Letter of Introduction

Lorraine walked along the Seine for a long time, until dusk began to fall, before turning towards his father's apartment.

He needed that letter to get a position in the army and to have a voice, however small.

When I knocked on the door, the simple aroma of stew wafted out of the house.

When Olivier saw him, he instinctively wiped his one arm on his apron, a hint of surprise flashing in his eyes, which was then replaced by a deeper calm. He said nothing, but simply stepped aside.

"Have you eaten?" Olivier asked, walking toward the stove.

"Not yet, Father." Loran took off his coat and stood silently to the side.

The simple dinner was served in silence. Potatoes, carrots, a little cured meat, and sliced ​​baguettes.

Olivier ate very little and spent most of his time watching his son.

When Lorraine put down his fork, Olivier also pushed his plate away.

He got up, walked to the old filing cabinet by the fireplace, fumbled around for a moment, and took out not the yellowed envelope from last time, but a flat, dark green cardboard folder.

He placed the folder in front of Lorraine.

"Open it and take a look."

Loran opened it with a puzzled look.

Inside were not letters, but several photocopies of documents with worn edges.

The title of the top document made his pupils shrink slightly: "Internal Reflection Report on the Failure of Command and Communication of Division-Level Units in Complex Terrain after the Battle of Verdun" appeared prominently in the dim light.

Below are several more assessments of battles fought in mountainous and forested areas during World War I, and even a fragment of a French translation of a German wartime archive discussing the psychological and speed advantages during surprise attacks.

"This is?"

"My savings." Olivier sat back in his chair, his voice hoarse.

"It's not about the money. It's about the lessons I learned, the lessons I risked my life for, locked away in the dust of the archives. I'm disabled now, I've retired, but I always think that maybe one day these things won't just be treated as waste paper."

He paused, his deep-set eyes fixed intently on Loran.

"You met with people from the General Staff today. Was it that young man named Marchand who made the connection?"

Lorraine nodded, but he was shocked. His father knew far more about the situation than he had imagined, even though he was living in his apartment.

He suddenly realized that the neighbors around him seemed to be old acquaintances of Olivier, perhaps soldiers or officers who had retired from World War I.

"Charlotte's father called this afternoon, sounding very worried," Olivier explained, then waved his hand dismissively. "It's not important. What's important is, did they listen to you? About Arden?"

"They heard it, or maybe they did hear it. I told Charlotte my guess, but it didn't change anything," Lorraine said bitterly.

"Of course it can't be changed." Olivier's tone was unexpectedly cold and hard. "A major, a lieutenant, a few pages of notes, are nothing compared to five billion francs of concrete walls and twenty years of arrogance."

These words were like ice water poured over his head, but Lorraine was not discouraged. Instead, he found a sense of resonance in his father's cold and blunt words.

"So you need more than just a letter of recommendation to get a job in some cozy office." Olivier tapped the green folder with his one arm. "You need this. You need to show them that your wild ideas aren't youthful arrogance, but rather well-founded lessons, lessons proven in blood yet still forgotten. You need a foothold."

"Father, do you believe me?"

Olivier smiled warmly and patted Lorraine on the shoulder: "You have an extraordinary sense of smell, which is why you are about to become a professor at such a young age. I know you must have gained a lot from your dedicated research these past two years. Besides, you are my son, so I naturally trust you unconditionally."

Lorraine instantly understood that Olivier had never been silent; he had simply been observing from the sidelines, waiting for the right moment to send him to the General Staff of the Army.

This profound paternal love made Loran's heart sink.

“But that’s not enough,” Olivier continued, his voice lowering. “You need a position. A position where you can speak and where someone has to listen, not based on personal connections, but on the value you possess.”

"Join the army," Loran slowly uttered.

Olivier gazed at him for a long time, as if trying to see through his young eyes the faces in the Verdun trenches that would never return.

"After your mother passed away, my greatest wish was to keep you away from all of this." His voice trembled noticeably for the first time. "But I have no right to choose for you. If you decide to take this path, then don't give up halfway, no matter what your reasons are, whether it's for personal gain or to seize power."

