Loss of Fighting Spirit

After the jeep disappeared at the end of the road, the campsite remained quiet for a long time.

Those who hadn't left stood behind the barbed wire fence, watching the direction the car had gone, watching the dust slowly settle, and watching the empty road be swallowed up by the twilight once more.

The man from Lille was still standing there. He was clutching the stubbed-out cigarette, his knuckles white.

Someone nearby asked in a low voice, "Aren't you going?"

He did not answer.

The person waited for a while, then turned and left.

The man from Lille continued to stand, watching the sky grow darker and darker.

He remembered many things. He remembered his home in Lille, his wife's letter, and the son he had never met. He remembered the trucks speeding away from Lille during the retreat, the abandoned cannons and corpses by the roadside, the Stuka on the Dunkirk beach, smoking from the gunfire, and the comrade who had been blown up beside him, his blood splattered on his face, still warm.

He remembered the jeep Lorraine had been in, and the words the man in plain clothes had said to Lorraine: "Come with me."

Come with me.

He could leave. He could walk over, find that British officer, and say, "I'm going to London too." He could get on the next train, find that general named de Gaulle, and continue fighting.

But he didn't.

He didn't know why he hadn't. Maybe it was because of that letter. Maybe it was because of what his wife wrote in the letter: "Our son calls your picture 'Dad' every day, and he says it so clearly."

Perhaps it was because he didn't know if he could ever come back from London. Or perhaps it was because he was simply too exhausted.

All he knew was that he couldn't take that step.

The next morning, a notice was posted at the entrance of the camp.

It was written in French, with large characters that could be seen from a distance:

"Repatriation Registration: Soldiers who wish to return to France, please register at tent number 3 before 3 p.m. today. The first batch of repatriations will depart at 6 a.m. tomorrow."

A crowd gathered around the notice. After reading it, some people turned and left, while others remained standing there.

The man from Lille was also standing in the crowd. He stared at the notice for a long time.

Back to France.

Go back to France, which has already surrendered.

Go back to that France that was divided in two and trampled underfoot by the Germans.

He remembered his wife's letter. He remembered the crooked handwriting in the letter. He remembered her words, "Everything is fine at home, don't worry."

Is that true? Or did she write it on purpose to make him worry?

he does not know.

All he knew was that he wanted to go back and see, and he was tired and didn't want to fight anymore.

Before 3 p.m., a long queue had formed in front of tent number 3.

He was in that line. There were probably forty or fifty people ahead of him, and even more behind. No one spoke. Occasionally someone coughed, the sound carrying far through the line before fading away.

The column moved slowly. Inside the tents, people were registering people, calling out names and asking questions one by one. The questions were all the same: name, former unit, home address, and whether there were any relatives to notify.

When it was Lille's turn; occasionally, it was already getting dark.

A kerosene lamp was lit inside the tent, its dim light illuminating the wooden table and the registrar's tired face. The registrar was French, dressed in casual clothes, his face expressionless.

"Name?"

Pierre Maurice.

"Former unit?"

"The Ninth Division"

"Home address?"

"17 Rue Saint-André, Lille."

The registrar looked up and glanced at him.

"From Lille?"

Pierre Morris nodded.

The registrar lowered his head and continued writing. After finishing, he handed Pierre Maurice a slip of paper.

"Meet at 6:00 AM tomorrow in front of tent number 4. Bring your belongings. Don't be late."

Pierre Maurice took the note and glanced at it. The note had a number printed on it: 47.

When he stepped out of the tent, it was already completely dark.

He stood outside the tent, looking at the note, at the number 47, and at the crooked, illegible printed words.

He suddenly remembered something: in 1918, his father had also returned from the battlefield. He was five years old then, standing at the village entrance waiting. When his father returned, he was skin and bones, his face covered in stubble, and his eyes were red. He hugged his father and felt a strange smell about him, something he couldn't quite put his finger on. Many years later, he understood that it was the smell of death.

Now, he's going back with the same flavor.

At six o'clock the next morning, three trucks were parked in front of tent number 4.

The green canvas awning was the same one I had sat in when I arrived, only facing the opposite direction.

Pierre Maurice stood in the line, waiting to board the vehicle. Many others stood beside him, all dressed like him in tattered military uniforms, their faces expressionless.

A British officer came over with a list and read out the names one by one. Those whose names were called got on the vehicle.

Pierre Maurice.

He took a step forward and climbed onto the nearest truck. The truck was already half full, so he found a corner, squatted down, and hugged the cloth bag containing his wife's letter to his chest.

The truck started.

No one spoke in the carriage. Only the roar of the engine and the patter of the canvas flapping in the wind could be heard.

Pierre Maurice closed his eyes.

