More than yesterday, less than tomorrow

Chapter 76 More than yesterday, less than tomorrow

In June 1941, the fog in London was thicker than usual.

Lorraine stood on the porch of 10 Downing Street, waiting for the black oak door to open before him. The rain had just stopped, and the air was thick with the damp smell of coal smoke drifting from the Thames, carrying a distinctively industrial city acrid tang. He wore a faded military uniform, the collar buttoned tightly, the major's star on his epaulets gleaming dimly in the overcast light. A briefcase lay at his feet, containing the report he had finished in Agaira—over twenty pages, densely packed, every word written with his frozen fingers in the desert.

The door opened. A tailcoat-wearing man stepped aside and said expressionlessly, "Please follow me." Lorraine picked up his suitcase and followed him down a corridor carpeted in deep red. Portraits of past prime ministers hung on either side of the corridor, from Walpole to Chamberlain; each pale face peered down at him from its gilded frame, its gaze either cold or stern, like ghosts from another era scrutinizing this intruder.

He was led into a small lounge. The manservant pointed to a chair by the window, said "Please wait a moment," and then left. Lorraine sat down, placed his suitcase at his feet, and looked out at the gray sky. The garden on Downing Street was small; the leaves of a few sycamore trees were wet with rain and drooped, like a group of people who hadn't woken up yet. In the distance, the clock tower of Big Ben was faintly visible in the mist, its hands turning stiffly.

The door opened.

When Churchill entered, Lorraine smelled cigars. The smell was strong, as if someone had lit an entire box of cigars and filled the room. The Prime Minister was wearing his famous grey jumpsuit, the collar open to reveal a wrinkled shirt underneath, and a burning cigar between his fingers, a long ash he hadn't flicked away. His face was redder than Lorraine had seen in the photographs, and he had deep bags under his eyes, but his eyes were remarkably bright. Churchill cared about this; his eyes reflected his current state of mind, and he would never show weakness.

"Major Loran." Churchill walked up to him and extended his hand.

Lorraine stood up and took that hand.

"Sit down." Churchill gestured to a chair, then sat down in an armchair opposite him, put a cigar in his mouth, picked up a document from the coffee table, opened it, glanced at it a few times, and then closed it again.

"I've read Wavell's report," Churchill said, his voice low and hoarse, as if squeezed from his chest. "I've also read your report. The Agairah fought well. Rommel was driven into the desert by you; 60,000 men marched hundreds of kilometers on foot, abandoning over a hundred tanks, hundreds of artillery pieces, and thousands of trucks. The old men at the British War Office say it's the most brilliant battle since the start of the North African campaign."

He took the cigar out of his mouth and flicked the ash into the ashtray.

"But they don't know how you fought. They only know the numbers. How many you captured, how many you destroyed, how many you took prisoner. They don't know that you camped in the ruins outside Tobruk for three days and three nights, that you led more than two thousand defeated soldiers out of the city, that you waited for a long time in front of that narrow gap in Agaira. They don't know these things, and they don't need to know. That's how war is; the fighters know, and the onlookers don't need to know."

Lorraine remained silent. He looked at Churchill, waiting for him to continue.

Churchill stood up, walked to the window, and turned his back to Lorraine. The light from outside shone in from behind him, outlining his short, stout body as a huge silhouette.

"Do you know what day it is today?" he asked.

Loran thought for a moment. "June 21st."

"June 21, 1941," Churchill repeated, his voice suddenly lowering. "Tomorrow marks the one-year anniversary of France's surrender. On this day last year, Pétain signed the armistice in Compiègne. On this day last year, we thought it was all over."

He turned around and looked at Loran.

"But it's not over. You fought your way from mainland France all the way to North Africa. You never stopped, de Gaulle never stopped. The British didn't stop either. We're still fighting."

He walked back to the table, took a map from the drawer, and spread it out. It was a world map, larger and more detailed than any map Loran had ever seen. The outlines of the continents were laid out on the paper, the blue of the oceans, the yellow of the land, the brown of the mountains, and the green of the rivers, each color clearly marked. But what was most striking was not the colors, but the arrows.

Red arrows radiate outwards from Germany. Westward, they cross France and point to the English Channel. Southward, they cross the Mediterranean and point to North Africa. Eastward, they follow the Baltic coast and point to the heart of the Soviet Union. Those arrows, thick and dense, are like nails driven into a map, pinning the entire world to a single sheet of paper.

Churchill's finger landed on the arrows.

"Gentlemen, this is the situation we face." His voice suddenly became very formal, as if he were addressing the House of Commons. "To the west, we have held the English Channel. The Germans couldn't defeat us in the Battle of Britain last year, and they won't this year either. Their navy is inferior to ours, their landing ships are insufficient, and they cannot cross the Channel."

