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In the summer of 1940, the whole world was ablaze.

From the fjords of Norway to the plains of Belgium, from the waves of the English Channel to the deserts of North Africa, the iron hooves of war trampled across every inch of Europe.

The grey German columns surged through the Netherlands, Belgium, and Luxembourg like a steel torrent, shattering the illusion of peace that had lasted for twenty years in Europe with blitzkrieg.

On May 10, when 136 German divisions, 2580 tanks, and 3800 aircraft crossed the western border, no one anticipated that the battle would end so quickly. The Manstein Plan, that audacious, almost insane Ardennes breakthrough, proved to be fatal.

Guderian's armored forces traversed the Ardennes Forest, which the French High Command considered "impassable for tanks," in just three days, tearing a gap in the French defenses at Sedan.

Over the next six weeks, the map of Europe was completely rewritten.

The Netherlands surrendered within five days. King Leopold III of Belgium ordered his troops to lay down their arms on May 28th. The British Expeditionary Force hastily retreated from the beaches of Dunkirk, with over 300,000 soldiers abandoning all heavy equipment and surging back to the British Isles like a receding tide. On June 14th, German troops entered Paris without firing a single shot; in the city known as the "capital of European civilization," the swastika flag flew beneath the Eiffel Tower.

On June 22, in the famous train carriage in the Forest of Compiègne—the same carriage where Germany signed its surrender twenty-two years earlier—French representatives signed the armistice. France was divided in two: the northern and western coasts were directly occupied by German forces, while the south and east were left to a puppet regime called Vichy. The Third French Republic, a once-powerful nation that dominated continental Europe, crumbled in just six weeks.

But the disasters of 1940 went far beyond that.

In Southern Europe, Mussolini watched Hitler's victories with envy. On June 10, Italy declared war on France and Britain, attempting to gain a share of the spoils. This dictator, who styled himself the "new Caesar," dreamed of rebuilding the Roman Empire in the Mediterranean, intending to bring Greece, Albania, Egypt, and Sudan under Italian control.

In Asia, Japan was eyeing the country with predatory intent. Immediately after France's surrender, Japan pressured the Vichy government to cut off the Yunnan-Vietnam Railway, the last route for the communist nation to obtain foreign aid. In September, Japanese troops entered northern French Indochina, taking another step towards their ambitions for the "Greater East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere."

Meanwhile, across the Atlantic, the United States remained aloof, observing the conflict from the sidelines. Roosevelt, elected president for the third time, offered "all aid except for war" to his European allies, but isolationists in Congress vehemently opposed direct military intervention. Millions of Americans still believed that the war on that distant continent was none of their concern.

In the East, the Soviet Union was busy expanding its territory. In June, Stalin ordered the occupation of the Baltic states—Lithuania, Latvia, and Estonia—and subsequently annexed Bessarabia and Northern Bukovina in Romania. The non-aggression pact signed by Hitler and Stalin in 1939 was still in effect, and the two dictators carefully maintained a facade of friendship while secretly sharpening their knives.

This was the world in 1940: a world torn apart by the lightning of the Axis powers, a world where democracies were losing ground, a world where it seemed no force could stop the Nazi iron heel.

Only Britain is still persisting.

Standing atop the ruins, Winston Churchill proclaimed to the world in his booming, hoarse voice: "We shall fight to the bitter end. We shall fight in France, we shall fight at sea, we shall fight with confidence in the air. We shall defend our homeland at all costs. We shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing sites, we shall fight in the fields and in the streets, we shall fight in the mountains. We shall never surrender."

But everyone knew that Britain alone could not win the war; Britain needed allies, and anyone who was still willing to fight.

In this darkest hour, a little-known French general, in a cramped recording studio at the BBC in London, called out to his homeland.

The voice said, "France has lost a battle, but France has not lost the war."

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

The voice came from Charles de Gaulle, a "traitor" sentenced to death in absentia by the Vichy government, an exiled general with only a few hundred men, no territory, and no resources.

But de Gaulle understood one thing: in this war, whoever gets the French colonies gets everything.

France is not a small country with only 55 square kilometers. France also has a vast colonial empire. In Africa, France owns more than 1000 million square kilometers of land, accounting for about one-third of the total area of ​​Africa, which even exceeds the colonial area of ​​the British Empire in Africa at the same time.

French North Africa: Morocco, Algeria, Tunisia, a barrier on the southern coast of the Mediterranean, with important ports and military bases.

French West Africa: Mauritania, Senegal, Guinea, Mali, Burkina Faso, Benin, Niger, Ivory Coast, a vast land stretching from the Atlantic coast to the depths of the Sahara Desert.

