The Fall

Delater's eyes flickered slightly. It was only for a moment, but Loran saw it.

"Why?" Delater asked. His voice was flat, without reproach.

Loran removed his hand from the box.

"Because I can't deliver it." He paused. "Captain Claude is faster than me and knows the roads better. He has a better chance of surviving than I would."

Claude took a step forward and picked up the box.

"I'll deliver it."

He looked at Loran: "You guard Stoney Village."

Loran nodded.

Claude turned and walked into the darkness. Delatter reached out his hand, and Loran took it. The hand was rough and hard, but trembling slightly.

"Take care of yourself."

He didn't say anything more. He turned and walked towards the door.

As he stepped out of the conference room, he heard Delater's voice behind him:

"Loran".

He stopped and turned around.

Delater stood by the window, his back to him. Moonlight streamed in, illuminating his gray hair and his straight back.

"France will remember this day," he said softly.

Lorraine stood there, watching his retreating figure.

"We'll remember that someone held the line."

Then he stopped talking.

Loran waited for a long time, but heard no more sound.

He turned and walked into the dark corridor, toward the people waiting for him in the open space.

More than two hundred people sat scattered in the open space. The moonlight shone on them, illuminating their tired, quiet, and waiting faces.

When Lorraine emerged, all thirteen members of the fire brigade stood up. Ramirez slung his machine gun over his shoulder, Boucher strapped his explosives to his back, and Lefebvre held his rifle. No one asked where Claude was. No one asked what to do next. They simply looked at him, waiting for him to speak.

Loran stood in front of them and then spoke.

"Before dawn," he said, "we'll set off for Stoney Village."

He paused.

"The Germans want that village. We won't let them have it."

He looked at the two hundred-plus people in front of him, those unfamiliar faces, those silent eyes, those who had come from various companies and stayed here.

"We'll hold out for as long as we can," Loran waved his hand.

The Battle of Stoney took place on May 15, 1940. To ensure the main force of Guderian's armored troops could advance towards the English Channel, German and French forces fought fiercely in Stoney, south of Sedan, France. The town changed hands 17 times in three days, with countless soldiers falling in pools of blood. Although the battle ended in a German victory, its brutality earned it the nickname "the Verdun of 1940."

Stoney is a village southeast of Sedan, about twelve kilometers from the Meuse River. It's a small village with only a few dozen households, a main street, a church, and a crossroads. That crossroads is very important; to the west lies Sedan, to the east the Belgian border, to the north the edge of the Ardennes Forest, and to the south open farmland and several main roads leading towards Paris.

Whoever controls that intersection controls the traffic in that area.

They arrived at daybreak.

The village is still there. The houses are all intact, the church steeple is still standing, and the shops on the main street are still closed. There are no German troops, no shelling, nothing at all.

But there were no villagers either.

Loran stood at the village entrance, looking at the empty houses. The doors were all closed, the windows were all shut, not even a dog was in sight. They left.

"Spread out," Loran said. "Check every house. Find high ground. Find cover. Find places to hide."

More than two hundred people dispersed into the village. The sound of their footsteps echoed in the empty streets, startling a few crows that had landed on the rooftops, which cawed and flew away.

Half an hour later, they had a general idea of ​​the situation.

To the east of the village is a gentle slope covered with wheat, just knee-high. At the bottom of the slope is a dry ditch that flows down from the north, crosses the road, and heads south. The ditch is narrow, about three meters wide, and its bottom is a mixture of gravel and dry mud; tanks can't cross it, but people can.

To the north of the village lies an extension of the Ardennes Forest, a dense thicket of large trees less than two hundred meters from the nearest house. A German coming from that direction could easily reach the village entrance before being discovered.

The west side of the village was the direction they came from, with a dirt road leading to Sedan. To the south of the village stretched vast fields, seemingly endless, with nothing else in sight.

Loren stood on the church bell tower, looking through binoculars at the gentle slope to the east.

On the distant horizon, there was smoke. Not cooking smoke, but thick, dark gray smoke. Smoke from burning.

"The Germans have arrived," Ramirez said in a low voice, standing beside him.

Loran didn't speak. He continued to stare at the plume of smoke.

