Blood and Iron

Lorraine was awakened by the shock.

The excruciating pain in his shoulder felt like a red-hot iron rod churning inside his flesh. He tried to move, but he was fixed in place by something, and every jolt made the wound feel like it was being torn apart.

"Don't move, Lieutenant."

Lefebvre's voice came from above. Lorraine opened his eyes and saw a pitch-black sky and Lefebvre's face, blackened by gunpowder.

He was on a stretcher. Lefèvre and another unfamiliar soldier were carrying him, trudging through the darkness.

"Put me down," Loran said, his voice hoarse as if sandpaper scraping his throat.

"Lieutenant, you are badly wounded."

"Put me down."

Lefebvre hesitated for a moment, then stopped. He and the soldier lowered the stretcher, and Lorraine struggled to sit up. A sharp pain shot through his shoulder wound, but he gritted his teeth to keep from crying out.

He looked around. He couldn't see anything in the darkness, only a faint flicker of firelight in the distance. That direction was Stoney.

"What time is it now?" he asked.

"I don't know. It's probably almost dawn."

"Where's Ramirez?"

Lefevere did not answer.

Loran closed his eyes. He remembered Ramirez's last words: "Lieutenant, take care." He remembered the one-eyed old soldier carrying a machine gun, walking eastward and disappearing into the darkness.

How many people are left?

Lefevere's voice was soft: "Besides me, there's Dufour. Everyone else is gone."

Loran didn't speak. He remained silent for a long time, then slowly stood up, supporting himself on the ground.

"Lieutenant!"

"Help me up," Loran said.

Lefevere steadied him. Lorraine regained his balance and turned to look in Stoney's direction. The distant firelight still flickered, like someone striking an anvil in the darkness.

"They're still fighting over there," he said.

"Um."

"Let's go back."

Lefebvre froze: "Lieutenant, your injury..."

"Ramirez died there." Lorraine looked at him, his eyes calm, eerily calm. "Bouchet died there too. They kept watch for two days. I can't lie here waiting for news."

Lefebvre looked at him, his lips moved, and he finally nodded.

"I'm going to find Dufour."

Ten minutes later, the three men regrouped in the darkness. Lorraine's shoulder was tightened with bandages again, and he could barely lift his left hand, but he insisted on walking. Lefebvre carried all the ammunition he could find, two light machine guns, several magazines, and a few grenades. Dufour carried an entrenching tool and the remaining explosives.

They walked toward the direction of the firelight.

At three in the morning, they approached the south side of Stoney.

In the darkness, the outlines of tanks could be seen—French B1 heavy tanks, parked one after another in the wheat field, with soldiers refueling and resupplying them. No one spoke; only the muffled thud of rolling oil drums and the clanging of tools clashing together filled the air.

Loran found an officer standing next to a tank and showed his identification: "55th Division Staff. I've brought men to support the counter-offensive."

The officer glanced at him. Moonlight shone on Loran's face, which was deathly pale, and the bandage on his shoulder was soaked with blood. The officer then looked at the two men behind him: an incredibly young soldier and a middle-aged man carrying an entrenching tool.

"Follow the infantry of the 41st Battalion," the officer said. "It's almost dawn."

At four in the morning, Lorraine met with Captain Byot.

It was an officer in his thirties, squatting next to a B1 tank, looking at a map by the dim light of a blackout flashlight. The word "Earl" was painted in white on the side of the tank.

Loran walked over and squatted down beside him.

Björg looked up. He saw Lorraine's wounds, his pale face, and what was in his eyes.

"You're the lieutenant who's been on guard for two days?"

Loran nodded.

Björth paused for a second. Then he extended his hand: "Björth. 41st Tank Battalion, 1st Company."

"Loran".

The two hands are clasped together.

Björg put away the map and looked in Stoney's direction. In the darkness, the outline of the small village was faintly visible, with several ruins still burning, the firelight illuminating the broken rooftops.

"My tank crew told me that the village had been lost three times and taken back three times," Byot said softly. "They said the Germans called it 'Verdun of 1940.'"

Loran did not speak.

"You've held out for two days," Björn turned to look at him. "How much longer do you think you can keep up?"

Loran met his gaze: "You want to hear the truth?"

"The truth."

"We can't hold it," Loran said. "We don't have enough men, enough tanks, enough ammunition. Even if we can take it back today, we'll lose it tomorrow. And the day after tomorrow."