His finger moved westward, across the North Atlantic.

"In the Atlantic, our escort fleet is waging an invisible war against German submarines. Every month, hundreds of thousands of tons of merchant ships are sunk, and hundreds of sailors perish at sea. But we are still transporting, still sending, and still continuously bringing supplies from the United States and Canada. As long as the Atlantic shipping route remains open, we will not starve."

Pointing south, the finger traces the Mediterranean Sea.

"You know the Mediterranean better than I do. Malta is still in our hands; it's the heart of the Mediterranean. The Germans bomb it every day, and the Italians blockade it every day, but Malta hasn't surrendered. Our fleet sets sail from Alexandria, braving German air force bombs to deliver supplies to Malta. We lose several ships each time, but we always manage to get the supplies delivered."

The heart points eastward, across the Balkan Peninsula.

"Greece is lost, Yugoslavia is lost, Crete is lost. We have no soldiers left in the Balkans. The Germans control the entire peninsula, and their bombers can take off from Greek airfields and bomb as far as Egypt, as far as Cyprus, and as far as the entire eastern Mediterranean."

His finger finally stopped at the Soviet border.

"Here. The Eastern Front. This is where the outcome of this war will be decided."

Churchill looked up at Lorraine. His eyes held the light one would have when watching a storm approaching from the horizon.

"June 22, 1941, tomorrow," Churchill said, his voice suddenly becoming very soft. "The Germans are going to attack the Soviet Union."

The room was silent for a few seconds.

Loran stared at the red arrow on the map stretching eastward from Germany. It passed through Poland, through Belarus, through Ukraine, pointing all the way to Moscow, to the Caucasus, to the Volga River. The arrow was as thick as a python, as if it wanted to swallow the entire Soviet Union whole.

"Barbarossa," Loran murmured.

Churchill glanced at him. "You know about this plan?"

Loran nodded. "Just a guess. The Germans have been amassing forces in the east for so long, it's impossible that they haven't leaked any intelligence."

Churchill stared at him for a few seconds, then nodded.

"Whether you guess or know," he said, "the important thing is that from tomorrow onwards, this war will be different. Hitler will move his main forces to the Eastern Front, leaving the Western Front vulnerable. The pressure on Britain will ease, the situation in North Africa will improve, and the Atlantic shipping lanes will be safer. But how long can the Soviet Union hold out? Nobody knows. Maybe six weeks, maybe six months, maybe a year. If the Soviet Union falls, the Germans will be free to strike us again from the Eastern Front. At that point, we will truly be isolated."

He walked back to the window, his back to Lorraine.

"So I need someone to go to the Soviet Union. Not to fight, but to observe. To see how the Soviets fight, to see how the Germans fight, to see who will win this war. I need a pair of eyes, eyes that have seen tanks in the desert, street fighting in ruins, and hope in desperate situations."

He turned around and looked at Loran.

"De Gaulle said you were his best officer. Wavell said you were the calmest commander he had ever met in North Africa. Rommel said you were the most formidable opponent he had ever encountered. Now, I need you to do something even more difficult."

Loran stood up. "What is it?"

Churchill walked up to him and stopped.

"Go to Moscow. Go see Stalin. Tell him that Britain is willing to ally with the Soviet Union. Tell him that we will tie down the German army on the Western Front, fight the German army in North Africa, and blockade the German army in the Atlantic. Tell him that he is not fighting alone."

He looked into Lorraine's eyes.

"Then, come back and tell me whether he will win."

Loran was silent for a few seconds. He looked at the world map on the wall, at the red arrow stretching eastward from Germany, at the vast, snow-covered land. The Soviet Union. A country he had only seen in books. Moscow. A city he had only heard of in the news. Stalin. A face he had only seen in photographs.

"When are you leaving?" he asked.

Churchill walked back to the table, took a document from the drawer, and handed it to Lorraine.

"Three days later. A plane will take off from Scotland, circle around Iceland and the Norwegian Sea, and land in Murmansk. The British ambassador to the Soviet Union, Cripps, will meet you there and then take you to Moscow."

Lorraine took the documents and opened them. Inside was a diplomatic passport, a letter of appointment, and a route map. The passport bore his photograph and name, but his official title was not military; he was a special envoy to the British and Free French Foreign Ministry. The letter of appointment bore Churchill's signature, the handwriting messy but forceful.

"From this day forward, you are no longer a soldier," Churchill said. "You are a diplomat. Your mission is to observe, liaise, and report. You cannot wear a uniform, carry weapons, or participate in any military operations. You can only see, hear, and remember."