"How do we defend?" Ramirez asked.

Loran put down his binoculars and looked at the dry riverbed to the east, the dark forest to the north, the empty farmland to the south, and the road they had come from to the west.

"The machine gun is mounted on the church roof," he said. "You can see the entire gentle slope to the east. On the other side of the ditch, people are being buried. To the north, the woods are being felled and traps are being set. To the south, the farmland..."

He paused.

"Abandon the farmland to the south."

Ramirez nodded without asking why.

Because it's undefendable. Two hundred men guarding four directions means they can't defend any of them. They can only defend the direction most likely to come from: the east, the direction the Germans are coming from.

They started working.

Soldiers who were engineers led their men to the other side of the ditch to plant explosives and set traps. Soldiers who were hunters led their men to the northern forest to cut down trees and lay booby traps. The rest of the men moved sandbags, built fortifications, set up machine guns, and cleared the field of fire.

When the sun rose, the village transformed into a fortress. A rudimentary fortress, riddled with holes, but at least it was a fortress.

Loran stood at the church entrance, watching the busy people.

More than two hundred people, no one asked if they could hold the position, no one asked when reinforcements would arrive, no one asked why they needed to hold the position. They just worked, prepared, and waited.

In the distance, the sound of artillery fire ceased.

Then the tank engine started up. It was low and deep.

The first German troops appeared at 2 p.m.

They weren't tanks, they were scouts. Six men, on motorcycles, climbed over the gentle slope to the east and drove along the road towards the village.

They drove slowly and cautiously. Guns were held at hand, and their eyes were fixed on the village. They stopped in front of the ditch. Someone got out of the car, walked to the ditch, and squatted down to examine it.

On the church roof, Ramirez placed his finger on the trigger.

"Don't move," Lorraine whispered beside him. "Let them see."

The scout watched for a few minutes. Then he stood up, got back on his motorcycle, turned around, and drove back the way he came.

Ramirez watched the motorcycles disappear behind the gentle slope, then looked at Loran.

"They know we're here."

Loran nodded.

"They just want us to know."

At 3 p.m., the first shell landed.

It landed at the village entrance, exploded, sending clods of earth flying, and then crashed onto the rooftops with a thud. Then came the second, the third. It wasn't a salvo, but rather sporadic test shots, one by one, as if they were measuring the distance.

Loran crouched at the base of the church wall, listening to the sound of shells falling. One landed close enough to hit the church about thirty meters in front of it. Another landed further away, behind the village. Yet another landed close enough to hit the side of the church, sending pebbles flying and clattering against the wall.

The church bells rang loudly, as if someone were ringing them from a great distance.

"Six guns." Ramirez lay down beside him, his ear pressed to the ground to listen. "105mm, infantry guns."

Loran nodded; he had heard that sound before.

But hearing about it and experiencing it firsthand are two different things.

Another shot landed. Closer still. The impact caused dust to fall from the wall.

"How long will they fight?" Ramirez asked.

Lorraine glanced at her watch. 3:10.

"It won't be long," he said. "Their ammunition isn't unlimited. They'll come at us when they think we're almost wiped out."

"So when do we have to wait?"

Loran looked at him. His wrinkled face was expressionless. Only his eyes held a quiet calm.

"Wait until they charge in," Lorraine said.

The shelling lasted for forty minutes.

At 3:50, the shelling stopped.

Loran stood up and peeked out from behind the wall. Something was moving on the gentle slope to the east. It wasn't a tank, it was people. Gray figures, spread out in skirmish lines, were carrying guns and walking towards the ditch.

A company. Approximately 150 people.

"I'm up," he said.

Ramirez set up the machine gun, pointing it at the gray figures. The others were also in their positions, guns resting on their shoulders, aiming.

Loran watched the people walk away. One hundred and fifty meters, one hundred and thirty meters, one hundred meters. When they reached the ditch, they started jumping down, walking into the ditch, and climbing to the other side.

"Hit," Loran said.

Gunshots rang out.

Ramirez's machine gun fired first, a hail of bullets sweeping across the ditch, hitting the group of people climbing it. Some fell, some jumped up, some ran back. Rifle fire followed, one after another, like someone hammering metal in the distance.