French Equatorial Africa: Chad, Gabon, Congo, Ubangi-Shali, connecting the heart of Africa.

French Madagascar: A vast island in the Indian Ocean that controls sea lanes from the Atlantic to the Indian Ocean.

There is also French Somaliland, the gateway to the Red Sea; and French Syria and Lebanon, on the eastern coast of the Mediterranean.

What did these colonies possess?

They had soldiers—hundreds of thousands of colonial native troops, those black soldiers known as the "Senegal Rifles," the toughest warriors in the French army. They had ports—Dakar, Casablanca, Bicester, Djibouti—any one of which could serve as a springboard for the Allied counter-offensive. They had resources—phosphate, iron ore, rubber, food—everything the war machine needed.

Most importantly, they possessed legitimacy; whoever controlled these colonies could claim to represent France.

On June 18, 1940, when de Gaulle stood before the BBC microphone, he had nothing. But he knew that those colonies, those lands far from his homeland that had not yet been occupied by the German army, were his only hope.

The coming year would be the most difficult, dangerous, and crucial year of de Gaulle's life. He would have to find a path to rebirth for a defeated nation amidst this global catastrophe.

......

When Loran set foot on African soil, everything before him made him feel as if he had returned to another world.

It was late August 1940 in Pointe-Noire, a port city in French Equatorial Africa. The air was thick with the humid scent of the tropics, the broad leaves of palm trees swayed in the sea breeze, and the waves crashed against the rocks in the distance. Black people, white people, and people of mixed race walked the streets, dressed in brightly colored clothes, speaking French, Lingara, and various dialects that Lorraine couldn't understand.

All of this was completely different from Europe three months ago. There were no gray German columns, no Stuka screams, no ruins and refugees. The people here were still living almost the same lives as before the war. Although they had heard about the fall of their homeland and Pétain's armistice, the war seemed far away from them, so far that they could pretend it didn't exist.

But Lorraine knew that this calm was just a facade.

He came here to carry out the new task assigned to him by de Gaulle: to consolidate Free France's foothold in equatorial Africa and use it as a base to infiltrate other colonies.

"Equatorial Africa is our only hope," de Gaulle told Lorrain before he left London. "If we can't even hold this place, Free France will forever remain a small group of exiles, talking big in London cafes."

Lorraine understood the weight of those words.

The birth of Free France was dramatic from the very beginning.

When de Gaulle delivered his first speech on the BBC on June 18, 1940, he had almost nothing behind him: no army, no territory, no funds, and not even a formal office. Although the British government allowed him to use the broadcasting facilities, it was slow to recognize him as a representative of a political entity.

On June 23, de Gaulle proposed the idea of ​​establishing a "French National Council," but the British response was lukewarm; they could not yet recognize any French National Council that did not actually exist.

On June 28, the British government finally relented and agreed to recognize de Gaulle as "the leader of all the free French people who, wherever they gather around him, support the cause of the Allies."

But this title is quite empty.

Leader? Whom does he lead? The scattered French soldiers who had fled to Britain, the 13th Foreign Legion of over a thousand men, a few French warships that responded to the call, and some scattered volunteers. All in all, less than seven thousand people.

Without territory, everything is empty.

Just then, fate smiled upon de Gaulle.

In French Equatorial Africa, there lived a man named Félix Eboué. He was the first black governor of a French colony, governing Chad. Eboué was not a soldier, but an old-fashioned colonial administrator who had lived in Africa for over thirty years and knew everything about the land. When he heard de Gaulle's appeal, he made a decision that would change the fate of Free France.

In July 1940, Eboue publicly announced the Chad uprising and joined de Gaulle's camp.

When the news reached London, de Gaulle could hardly believe his ears.

Chad, the heart of French Equatorial Africa, was a strategic location connecting North and West Africa. If Chad could be held, Free France would have its first truly independent territory.

Then, the dominoes began to fall.

On August 26, French Cameroon sided with Free France.

On August 27, Congo announced its accession to Free France.

On August 28, Ubangi-Salli, led by Governor Pierre de Saint-Martin, pledged allegiance to de Gaulle.

Overnight, Free France transformed from an exiled organization into a political entity with actual territory. Although these territories were remote, barren, and sparsely populated, they possessed an irreplaceable value: legitimacy. Whoever controlled the colonies could claim to represent France.

When Lorran arrived at Pointe-Noire, the fervent wave of defection had just subsided. But his task was not to celebrate, but to consolidate and prepare for the next step.

Because there was one more place that de Gaulle was determined to win.

