Covering the Rear

The group stood crookedly in the open space in front of the castle.

Loran stood in the fire brigade's ranks, looking at the gray sea of ​​people ahead. It was more of a scattered mass, like a school of fish stranded on a beach after the tide has gone out. Some stood, some squatted, some sat on the ground, some dozed off leaning against their rifles. No one spoke. Occasionally, there was a cough, the dull thud of a rifle butt hitting the ground, the whistling sound of the wind blowing through the flagpole.

The moonlight was faint, illuminating only outlines, not faces. The outlines of more than three thousand people spread out on the open ground like a gray shadow.

Colonel Delater stood at the very front of the column. He had his back to everyone and faced east. The eastern sky was dark, with only the occasional flashes of gunfire on the horizon, one after another, like someone striking an anvil in the dark.

Loran couldn't see his face, only his back. The back stood straight and motionless, like a stone statue.

Time passed slowly. The cannon fire rang out in bursts, each shot accompanied by a slight commotion in the crowd. Some turned around, some muttered curses, and some gripped their guns tighter.

Delater finally turned around.

The moonlight shone on his face, and Loran could see his eyes clearly. They still held that battlefield calm, but beneath that calm, something was churning. Not fear, not anger. Something else. The kind of calm that only arises when someone sees the army they've personally led reduced to so few men.

He took a step forward. With that one step, the commotion in the crowd suddenly ceased. Everyone was looking at him—more than three thousand pairs of eyes, like three thousand faint stars in the darkness.

Delater spoke.

His voice wasn't loud, but in this desolate open space, every word was as clear as if it were carved into a stone slab.

"You all saw it."

He paused, his gaze sweeping over the sea of ​​gray people before him.

"This morning, we had 11,000 people. Now, there are 3,000 left."

No one spoke. No one moved.

"Those eight thousand who escaped, they didn't die," Delater said calmly, as if stating the weather. "They ran away. They abandoned their guns, their comrades, their positions, and ran."

Some people lowered their heads. Some clenched their fists. Some remained motionless, staring at him.

"I don't blame them," Delatter said.

These words were like a stone thrown into stagnant water. Some people in the crowd looked up, some were stunned, and some couldn't believe their ears.

Delater's gaze moved from one face to another, slowly, looking at each one one by one.

"I blame myself," he said.

"Thirty-four years ago, when I joined the army, my instructor told me something. He said that there are two ways for soldiers to die: one is to die at the hands of the enemy, and the other is to die in one's own heart. To die at the hands of the enemy is a matter of an instant. To die in one's own heart is a matter of a lifetime."

He paused.

"Those eight thousand men didn't die at the hands of the enemy today. They died in their own hearts. Because they believed we couldn't win."

The wind blew in from the east, carrying the smell of gunpowder and blood. Someone coughed, then quickly suppressed it.

"But you," Delater's voice suddenly became a little heavier, "you didn't."

He looked at the more than three thousand people in front of him. Some were standing, some were squatting, some were sitting, and some were leaning against their guns.

"You're still here. You didn't run away. You don't know what's going to happen next, but you didn't run away."

He took a step forward, getting closer to the group.

"I've seen routs. Verdun, 1916. An entire trench, more than two thousand men, and overnight only three hundred remained. What happened to those three hundred men? They held the trench. The Germans fought for three days but couldn't take it."

His voice carried far on the night wind.

"I'm not here to tell you that we're guaranteed to win. We might die. We might die. I'm not standing here today to lie to you and say, 'Victory is ours.'"

He raised his hand and pointed to the eastern horizon illuminated by the gunfire.

"The German tanks are crossing the river. They'll catch up by tomorrow morning. The day after tomorrow, and the day after that, they'll keep chasing us. They're faster than us, they can fight more than us, and they have more firepower than us."

He lowered his hand and looked at the people in front of him.

"But I have a question for you."

He paused, letting each word sink in.

"Are you willing to let them chase you like this? Like chasing a rabbit, from Sedan to Paris, from Paris to the seaside? Are you willing for your family members to later tell others: 'My husband, my son, my father, they ran back from Sedan without firing a single shot!'"

Some gripped the gun barrel tightly. Some raised their heads. Some gritted their teeth, their jawlines taut in the moonlight.

"I don't want to," Delatter said.