The Germans lay prone—in the ditches, along the edges of the ditches, in the wheat fields. They began to return fire. The gunfire intensified; bullets thudded against the church walls, against the sandbags in the bunkers, against the stones beside Loran.

Ramirez continued firing. His machine gun never stopped, firing incessantly, spent cartridges ricocheting and piling up on the ground. The German machine gun also began firing, bullets hitting the ground beside him, knocking stones off the wall and whistling through the air. He didn't move. He just kept pulling the trigger, firing continuously.

The first group of Germans retreated. They left behind a dozen or so corpses, lying in the ditches and wheat fields, looking like piles of gray stones in the setting sun.

The gunfire stopped. Lorraine's ears were still ringing.

"Two were withdrawn," Ramirez said. "The soldier from the 3rd Battalion, and the old man from the engineer company."

Loran nodded. He knew. He saw it. When the soldier was carried off the plane, blood kept flowing, all the way down, until it finally stopped. When the old man was carried off the plane, he was no longer breathing.

4:50. The first hour has passed.

The second attack was at six o'clock.

This time it wasn't infantry, it was tanks. Three of them. They rolled over the back of the gentle slope, climbing very slowly, like three gray beetles, heading towards the village along the road. Behind the tanks followed infantry, more than the first time, about two companies.

Loran stood atop the church, watching the three tanks. Tank No. 4. Its cannon barrel pointed towards the village, its hull gleaming a dark gray in the setting sun.

"What do we have that can take down tanks?" Ramirez asked.

Loran thought for a moment.

"Bombs. Cluster grenades. And..." He paused, "...Boucher."

Boucher, who was lying next to him, heard his name called and looked up at him.

"Could that package of yours blow up the tracks?"

Boucher looked at the three tanks and licked his lips.

"Yes," he said, "but we have to get close. Within twenty meters."

"Can I come closer?"

Boucher thought for a moment. Then he thought again. And then he nodded.

"able."

Lorraine looked at him. On that young face, there was neither fear nor courage, only a very simple expression—the expression of knowing what one was going to do and having already made up one's mind.

"Go ahead," said Loran.

Boucher picked up his explosive charge and climbed down from the church roof. He stumbled when he landed, then stood up and ran towards the village entrance, his back bent low. The setting sun shone on his back, on the explosive charge, and on his increasingly smaller figure as he ran.

The tank continued moving forward. Closer. One hundred meters, eighty meters, sixty meters.

Boucher lay prone on the ground, hiding behind the wall of a house at the village entrance. Tanks drove past him, their tracks churning and rattling over the road. He waited, waiting for the last one to pass.

Then he rushed out.

He ran fast, the explosive charge clutched to his chest, crouching low, chasing after the tank. The tank's machine gunner saw him, turned his gun, and began firing. Bullets struck the ground beside him, sending clods of dirt flying and landing on him. He didn't stop; he kept running.

Twenty meters. Fifteen meters. Ten meters.

He lunged forward, stuffing the explosive charge into the gap between the tracks and the road wheels. Then he rolled away, rolling to the side of the road and curling up into a ball.

With a loud bang.

The tank's track was broken, and it lay sprawled on the ground like a dead snake. The tank stopped, and the Germans inside began to crawl out.

Boucher stood up and ran back. After a few steps, he stopped, glanced back at the disabled tank, and then continued running.

Machine gun bullets chased after him. One hit his leg. He fell, crawled forward on the ground. Another bullet hit his back. He convulsed for a moment and then stopped moving.

Ramirez's machine gun opened fire, sweeping across the firing tank. The bullets clanged against the armor, but didn't penetrate anything. The machine gunner on the tank then retreated and stopped firing.

Lorraine looked at Boucher. He lay there, motionless. The explosive charge was no longer beside him. The tank's track was broken, and it was stopped in the middle of the road, blocking the path of the two tanks behind it.

The setting sun shone on him, casting a blurry silhouette.

"There are two more," Ramirez said.

Loran nodded.

"Let them come."

The two tanks bypassed the first one and continued driving forward. Reaching the village entrance, they stopped and began firing into the village. One shell landed next to the church, blasting a section of the wall down. Another landed on the main street, creating a crater. A third shell hit a house, causing it to collapse and sending dust billowing up, obscuring half the sky.

