks.

Thirteen people, conducting reconnaissance under heavy artillery fire; Loran involuntarily closed his eyes.