He looked into Lorraine's eyes.

"Can you do it?"

Loran closed the file and stuffed it into his suitcase. "You can do it."

Churchill nodded. He extended his hand, and Lorraine grasped it. The hand was thick, warm, and strong.

"Take care, Major," Churchill said. "The Soviet Union is not like North Africa. There are no deserts there, only permafrost."

There were no camels, only bears. No Italians, only Germans. And it was freezing cold there.

Loran released his grip, picked up the suitcase, and turned to walk towards the door.

"Lorraine," Churchill called out to him.

Lorraine turned around.

Churchill stood by the window, his back to the light, a still-burning cigar between his fingers. The smoke swirled above his head, turning a grayish-blue in the beam of light.

"Tell Stalin that Britain will not surrender. Tell Stalin that France has not surrendered either. Tell him that this war requires our unity."

Loran nodded, pushed open the door, and went out.

After leaving Downing Street, Lorraine didn't return to his dormitory. He asked someone to drive him to Carlton Gardens, the street where the Free French headquarters was located. It was already dark; London's blackout laws had plunged the entire city into darkness, with only the occasional military vehicle's headlights casting brief streaks of light in the shadows. Lorraine sat in the back seat, leaning against the window, watching the blurry outlines of buildings flash by. He had something on his mind that he had to finish before leaving.

The car stopped. Lorraine opened the car door and walked into the gray building. The lights in the corridor were dimmer than during the day, and the "Free France" posters on the walls looked faded and old in the dim light, as if they had been there for a long time. He went up to the third floor and stopped in front of the dark wooden door. A sliver of light shone through the crack in the door.

He knocked on the door.

"Come in." De Gaulle's voice came from inside, low, hoarse, with a weary calm.

Loran pushed open the door and went inside.

De Gaulle sat behind his desk, a huge map of Eastern Europe spread out before him. The map was covered with new markings, red arrows stretching eastward from the German border, across Poland, and into the heart of the Soviet Union. An unlit cigarette, slightly distorted from being squeezed between his fingers, hung in the air. His face appeared particularly gaunt in the lamplight, his cheekbones high and his eyes deep-set, but those eyes lit up the moment they saw Lorraine.

"Did Churchill contact you?" de Gaulle asked.

"I've looked for him." Lorraine sat down opposite him. "He told me to go to Moscow."

De Gaulle showed no surprise. He placed the crumpled cigarette on the table, leaned back in his chair, and crossed his arms over his stomach. The light from the table lamp shone from his side, dividing his face into light and shadow.

"I know," de Gaulle said. "He mentioned it to me yesterday. He said he needed a pair of eyes that had proven themselves in North Africa. I told him, if you want to go, I won't stop you."

Loran was silent for a few seconds. "General, what do you think of the Soviets?"

De Gaulle did not answer immediately. He stood up, walked to the map of Europe hanging on the wall, and turned his back to Lorrain. On the map, Germany resembled a giant octopus, its tentacles stretching in all directions: France to the west, the Balkans and North Africa to the south, and Poland and the Soviet Union to the east. The map was densely covered with red arrows, almost entirely obscuring it.

"The Soviets," de Gaulle finally spoke, his voice very soft, "are a group of people we don't know much about."

They have the world's largest army, the most tanks, and the vastest territory. But they also have the most rigid command structure, the most brutal political purges, and the most unreliable supply system. Can they win? Perhaps. But they will pay a price we cannot imagine.

He turned around and looked at Loran.

"You're going to Moscow not to help the Soviets fight. You're going to Moscow to watch. To see how they fight, how they lose, and how they win. Then come back and tell me, do we have any hope in this war?"

Loran nodded. "General, if I get to Moscow and meet Stalin, what should I say to him?"

""

De Gaulle returned to the table, took a letter from the drawer, and handed it to Lorraine. The envelope was an ordinary white envelope, without a salutation or signature, only a line written in pen: "To Joseph Stalin." The handwriting was neat and strong, and it was De Gaulle's own handwriting.

"Give him this letter," de Gaulle said. "It contains only one sentence: Although France has been temporarily defeated, the French people have not surrendered. Free France is fighting, in North Africa, in Africa, and wherever there are still French people standing. If one day the Soviet Union needs allies, France will be the first to stand up."

Lorraine carefully put the letter away and placed it in his pocket.

De Gaulle looked at him, remaining silent for a long time. The light from the lamp flickered on his face, illuminating the lines etched by time and war. Suddenly, he reached out, not to shake hands, but to pat Lorraine on the shoulder. The hand was thin, with distinct knuckles, but very steady.

