Total Annihilation

At 1:5 AM on May 18, 1940, the forward command post of the 10th Armored Division was located east of Stoney Village.

Colonel von Boken stood beside a half-track command vehicle, holding a recently compiled battle damage report. The radio in the command vehicle was still ringing, with battalions reporting their latest positions, but his attention was entirely focused on that thin sheet of paper.

Numbers are cold and glaring:

10th Armored Division, Stoney direction, May 15-17:

Panzer IV: 13 completely destroyed, 17 battle-damaged and awaiting repair.

Panzer III: 11 completely destroyed, 15 battle-damaged and awaiting repair.

Armored reconnaissance vehicles: 4 destroyed.

Personnel: 127 dead, 94 seriously wounded, 23 missing.

Among them, the 2nd Battalion of the Großdeutschland Infantry Regiment suffered more than half casualties, and the battalion commander was seriously wounded.

One infantry battalion suffered more than half its casualties. Such losses were ironic during Operation Sickle, which swept through Sedan with unstoppable momentum.

Von Boken put down the report and looked westward at the still-burning ruins. The firelight reflected on his face, revealing the complex expression in his eyes.

"Colonel," his adjutant approached, his voice low, "a communication from General Guderian."

Von Boken took the telegram. The message was short:

"Battle losses have been assessed. Why the delay?"

Sluggishness. This word was like a thorn stuck in his heart.

He handed the telegram back to his adjutant: "Reply to the General: The resistance in the Stoney direction is exceptionally fierce. Although the French are poorly equipped, they are holding their ground house by house in the ruins and have launched several counter-attacks. Our army needs to reassess their infantry's fighting spirit."

He paused, then added, "I suggest that this battle be reported to the entire army to avoid underestimating the enemy."

The adjutant paused for a moment, but still wrote down what he said.

Von Boken turned and looked at the soldiers who were resting. Some were asleep leaning against the tanks, some were silently bandaging their wounds, and some were sitting together in silence. What he saw on their faces was not the excitement of victory, but something indescribable.

A young second lieutenant approached; he was his reconnaissance company commander. The lieutenant had a bloody gash on his face from a recent shrapnel wound, and his uniform was covered in dust.

"Colonel," the lieutenant saluted, "while we were clearing the battlefield, we discovered a site west of the village..."

He paused, seemingly considering his words.

"What did you find?"

"A barricade," the lieutenant said. "The French built it up with sandbags and rubble. Behind the barricade are about twenty French corpses. Their guns were all pointing east, and none of them were lying backward."

Von Boken was silent for a few seconds.

"And another thing," the lieutenant continued, "there's a Panzer IV that's been disabled at the village entrance. Our engineers checked it and found that the tank's tracks were blown off by a charge of explosives. The charge was inserted from the side. That spot..."

He paused.

"That position required rushing right up to the tank to squeeze in. Our machine gunner said that a man rushed over, carrying a satchel charge, and ran across an open area forty meters. Bullets kept chasing him, but he didn't stop."

Von Boken didn't speak. He looked at the ruins, imagining the man running across the forty-meter-wide open space. Bullets were chasing him, his comrades were providing cover, and he just rushed over like that, stuffing the explosive charge into the tank tracks.

"Dead?"

"Dead," the lieutenant said. "Right next to the tank."

Von Boken nodded.

"Write his name down," he said. "If there's a chance in the future, let history know that there was once a man here who fought like this."

He turned and walked back to the command vehicle. After taking a few steps, he stopped again.

"Oh, right," he said, "notify all battalions to bury all the fallen French soldiers on the spot before dawn tomorrow. Don't dig too deep a pit, but lay them down properly and cover them with soil."

The adjutant was somewhat surprised: "Colonel?"

Von Boken offered no explanation. He simply said, "They've held out long enough. Let them rest."

May 18, 1940, 9:5 AM, Ewald von Kleist's Army Group Headquarters.

Kleist stood before the enormous battle map, listening to progress reports from each unit. The red arrow had crossed Sedan and was extending towards the coast. Progress was going well, except for one place.

"The 10th Armored Division is in the Stoney direction..." The staff officer paused for a moment, "...and the loss report is out."