Björn nodded without objecting. He looked at his tank, the "Earl," which resembled a sleeping steel behemoth in the darkness.

"Then why did you come back?" he asked.

Loran was silent for a few seconds. Then he said, "Because my men are still up there."

Björg looked at him. In the moonlight, the two officers stared at each other, neither speaking.

Finally, Björn smiled. It was a very brief smile, fleeting in the darkness.

"Then let's go up together," he said.

At 4:20 a.m., the French tank column began to move forward.

Lorraine, leading the fire brigade, followed the soldiers of the 67th Infantry Regiment, crawling in the wheat field south of the village. The wheat was just knee-high, and the dew soaked their clothes, chilling them to the bone.

Loran lay prone at the front, his binoculars set up in front of him. Through the lenses, he could see the outline of the entrance to Stoney Village, a few dilapidated houses, a barricade made of sandbags, and people moving vaguely behind it.

His shoulder ached as if it were about to split open, but he gritted his teeth and remained motionless.

Lefevere lay beside him, breathing softly. He was staring intently ahead, a rifle pressed against his shoulder.

Dufour followed behind, with the explosive charge at hand, ready to charge at any moment.

4:30, 4:35, 4:40.

In the darkness, Loran heard the roar of tank engines growing louder. The B1 tanks were accelerating, flanking the village entrance from both sides.

He glanced at his watch. The second hand ticked away.

At 4:42, the cannon fired.

The first shell landed at the village entrance, exploding into a burst of fire.

Then came the second, then the third. The French tanks began firing in salvo, shells raining down on the German positions, sending dirt and debris flying dozens of meters high.

Loran stared intently ahead through his binoculars. The German barricades had collapsed, sandbags flying everywhere. Figures ran through the flames, and others fell.

"Charge!" someone shouted.

The infantry began to charge forward. Lorraine scrambled to his feet, but after taking only two steps, a sharp pain shot through his shoulder, nearly causing him to collapse. Lefebvre caught him, and the two staggered forward.

The village entrance is getting closer.

Just then, Loran saw it.

A French tank stopped in front of the barricade. It belonged to Major Malegati and its path was blocked by the collapsed barricade. The tank circled around, trying to go around it, but there were ruins on both sides, so it couldn't turn around.

"It's blocked!" someone shouted.

Just then, another tank suddenly rushed out from the flank.

Loran recognized the tank; it was the "Earl," Byot's tank.

It didn't slow down, charging straight into a narrow alley next to the village entrance. Its tracks screeched as they ground over gravel and broken wood. The 47mm gun on the turret continued to rotate, aimed ahead.

"Keep up! Cover!" Loran roared.

He and Lefevere stormed into the village.

The scene on Stoney's main road was one that Lorraine would never forget.

A long line of German tanks was parked on the street, stretching from the village entrance into the depths of the village. Gray paint, square turrets, Panzer IV tanks, at least a dozen of them.

But at this moment, they huddled together like chickens with their necks being choked.

Suddenly, a Panzer IV at the rear of the column exploded. The flames illuminated the entire street, the turret was blown off, and it crashed into the ground, creating a crater. Immediately afterward, thick smoke billowed from the lead tank, and German soldiers screamed as they crawled out, their bodies engulfed in flames.

The tanks in the middle began frantically trying to reverse, but they couldn't turn around at all on the narrow street. One crashed into another, the tracks screeching as they rubbed together.

A gray steel behemoth emerged from the shadows; the Earl appeared like a hero.

Its 75mm main gun spewed flames again, and the third German tank was hit in the side, its armor torn apart, and the ammunition inside exploded, blowing the entire tank to pieces. At the same time, the 47mm gun on the turret rotated and shot down the fourth tank. The shell penetrated the armor from the side, and black smoke billowed from the tank.

German tanks began to retaliate. Shells rained down on the "Earl," producing a series of sharp, metallic clanging sounds. But the shells were deflected by the tilted armor, streaking across the darkness with sparks.

Loran lay prone behind the rubble, his eyes fixed on the tank. He knew the B1's weakness: the side cooling vents. If hit, the engine would catch fire. But at that moment, on that narrow street, the Earl was like a beast that had broken into a flock of sheep, rampaging recklessly.

The fifth vehicle. The sixth vehicle. The seventh vehicle.

Every shot turned a German tank into burning scrap metal.

Loran counted. Eight. Nine. Ten.