The infantry charged forward, pouring out from behind the tanks, spreading out, and creeping into the village. Gunfire erupted, growing even denser. Firefighters' machine guns were firing, rifles were firing, and German machine guns were firing too; the gunfire was all mixed together, making it impossible to tell who was firing whom.

it's dark.

The Germans were driven back. They left behind the disabled tank, more than twenty corpses, half a house that had been bombed, and the motionless figure at the village entrance.

Loren stood atop the church, gazing into the darkness. To the east, fires flickered on the German positions; they were setting up camp. To the west, there was nothing.

Ramirez climbed over to him, his dark face filled with shock, and frantically drew something with his hand.

"Boucher..." he managed to squeeze out the two words.

Lorraine nodded dryly. "I know."

That night, Loran took a headcount of the remaining people.

One hundred and seventy-three people. Thirty-seven died, and more than twenty were injured. About one hundred and fifty of them were still capable of fighting.

He called over the rest of the fire brigade. Ramirez was still there, machine gun set up beside him. Lefèvre was still there, rifle clutched to his chest. Three others were missing. Boucher, and two young men from an infantry company—he couldn't remember their names.

"Tomorrow will be even harder," Lorraine said.

Ramirez nodded. Lefevere nodded. Everyone else nodded.

"The Germans will sneak in before dawn, from the woods to the north. They won't attack tonight, but they will send men to assess our situation and find our weaknesses."

He looked at Ramirez.

"Take your men to the north and guard the edge of the woods. Don't fire, just shoot whenever you see someone. Let them know we're awake."

Ramirez stood up, grabbed his machine gun, and walked north. Several soldiers followed, disappearing into the darkness.

Loran looked at the remaining firefighters.

"Everyone else, come with me to plant the explosives."

They made their way to the village entrance, to the broken tank. Boucher was still lying there. Lorraine crouched down and turned him over. Moonlight shone on his face; the young face was peaceful, his eyes closed, as if he were asleep.

Lorraine took the remaining explosives and detonators from his body. She then pulled a small cloth bag from his pocket, opened it, and inside was a photograph. It showed a young woman, holding a baby, standing in the doorway of a small house, smiling.

He put the photograph back into the cloth bag and tucked it back into Boucher's pocket. Then he picked Boucher up, carried him to the roadside, and placed him against the wall of a house. He let him lean against the wall, as if he were sitting there resting.

"I'll come to pick you up after dawn," Loran said softly.

He stood up, led the remaining men, and walked to the eastern defensive line, immediately beginning to deal with the explosives.

At three o'clock in the morning, the first explosion was heard.

The sounds came from the woods to the north. Then came gunfire, machine gun fire, and shouts. It lasted for about ten minutes, then stopped. It went on for another ten minutes, then stopped again.

Ramirez has returned with his men. Two are missing.

"Three squads sneaked in," he said. "Seven or eight were killed. The rest retreated."

Loran nodded. "Rest. There's still a fight to be had at dawn."

The Germans did not attack the next day.

They were arrayed on the gentle slope to the east, tanks, infantry, and artillery clearly visible. But they didn't move. They just stood there, waiting.

Loran stood atop the church, gazing outwards. The sun rose, shining on the grey figures, on the tanks, on the cannons.

"What are they waiting for?" Ramirez asked.

Loran thought for a moment.

"Wait for us to run."

Ramirez paused for a moment, then laughed. It was a very bitter laugh.

"Run? Where to run?"

Loran did not answer.

At 2 PM, the Germans made their move.

It wasn't an attack; it was sending someone over. A man, carrying a white flag, walked down the gentle slope and along the road towards the village. He stopped in front of the ditch and shouted towards the village.

Loran couldn't hear what he was shouting. But he didn't need to. He knew what he was saying. Surrender. Lay down your weapons. Guarantee your safety. And so on and so forth.

He picked up his binoculars and looked at the man who had raised the white flag. He was young, probably in his early twenties, with the kind of expression one only sees when doing something like this.

Ramirez waited for his answer.

Lorraine put down his binoculars.

"Shoot," he said.

