Evacuation

At 9:00 a.m., the vanguard of the 1st Armored Division had advanced to a depth of 25 kilometers.

The roads were more difficult to traverse than anticipated. In some sections, only one tank could pass at a time, with trees on either side scraping against the edges of the tracks. Engineers led the way, cutting down trees that blocked the path, filling in gullies eroded by rainwater, and laying temporary roads across the dried-up riverbed.

Guderian's command vehicle was parked at a fork in the road. He stood beside it, watching the tank column rumble past. The tracks of the third tank kicked up mud, splashing it onto his trousers. He didn't move, but instead lowered his head, deep in thought.

"Advance troops report encountering Belgian resistance ahead." The staff officer ran over, handing over the radio transcript he had just received. "A Jäger company, equipped with anti-tank guns."

"Location?"

The staff officer pointed on the map.

Guderian glanced around, then looked up at the dense forest ahead. Sunlight filtered through the leaves, casting dappled shadows on the ground.

"Bypass them," he said. "Leave one company to hold them off, while the main force continues the advance."

"Yes."

The staff officer ran back to the command vehicle. Guderian lit another cigarette, watching the tank column continue westward. Bypass, don't entangle, don't stop. This was a principle he repeatedly emphasized in training. The armored forces' mission wasn't mopping up, it was breakthrough.

A half-track vehicle pulled up behind him and stopped beside him. A major jumped out; he was his logistics officer.

"General, the fuel supply trucks are stuck behind us. The road ahead is too narrow for them to get through."

Guderian frowned. He glanced at his watch, then at the tank column passing by ahead.

"Let the armored vehicles pass first. Fuel trucks can wait until the road is wider." He paused, then added, "Notify all units to strictly control fuel consumption. Avoid idling unless absolutely necessary."

"Yes."

The logistics officer ran back to the half-track, turned around, and drove it back. Guderian watched it disappear into the forest, expressionless.

He knew the problems were just beginning. Sixty kilometers across the Ardennes—fuel, ammunition, maintenance—every link could potentially fail. But a plan is a plan. They had to keep going; they couldn't stop.

He stubbed out his cigarette and walked back to the command vehicle.

At the same time, at C4 outpost.

Corporal Bernard crouched behind the bunker, peering through the observation slit at the opposite bank. The artillery fire had been going on since morning without stopping. But it was too far away; he couldn't see anything.

The phone rang. He ran back to the outpost and grabbed the receiver.

"C4, Bernard."

"The German troops have crossed the border and are advancing in your direction. Stay alert and report back immediately." It was the company headquarters' voice on the other end of the phone, very urgent.

"clear."

He put down the phone and walked out of the guard post. Six soldiers were watching him, waiting for him to say something.

"The Germans are here," he said. "They're really here."

No one spoke. A young soldier licked his lips and gripped his rifle tighter.

Bernard glanced at them, then at the forest to the east. The wind was still blowing from that direction, carrying a faint rumbling sound.

"Get the ammunition out," he said. "Machine gunner, take your positions. Everyone else, get in cover."

The soldiers began to move. He stood still. He thought of 1916. Verdun, that morning, just as quiet, and then the artillery fire began.

He touched the bayonet at his waist. It was the same one from back then.

Sedan, Division.

As Lorraine walked out of the castle gates, he ran into Captain Claude jumping out of a jeep. Claude was pale and his uniform was covered in mud.

"Where did you go?" Lorraine asked.

"At the front lines. Over at the Second Battalion," Claude wiped the sweat from his face, "it's chaos. The phone lines are dead, the messengers are nowhere to be found. Some say they've seen German tanks, some say they haven't. Nobody knows what's going on."

"Did you see that?"

Claude shook his head: "I didn't get to the very front. The road was blocked by refugees. People from the Belgian side started running this way."

Refugees. The word made Loran's heart sink.

"Colonel Delattel has ordered me to take some men to the front lines," he said, "to see where the Germans are."

Claude looked at him and nodded. His lips moved as if he wanted to say something, but in the end he only said, "Be careful."

Lorraine turned and walked toward the "fire brigade's" barracks. The row of bungalows was on the west side of the castle, next to the stables. He pushed open the door; all twelve men were there. Ramirez was cleaning his machine gun, Boucher was fiddling with his explosives, and Lefebvre was oiling his rifle. They all looked up when they saw him enter.