The streets were filled with burning tanks, the flames illuminating the entire village in a crimson glow. German infantrymen crawled out of the rubble, running back in panic. Lefebvre fired, taking down one. Dufour threw a grenade, blowing up two more.

The "Earl" came to a stop. The turret rotated, and the 47mm gun aimed at the last remaining German tank still moving. Firing. Penetrated.

Then it stalled and sat there, panting like a beast that had just finished a battle.

Loran rushed forward.

He ran to the tank and patted the side armor. The hatch opened, and Byot poked his head out, his face covered in sweat and gunpowder soot.

"Your infantry are too slow!" Byot grinned, revealing a set of white teeth. "I fought in there... how long?"

Lorraine glanced at his watch. Less than fifteen minutes had passed since he stormed in.

"Less than fifteen minutes," he said.

"Fifteen minutes, one man took down thirteen tanks." Byot patted the tank armor boastfully. "How about it, my 'Ear' is pretty good, isn't it?"

Loran stared at the tank. Its hull was riddled with bullet holes, at least a hundred. Some were deep, but none had actually penetrated it.

"How many bullets did you get shot in?" he asked.

Björg looked back and shrugged. "I don't know. A little over a hundred, I guess."

Loran didn't know what to say, only deep admiration.

The roar of tank engines could be heard again in the distance. German reinforcements were arriving.

Björn's smile vanished: "You guys cover me, I'm going to resupply. We'll have to fight one more time before dawn."

He retreated back into the cabin, and the hatch slammed shut. The Earl's engines roared back to life, and the ship slowly reversed, disappearing into the darkness.

Lorraine turned to look at Lefevere and Dufour. Both of them stood there, stunned, staring in the direction the tank had disappeared.

"What are you all standing there for?" Lorraine said. "Find cover. It's almost dawn."

At 5:30, the sky began to lighten.

The first round of German artillery fire began.

Shells landed on the ruins of Stoney, sending up a rain of dirt and rubble. Lorraine and the firefighters took cover in the church cellar, listening to the explosions overhead. Each shell caused dust to fall from the cellar walls.

Lefebvre huddled in a corner, his face pale. Dufour was checking his explosives, his hands trembling slightly.

Loran leaned against the wall, his eyes closed. His shoulders were numb; he couldn't feel any pain. He simply listened to the explosions and counted them in his head.

One shot. Two shots. Three shots. Four shots.

When they counted to about thirty shots, the shelling stopped.

"We're up," Loran said.

They rushed out of the cellar.

East of the village, German infantry were charging in. Gray figures emerged from the ruins, rifles at their sides, bent low, surging forward like a tide.

Lorraine found a section of broken wall and set up his rifle. Lefevere was nearby, his machine gun propped up on the rubble. Dufour crouched on the other side, a grenade beside him.

"Hit," Loran said.

Gunfire erupted in unison.

Lefebvre's machine gun swept across, and the first few German soldiers fell. Those behind immediately dropped to the ground and began to return fire. Bullets struck the broken wall, sending shards of stone flying. Lorraine fired, aimed at a moving figure, pulled the trigger, and the man fell.

The battle lasted for twenty minutes.

The German troops retreated, leaving behind a dozen or so corpses. Lorraine counted the ammunition; there wasn't much left.

"Lefebvre, how many bullets do you have left?"

"Two shuttles."

"Dufour?"

"Two grenades, and the explosive charge is still there."

Loran nodded. He looked towards the east of the village, where new gray figures had appeared. More people, more guns.

"Retreat to the next bunker," he said.

They had only run a dozen meters when more shells came down.

This time it was a mortar, and it hit much more accurately. One shell landed five meters from Loran, the shockwave knocking him to the ground. He lay there, his ears ringing, unable to hear anything. He saw Lefebvre's mouth moving, but couldn't hear what he was saying.

He struggled to his feet and continued running on instinct.

He ran to the back of a collapsed house, stopped, and gasped for breath. Lefèvere and Dufour arrived as well; the three of them leaned against the wall, covered in dirt.

Loran's hearing gradually returned to normal. He could hear the sound of a tank engine in the distance.

He peeked out to look.

East of the village, German tanks were entering. Not three or five, but more than a dozen. Panzer IV tanks were lined up in a row, slowly advancing. Behind the tanks followed a dense mass of infantry.

"Where's Björn?" Lefèvre shouted.

Loran looked west of the village. There was no sign of the "Earl".

"He's resupplying," Lorraine said. "We have to hold out until he gets back."

