Reinforcements

Second Army Headquarters, Senuk.

Anzire had been standing by the window for a long time.

Outside the window lay the typical Lorraine countryside: grey-green fields, sparse woods, and a dirt road winding its way into the distance behind the hills. Twenty years ago, he had ridden along this road. Back then, he was a young cavalry captain, believing that swords and courage could decide everything.

The phone rang.

He didn't turn around. He knew it was a call from the front lines. Every ten minutes since last night, there had been a call, all saying the same thing: Stoney was still holding the line. Two hundred men.

He closed his eyes. Two hundred men guarding a village, facing an armored division. He'd fought in wars; he knew what that meant. It meant that every hour, a group of those two hundred would be wiped out. It meant that every hour, those still alive would watch their comrades fall, and then continue firing. It meant that right now, as he stood before this window, those men might already be gone.

But the phone was still ringing.

He turned around and picked up the microphone.

"Anzirre"

On the other end of the phone was his chief of staff, his voice hoarse like sandpaper: "General, the 3rd Reserve Armored Division and the 3rd Motorized Infantry Division have completed their assembly. General Flavini is on his way to the troops."

Anzie paused for two seconds. He looked at the map on the wall. Stoney, that small dot, was southeast of Sedan. If that place fell, the German armored forces could flank them, severing the connection between the Second Army and the Ninth Army, and then advance westward toward the English Channel.

He knew it. Flavini knew it. Everyone knew it.

But those two divisions—the 3rd Reserve Armored Division, half of whose tanks were old Renaults whose guns couldn't penetrate the frontal armor of Panzer IVs; and the 3rd Motorized Infantry Division, which was nominally motorized, but in reality, half of its trucks were still waiting for spare parts in the rear.

This was all the chips he had at his disposal, as few as a group of primitive people.

"Get Flavini," he said.

Flavini was on the road when the call connected. His jeep bounced along the country dirt road, the dust kicked up by the wheels settling on the stragglers retreating westward by the roadside. The soldiers had their heads down, their rifles dragging on the ground.

Flavini.

"Anziger." Anziger's voice came from the other end of the phone, steady and calm, but Flavini could hear something pressing beneath the calm. "Do you know about Stoney's situation?"

"Understood," Flavini said. He looked out the window. In the distance, on the horizon, was smoke. In Stoney's direction. The smoke was black, thick, and had been rising for a long time. "I'm heading back to headquarters."

"No need to go back," Anziger said. "Go directly to your unit. The 3rd Reserve Armored Division and the 3rd Motorized Infantry Division are both under your command. I need you to launch a counterattack against Stoney immediately."

Flavini held the microphone but did not speak.

He recalled a young lieutenant named Claude he had met the previous afternoon. The lieutenant was from Sedan, his eyes were bloodshot, his hands smelled of engine oil, and he spoke quickly, as if he had a lot on his mind that he was eager to say. He showed Flavini some blueprints depicting the weak points of German tanks.

"You have to tell those tank crews," the lieutenant said, "don't shoot the front, shoot the sides. Shoot the tracks. Shoot the engine compartment."

Flavini simply nodded. Every day, young people came to him, saying all sorts of things and offering all sorts of suggestions. He couldn't remember everyone's face.

But he remembered the lieutenant's eyes. Those eyes that knew he might die, yet still spoke out.

"Flavini?" Anzie's voice brought him back to reality.

"I'm listening," Flavini said.

"What is the goal?"

"Drive the Germans back to the east bank of the Meuse," Anzie said. He paused, then added, "At least, plug that breach."

Flavini paused for a second. He looked out the window. Another group of retreating soldiers walked by the roadside, more numerous and moving more slowly than the previous group. Someone was carrying a stretcher, the person on it motionless, their face covered by military uniform.

"My troops," he said, "the 3rd Armored Division is still being reorganized. We don't have enough tanks, more than half of them are Renaults, and they can't beat the Panzer IVs."

"I know," Anzire said.

Flavini suddenly wanted to ask a question: How many of Stoney's two hundred men were left? But he didn't ask. He knew the answer. That answer would make every subsequent order he gave even more difficult to issue.

"When will we launch the attack?" he asked.

"The sooner the better," Anzire said. "Once the advance troops arrive, by this afternoon at the latest."

Flavini closed his eyes. He remembered 1917, when he too had sat in a bumpy car, listening to someone on the phone say, "The sooner the better." He was young then, and didn't understand what came after those words.

"I understand," he said.

The call ended. He put down the receiver and said to the driver, "Go to the 3rd Armored Division."

The driver glanced at him. Flavini's face remained expressionless. The driver said nothing, stepped on the gas, and the jeep turned around and drove off in another direction.