"Gather together," Loran said.

Twelve people put down what they were carrying and stood in a row in front of him. No one asked why. The cannons had been going off all morning; everyone knew something bad was about to happen.

Lorraine watched them. Ramirez's scar was particularly clear in the morning light. Boucher's fingers were still stained with the black ash of explosives. Lefebvre was too young; he hadn't even grown a full beard yet.

"The Germans attacked this morning," he said, "from the Ardennes direction. We don't know where they are; we'll have to go check."

The twelve people looked at him, but no one spoke.

"Take all ammunition. Pack light. Depart in forty minutes."

He stepped out of the barracks and stood in the open space outside. The sun was shining brightly, illuminating the stone walls of the castle. In the distance, the Meuse River remained calm, its waters shimmering in the sunlight.

At three o'clock in the afternoon, Lorraine led the fire brigade to a high point by the river. From there, they could see the vast forest on the opposite bank and the stone bridge over the river. The bridge was still there, with French fortifications at its head, and a few pitiful soldiers smoking and sunbathing.

Loran was stunned. The cannon fire continued for hours, yet the state of alert remained relaxed.

Then he felt relieved. Knowing that he was going to die, he decided that instead of panicking, he should enjoy the last moments of his life.

He sighed softly, raised his binoculars, and scanned the opposite bank. The forest was quiet; he could see nothing.

"When do you think they'll arrive?" Claude crouched down beside him, his voice low.

Loran didn't answer. He didn't know either. The plan was forty-eight hours, but that was theoretical. Maybe tomorrow, maybe tonight.

Through the binoculars, he saw something move in the forest on the opposite bank. He focused in that direction, but saw nothing. Perhaps it was just the wind.

But the wind won't make the trees move like that.

"Watch out for the other side," he said. "Everyone stay hidden and don't expose yourselves."

The twelve men spread out, each taking cover. Ramirez set up his machine gun, pointing it towards the opposite bank of the river. Lefebvre lay prone behind a rock, his rifle resting on his shoulder.

Loran continued to stare at the forest.

Sunlight streamed in from behind them, illuminating the river and the treetops on the opposite bank. It was an ordinary forest, like any other forest in France.

Something moved again. This time he saw it clearly.

The barrel of a tank protrudes from the bushes.

Then came the second one, and the third one.

Gray paint, sloping deck, square turret. Panzer IV tanks. Three, five, ten. They drove out from the edge of the forest, stopped on the opposite bank of the river, and lined up in a row.

The cannon barrel began to rotate, pointing towards this side of the river.

Lorraine put down his binoculars. His throat was dry.

"Everyone," he said, his voice flat, "step back. Now."

They began to move backward. As Ramirez holstered his machine gun, the first shell from the opposite bank landed.

It landed on the bridge. It landed on the fortifications at the bridgehead. It landed on the soldiers who had just been smoking and sunbathing.

Smoke billowed, and debris flew. The bridge was broken. The fortifications were gone. The people were nowhere to be seen.

Loran lay on the ground, looking at the opposite bank. More tanks poured out of the forest, forming a column and driving towards the river. Engineers ran out from behind the tanks and began building a bridge.

"Back up," he said. "Back up into that woods."

The twelve men ran backwards, their backs bent. Shells kept falling, some landing in the river and exploding into white plumes of water, others landing on the bank, kicking up mud and pebbles. A piece of shrapnel flew past Loran's ear with a whistling sound.

They ran into the woods, lay down, and looked back at the opposite bank of the river.

After a round of shelling, German engineers were already building a bridge. They dragged inflatable rubber boats from the back of trucks, pushed them into the river, and began to row. The first infantrymen sat in the boats, rifles tucked between their legs, heads bowed.

On this side of the river, the surviving soldiers in the bridge fortifications began firing. Rifle fire was sporadic, bullets thumping against the rubber boats. The boats continued paddling forward. No one was hit.

"Too far," Ramirez whispered, lying down next to Loran. "Two hundred meters, a rifle can't hit it accurately."

Loran watched the rubber boats. One, two, three. Each carrying seven or eight people, they were slowly approaching the west bank.

"Is the machine gun up to them?"

Ramirez checked the distance: "It's enough. But if we fire, those tanks on the other side will see us."