Dakar.

Dakar is the capital of French West Africa and the most important port in West Africa, boasting a powerful naval base and fortifications. More importantly, the Bank of France's gold reserves, reportedly the majority of France's gold, were secretly transported to Dakar before the fall of Paris.

If Dakar sided with Free France, de Gaulle would not only gain a vital strategic port, but also a fortune enough to sustain Free France for many years. More importantly, this would deal a heavy psychological blow to the Vichy government. West Africa was Vichy's largest and richest colony; if West Africa defected, Vichy's rule in Africa would be shaky.

As for gold, Loran already had an idea before he came here.

That means they would rely on plunder. Dakar will not defect to Free France; history has proven that.

But regardless of whether they switch sides or not, money will always be the most important thing.

If a direct assault fails, then a protracted war will ensue. The Free French army cannot afford to lose, but they still have the British army.

Sometimes it's worth sacrificing a few people to obtain the money needed to support development.

Just as Lorraine was lost in thought, a white soldier in his thirties walked over.

"Lieutenant Lorraine?" He walked over and saluted. "My name is Masson. Colonel Leclerc sent me to pick you up."

Lorraine returned the greeting.

Ma Song looked at him, then at the suitcase in his hand.

"That's all?"

That's all.

Ma Song nodded.

"It's another thousand kilometers from here to La Michèle," Masson said. "First, you take a train, then a truck. You might encounter Vichy government patrols along the way, or Italian planes. The colonel said you should get there as soon as possible."

Loran nodded.

The next morning, they boarded the train.

That train was more dilapidated than any Lorraine had ever seen. The carriages were made of wood, and the windows had no glass, only iron bars. The seats were hard wooden planks, which were painful to sit on for long periods. The engine chugged and panted like an old ox with lung disease.

The vehicle was packed with people: soldiers, businessmen, natives, and several women holding children.

The train moved very slowly. It had to stop every so often to refill water and coal, or to wait for oncoming trains to pass. Outside the window stretched an endless expanse of green, dense jungle. Occasionally, a few thatched huts could be seen, and a few Black people stood by the roadside, watching the train pass.

That night, the train stopped. Everyone got off and camped by the roadside.

Ma Song started a fire and cooked a pot of something he couldn't identify. Loran took it and took a sip. It was bitter and salty, but had a meaty flavor.

"What is this?" he asked.

"Monkeys," Mason said.

Loran paused for a moment, then continued drinking.

Ma Song looked at him and grinned.

"Captain, you are different from the officers from Paris we have met."

Loran nodded.

On the third day, the train arrived at the station.

It was a small town called "Garoua," with a few dirt roads, rows of mud-brick houses, and a market. The market sold everything imaginable: cloth, salt, dried fish, and French perfume from who-knows-where.

Several trucks were parked beside the market. The trucks were even more dilapidated, covered in rust, with tires almost worn flat.

The driver, a Black man, saw them, jumped out of the car, and grinned.

"To Lamiberg?" he asked.

Ma Song nodded.

"Get in the car."

Loran climbed onto the truck. The truck bed was already packed with more than a dozen people. He found a corner, squatted down, and hugged his suitcase to his chest.

The truck started moving.

The road was bumpier than a train journey. Calling it a road was a stretch; it was really just two tire tracks pressed into the red soil. The truck bounced along, kicking up clouds of dust. That dust, when it got into my mouth, tasted salty and astringent.

It took three days to get there.

On the evening of the third day, the truck stopped in front of a row of adobe barracks.

Lorraine jumped out of the car and brushed the dirt off his clothes.

A man in a khaki military uniform walked out of the barracks. He looked to be in his forties, not very tall, but stood very straight. His face was tanned dark, and his eyes had a sharp glint in them.

He walked up to Lorraine and stopped.

"Captain Loran?"

Loran nodded.

"I am Leclerc." The man extended his hand.

Loran looked at the rough hand, a memory flooding her mind, and she was briefly lost in thought for a while.

François Leclerc, the French liberator and a war hero in North Africa during World War II.

"Mark Lorraine." Lorraine reached out and shook his hand.

Leclerc nodded, still looking solemn.

"You must have learned quite a bit about the situation in North Africa from the Chairman. What are your thoughts?"

Loran hesitated for a moment: "Attack."

Disappointment appeared on Leclerc's face.

Everyone knows that a fight is inevitable, and negotiations are unlikely to solve the problem. The key is how to fight.

"Fight guerrilla warfare."

Leclerc paused for a moment.

"We, the Anglo-French allied forces, are waging guerrilla warfare?"