He finally pulled the familiar yellowed envelope from his pocket and placed it on the green folder.

"Derion owes me a life. This letter will get you to see him, to get into his sights. But to gain a foothold under him, to even earn his respect, is up to you, your brain, and this information," he pointed to the folder, "my experience."

"What should I do?" Lorraine felt a tightness in her throat.

"Three days later, the General Staff's Operational Research and Analysis Department will hold a closed-door seminar on the topic of 'Resilience of Border Defense in Modern Conditions.' The Drian will chair it. Those invited are all active-duty officers and a few rank-holding advisors and scholars." Olivier said the name casually, as if referring to an ordinary acquaintance. "He can get you a pass to observe; that's your battlefield, your first time."

Lorraine picked up the envelope and folder, feeling their weight as if they weighed a ton. This wasn't a gift; it was a handover of a mission, two generations making different choices in the face of the same storm.

"Thank you, Father."

Olivier waved his hand dismissively, saying, "You're welcome. Perhaps I'm pushing you into the front lines. Remember, once you get there, your opponents won't be the Germans, at least not yet. Your opponents will be complacency, arrogance, and bureaucracy, which are more terrifying than machine guns in the trenches."

......

The farewell to Lorraine outside the library felt like a tiny ice spike piercing Charlotte's heart as she walked home alone.

The Parisian twilight gently enveloped the streets, the cafes wafted warm aromas, and couples strolled by, drawing envious glances from her.

All of this, which usually brought her peace of mind, now seemed incredibly unreal. The distant and resolute look in Loran's eyes, and the unwavering gaze in his eyes as he brushed the snowflakes off her shoulder, flashed repeatedly in her mind.

What was he hiding? What did those soldiers tell him? Charlotte was completely baffled.

When I opened the door, only one wall lamp was lit in the living room.

Mother Yvonne was mending a shirt by the light, while Father Henry sat in his usual armchair, with three or four cigarette butts piled up in the ashtray in front of him. He held a document in his hand but wasn't looking at it; he was just staring out the window in a daze. The air in the room was somewhat stagnant, filled with a quiet that was heavier than usual.

"I'm back," Charlotte said softly, trying to make her voice sound normal.

Yvonne looked up and immediately noticed the lingering paleness on her daughter's face and the unease in her eyes.

"Darling, you don't look well. Is it too cold outside? Where's Loran? Isn't he with you?" She put down her needlework and came over with concern.

"He has some things to do at school, so he's going back now." Charlotte avoided her mother's probing gaze, took off her coat, and said, "Don't wait for him for dinner. He asked me to apologize to you on his behalf."

"Really?" Henry Durand finally turned his gaze from the window to his daughter, his voice a little hoarse. "Charlotte, this afternoon I received a rather unexpected phone call."

Charlotte's heart skipped a beat, and her fingers unconsciously tightened around her scarf.

"It's Lieutenant Marchand," Henry said slowly, observing his daughter's reaction. "He was very polite, asking about Lorraine's studies and research interests. It sounds like some department of the General Staff is conducting a background check, possibly related to the selection of advisors for some special project."

Background checks? Consultant selection? This sounds much more formal and serious than simple academic consultation.

"What did he ask?" Charlotte tried to keep her voice steady.

"The main thing is the depth of Lorraine's research in history, especially military geography, and whether his character is prudent enough," Henry carefully chose his words. "I naturally said a lot of nice things, but after hanging up the phone, I felt uneasy." He paused again. "Charlotte, has Lorraine mentioned any particular ideas to you recently? About war, about defense lines, especially ideas that don't quite conform to mainstream views?"

Charlotte instantly understood that her father had probably heard rumors through various channels, or perhaps, as an education official, he simply had an instinctive wariness of the current tense political atmosphere.

She wanted to recount all of Lorraine's astonishing whispers in the café, but the words caught in her throat.