"You fought a brilliant battle at Agaira," de Gaulle said. "You drove Rommel into the desert, you captured his tanks, and you forced his 60,000 men to retreat on foot. You did something many generals couldn't do. But you never told me you won. You only said, 'The war is over.'"

He paused.

Do you know why?

Loran shook his head.

"Because you know in your heart that this war cannot be decided by a single battle." De Gaulle withdrew his hand, walked back to the window, and turned his back to Lorrain. "Aguilar won, but France is still in German hands. Rommel fled, but Hitler is still in Berlin. You won the battle, but you didn't go home. You still have to go to Moscow, still have to see Stalin, still have to continue watching, still have to listen, still have to remember in the freezing cold. You haven't won, you just haven't lost yet."

Loran stood up. "General, is there anything else you wish to say?"

De Gaulle turned around. The light from the window shone in from behind him, hiding his face in shadow, but Lorraine could see his eyes, which shone brightly in the darkness.

"There's one thing," de Gaulle said. "When you get to Moscow, if anyone asks you how many men, how many guns, how many tanks Free France has, tell them it's more than yesterday, but less than tomorrow."

Loran was taken aback.

"Because we are growing," de Gaulle said. "We are growing every day. In London, in North Africa, in mainland France, and everywhere there are still French people willing to fight. We will grow big enough to come home."

He walked back to the table, sat down, picked up the crumpled cigarette, and twirled it between his fingers.

"Go. Churchill is waiting for you. Moscow is waiting for you too."

Loran saluted and turned to walk towards the door.

"Lorraine," de Gaulle called out to him.

Lorraine turned around.

De Gaulle sat there, the lamplight illuminating his face and revealing something indescribable in his deep-set eyes. It wasn't worry, nor expectation, but something deeper, quieter, as if saying, "I know you'll come back."

"Come back alive," de Gaulle said. "Free France needs living people more urgently than it needs heroes."

Loran nodded, pushed open the door, and went out.

The corridor was dark. Ron was still standing in the doorway, holding a manila envelope. He handed the envelope to Lorraine, who took it and opened it. Inside was a French-Russian glossary, as well as some basic information about the Soviet Red Army—its organization, equipment, and command structure—all gathered little by little by the Free French intelligence service over the past few months.

"The general asked me to prepare it," Jean said. "He said you might need it when you get to Moscow."

Lorraine slipped the envelope into his suitcase. "Thank him for me."

He nodded and said nothing more.

Lorraine carried his suitcase down the stairs and out of the gray building. The London night was cold, and the wind blowing from the direction of the Thames carried a damp, icy chill. He stood in the doorway and took a deep breath.

He recalled what de Gaulle had just said: Free France needs living people more urgently than heroes.

He wasn't a hero. He was just a man who hadn't died yet. But as long as he lived, he would keep going. From Stoney to North Africa, from North Africa to London, from London to Moscow. A road with no end, only the next intersection.

He got into the car and started the engine. The car slowly drove out of Carlton Gardens and into the dark London night.

"Go to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs," Loran said.

He glanced at him in the rearview mirror. "Now? It's almost eleven o'clock."

"I'm taking the train to Scotland early tomorrow morning, and I need to get my visa tonight."

He didn't say anything more. He stepped on the gas, the car accelerated, and drove towards the Ministry of Foreign Affairs building.

The following afternoon, Loran stood on the runway at Prestvik Airport, watching the plane that would soon take him to the Soviet Union.

Prestwick is on the west coast of Scotland, not far from Glasgow. The airport is small, with only one runway, a few simple hangars, and a two-story terminal building. The wind blows in from the Irish Sea, carrying a salty, fishy smell and a hint of chill. The sky is overcast, the clouds hang low, as if they might collapse at any moment.

The Hudson bomber sat at the end of the runway, its fuselage painted with the Royal Air Force insignia—two round blue, white, and red bullseye that glared sharply against the grey sky. The engines were already running, the propellers whirring and humming, making the ground tremble slightly. The cockpit door was open, and a pilot in a leather jacket stood in the doorway, waving to Loran.

"Mr. Loran?" the pilot called out.

Loran walked over, handed the suitcase to the pilot, and climbed into the cockpit. The cockpit was narrow, with metal panels on both sides and several makeshift seats secured with canvas straps crammed into the middle. The seats had no cushions, only cold metal plates. He sat down, fastened his seatbelt, and tucked the suitcase between his legs. The pilot closed the cockpit door and climbed into the cockpit. The engine noise grew louder, and the whole plane shook, making his teeth chatter.