Witness

Loran sat in the back of the jeep, watching the English countryside flash by outside the window. Green fields, neat hedges, and the occasional farmhouse and church steeple.

The man in plain clothes driving didn't speak. He just focused on the steering wheel, occasionally glancing at the rearview mirror to make sure Lorraine was still in the back seat.

Loran didn't know where they were going, or what awaited him. He just sat there, looking at the unfamiliar scenery outside the window, his mind blank.

The jeep drove for a long time, passing through several small towns and around several hills, finally stopping in front of a three-story brick house. The house was ordinary, not much different from the surrounding English country houses. Gray brick walls, white windows, and a small lawn in front.

The only difference was that there were two soldiers in British military uniforms standing at the door.

The man in plain clothes got out of the car, and Lorraine followed him out.

"Come with me," the man said.

They entered the house, walked through a corridor, went up a flight of stairs, and stopped in front of a door on the second floor. The man knocked on the door.

"Come in," a voice came from inside.

The door opened.

The room was simple. There was a table, a few chairs, and a huge map of Europe hanging on the wall. The map was marked with arrows and lines of various colors, stretching from Germany all the way to France and the English Channel.

There was a person standing behind the table.

He was very tall and thin, wearing the uniform of a French army colonel. He had a long face, a high nose, and deep-set eyes that were looking directly at Lorraine.

Charles de Gaulle.

Lorraine had met him once. It was a long time ago, in Paris, in that small office piled high with books at the headquarters of the 3rd Armored Regiment.

At that time, de Gaulle told him: "Stay clear-headed, stay angry, stay hopeful."

Now they met again. In London, in an ordinary English house, after France's surrender.

De Gaulle walked up to Lorraine and looked at him. His deep-set eyes were bloodshot and he looked very tired.

"Lieutenant Lorraine," de Gaulle said, his voice low and hoarse, "I heard you came back alive from Stoney."

Loran nodded without saying anything.

De Gaulle looked at him and remained silent for a few seconds. Then he walked to the window, turned his back to Lorraine, and looked out at the green English countryside.

"Stony," he said, "I received the battle report. Two hundred men, held out for three days. Made the Germans stop for three days."

He turned around and looked at Loran.

"It's good that you're alive. I need people who are alive."

Loran remained silent. He simply stood there, waiting.

De Gaulle looked at him, then suddenly lowered his eyes, his shoulders slumping slightly for a moment. It was a very brief pause, so short as to be almost imperceptible, but Lorraine saw it.

That's not the posture of a general in front of his soldiers. That's the posture one would adopt when a person is alone at night, studying a map.

Then de Gaulle looked up, walked back to the table, picked up a document, and handed it to Lorraine.

"Take a look at this."

Lorraine took it. It was a battle report, a copy of an internal French military bulletin. The title was: "The Battle of Stoney, May 15-17, 1940." It detailed the battle, the defending units' numbers, the casualties, and concluded with a paragraph:

"Although the battle ended with the loss of the position, the defenders held out for three days under extreme disadvantage, delaying the advance of the German 10th Panzer Division and the Großdeutschland Infantry Regiment, thus buying precious time for the reorganization of the Second Army and the retreat in the Dunkirk direction. About 200 officers and soldiers participated in the battle, of whom 187 were killed in action and 13 survived. Their heroic and fearless spirit is a model for the entire army."

Loran stared at the few lines of text, her hands trembling slightly.

One hundred and eighty-seven men were killed. Thirteen men survived.

Thirteen people? There were others who also survived.

He looked up at de Gaulle.

De Gaulle was also looking at him. There was something in those deep-set eyes that was hard to describe.

It wasn't pity, nor encouragement; it was a gaze that was almost equal, one person looking at another who was willing to stay.

"Do you think they died in vain?" de Gaulle asked.

Loran didn't answer immediately. He thought for a moment, then said, "They didn't die in vain."

De Gaulle nodded.

"They died in Stoney so that more people could leave alive," he said. "You leave Stoney alive so that their deaths weren't in vain."