He looked at the approaching tanks, then at the rifle in his hand.

Rifles are useless against tanks.

He put down his rifle and took the explosive charge from Dufour.

"Lieutenant!" Dufour shouted.

Loran ignored him. He stared at the lead Panzer IV tank, calculating the distance. Two hundred meters. One hundred and fifty meters. One hundred meters.

"Cover me," he said.

He rushed out of the bunker.

Lorraine ran wildly through the ruins.

Bullets whizzed past his ears, hitting the wall beside him and the rubble at his feet. He bent over, clutching the explosive charge, and ran for his life.

Eighty meters. Sixty meters. Forty meters.

The turret of the Panzer IV began to rotate, the gun barrel aimed at him. Loran saw the machine gunner on the tank aiming at him, saw the young face, saw the German soldier pull the trigger.

He fell to the ground.

Bullets whizzed overhead. He lay on the ground, rolled, got up, and kept running.

Twenty meters.

The tank driver spotted him and tried to reverse, but was blocked by another tank. It was like a trapped beast, spinning in circles.

Loran rushed to the side of the tank.

He stuffed the explosive charge into the gap between the track and the road wheel, then turned and ran. After five steps, he collapsed, clutching his head with both hands.

boom!

The blast wave knocked him over, his back hitting the ground. His ears rang, and he couldn't hear anything.

He got up and looked back.

The Panzer IV's tracks were broken, and it lay sprawled on the ground like a dead snake. The tank was stopped there, unable to move. The German soldiers inside were climbing out of the hatch, some of them on fire.

Lorraine turned and ran back.

The bullets caught up again. He ran in a zigzag pattern, taking cover in some ruins. Leaning against the wall, he gasped for breath. The wound on his shoulder reopened, and blood streamed down his arm.

He peeked out to look.

The disabled tank was blocking the road, preventing other tanks from getting through. But German infantry was flanking from both sides, and their numbers were increasing.

"Lieutenant!"

It was Lefèvre's voice. He ran over and dragged Lorraine backward.

"What about Dufour?" Lorraine asked.

Lefevere did not answer.

They ran back to the ruins where they had been hiding. Dufour wasn't there.

"Dufour!"

No one answered.

Loran saw a hand not far away, reaching out from the pile of rubble, motionless.

He closed his eyes.

"Let's go," he said.

They continued to retreat. Finally, the silhouette of the "Earl" appeared in the west of the village.

Byot's tanks were accelerating forward. The 75mm guns opened fire, one shot hitting the German tank group and blowing one up. The 47mm guns followed, taking down several infantrymen.

The German troops began to retreat.

At 8:00 a.m., French troops regained control of most of Stoney.

Loran leaned against the broken wall of the church, gazing at the ruins. Not a single house in the entire village remained intact. Every wall was riddled with bullet holes, and every street was piled high with rubble. Tank wreckage burned everywhere, black smoke rising into the sky, obscuring the sun.

Lefèvre sat beside him, covered in blood, whether his own or someone else's, it was hard to tell. He still clutched the machine gun in his hand, its barrel still smoking.

Byot's "Ear" tank was parked at the village entrance, with the crew inspecting it. The tank had dozens more bullet holes, but it was still functional.

Björg came over and tossed Lorraine a piece of dry, hard bread.

Lorraine took it and took a bite. The bread was as hard as a rock, but he chewed it and swallowed.

"Where are your men?" Björn asked.

Lorraine glanced at Lefebvre, then at the hand reaching out from the rubble in the distance.

"There's one left," he said.

Björg was silent for a few seconds, then sat down next to him.

"I just received orders," Byot said. "The 3rd Armored Division is to return to its unit and prepare for the attack on Sedan. We're leaving this afternoon."

Lorraine looked at him.

"And here?"

"Give it to the infantry," Björn said.

Loran didn't speak. He knew what this meant. Without tank support, the infantry couldn't hold this position.

Björg remained silent. After a while, he patted Lorraine on the shoulder and said, "Your men have been guarding it for two days. Including today, it's almost three days. That village has been lost countless times in those three days, but we've taken it back."

He looked at Loran: "That's enough."

Lorraine shook her head.

"Not enough," he said. "My men are still up there."

Björg looked at him, said nothing more, and turned to wave.

Soldiers can only obey orders.

At noon, the tanks of the 3rd Armored Division began to withdraw.