Ramirez pulled the trigger. The machine gun fired. The man holding the white flag fell, and the flag fell to the ground, blown by the wind into the ditch.

The Germans were silent for a few seconds. Then the artillery fire rang out.

This time was different. It wasn't a test firing; it was a barrage. Dozens of cannons fired simultaneously, and shells rained down, landing in the village, on the church, on the bunkers, everywhere.

Loran lay prone against the church wall, covering his ears with his hands, but he couldn't muffle the sound. The sound drilled into his brain, like someone hammering away inside, each strike capable of shattering his bones.

The shelling lasted for two hours.

At four o'clock, the shelling stopped.

Loran stood up and peeked out from behind the wall. The village had changed. Half of the houses had collapsed, and the other half were teetering on the brink of collapse. The church spire was gone, sheared off by a shell and lying on the ground, creating a crater. The main street was riddled with shell craters, rubble, and dust. A thick layer of dust settled on his face, body, and gun.

On the gentle slope to the east, tanks were climbing. Not three, but ten. Ten tanks lined up in two rows, heading towards the village. Behind the tanks followed infantry, densely packed, their numbers countless.

Ramirez lay beside him, a machine gun propped up on the rubble. His face was covered in ash, only his eyes still shone.

"This time it's really happening," he said.

Loran nodded.

"Let them come."

The tanks reached the ditch. They stopped. Not because they couldn't cross, but because they didn't want to. They stopped and began firing into the village. Round after round, they hit the houses that hadn't collapsed yet, the remaining bunkers, and the place where the two hundred-plus people were hiding.

Then the infantry began their charge.

Gray figures surged from the ditches, from behind the tanks, from every direction, flooding into the village like a tide. Gunfire erupted, indistinguishable as to who was firing whom. The firefighters' machine guns roared, Ramirez fired, and Loran's rifle crackled. Germans fell, and men took their place; they fell again, and men took their place.

it's dark.

The Germans are still pushing. The tide isn't receding; instead, it's rising higher and higher.

Fewer and fewer people were around Loran. Those who had come from various companies, those unfamiliar faces, those silent eyes, fell one by one, never to rise again.

Ramirez was still firing. He had already changed the barrels of his machine gun twice, and the third one was almost red-hot. His face was covered in sweat, which mixed with dust and formed deep streaks.

"How many people are left?" Loran shouted.

Ramirez didn't turn around: "I don't know!"

Loran stood up and ran towards the village. He wanted to see how many people were left and how long they could fight.

He ran to the middle of the main street, and a bullet hit him in the shoulder. He fell, lying face down, blood gushing from his shoulder, onto the ground, and into the ashes.

He tried to get up. He couldn't.

Ramirez ran over, dragged him behind the wall, pressed him to the ground, and applied pressure to the wound with a first-aid kit.

"Don't move," Ramirez said. "Move and you'll die."

Loran lay on the ground, looking at the sky above. It was dark, without a single star. In the distance, flashes of light flickered, like fireworks going off on the horizon.

He heard Ramirez's voice, very far away, as if through a layer of water.

Loran swallowed hard, a sense of powerlessness washing over him. Faced with overwhelming firepower, it seemed all he could do was wait to die.

"The Germans are in. We can't hold out."

Loran wanted to speak, but couldn't. His throat was full of blood.

"We have to retreat," Ramirez said. "I'll hold them off with my men, you guys retreat."

Lorraine shook his head. He didn't know he was shaking his head, but he knew he was refusing.

Ramirez looked at him. There was something very calm in those eyes.

"You said you'd hold out for as long as you could," Ramirez said. "We held out for two days. That's enough."

He stood up, picked up the red-hot machine gun, and walked eastward. After a few steps, he looked back again.

"Lieutenant, take care."

Then he disappeared into the darkness.

Gunfire erupted again. More frequent. Closer. Right at the village entrance, right on the main street, right behind the wall where Loran was hiding.

Someone ran over. It was Lefèvre. The hunter's son, the young man, with that face that hadn't fully grown a beard.

"Lieutenant!" he shouted, "The Germans are in! Ramirez wants me to take you away!"

Loran looked at him, wanting to say no, but unable to.