The Avro aircraft swooped down through the rain, its machine gun rattling as bullets sliced through the flooded fields, leaving twin trails in the water. The spray splattered German soldiers on the road, and their blood joined the wet soil before the plane pulled up again. Despite the dramatic descent, this attack only created ripples of panic in the German ranks.
The German artillerymen leapt from their vehicles, firing their rifles up at the sky in desperate, scattered bursts, trying to cover the convoy's retreat. But their small arms were nearly useless against the high-speed aircraft, unlikely to hit anything critical unless by sheer chance.
A second plane dived toward them. This time, having learned from the previous pass, the pilot adjusted his angle mid-air, lining up along the road.
Rat-tat-tat! The machine guns roared again.
This time, the bullets ripped through soldiers and horses alike. A lead wagon veered wildly as its horses were struck, tipping over and blocking the road with its cannon sprawled sideways across the path. The entire convoy ground to a halt, and Colonel Miller, hoping to escape the "death zone," looked back in resignation at the next approaching plane, accepting his fate.
Colonel Halil received word of the artillery convoy's ambush from French aircraft.
Wolf, his aide, finally began to grasp Halil's grim predictions as each event unfolded exactly as he had feared. Swallowing hard, he suggested, "Colonel, request permission from the general to retreat. If he understands the situation, he might…"
But Halil only shook his head, defeated. "It's too late, Wolf."
"What?" Wolf's eyes widened in shock. "No, we still have time!"
Halil pointed to the map on his desk, his voice filled with despair. "We're infantry, Wolf, positioned on the front line, thirteen kilometers from the rear. If we tried to withdraw under fire, how long would it take?"
A tactical retreat was no simple journey. It would require orderly movements, with soldiers covering each other's withdrawal in alternating steps. Even lightly armed, it would take over two hours to cover that distance under fire.
By then, they'd face Charles's tanks, sidecars, and rows of machine guns. Outnumbered or not, breaking through would be impossible. In that moment, Halil understood; with the artillery trapped on the road, there would be no escape. Any attempt would be a massacre.
Still refusing to accept defeat, Wolf insisted, "We could launch a counterattack on both flanks. If General Waldeck sends reinforcements…"
"Wolf," Halil interrupted, tapping the map in frustration. "All our forces are on the front line. There's no one behind us."
Wolf fell silent, his face draining of color. Halil was right; in their mad rush to secure the Western Front, both sides had committed every available soldier, even fresh recruits. The only thing left behind them were supply convoys, medical stations, and depots. Even if General Waldeck agreed to a pincer movement, he had no troops left to deploy.
Meanwhile, in Arlony, a small town with just over five hundred residents on the rear side of Lafoux, the usually quiet place found itself in the eye of the storm. Strategically irrelevant under normal circumstances, today it was the key to encircling Lafoux entirely.
Rain fell in sheets as aircraft engines roared above and distant gunfire echoed from the west. The townspeople hid in their homes, some retreating to cellars for safety. A few brave souls ventured to open their windows, exchanging tentative greetings across the wet street.
"All well with you, Mr. Samuel?" called one.
"Yes, yes, all good," Samuel replied politely, though inwardly sighing. He recalled the unwelcome visit he'd received the night before from German soldiers, who somehow knew he was the town's mayor.
"If you're the mayor, that makes this simple," a German lieutenant had said with a polished smile, his hand resting ominously on his pistol holster. "As you know, our soldiers are fighting to protect your town. They're short on supplies. We'll need you to arrange a contribution."
The memory made Samuel's face flush with anger. These bastards occupy our land and then demand our food!
But what could he do? He hadn't even dared to tell the townspeople, fearing they'd see him as a collaborator and burn his house down.
As he wrestled with his thoughts, he heard the rumble of approaching engines through the rain. Looking toward the main road, he saw several sidecars speeding closer, their headlights cutting through the downpour.
Samuel's heart sank, thinking the Germans had come for the promised food. These damned Germans—they should all be hanged for this invasion! He prepared a set of excuses as he watched the vehicles draw near.
But as they approached, something caught his eye: the soldiers wore uniforms with unmistakable flashes of red. He blinked in disbelief. Could it be… French troops?
The sidecars rolled up, and the soldiers, speaking in fluent French, waved to him.
"Hey, you alright?" one soldier called.
"Good to see you! You're free now!" another added cheerfully.
"This is France again!"
Samuel hesitantly stepped outside into the rain, where he could clearly see the French soldiers. There were dozens of them, moving in columns through the town on their sidecars. Even a monstrous steel tank rolled down the road, its tracks clattering and soldiers on top waving down at him.
Stunned, Samuel managed to blurt out, "Are… are you the French army?"
The soldiers burst into laughter.
"Can't recognize us?"
"Who did you think we were?"
"We're Charles's troops! Ever heard of him? Charles!"
Finally understanding, Samuel shouted excitedly, "I know him—Charles! He saved France!"
"Yes, that's him!" the soldiers replied, shouting back.
Samuel turned and ran down the street, banging on doors. "It's our people! Our soldiers! Charles and his men are here! We're free—we're finally free!" ʀᴇᴀᴅ ʟᴀᴛᴇsᴛ ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀs ᴀᴛ NovᴇlFɪre.ɴet
The townspeople awoke to the news, spilling out of their homes. Men, women, and children cheered as they welcomed the soldiers. Some held umbrellas over the soaked men, even though it made little difference in the downpour. But no one cared. They were home again, and the streets of Arlony belonged to France.
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