Loran didn't speak. He looked at the rubber boats, at the gray figures getting closer and closer on the river.

"Hit," he said.

Ramirez pulled the trigger. The machine gun opened fire, spent cartridges ricocheting and landing on fallen leaves. Someone in the first rubber boat fell into the water, and the boat began to spin. The other two continued paddling forward.

Tanks on the opposite bank opened fire. Shells landed at the edge of the forest, exploded, felled trees, and shredded leaves into pieces that landed on them.

"Retreat," Loran said. "Retreat."

They scrambled to their feet and ran backwards, bent over. Ramirez, clutching his machine gun, led the way, the ammunition belt dragging on the ground, kicking up dead leaves. Shells were still falling; one landed where they had just been lying, creating a crater.

They ran deep into the woods, stopped, and caught their breath. Lorraine looked back and could see the river through the gaps in the tree trunks. The first rubber boat had already reached the shore, and the soldiers jumped out, wading into knee-deep water, and marched forward with their guns at the ready.

The soldiers on the front line were in bad shape. Their ears were deafened by the artillery fire, and before they could react, bullets pierced their bodies, leaving them lying in pools of blood.

When Lorraine rushed back to the castle, the courtyard was already packed with people. Trucks, jeeps, carriages, and soldiers on foot. No one knew where to go. Some went east, some went west, and some stood still, watching others run around.

He pushed through the crowd and went inside the building. Several officers stood in the corridor, arguing about something. One voice was loud: "Where are the orders? Where are the army group's orders?" Another voice was even more urgent: "The phone lines are dead! We can't get through to anything!"

He pushed open the door to the staff office.

Claude stood before the map, a red pencil in his hand, but he didn't draw anything. He stared at the map, motionless. On the map, the German positions were already marked on the opposite bank of the river.

"They've crossed the river," Lorraine said.

Claude turned his head. He looked terrible, his eyes were sunken, as if he hadn't slept all night.

"I know," he said. "The frontline made a call, and then the call dropped."

"Where is Colonel Delattel?"

"Upstairs. Talk to the army group."

Loran walked to the window and looked outside. More and more soldiers were gathering in the courtyard. Some began to walk out, westward, away from the castle.

"Which unit do those belong to?" he asked.

Claude glanced at it: "I don't know. It could be from the 2nd Battalion, or it could be from the engineer company. Too many people have run away."

The phone rang. Claude answered it, listened for a few seconds, and then hung up.

"The army group has ordered," he said, "to hold their ground and await reinforcements. The Second Army is already en route."

Loran looked at him without saying a word.

Claude looked at the map: "Reinforcements won't arrive until tomorrow."

Night was falling. Loran and Claude stood at the castle gate, watching the soldiers march westward. More and more soldiers were arriving; some were carrying guns, while others had lost their weapons. They kept their heads down, saying nothing, simply walking.

"Where are you going?" Claude suddenly shouted into the crowd.

A young soldier stopped, glanced at them, then lowered his head and continued walking.

Claude didn't shout again.

He knew the situation of the 55th Division soldiers better than anyone else; those who had left could not be called back.

The sound of an engine came from afar. It wasn't a tank, but a truck. A military truck drove up from the west and stopped in front of the castle. A man jumped out; it was Colonel Delater's adjutant.

"Where is the colonel?" he asked.

"Inside," Claude said.

The adjutant ran inside. A few minutes later, Delater emerged from the building, followed by several staff officers. His face was calm and expressionless.

"The army group has ordered," he said, his voice steady, "that the 55th Division withdraw from Chodang and move westward to preserve its strength until the Second Army Group arrives."

Claude hesitated for a moment: "Withdraw? What about here? What about the Maas River?"

Delater glanced at him but said nothing. He walked to the jeep parked in the yard, opened the door, and got in. The adjutant got into the driver's seat.

The jeep started and slowly drove out of the yard.

Claude stood there, watching the car disappear into the western twilight. Lorraine stood beside him.

The number of soldiers in the courtyard dwindled. Some saw the colonel leave and followed him out. More people began to leave.

"Let's go too," Claude finally said.

"Where are the firefighters?"

"Take them with you."

When the 55th Division finished assembling, Delater stood at the front, looking at the crooked and disordered formation, and almost fainted.

Of the 11,000 troops, less than 3,000 actually arrived.