He walked back to the window, this time not with his back to Loran, but sideways, one hand resting on the window frame. The light from outside shone on his face, illuminating his deep-set eyes and gaunt cheeks. He looked exhausted. It wasn't the weariness of a day or two, but the weariness of carrying the weight of the entire nation on his shoulders for a very long time.

"Now France has surrendered," he said, his voice low but each word like a nail. "Pétain signed the armistice in Bordeaux. The German army entered Paris. Our army was disarmed, and more than a million people became prisoners of war. Our government became a puppet of Germany."

He paused, then lowered his eyes.

I'm all alone here.

The words were spoken very softly. So softly, as if spoken to oneself.

But the next second, he looked up at Loran. The weariness in those eyes was still there, but something else surfaced—something Loran had seen in Stoney, something he had seen in the eyes of those who had decided to stay.

"But the war is not over."

He walked back to the table, took a piece of paper from the drawer, and handed it to Lorraine.

It was a draft of a declaration. It began with: "An Address to the French People".

He looked at de Gaulle, whose face was resolute.

His body was crushed, but his spirit remained high.

"Tomorrow," de Gaulle said, "the BBC will broadcast this declaration to France. All of France will hear it."

He looked at Loran.

"But a declaration alone is not enough. I need people. I need people who are willing to continue the fight. I need people who can organize, connect, and keep the struggle going."

Loran looked at him, waiting for him to continue.

"You come from Stoney," de Gaulle said. "You know what fighting is like, you know what death is like, and you know what it's like to live."

He walked up to Lorraine and stopped.

"I want you to stay."

De Gaulle stood there, waiting for his answer. His hand hung at his side, and Lorraine noticed that the fingers of that hand were slightly curled, gripping the fabric of his trousers tightly.

That posture didn't resemble a general giving orders. It was more like someone standing on the edge of a cliff, reaching out their hand, waiting for someone else to extend their hand to them.

Lorraine looked at him.

He remembered what the man had said when he stood by the window: "I'm all alone here."

A man, in an ordinary English house, in front of a huge map of Europe, behind a voice that no one has heard yet.

Loran didn't know how many people would hear this declaration. He didn't know how many would believe it. He didn't know how many would follow.

But he knew that even if no one came, this person would not give up and would fight to the last second.

This person will still stand here. Will still continue to speak. Will still continue to extend their hand, waiting for the next person willing to reach out.

History has proven him right; he accomplished the most difficult comeback in the world.

Loran offered his hand.

"I'll stay," he said.

De Gaulle looked at him. Something flickered in those deep-set eyes—perhaps not relief, not satisfaction, but something simpler: the moment when a person knows they are no longer alone.

He nodded.

"it is good."

He walked back to the table, picked up the draft of the declaration, and handed it to Lorraine.

"The BBC will broadcast this tomorrow at three o'clock in the afternoon," he said. "You can listen with me."

Lorraine took the draft and looked at the handwritten words. Some parts had been corrected, and some had been annotated. It was written word by word by one person in this ordinary house in London during the first week after France's surrender.

De Gaulle walked to the window again. He stood there, one hand resting on the window frame, looking out at the green of the English countryside. His profile was thin and tall, his shoulders slightly hunched, like the posture of someone finally allowing themselves a moment of rest.

But it was only for a very short moment.

Then he straightened up, turned around, and looked at Lorraine.

"We'll leave tomorrow at 2:30 pm," he said.

June 18, 1940, five minutes to three in the afternoon.

Lorraine stood outside the BBC building, looking at the heavy wooden door.

De Gaulle stood beside him, wearing an ill-fitting casual outfit.

He wasn't wearing a military uniform.

It's not that I don't want to, it's that I can't.

The British did not want people to think this was a declaration of British government support for a French general.

Loran turned her head and glanced at him.

His thin face looked particularly pale in the afternoon light, with deep-set eyes and lips pressed into a thin line.

He stood there, very straight, too straight, as if he were using all his strength to support that "straightness".

"Are you ready?" Lorraine asked.

De Gaulle did not answer immediately. He looked at the door, remained silent for a few seconds, then took a deep breath, raised his hand, and pushed the door open.

They walked down the corridor and into a small recording studio. The room contained only a table, a chair, and a microphone. Soundproofing panels covered the walls, and a thick carpet covered the floor. The air smelled musty, a mixture of dust and burnt wires.

