In the middle of the night on November 11, 1918, Prime Minister David Lloyd George of the British Empire had just arrived in Paris, the capital of France.
There were no passenger planes in that era, so the journey was by ship and train. After a long day of travel, the nearly sixty-year-old prime minister was exhausted. He had just bathed and was about to rest when his guards knocked at the door.
"Your Excellency, the Chief Secretary, Mr. Els, has urgent matters to report!"
The guard's face showed unease. He knew how displeased the prime minister would be at being woken, but the chief secretary had insisted on an immediate audience.
Lloyd George rose with a scowl, pulled on his coat, and yawned. "Bring him in."
A moment later, Chief Secretary Els hurried in, sweating despite the November chill of Paris.
"What is it, Mr. Els?" George's tone hardened; something serious had happened.
"Prime Minister, urgent news from the front—you must read this." He handed over a telegram.
The heading bore the code of the British Army; it was clearly a front-line dispatch. George scanned it, his face turning iron blue.
"Is this confirmed? The Scottish Highland regiment was repulsed—and all tanks lost?"
Els nodded. "Confirmed by General Sir John French. Not only the Highland regiment, but the Oxfordshire Cavalry supporting them suffered heavy losses. And…the Bastogne sector remains in German hands."
Like Marshal Ferdinand Foch of France, Lloyd George felt those last words stab deep.
"Hmph. Tell French this: the German forces in Bastogne must be annihilated before the Paris Peace Conference convenes!"
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At the same time, at German Empire headquarters, Field Marshal Paul von Hindenburg received a report from the 1st Guards Corps. The regimental commander stated that the 1st Battalion had not withdrawn with the main force as ordered. Hindenburg bristled; in the disciplined German army, disobeying orders was nearly unthinkable.
Soon another dispatch arrived: the battalion had been unable to retreat because it was still engaged with the British. In a single day, the unit had sent two pieces of good news. Hindenburg allowed himself a weary smile. He admired their valor, yet with the Empire capitulated, such victories were now meaningless.
Still, the battalion's performance demanded attention. If France truly insisted that the German Army be reduced to a fraction of its strength, only the most elite formations could remain. This fire must be preserved.
Hindenburg dictated his order to the Bastogne sector:
"Order your troops to withdraw—fall back to the Rhineland for rest and reorganization."
Then, in the old marshal's gentler hand: "The war is over, children. Do not make senseless sacrifices; the days ahead are still long. — Headquarters of the German Army, Field Marshal Hindenburg."
Receiving the telegram, Major Lin Yu looked over the position and the field before him, then at his men.
After the withdrawal order, the 1st Guards Corps had already begun to pull back. Having repelled the British attack, the German units on both flanks were gone; his battalion was now alone in Bastogne. To remain meant encirclement.
The 1st Battalion had begun with five hundred men; fewer than four hundred remained. It was unrealistic to pit them against the Allied millions. Retreat was the only option.
Lin Yu understood: the war was truly ending. Better to step into the new era than cling to the last tatters of the old. And from the men's eyes, he saw their longing for home—families waiting for reunion.
Under their expectant gaze, Lin Yu decided.
"Brothers—we're going home!"
He strode to the center of the position, pulled up the Iron Cross Black Eagle battle flag, raised it high, and, leading the German Empire's anthem, marched off the field.
"Long live the laurels of the victors, lord of the Fatherland!" "Long live, my Emperor!" "Feel the glory on the throne—you are the people's love!"
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On November 20, 1918, the 1st Battalion, 1st Guards Corps withdrew safely into German territory and took station in the western town of Daleiden.