He didn't know where the car was going. He didn't know when it would reach Lille. He didn't know what he would see when it arrived.

The first stop for repatriation was Calais.

The truck stopped in front of a pile of ruins. Pierre Maurice jumped out and saw nothing but ashes. What had once been a port was now nothing but piles of rubble. Warehouses had collapsed, cranes lay overturned, and rails were uprooted and twisted. The sea pounded against the broken dock, washing up oil and debris before swirling it back in.

There was a pungent smell in the air, from burnt wood to rotting corpses.

The customs tent was still there, but instead of the French flag, the German flag hung at the entrance. Red background, white circle, black swastika—it pierced his heart.

A long line formed in front of the tent. They were all soldiers being repatriated, just like them.

German soldiers stood on both sides of the column, rifles at the ready, watching intently. Their gazes were like needles, piercing the backs of every soldier.

Pierre Maurice moved forward with the group.

Ahead of him in line was a young woman holding a baby. The baby was crying, crying terribly, its voice hoarse. The woman tried to soothe it and pat it, but to no avail.

A German soldier walked over and stood in front of the woman. The woman looked up, her face pale and her lips trembling.

The German soldier looked at her, then at the baby, and then turned and left.

The woman continued to soothe the baby, her hands trembling.

It was getting dark when it was Pierre Maurice's turn.

The German soldier glanced at him and asked a question. Pierre Maurice didn't understand German, but he guessed the meaning of the question: identification.

He handed over the deportation certificate.

The German soldier took it, looked at it for a few seconds, then handed it back to him and waved it away.

Pierre Maurice entered the shed.

Several Frenchmen, dressed in old uniforms and looking weary, sat in the shed. Several tables were set up in front of them, piled with documents. Someone pointed to an empty table, gesturing for him to sit down.

The man asked, "Name? Former unit? Where are you going?"

Pierre Maurice answered each question. The man wrote them down on a piece of paper and then handed him a small slip of paper.

"Take this and go over there to get your train ticket."

He took the note, stood up, and walked to the other side of the shed.

There was an even longer queue over there. Everyone was waiting to collect their train tickets. Pierre Maurice joined the end of the line and began to wait.

As darkness fell, kerosene lamps were lit in the shed, their dim light illuminating the tired faces.

It was already late at night when it was his turn.

Behind the window sat an elderly Frenchman, wearing glasses and with gray hair. He took the note from Pierre Maurice, looked at it for a long time, then looked up at Pierre Maurice.

"From Lille?" the old man asked.

Pierre Morris nodded.

The old man lowered his head and began to write on the paper. He wrote slowly, his hand trembling. After he finished, he handed over the paper; it was a train ticket. It was made of cardboard, and the edges were already frayed.

"Tomorrow morning at seven o'clock, platform three," the old man said.

Pierre Maurice took the ticket and glanced at it.

It reads: Calais-Lille.

He stuffed the ticket into his pocket, turned around, and left.

The next morning at seven o'clock, platform three.

The platform was packed with people, all waiting for this train.

Pierre Maurice stood in the crowd, watching the train slowly pull in.

The train was very old. Most of the paint had peeled off, revealing the rusty iron underneath. The windows were broken and boarded up. The doors wouldn't close properly and were tied shut with rope.

The crowd began to surge forward. Pushing, shouting, the cries of babies, the groans of the elderly. Pierre Maurice was swept up by the flow of people and squeezed into a carriage, finally finding a window seat.

He stood there, holding the cloth bag, looking out the window.

There were still many people standing on the platform. Some hadn't managed to get on the train and were waiting for the next one.

A German soldier walked across the platform, wearing a gray uniform, carrying a gun, with a cold expression.

No one dared to look at him.

The train started moving.

The view outside the window began to shift. Ruins, rubble, charred trees, bombed-out houses. Then came fields, green and quiet, with the occasional person working in the fields.

The people looked up at the train, at the blurry faces behind the windows. Then they lowered their heads and continued working.

As Pierre Maurice looked at the fields, something suddenly came to mind.

Before the war, he was a farmer.

There was a piece of land outside Lille that his father had left him. He planted wheat, potatoes, and sugar beets in it. Every autumn, after the wheat harvest, he would sit on the edge of the field, smoking and looking at the empty land. At those times, he felt that the days were very long, so long that he couldn't see the end.

Now, sitting on this train, watching the fields rush by, he feels that life is too short. So short that in the blink of an eye, everything is gone.

The train had been traveling for a long time.

The train stopped at many stations. At each station, people got off and others got on. Those who got off disappeared on the platform, while those who got on squeezed into the carriages and continued onward.

The carriage grew increasingly crowded and stuffy. Some people started to get carsick and vomited on the floor, filling the air with a sour, foul smell. Some began to curse, cursing the Germans, cursing Pétain, cursing the British, cursing everyone.