At 1 p.m., Flavini’s temporary command post was in a farmhouse.

The owner of the farmhouse had already left. A half-bowl of cold soup remained on the table, and a family photo hung on the wall, showing a couple and their three children all smiling. Flavini looked at the photo for two seconds, then looked away and gazed at the map.

General Brocard, commander of the 3rd Reserve Armored Division, stood to his left. Brocard was in his early fifties, with a thin face and deep bags under his eyes. He hadn't slept all night, having been maneuvering his troops since receiving orders the previous evening. General Bertrand, commander of the 3rd Motorized Infantry Division, stood to his right. Bertrand was younger, in his forties, but half his hair was already white. His unit had suffered the heaviest losses; less than half had escaped.

The village of Stoney is circled on the map. Next to it is a note: "Approximately 200 of our troops are currently engaged in a defensive engagement." The German unit is listed as: "Part of the 10th Panzer Division, possibly including the Großdeutschland Infantry Regiment."

"Two hundred men," Brocard said. His voice was soft, as if he were talking to himself. "They've been on guard for almost a day and a night."

Flavini didn't speak. He stared at the small circle on the map, and suddenly remembered something: the young lieutenant who had come to see him yesterday seemed to be from Sedan. Was he in that circle?

He didn't know. He couldn't possibly know.

"Where are our troops located now?" he asked.

Brokar pointed to a point southwest of Stoney village on the map. "The vanguard of the 3rd Panzer Division, about forty tanks, has arrived here. The rest are still on their way and should all be here before dark."

Bertrand pointed to another point. "The three battalions of the 3rd Motorized Infantry Division have assembled and are ready to depart at any time."

Flavini looked at the dots, then at the village of Stoney. Forty tanks, three battalions of infantry. Plus the two hundred men still holding out. No, perhaps there were fewer than two hundred left. Perhaps only a hundred. Perhaps only fifty.

He remembered the young lieutenant's eyes. Those eyes that knew they might die.

He looked up at the two people in front of him.

"General Anzier's order was: drive the Germans back to the east bank of the river," he said.

Brocard and Bertrand looked at him, waiting for him to continue.

"But we all know it's impossible," Flavini said. His voice was flat, as if he were stating something perfectly ordinary. "Our tanks can't beat their tanks. Our infantry can't outrun their motorized units. We have no air support, no anti-tank guns, and not enough ammunition."

He paused.

"So our goal isn't to send them back. It's to close that gap. To hold Stoney."

He drew a line on the map with a red pencil, extending from Stoney Village to both sides. The pencil tip made a soft scratching sound as it moved across the map.

"The 3rd Panzer Division will attack from the southwest, targeting the German positions east of the village. Do not engage in a direct confrontation; fire once and then retreat, attacking their flanks and supply lines. The 3rd Motorized Infantry Division will follow up, consolidate its positions, and establish a defensive line."

He put down the pencil.

"Those who are already there," he said, pausing abruptly, "will guide you and tell you where the Germans are."

Brocard nodded. Bertrand nodded.

"The start time," he said, "is 2 p.m. today."

1:40 PM, Stoney Village.

Loran leaned against the crumbling wall of the church, the bandage on his shoulder already changed three times. Blood was still seeping out, but slower than before. He didn't know what this meant. Maybe it meant he could hold on a little longer. Maybe it meant he was bleeding out.

Lefevere lay beside him, his eyes fixed on the east. His young face was covered in ash, except for two clean streaks where tears had flowed. He didn't know when he had cried. Perhaps he didn't even know himself.

"Lieutenant," Lefevere suddenly said.

Loran didn't move. "Hmm."

"My mother is waiting for me to come back."

Loran didn't speak. He didn't know what to say. He wanted to say you'd come back, but he couldn't bring himself to say it. He didn't lie. At least not to his own people.

"My brother is only six years old," Lefevere added. "He was crying when I left, clinging to my pants and not letting me go."

Lorraine closed his eyes. He thought of Charlotte. He thought of the letters she had sent, each one short, simply saying, "I'm fine, don't worry." He thought of her last letter: I'm waiting for you to come back safely.

He suddenly smiled. It was very soft, only he could feel it.

He didn't know when, but he had developed feelings for the people here, even though he had never paid attention to them before.

Returning safely seems like a pipe dream.

He opened his eyes. To the east, there was movement on the German positions. Tanks were turning around, infantry were moving, and the gray figures were surging like a tide.

They're about to attack.

"Lefebvre," he said.

Lefevere turned to look at him.

"If I can move later," Lorraine said, "you follow me. Don't rush forward, back away."