His voice suddenly rose, no longer a calm statement, but carrying something that had been suppressed for a long time and was finally bursting out.

"I don't want to see the Germans trample on our land again, thirty-four years from now, like in 1916. I don't want to write 'died in defeat' instead of 'died in battle' on death notices. I don't want my soldiers to dream of today and ask themselves: Why didn't I turn back that day?"

He took a deep breath, his chest heaving.

"So I want you to do one thing."

He stretched out his hand and pointed south.

"Stonney Village".

Everyone's eyes followed his finger. They could see nothing but darkness.

"That's a transportation hub. The Germans need to take it to get west. We also need to pass through there to retreat. I need someone to guard that place."

He withdrew his hand and looked at the more than three thousand people in front of him.

"It's not about how long we hold out. It's about holding out for as long as possible. We'll hold out for one day as long as we can, and for one night as long as we can. For every extra hour we hold out, our main force can advance five kilometers more."

He paused.

"Someone will do this. Not all of you. But those who are willing to go."

The moonlight shone on his face, revealing the wrinkles, the weariness, and the years.

"I don't need much. Two hundred people. Two hundred people who are willing to stay and hold off the three thousand people, the more than ten thousand who have scattered, and the 55th Division."

He stopped talking.

The night wind continued to blow. The cannon fire continued to ring out. In the open space, more than three thousand people stood in silence.

Then, someone made a move.

Loran saw a figure stand up in the queue. Then a second, a third. More and more people stood up, stepped out of the queue, and walked to the brightest spot in the moonlight in the center of the open space.

Some walked very fast, almost running. Some walked slowly, step by step, but very steadily. Some walked halfway, glanced back at their company, and then continued forward.

Loran also moved.

He heard the footsteps of the fire brigade behind him. Thirteen men followed him, walking forward together.

As he reached the center of the open space, he glanced back. Those still standing there were watching them. Some had tears in their eyes, glistening in the moonlight. Some were clenching their fists, their teeth clenched tightly. Some simply watched, motionless.

Delater walked up to them.

He looked at the two hundred-odd people—no, perhaps less than two hundred. But at that moment, those two hundred people stood there, standing very straight.

He didn't speak.

He simply raised his hand and gave them a military salute.

More than two hundred people returned the salute at the same time. There were no orders, no slogans, they simply raised their hands simultaneously to return the salute to the veteran in his fifties.

Under the moonlight, more than two hundred hands were raised, like a silent forest.

In the distance, the sound of cannons rang out again. Closer still.

Delater lowered his hand. He looked at the people in front of him, one by one, very slowly, as if he wanted to engrave each face into his mind.

"Set off before dawn," he said. "Ammunition supplies will be delivered to you. The route and mission will be explained to you by someone."

He paused.

I won't say "take care." "Take care" is for those we'll see again.

He looked at them and said one last thing:

"I just said, thank you."

He turned and walked back to the group of more than three thousand people. His back looked stiff in the moonlight, but Loran noticed that his hands, hanging at his sides, were trembling slightly.

"Let's go," Delater's voice came from the other end. "Head west. Stay with the group. Don't fall behind."

More than three thousand people began to move. The gray tide began to surge westward. The sounds of footsteps, wheels, and suppressed coughs gradually faded into the night.

Lorraine stood there, watching the tide recede into the distance. Claude stood beside him. The thirteen members of the fire brigade stood behind them.

The tide gradually receded. The last group disappeared into the darkness. Only they remained in the open space, along with those who had emerged from the procession. More than two hundred of them, standing like two hundred statues in the moonlight.

......

After the crowd dispersed, only the wind remained in the open space.

Loran stood there, gazing at the darkness to the west. The column of over three thousand men had already gone far away; the sounds of footsteps, wheels, and coughs were swallowed by the night wind, and nothing could be heard. Only the sound of cannons still echoed to the east, one after another, like someone knocking on a door in a distant place.

He did not leave with the troops; Colonel Delattel asked him to stay, and he agreed.

Claude stood beside him and lit a cigarette. The light illuminated his face, which was expressionless as he stared blankly at the cigarette in his hand.

The thirteen firefighters sat scattered around. Ramirez rested his machine gun on his lap, his eyes closed, whether asleep or listening to the artillery fire was unclear. Boucher fiddled with his explosives, pulling out the detonators one by one and then putting them back in. Lefèvre leaned against a tree, rifle tucked into his arms, his eyes fixed on the eastern sky occasionally illuminated by the artillery fire.