"He's been a bit anxious lately, suffering from insomnia, and very concerned about the situation, but he didn't elaborate," Charlotte chose a vague answer. "You know, many scholars are like that."

Henry gave his daughter a deep look, but didn't press her further. He simply sighed, "Attention is a good thing, but excessive attention, especially attention that contradicts the official line, can cause trouble at this time. Lieutenant Marchand's questioning itself is a signal. I hope Lorraine understands that some things are safer left in the study than spoken aloud. After all, he's not just an ordinary scholar, but a big shot who will soon become a professor."

Seeing this, Yvonne glared at Henry, then quickly walked over and put her arm around her daughter's shoulder, trying to ease the tension.

"Alright, Henry, don't frighten the child. Lorraine is a smart and steady young man; he knows his limits. Charlotte, come and bring me the soup; let's eat. Oh, by the way," she seemed to suddenly remember something, her tone becoming lighter as she tried to change the subject, "the postman delivered a small package for you today. It was from Professor DuPont; I put it on your desk."

Professor DuPont? Charlotte was somewhat surprised. Why would the professor send her something directly?

Dinner proceeded in a deliberately maintained calm. Her parents talked about prices and the neighbors' trivialities, trying to create the usual family atmosphere, but Charlotte had no appetite. Her father's words about potential trouble and Lorraine's pale but resolute face intertwined in her mind.

After dinner, she couldn't wait to return to her room and close the door.

Sure enough, there was a small kraft paper package lying on the desk.

Inside, there was a thick, old book with a somewhat damaged cover.

Latin-annotated edition of the Gallic Wars.

The book was common, but strangely, it contained an exquisite copper bookmark engraved with a sphinx.

Underneath the bookmark was a small note with Professor DuPont's meticulous, cursive handwriting:

Charlotte:

Mark's condition today is worrying. He asked me questions I couldn't answer and went down a path I couldn't guide.

This book may offer some ancient wisdom. Remember, the truth is sometimes hidden beneath the surface of a mystery, and the question itself is often closer to the core than the answer.

If you sense any unusual trends, the address behind the bookmark might offer a neutral listener.

—Your teacher is also a friend of worry.

A cool breeze swept along Boulevard Saint-Germain, slapping against people like razor blades.

Loran didn't go straight home. With the green folder his father had given him and the letter in his arms, he turned into an unfamiliar alley.

He asked Olivier if there were any shops nearby that dealt with electrical circuits, and that's how he ended up here, at the residence of an old soldier who was very knowledgeable about electrical circuits.

The alley was deep, and the lights were dim.

The signboard of "Old Guy Hardware Store" was so rusted that the words were almost illegible. The shop window was filled with oddly shaped parts and a few old radios with blackened casings. A little light peeked through the crack in the door.

Loran pushed open the door, the old hinges rattling as they turned.

It was colder inside the shop than outside. An elderly man with gray hair, wearing overalls, was facing away from the door, engrossed in something at a workbench covered with tools and coils. The lamplight illuminated his hunched back. Hearing the noise, he didn't turn around, his voice hoarse: "Closed. If you want to buy nails, come back tomorrow."

"Olivier Lorrain sent me," Lorrain said, standing in the doorway.

The old man paused for a moment, then slowly turned around. His face was covered with wrinkles and old scars, one eye was cloudy, but the other was unusually sharp, as he looked Loran up and down.

The gaze swept over his young face and neat overcoat, finally settling on his eyes.

"Olivier's son?" the old man asked, his voice less hostile and more scrutinizing. "That old fellow is still alive? And his legs aren't completely crippled?"

"He's alright." Loran took two steps closer and could smell the engine oil in the air.

The old man snorted and turned back to fiddle with the thing in his hand, a device consisting of a transformer, vacuum tubes, and tangled wires.

"Why did he send you here? I don't have anything here that could make him grow an extra arm."

"I need to charge a device," Loran said carefully, "It needs a very stable DC current, about 5 volts, 500 milliamps, and it's urgent."