The Girl from the Town

Walking on the gravel-strewn ground, Logan felt a mix of emotions. In the same era, two armies with similar national strength, technology, and troop numbers had vastly different performances in face-to-face combat. Why?

Was it the fanatics' spiritual power? No, even if it were a group of Wehrmacht soldiers, the result likely wouldn't have been much different.

Logan pondered for a long time. The Stukas, tanks, and the aggressors' momentum were key to breaking the Allied lines. However, while the Stuka, as an "Closed Aerial Support," was fierce, its advantage could only be realized if the Luftwaffe held air superiority. Once faced with enemy fighters, it couldn't even defend itself—how could it support the ground forces? The Panzer IV was formidable on the French battlefield, but once it encountered a tough opponent like the T-34, it could only rely on the crew's training and communication equipment to make up for its technical shortcomings. What would it take to dominate the battlefield?

Countless questions tangled together like a ball of yarn played with by a kitten—impossible to cut through, impossible to sort out. Logan scratched his head. He probably hadn't washed his hair since the injury, and it was itchy. Not scratching was unbearable, but scratching didn't help either!

"Hey, Leutnant, can you come help for a moment?"

Logan turned to see Dietrich calling him over. At his feet, a man in British uniform, covered in mud, leaned against a wall. Blood and dust had caked together on his face, forming an ugly mess. His uniform was torn in several places, but there was no blood seeping through—his injuries probably weren't too severe.

"This guy seems like an officer. See if you can get anything out of him!" The "fanatic leader" frowned.

"Water… give me some water…" The British officer's voice was weak, but his eyes showed he was still conscious.

Logan took a water canteen from a nearby "fanatic" and handed it to him. The man tilted his head back and gulped it down as if he hadn't had water in days.

"Major, which unit do you belong to?" Logan identified the rank from the man's insignia.

The British officer closed his eyes in pain. "23rd Light Cavalry!"

Before the operation, Logan had crammed information about British and French military organization. Unlike the French, the British used traditional names for their units, which sounded quite odd. As for the so-called Light Cavalry, it was actually an armored unit.

"Where's your tank?" Logan asked.

The officer didn't seem inclined to keep quiet. He sighed, "Left it in Belgium!"

Logan pressed on, "How many units are here? I mean, defending Wormhout town?"

"Maybe five, maybe seven. I don't know! Everyone's thrown together—you have an infantry company, I have a few guns, and some are digging trenches! It's a mess. This isn't war! It's a child's game! Even worse than children! The idiots at headquarters should be sent to the slaughterhouse!"

Logan naturally agreed with this sentiment. He translated the British major's words verbatim to Dietrich. The "fanatic leader" sneered, "No wonder they're so easily defeated! Ask him who ordered the construction of the defensive line here and which units are on the left and right flanks. If he cooperates, I can provide food, water, and medical treatment. It's very humane assistance!"

When Logan asked the British major again, the answers were still "I don't know."

Further threats and inducements yielded the same response.

"It seems he really doesn't know!" Logan turned to Dietrich.

The SS commander gave the man a look of utter disdain and signaled for the German soldiers to take him away. By now, the battlefield cleanup was mostly done. The surviving British soldiers had been herded into the town's only small square. If you looked closely, you could spot some in khaki uniforms—French soldiers. Since 1935, this paper tiger had also started changing into new uniforms more suited to modern warfare.

"Sir, we found these French people in a cellar! They're unarmed!"

A burly SS soldier brought over a few French civilians trembling like quails. A hunched old woman with thinning hair and a small, gray-haired old man in a blue-gray jacket supported each other. A middle-aged woman with her hair tied up and wearing an apron tightly held her three children: two girls, one tall and one short, and a snotty little boy.

The so-called old, weak, women, and children—they fit the bill perfectly!

"French? Does anyone speak French?" Dietrich asked. Given the geographical proximity and complex blood ties between Germany and France, many knew each other's language.

"Uh… I know a little!" Logan volunteered, stepping forward. Though his major had nothing to do with French, he had practiced hard the language for an entire summer to woo a tall, elegant girl from the French department—and succeeded in the fall. It was perhaps the most commendable blitzkrieg of his romantic life!

"Bon après-midi!" (Good afternoon!)

Logan struggled to recall the increasingly unfamiliar phrases, much like the face that had become blurred in his memory.

Including the old French woman, everyone looked timidly at the man in German uniform—whether Luftwaffe, Wehrmacht, or SS, to them, he was a brutal German devil. This perception had likely been passed down since the Franco-Prussian War of 1871!

"Today is a beautiful, sunny day!" As soon as the words left his mouth, Logan wanted to curse himself. Was this really the time for small talk?

Unexpectedly, the taller French girl timidly asked, "Monsieur l'officier, will you kill us?"

Logan was about to answer "No" directly when he noticed that she was actually quite pretty—clear, deep brown eyes, a slender, high nose, and lips that were neither too thick nor too thin. She reminded him of Sophie Marceau, the French actress hailed as the most beautiful woman in France.

(never heard of her? Just Google her—she was quite pure when young and very elegant as she matured).

The girl before him looked no more than 16 or 17, about 1.6 meters tall, slim, with a pale face. While Logan's first impression of her wasn't stunning, he was captivated by her pure and melancholic aura.

From a normal male perspective, she was a girl with great potential.

From a creepy uncle perspective, she was a top-tier loli—and, unfortunately, her lack of undergarments made certain things rather noticeable!

"Uh… no, of course not. The Hague Convention… prohibits… shooting… civilians!"

"Do you mean it?" the girl quickly asked, almost too fast for Logan's French comprehension.

"Of course!" Logan glanced back at Dietrich. "We don't kill civilians, right?"

The "fanatic leader" lit a cigarette. "We certainly won't kill unarmed French civilians, especially if they're willing to cooperate with us!"

Logan knew exactly what that meant. He struggled to translate into French: "You'll be fine, but you must follow our arrangements until the battle is over!"

"Isn't the battle already over?" Perhaps Logan's gentle expression eased her fear, as the girl seemed less nervous. However, before speaking, she glanced at the Allied soldiers who had laid down their weapons—about fifty or sixty, including the wounded.

"No, mademoiselle, the battle is far from over. But I promise, this situation won't last much longer!" Logan reassured her on his own authority. In terms of the concept of battle, its end might mean France's surrender or the conclusion of the entire war.