The Earl slowly reversed, turned around, and headed south. Byot poked his head out of the hatch and said goodbye to Loran.

Loran raised his hand in response.

He watched the tanks disappear from sight, then turned to look at Stoney.

The village is still the same village, the ruins are still the same ruins. But now, only the infantry remain.

At 1 p.m., the German army began shelling.

This time it was more intense than ever before. Large-caliber shells rained down, ravaging the village once again. Loran and Lefebvre hid in the church cellar, feeling the entire cellar shaking.

A deafening rumble came from above, and the cracks in the wall grew wider. Loran stared at the crack, thinking that perhaps it would collapse soon, burying them beneath.

But it didn't collapse.

The shelling stopped.

Lorraine and Lefebvre rushed out of the cellar.

East of the village, German tanks were entering. Not a dozen, but over twenty. Panzer IVs, Panzer IIIs, and self-propelled guns. Behind the tanks followed countless infantry.

Lorraine looked at Lefevere, and Lefevere looked at him.

"Shall we fight?" Lefevere asked.

Loran didn't speak. He raised his gun and aimed.

beat.

Loran couldn't recall the details of the afternoon's battle.

All he remembered was the constant gunfire. Lefebvre's machine gun had its barrel changed again and again. German troops rushed in only to be pushed back. Countless people around him fell one after another, none of whom he recognized.

As evening fell, after the German army's third charge was repelled, Lorraine took a headcount.

Fewer than fifty people are still alive.

Lefevere was still there. A piece of flesh had been torn off his leg by shrapnel, and blood had soaked through his trousers. He looked like he wanted to laugh but couldn't.

Loran went over and bandaged him.

"Lieutenant," Lefevere said.

"Um."

"Can we hold out?"

Loran did not answer.

In the distance, there was movement again on the German positions. More tanks were gathering, and more infantry were forming ranks.

Loran looked in that direction. The setting sun cast a long shadow behind him.

"I don't know," he said.

May 17th, 5 PM.

Stoney could no longer make out the shape of the village.

Every inch of land had been blasted over at least three times. Ruins were piled up like small mountains, tanks lay scattered about, some still burning, black smoke rising into the sky and obscuring the sun. The air was thick with the smells of gunpowder, blood, and burnt flesh, so strong it was nauseating.

Loran leaned against a broken wall, eyes closed, breathing heavily.

His shoulder was already numb and he couldn't feel any pain. He knew the blood was still flowing because his clothes were wet and icy cold against his skin.

Lefèvre lay beside him, the wound on his leg bound tightly with bandages, the bleeding temporarily stopped. The young man's face was covered in ash, his eyes closed, his chest still rising and falling.

Loran opened her eyes and looked around.

Fewer than thirty people survived. They were scattered among the ruins, leaning against the walls, crouching in the shell craters, all staring eastward.

There, German troops were assembling their positions.

This time is different.

There weren't just a dozen tanks, but dozens. Panzer IVs, Panzer IIIs, and self-propelled guns lined up in three rows, their gun barrels all pointed at Stoney. Behind the tanks were infantry, a dense, uncountable mass.

Loran watched for a while, then closed his eyes again.

In the distance, German artillery began test firing. One shell landed east of the village, exploding in a burst of fire.

5:15.

An infantryman crawled up to Loran's side. He was the company commander of the 67th Regiment, in his thirties, with a bloody gash on his face from a recent shrapnel wound.

"Lieutenant," he said, his voice hoarse, "I just received orders."

Loran opened her eyes.

"The 3rd Motorized Infantry Division is setting up a defensive line in the south. We..." He paused, "...we'll retreat over there."

Loran was silent for a few seconds. He looked at the company commander, then at Lefevere, and then at the soldiers scattered in the ruins.

"When?" he asked.

"After dark," the company commander said, "if we retreat now, the tanks will catch up."

Loran nodded.

The company commander glanced at him, as if he wanted to say something, but in the end he just patted him on the shoulder and climbed back to his position.

5:20.

The German artillery bombardment began.

This time, it was a barrage of fire. Hundreds of artillery pieces opened fire simultaneously, raining down shells that completely enveloped Stoney. The explosions were continuous, indistinguishable from one another. The earth trembled, and the sky was shrouded in gray smoke.

Loran huddled behind the broken wall, his hands covering his head. A piece of shrapnel flew over his head, struck the wall, and became embedded in the stone.

He felt something splash onto his face, hot and wet. He reached up and touched it; it was a large patch of blood.