Kleist nodded. He had seen the report. Nine Panzer IVs were completely destroyed, seven Panzer IIIs, and an infantry battalion had suffered more than half its casualties. Such a loss ratio was extremely rare during the breakthrough of Sedan and the pursuit of the fleeing enemy.

"Guderian issued a supplementary report," the staff officer continued. "He informed the entire army of the Stoney battle to avoid underestimating the enemy."

Kleist paused for a moment. He thought of Verdun in 1916, of those so-called "impregnable" fortresses, of the infantrymen who held their ground under heavy fire. More than twenty years had passed, the nature of war had changed, but some things remained the same.

"Tell him," Kleist said, "that I've received the report. The recommendation is to be adopted."

"The French are not weak opponents," he murmured, as if talking to himself, "they are just bound by flawed theories and outdated thinking. Once they decide to fight..."

He didn't finish speaking.

The staff officer waited for him to continue, but Kleist simply waved his hand: "Continue with the report."

May 18, 1940, 10:5 AM, Second Army Headquarters, Senuk.

General Anzire sat at his desk, a battle report that had just been delivered laid out before him. The report was brief, containing only a few lines:

"Stonny Direction: The remnants of the 55th Division and attached units, approximately 200 men, resisted the German 10th Panzer Division and Großdeutschland Infantry Regiment at the village of Stoneny from May 15th to 17th. The position was gained and lost several times, and finally fell on the night of the 17th. There are about a dozen survivors who are retreating westward."

His finger hovered over the words "about 200 people" and "several gains and losses," remaining motionless for a long time.

The chief of staff stood to the side without saying a word.

Anzie remained silent for a long time, then asked, "What about Colonel Delatl of the 55th Division?"

"They are organizing the remnants. He himself withdrew, but he has less than a hundred men left with him." The chief of staff paused. "According to his report, the commander of the Stoney garrison is a lieutenant named Loran from the General Staff. He was previously transferred to the front lines due to early warning reports from the Ardennes."

Anzire raised his head.

"Loran?" He repeated the name, as if recalling something.

"Yes, General. That's the lieutenant who built the tank model in Paris."

Anzie was silent for a few seconds. He remembered that a few months ago, someone had placed a report on the possibility of a breakthrough in the Ardennes on his desk. He had read it, marked it "to be verified," and then filed it away. Now, the person who wrote the report was in a small village in his defensive zone, holding out with two hundred men for three days.

"Is he still alive?" Anzi asked.

"I don't know. Colonel Delater said that someone saw him carrying a wounded soldier westward, but there has been no news since."

Anqi nodded.

"Send a copy of this battle report to the General Staff," he said. "Also, send a copy to General Bouchard. Also... send a telegram to Delater: a list of the Stoney garrison, as many as you can. I need to know the name of every single one of them."

The chief of staff was taken aback: "General?"

Anzire turned around. Sunlight streamed in from the window, illuminating his face and revealing something indescribable in his eyes.

"Because one day in the future," he said, "someone will ask: What were the French doing in May 1940? I want to be able to answer: There were 200 men who stayed in a small village called Stoney for three days. I want to be able to name them."

May 18, 1940, 3 p.m., Paris, General Staff Building

In General Bouchard's office, the battle report lay quietly on the table. He had already read it three times.

"About 200 people"... "Several gains and losses"... "About ten survivors".

He recalled a few months earlier, when the young lieutenant stood respectfully on the reviewing stand, facing more than twenty generals, and said in a calm but firm tone: "This is not a hypothesis, but a deduction based on existing data and battle examples."

He remembered that when the lieutenant left Paris, he had written him a letter of recommendation.

He recalled the last telegram Delater had sent him: Lieutenant Lorraine had remained in Stoney.

Now, the battle report doesn't say "Lieutenant Lorraine killed in action," nor "Lieutenant Lorraine broke through the encirclement." It only says "about ten survivors." Among those ten or so, is he among them?

There was a knock on the door. It was his adjutant.

"General, Major General Gaston requests an audience."

Bouchard didn't look up: "Let him in."

Gaston, looking disheveled and defeated, rushed back to Paris from the front lines. He entered and saluted. His expression changed slightly when he saw the battle report on the table.