Pierre Maurice stood there, head down, not daring to look at anyone.

He didn't know how much time had passed. Maybe it was a few hours, maybe it was a whole day.

By the time the train finally came to a stop, it was already dark.

Someone shouted, "Lille! Lille has arrived!"

Pierre Maurice squeezed off the train and stood on the platform.

The platform was deserted, with only a few dim lights illuminating the weathered pillars. No one came to pick him up. No family, no friends, no waiting crowd.

He was the only one standing in the darkness, along with the others who had gotten off the train, unsure of where to go.

Pierre Maurice stood there for a moment, then strode out of the station.

He stepped out of the station and stood in the square.

The square was deserted, not a soul in sight. The familiar shops were all closed, their windows boarded up. The streetlights were on, but much dimmer than before. A gust of wind blew from the street corner, whipping up a few scraps of newspaper that swirled in the night.

He walked toward St. Andrew Street.

The street was quiet. So quiet he could hear his own footsteps. Occasionally a German military vehicle would drive by, its headlights blinding him, shining in his face before disappearing. He would duck behind a wall, wait for the vehicle to pass, and then continue walking.

After walking for a long time, he finally stood at the entrance of number 17.

That was his house. A three-story old building with gray stone exterior walls and an old sycamore tree at the entrance. At that moment, the sycamore leaves blocked the moonlight, casting the entire building into shadow.

He stood at the doorway, looking at it.

The door was closed. The windows were closed too. The curtains were drawn tightly shut, not a single ray of light could get in.

He raised his hand, as if to knock on the door.

The hand hovered in mid-air, then stopped.

He didn't know what to say. He didn't know what lay behind the door. He didn't know what his wife's expression would be when she saw him. He didn't know what his son looked like now.

He just stood there, his hand dangling, for a long time.

Finally, he lowered his hand.

He didn't knock.

He turned around, walked down the three steps, and sat down under the sycamore tree.

He held the cloth bag in his arms and closed his eyes.

He thought, let's wait until dawn to talk about it.

Pierre Maurice awoke at daybreak.

Sunlight filtered through the leaves of the sycamore tree, falling warmly on his face. He sat up, rubbed his eyes, and looked at the door.

The door was still closed.

He stood up, walked to the door, raised his hand, and knocked three times.

No one answered.

He knocked three more times.

Still no one.

He pushed the door, and it opened.

The door was unlocked.

He went inside.

The room was dark. The curtains were drawn, and not a single ray of light could get in. There was a damp, musty smell in the air, and some other smell he couldn't quite place.

He stood in the foyer and called out his wife's name.

No one answered.

He went upstairs. The stairs creaked under his feet, each sound like something groaning.

Second floor. The bedroom door was open.

He went inside.

The bed was empty, and the blankets were neatly folded.

There was a photo on the bedside table. It was taken on his wedding day with his wife; the two of them were standing at the church entrance, smiling happily.

A letter was placed next to the photo.

He picked up the letter and opened it.

The letter was written by his wife. The date was early June.

The letter said the Germans had arrived. She needed a man's help; she couldn't hold on any longer.

The last line reads: "I'm sorry."

Pierre Maurice put the letter down.

He stood in that empty room, looking at the photograph, at the neatly folded quilt, and at the sunlight streaming through the gaps in the curtains.

A white feather fell onto his body, and Pierre froze, then went berserk, stomping on it relentlessly until he was exhausted.

He suddenly squatted down, covered his head with his hands, and started to cry.

There was no sound. Only the shoulders were shaking violently. Tears streamed from between the fingers, dripping onto the ground, one drop at a time, forming a small puddle.

He didn't know how long he had been crying.

By the time he stood up, it was already dark.

He carefully put the letter into the pocket on his chest. Then he turned, walked out of the bedroom, down the stairs, out of the door, and into the night.

The streets of St. Andrew were deserted; there wasn't a soul in sight.

In the distance, the bells of the clock tower rang. Once, twice, three times.

He stood on the street, listening to the bell tolling and looking at the dark sky.

But he knew one thing.

His wife ran away with all the money.

At the same time, in the port of Calais.

Another ship docked. Another group of repatriated soldiers disembarked and stood on the pier, looking around blankly.

The German flag was still fluttering in the wind at the entrance of the customs shed.

The queue is still moving forward.

The baby is still crying.

The woman was still trying to appease her.

The German soldiers were still watching.

Everything is the same as yesterday.

Everything will be the same as tomorrow.

The summer of 1940 passed just like that.

Countless Pierre Maurices are walking the same paths and thinking the same thoughts in every corner of France.

They were devastated and confused, looking up at the gray sky.

They only knew one thing: France had suffered a crushing defeat.