Lefebvre hesitated for a moment: "Back up?"

"Back off," Loran said. "Back off to the west. Our troops will be coming from there. You lead the way and tell them where the Germans are."

Lefebvre looked at him, something gleaming in his eyes.

"And what about you?"

Loran didn't answer. He looked eastward, watching the approaching gray mass. The cannon fire suddenly stopped. The entire battlefield fell silent, so quiet you could hear the wind whistling through the ruins.

Then he heard another roaring sound.

He struggled to his feet, leaned against the wall, and looked in that direction.

On the horizon, there was smoke. Not the smoke of burning, but dust kicked up by tank tracks. Beneath the smoke, gray outlines were moving. Not the gray of the Germans. It was a darker, older gray.

Renault tank.

He stared at the tanks for a long time. One, two, five, ten. And more behind them. Behind them were infantry, trucks, and tractors towing artillery.

He suddenly realized that his hand gripping the wall was trembling.

Lefevere also stood up. He looked over there, mouth agape, unable to utter a word.

"It's our troops," Loran said. His voice was soft, as if afraid of startling the approaching shadow.

Lefebvre's face twitched. Then he crouched down, burying his head between his legs, his shoulders heaving. He made no sound, but Lorraine knew he was crying.

The barrage of artillery fire and bombers made this soldier see hell in his first battle, and he has only managed to hold on until now by keeping a tight rein on his mind.

Loran didn't look at him. He watched the approaching tanks, calculating the time in his mind. Two o'clock in the afternoon. They're here.

He turned around and looked at the survivors behind him. Seven firefighters remained. More than sixty men had emerged from various companies. They leaned against the ruins, against the walls, against the shell craters, all watching him.

More than sixty faces. More than sixty pairs of eyes. Some faces were bloodied, some were wet with tears, and some were bare, just ashen and weary.

Loran didn't speak. His voice was hoarse. He just looked at them, one by one, and then said wearily:

"Our reinforcements have arrived."

More than sixty people, no one cheered, no one shouted. But Loran saw something gleam in their eyes for a moment. Just a moment. Then they turned back, continued to stare eastward, continued to grip their guns, continued to wait.

East of Stoney village, the forward command post of the German 10th Panzer Division.

Colonel von Boken stood beside a half-track command vehicle, peering west through binoculars. Through the lenses, he saw French tanks spreading out in the farmland, forming a loose line of attack, slowly advancing towards Stoney. Renault R-35s—he recognized their short silhouettes. Maximum speed twenty kilometers per hour, armor forty millimeters at its thickest point, but vertically mounted, main gun thirty-seven millimeters.

He thought of Poland. The Poles had tanks like that too. They didn't win.

"A battalion," his adjutant said from the side, a hint of confusion in his voice, "less than forty vehicles."

Von Boken didn't lower his binoculars. He watched the tanks climb a gentle slope, the dust kicked up by their tracks fluttering behind them like yellow flags. The turrets were turning, their 37mm gun barrels searching for targets.

"What are they trying to do?" the adjutant asked.

Von Boken lowered his binoculars. He glanced at his watch. 2:17. Twenty-three hours had passed since they arrived in the village yesterday afternoon. Twenty-three hours; they had expected it to take only three hours.

"They want us to stop," he said.

He handed the binoculars to his adjutant and turned to walk towards the command vehicle. Inside, the radio operator was receiving telegrams. Telegram tape was ejected from the machine, rolled up into a heap, covered with dense characters.

"An order from the army group?" von Boken asked.

The radio operator looked up: "General Guderian sent this personally. He's asking why Stoney hasn't been captured yet."

Von Boken was silent for two seconds. He recalled the man he had seen yesterday morning, the short, stocky, fifty-one-year-old general who stood on the armored command vehicle and said to everyone: Follow me, don't stop, keep moving forward.

Now, they've stopped. A village guarded by two hundred people has been idle for a night and a morning.

"Reply," he said. "French reinforcements have arrived southwest of Stoney, about forty tanks, and are moving toward my flank. The 10th Armored Division is organizing its defenses and preparing to counterattack. The battle is expected to be resolved before sunset."

The adjutant behind him said, "Forty tanks, before sunset?"

Von Boken didn't turn around. "Did you understand the order?"

The adjutant hesitated for a moment. "Finish the battle before sunset."

"No, that's not it," von Boken said. "It's always forward."

He walked over to the Panzer IV tank parked next to the command vehicle and patted its cold side armor. The tank crewman poked his head out from under the hatch.

"Assemble," von Boken said. "Bring out everything that can move. I'm going to show those Frenchmen what a real armored force looks like."