No one spoke.

Loran didn't know what to say. He looked at the more than two hundred people who had emerged from the ranks, now scattered throughout the open space. Some were smoking, some were cleaning their guns, some were dozing against their backpacks, and some were simply sitting, gazing in the same direction: east, the direction of the flashing artillery fire.

They all came from different companies. There were engineers, infantrymen, some from companies directly under the division headquarters, and a few Loran didn't recognize, but could tell from the guns they carried that they were second-line logistics soldiers. Some were young, and some were veterans with scars on their faces. Some were silent, and some were talking in hushed tones. But at this moment, they were all sitting here, waiting for dawn.

Footsteps came from the west.

Loran turned his head and saw a figure emerge from the darkness. Moonlight shone on him, illuminating his square face and weary eyes.

Colonel Delattel.

He didn't go with the group. He came back.

Lorraine stood up. Claude stood up too. All thirteen members of the fire brigade stood up.

Delater walked up to them and stopped. He looked at Loran, then at Claude, then at the thirteen men. The moonlight shone on his face, illuminating the wrinkles, the weariness, and something else indescribable.

"Where are your troops?" Claude asked, his voice slightly hoarse.

Delater shook his head.

Just that one gesture. No words were spoken, but everything was said.

He didn't go with the group. He came back. Back here, back among those two hundred-odd people.

Looking at this man in his fifties, Lorraine suddenly recalled what he had said in his mobilization speech: "I do not want to see the Germans trample on our land again, as we did in 1916, thirty-four years from now."

He chose not to see it again.

"Colonel..." Claude began, but didn't know what to say.

Delater raised his hand to stop him. He looked at the two hundred-plus people in front of him, the figures scattered throughout the open space, the darkness behind those figures, and the gunfire at the end of that darkness.

"I've come to find you two," he said softly.

Lorraine and Claude looked at him.

Delater's gaze lingered on their faces for a few seconds. Then he said:

"Come with me."

He turned and walked towards the castle. Loran and Claude exchanged a glance and followed.

They walked through the crowd scattered in the open space. Some looked up at them, some lowered their heads to continue cleaning their guns, and some simply stared. Loran could feel those gazes on his back, but he didn't turn around.

The castle's outline emerged in the darkness. The windows were all black, except for a lamp lit at the doorway, where Delatter's adjutant stood, holding a lantern. The lamplight illuminated his young face, streaked with tears, but he stood ramrod straight.

Delatter walked past him without stopping. Loran and Claude followed him inside.

The corridor was deserted. Telephone lines dangled on the floor, documents were scattered everywhere, and a chair had been overturned; no one bothered to pick it up. The staff quarters, which had been bustling with people during the day, were now only echoes.

Delater pushed open the conference room door.

It was the same room. The map on the wall was still there, marked with those red arrows. The table was still there, the chairs were still there, and the sound of cannons outside the window was still there.

Delater walked to the map and stopped. Loran and Claude stood at the doorway, not going in.

"Close the door," Delater said.

Claude closed the door. The room fell silent; the sound of the cannon fire was somewhat muffled, leaving only faint thuds.

Delater turned to look at them. The light shone on his face from the side, casting it in half of its shadow. In his eyes, there was no weariness, no anger, only a profound calm. The kind of calm that only a lifelong soldier would have when he was finally about to do his last thing.

"What I just said," he began, "is all true. I need someone to guard Stoney Village."

Loran nodded.

"But what I didn't say was," Delatton paused, "that Stoney couldn't be defended."

The room was silent for a few seconds.

Loran knew. Of course he knew. He knew from the moment Delatter mentioned the place name. Two hundred men, without heavy weapons, without air support, without reinforcements, facing a German armored division. How long could they hold out? A day? Two days? Perhaps less.

"The Second Army is already on its way," Delater said, "but whether it will arrive, and when it will arrive, nobody knows. Maybe tomorrow, maybe the day after, maybe never."

He walked to the window and opened it. The night wind rushed in, carrying the smell of gunpowder. The sound of cannon fire became clearer, each shot like a heartbeat.