"Have you received it?"

Bouchard nodded.

"Stony..." Gaston chose his words carefully, "Although it ultimately fell, the defenders' performance deserves recognition. I will mention it in the report."

Bouchard looked up at him. In those aged eyes, there was something Gaston had never seen before.

"Mentioned?" Bouchard repeated the word. His voice was soft, but Gaston felt a chill.

"Gaston," Bouchard said, "do you know who those two hundred men are?"

Gaston did not speak.

"They were men who came from various companies. Some wanted to run, but they wanted to stay. They held out for three days, keeping the Germans at bay for three days. During those three days, reinforcements from the Second Army arrived, the British began to adjust their deployment, and 400,000 men had a chance to escape."

He stood up and walked over to Gaston.

"Do you know, Gaston, if the Germans hadn't stopped at Stoney for those three days, they might already be on the shore. And you, you're helpless against the German attack? Look at this report! Your son is far more capable and useful than you!"

Gaston's face turned pale.

Bouchard looked at him and remained silent for a few seconds. Then he turned and walked back to the window, his back to Gaston.

"You can go now," he said.

Gaston saluted and turned to leave. As the door closed, he heard Bouchard's voice behind him, very soft, as if he were talking to himself:

"France will remember them. Those who fought in Stoney, whether dead or alive, France will remember them."

May 19, 1940, somewhere south of Dunkirk.

Loran hasn't slept for two days.

He carried Lefevere, following the retreating crowd westward step by step. Lefevere's injuries fluctuated; sometimes he was conscious, sometimes unconscious. When he was conscious, he would ask, "Lieutenant, where are we?" When he was unconscious, he would murmur, "Mama...brother..."

Loran didn't answer. He just kept walking.

More and more people gathered around them. The dozen or so people who had evacuated from Stoney gradually merged into the larger, fleeing crowd. No one asked who they were, no one asked where they came from. On this westward road, everyone was the same: exhausted, silent, and only wanting to move forward.

But sometimes, Loran would hear people talking behind his back:

"Have you heard? Two hundred men have been holding out in Stoney's area for three days."

"Really? Wasn't it said to collapse at the slightest touch?"

"It's true. I have a fellow villager in the Second Army, and they said the Germans stopped for three days because of that village."

"Where are the people who guarded the village?"

"I don't know. I heard that not many survived."

Loran's face paled slightly upon hearing these words.

He just kept walking. His left hand cradled Lefèvre's body, his right hand pressed against the cloth bag containing his comrade's belongings. Boucher's photograph, Ramirez's pipe, and items left by several other people whose names he didn't know: a ring, a letter, and an identification tag.

He promised to return these things.

In the distance, smoke rises on the horizon. In the direction of Dunkirk. There lies the sea, ships, and perhaps the hope of survival.

But at this moment, Lorraine wasn't thinking about hope.

"Lieutenant," Lefevere asked weakly as he regained consciousness, "can we go home?"

Loran was silent for a few seconds. Then he said:

"able."

He didn't know if it was true. But he had to say it. Because the person in his arms still believed he could take him home.

The roar of airplane engines came from afar. The Stukas were coming again. The crowd began to scatter and take cover. Loran carried Lefebvre and rushed into the ditch by the roadside, lay down, and covered his ears.

Explosions rang out all around.

Loran quickly lay down on the ground, numbly watching the routed army ahead, the refugees being blown to pieces in despair.

A day passed, and by the next morning, Lefebvre's condition had worsened.

In just one night, he became extremely thin, his body almost skin and bones. He coughed lightly, and his forehead was burning hot.

He opened his mouth slightly: "Lieutenant, am I about to die?"

Lorraine lowered her head, her eyes reddening: "Hang in there, just one more kilometer to Paris, and I'll take you to the best hospital."

Lefebvre closed his eyes, his lips trembling: "Lieutenant, I'm a good soldier, just give me a quick death, I can't take it anymore."

Loran's hands trembled, even his lips quivered, as he drew the pistol from his waist: "You are the best soldier. You will be born in a time without war in your next life, with a family who will always care for and love you. Lefebvre, I will always remember you."