A BBC technician was setting up the equipment. Seeing them come in, he nodded and pointed to the chair.

De Gaulle walked over and sat down.

The technician adjusted the microphone to a suitable height, tested the sound, and then stepped aside.

"Two minutes left," he said.

Lorraine stood in the corner, quietly watching de Gaulle.

The tall, thin man sat motionless in the chair, facing the microphone. His hands were on the table, fingers interlaced and clenched tightly. His eyes were fixed on the wall covered with soundproofing panels.

One minute.

Thirty seconds.

Fifteen seconds.

Lorraine saw de Gaulle's hands loosen slightly and then clench again; the movement was very light and brief.

The technicians raised their hands and began to count down: five, four, three, two, one.

The red light is on.

De Gaulle spoke.

"Those who have led our military for many years have formed a government."

"This government used our defeat as a pretext to contact the enemy in an attempt to stop the fighting. There is no doubt that we were defeated by the overwhelming strength of the enemy's mechanized ground and air forces. What defeated us was not only the numerical superiority of the German army, but also their tanks, aircraft, and strategies and tactics. It was the German tanks, aircraft, and strategies and tactics that led our generals into the situation they are in today."

"But has the final outcome arrived? Should hope vanish? Is defeat already inevitable?"

"No!"

Loran stood in the corner, listening to that voice, and his body involuntarily trembled.

"Please believe me, I am speaking based on a full understanding of the facts. I want to tell you that France has not lost this war. The factors that defeated us will one day turn our defeat into victory."

"Because France is not fighting alone! She is not fighting alone! She is not fighting alone! Behind her is the vast French Empire. She can form an alliance with the British Empire. The British Empire controls the seas and is continuing its war. She can, like Britain, make the most of America's inexhaustible resources."

His voice continued. The voice grew louder and louder, more powerful.

"This war is not confined to the territory of our unfortunate nation. The outcome of this war is not determined by the victory or defeat in the Battle of France. This is a world war. All the mistakes, all the delays, all the suffering cannot change the fact that there are still enough forces in the world to one day crush our enemies. We are defeated by mechanized forces today, but in the future, we will rely on even more advanced mechanized forces to achieve victory. The fate of the world rests on this."

"I, General de Gaulle, am now in London. I appeal to all French officers and soldiers, engineers and technicians in munitions factories, who are currently or will be in Britain, to contact me."

But when he was about to say the next sentence, his voice suddenly paused.

A very short pause. So short it might just be background noise from the microphone, so short that no one might notice it.

It was when someone said those words that they suddenly thought: What if no one responds? What if everyone chooses to remain silent? What if I stand here alone, speaking into this microphone, and all of France can't hear me?

His eyes were vacant, his body was weak, as if he was hesitating about something.

Then his voice continued.

"No matter what happens, the flame of French resistance should not be extinguished, and it never will be extinguished."

"Tomorrow, as today, I will continue to address my homeland via radio from London."

The red light is off.

The recording studio was deathly silent.

The technicians stood motionless in the corner. Lorraine stood motionless on the other side. De Gaulle sat motionless in his chair, facing the now-extinguished microphone.

After a long time, de Gaulle stood up.

He walked to the window, drew back the curtains, and looked out at London. The afternoon sun streamed in, illuminating his face and revealing something in his eyes. Not tears, not sorrow, but a deep, profound peace.

But his hand, the one gripping the window frame, was trembling slightly.

A very slight tremor. So slight as to be almost invisible.

Loran saw it.

He didn't say anything. He simply walked to the window and stood next to de Gaulle.

They stood side by side, looking out the window.

London continued on. People were walking, cars were driving, and children were playing in the streets. No one knew what had just happened in that small room. No one knew where that sound would travel, how many people would hear it, or what it would change.

But Lorraine knew.

This message will resonate throughout the world and inspire everyone.

Not everyone will believe it. Not everyone will act on it.

But some people will. Some people will remember the saying: the flame of French resistance should not be extinguished, and it never will be extinguished.

De Gaulle turned around and looked at Lorraine.

His hands have stopped shaking.

"Now," he said, "we'll get to work."