He turned his head and saw the company commander lying motionless not far away. Blood flowed from beneath him, forming a small pool.

Loran closed his eyes.

The shelling lasted for twenty minutes.

At 5:40, the cannon fire stopped.

Loran stood up and peeked out from behind the ruins.

To the east, German tanks had begun to move. Dozens of tanks advanced slowly in skirmish lines. The dust kicked up by their tracks resembled a yellow fog, particularly glaring in the setting sun.

"Arise!" Loran shouted. "All of you, rise!"

The survivors crawled out of the ruins. Loran counted them: twenty-one.

Twenty-one men faced dozens of tanks and thousands of infantrymen.

Lefevere also got up, dragging his injured leg, and stood next to Lorraine. He propped the machine gun on a pile of rubble, pointing it at the approaching tanks.

"Lieutenant," he said.

"Um."

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

Lorraine looked at him. His young face was covered in ash, but there was something bright in his eyes.

"I know," Lorraine said.

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

Loran remained silent. He didn't know what to say.

In the distance, the tanks are getting closer. Three hundred meters. Two hundred and fifty meters. Two hundred meters.

Lorraine picked up his gun.

"beat."

Gunfire erupted. Twenty-odd rifles and a machine gun fired, their bullets sweeping across the gray behemoths. The bullets struck their armor, clanging and ricocheting off.

But the infantry behind the tank were suppressed, lying on the ground and afraid to raise their heads.

The tank continued forward. One hundred and fifty meters. One hundred meters.

The German tanks began firing. Shells landed in the rubble, kicking up dirt and debris. More men fell. Loran heard screams behind him, but he didn't turn around; he just kept firing.

Eighty meters.

A Panzer IV tank drove up to a section of broken wall, its tracks crunching over the rubble. The turret spun, and the gun barrel was aimed at Loran.

Loran stared at the cannon barrel.

Just then, the tank suddenly stopped.

The engine emitted a piercing screech, the tracks were still turning, but the tank wouldn't move. The driver repeatedly shifted gears, but the tank just spun in place.

It got stuck.

Loran paused for a moment, then roared, "Blow it up!"

Lefevere grabbed the last explosive charge and rushed out.

His leg was bleeding, and he limped as he ran. Bullets whizzed past him, but he didn't care; he just kept running.

He rushed to the side of the tank and stuffed the explosive charge between the track and the road wheel. Then he turned and ran.

He ran a few steps and then fell.

Lorraine saw him lying on the ground, struggling to get up, but he couldn't. He crawled forward desperately, five meters, then ten meters.

boom!

The explosive charge detonated.

The tank's track broke, the vehicle jolted, and it tilted to one side. The German soldiers inside crawled out, some engulfed in flames, screaming and rolling on the ground.

Lefevere lay motionless on the ground.

Loran rushed out.

He ran to Lefebvre and turned him over. The young man's face was covered in blood, and his eyes were closed.

"Lefebvre!"

no respond.

Loran touched his neck. There was still a pulse, weak, but it was still beating.

He picked up Lefevere and ran back.

Bullets chased after them, striking the gravel behind their heels. Loran ran in a zigzag pattern, running with all his might.

He ran back to the ruins, put Lefevere down, leaned against the wall, and wept bitterly.

"Alive," he said, whether to Lefevere or to himself, "still alive."

It was exactly six o'clock.

Loran raised his head and looked west.

The sun was setting, turning the sky orange-red. Within that orange-red light, something was moving.

He squinted.

They were people. They were soldiers. They were French soldiers.

The vanguard of the 3rd Motorized Infantry Division is on its way. Infantry, trucks, and a few tanks. Not many, but they are on their way.

Loran looked at the approaching figures, then at the German tanks that were still closing in.

He looked back at the people still alive behind him. There were thirteen people; some could still move, while others were no longer able to.

He picked up Lefevere.

"Withdraw," he said.

The thirteen men began to retreat. Some carried the wounded, some slung guns over their shoulders, and some supported each other. Step by step, they walked westward.

The German tanks were still closing in, but their pace had slowed. Night was falling, and they didn't want to pursue them into unfamiliar ruins in the dark.

Loran did not turn around.

He kept walking forward, holding Lefèvre, step by step, his expression a mixture of loneliness and sorrow, tears streaming down his face.

Stoney Village, which changed hands seventeen times in three days, has fallen completely.

Of the remnants of the 55th Division, only one person survived.