"Stonny is a transportation hub. If the Germans want it, we have to give it to them. There are two ways to give it to them: one is to give it to them directly, and the other is to make them pay a price to take it."

He turned around and looked at Loran and Claude.

"I sent you to guard Stoney Village not to die, but to collect debts. To collect debts from the Germans. Every debt we collect is a debt we'll settle."

Loran met his gaze but remained silent.

Delater looked at him, then at Claude, and said:

"But I didn't call you two here to talk about this."

He walked back to the table and picked up a document. The document was neatly folded and had a red stamp on the cover. He handed it to Lorraine.

Loran took it and opened it.

It was a handwritten order. The handwriting was neat, and it was written by Delater himself. The content was very short:

"Lieutenant Marc Lorrain is hereby appointed as the acting commander of the Stoney village defense zone, responsible for operations in this direction. Captain Jean-Claude Zorro is appointed as his deputy commander. All troops remaining in Stoney village must obey his command. This order is hereby issued."

Below is Delattel's signature and the date: May 14, 1940.

Loran looked up at Delatter.

"Your squad," Delater said, "is well-trained. Tactical. You know how to fight this kind of battle."

He looked at Loran: "We need someone to take command over Stoney Village. It's not about holding out, it's about attacking as much as possible. You two are the most suitable people."

Claude took the document, glanced at it, and said nothing. His fingers lingered on the edge of the paper for a few seconds before handing it back to Lorraine.

Lorraine folded the document and put it in his pocket.

"There's one more thing," Delatter said.

He walked to the cabinet in the corner, opened it, and took out a tin box. The box was small, rusty, and looked very old. He walked back and placed the box on the table.

"The things in here," he said, "are the 55th Division's combat records from its formation to the present day. Personnel rosters, equipment lists, deployment adjustments, combat logs, and some things... things that shouldn't have been left but were."

He paused.

"These things cannot fall into the hands of the Germans. Nor can they be separated from the troops. Someone must deliver them. Deliver them to the rear, to a safe place. They may be useful later, or they may not. But they must be delivered."

He looked at Loran.

I want you to deliver it.

Loran paused for a moment. He looked at the tin box on the table, then at Delatter.

"Me?" he said. "Over in Stoney village..."

"Captain Claude can command," Delater interrupted him. "He trained your squad alongside them. You taught them the tactics, but fighting is about execution. He can execute."

He looked into Lorraine's eyes.

"In Stoney Village, whether you're here or not won't change the outcome. But this box," he said, placing his hand on the tin box, "only you can deliver it."

Loran did not speak.

"You're from Paris," Delattre said. "You know General Bouchard, you know Colonel de Gaulle, you know those who can hear you. You also know how this war will go on; it's not over after it's over, it's more like there's more to come."

He stared at Loran: "These records may one day be handed over to the right people. Perhaps one day, someone will ask: What exactly happened in the 5th Division in May 1940? Who was the first to say that the Germans would come from the Ardennes? Who led the defense of Stoney village? Who…?"

He didn't finish speaking.

But Lorraine understood.

These records are evidence. Evidence that someone warned, someone fought, someone sacrificed. When the dust settles, and the likes of Pétain begin to whitewash the situation, turning surrender into a "decent peace," these records will tell those who come after: it wasn't like that. Someone saw the danger, sounded the alarm, and held out until the very end.

He looked at Delatter. The man, in his fifties, stood in the dim light, his face expressionless. But in his eyes, there was something Loran had never seen before. Not a request, not a command, but something deeper.

"Captain Claude is in command." Loran repeated the sentence, as if asking, or as if confirming.

"Okay," Delattel said.

Lorraine turned to look at Claude.

Claude stood there, motionless. He looked at Lorraine, saying nothing. But his eyes said: Go.

After Delatter finished speaking, the room remained quiet for a long time.

Loran stood there, his hand resting on the tin box. It was heavy. Not just in weight. But he didn't put it in his pocket, nor did he nod. He just held it there, as if waiting for something.

Claude stood in the doorway, not moving. He looked at Lorraine, waiting for his reply.

Outside the window, the sound of cannons was still ringing out. One shot after another, far away, but you could feel each one.

Delater looked at Loran as well. There was something unreadable in those tired eyes. Was it anticipation? Urging? Or something else entirely?

Loran finally spoke.

"Colonel," he said, "I cannot deliver this box."