Major Brownie crouched in the trench, cautiously peering over the edge to observe the German positions across the Marne River.
Under Gallieni's command, the Sixth Army had launched an assault on what had initially been the German flank. But by the ti the Sixth Army had gathered, the German forces had already adjusted their defense to face them head-on. What had once been the German flank had beco a fortified front, and now the direction across the Marne was effectively the flank.
The German response was tactically sound.
With the Marne River in front of the Fifth Army, and only one bridge—Marne Bridge—for passage, the Germans needed only to station a regint of a few thousand soldiers along the river. anwhile, the ten-thousand-strong Fifth Army could do nothing more than observe from the opposite shore.
"The battle plan is as follows!" General Gadd personally instructed Major Brownie's unit. "General Gallieni will direct the Sixth Army to hit the enemy's flank. They'll advance to the Marne Bridge and strike the north end of the bridgehead. Your tank division will cross the bridge as quickly as possible and join their assault to encircle the enemy. Understood?"
"General!" Major Brownie imdiately voiced his concern. "The enemy has trenches and machine guns across the bridge. Our tanks could get stuck in their trenches and be immobilized!"
General Gadd looked at Brownie as though he'd just heard the most absurd statent. "Major, I didn't order you to drive the tanks into the trenches. You only need to halt just before the trenches to shield our troops from German bullets. That way, our soldiers can storm across the bridge toward the enemy."
"Yes, General!" Major Brownie replied.
Despite his words, Brownie held little confidence in the plan.
He raised his binoculars, studying the German defenses. On the northern bank of the Marne, the Germans had constructed a circular defense line outfitted with at least ten Maxim machine guns.
These water-cooled machine guns were far more reliable than the French Saint-Étienne guns, which overheated after firing a hundred rounds or tended to jam due to their complicated chanisms.
With a rate of fire of roughly 500 rounds per minute, the Maxims could spray bullets wildly at the tanks.
If Brownie's tanks followed Gadd's orders, halting before the trenches, they would be sitting ducks, exposed to relentless machine-gun fire from all directions. The Germans likely had artillery calibrated to target the bridgehead as well, aning that heavy shelling could obliterate the tanks and any troops following behind.
Could the tank's 9mm steel armor withstand sustained Maxim fire? Could it endure artillery shelling?
This plan was bound for failure, and only soone as pig-headed as General Gadd could be so confidently blind to the danger.
As the Sixth Army charged against the German line amid a barrage of artillery, Brownie watched in dismay.
The attack was executed using outdated tactics. The soldiers, ard with bayoneted rifles, charged in tight ranks toward the enemy's trenches. Their red pants stood out clearly, even through the haze of artillery smoke.
Although they had covered the red portions of their hats, it made little difference. German machine guns and rifles poured bullets into their ranks, and lines of French soldiers fell, bleeding in the mud.
Still, the soldiers pressed forward with bravery, marching through the rain of bullets, stepping over fallen comrades, even using each other as bridges over barbed wire.
Yet it was all for nothing. Bullets cut down the advancing waves of soldiers rcilessly, as if an invisible wall blocked the Sixth Army's assault.
Previously, Brownie might have thought this was simply how battles were fought. Wars inevitably involved death and sacrifice; that was the nature of combat.
But after working with Charles, Brownie couldn't shake his doubt about it all.
Was this really necessary?
If fewer lives could be lost to achieve the sa result—or even secure victory—why fight this way?
"Major!" soone beside him murmured, his voice tense. "General Gadd's plan will get us all killed!"
"Indeed!" another soldier chid in. "For him, it's just a miscalculation, but for us, it's…" Life. Their lives.
Each person only had one life, precious beyond words, but the generals seed indifferent to that. They didn't even spare the ti to consider the feasibility of the battle plan, only barking orders for the soldiers to advance, attack, and kill the enemy.
Brownie saw General Gadd lower his binoculars, appearing ready to issue the attack order.
"This idiot!" Brownie muttered, quickly crouching and hurrying along the trench.
General Gadd noticed Brownie's movent and angrily shouted, "Get back to your post, Major! We're about to attack!"
As head of the tank division, Brownie was expected to lead the charge. Without him, the assault could not comnce.
Pretending not to hear, Brownie sprinted over to the general, crouched low. "General, now isn't the ti!"
Gadd scowled. "That's not for you to decide."
"General!" Brownie explained, "Look across the way—the Sixth Army's assault has already been repelled. They're falling back and won't be able to execute a pincer attack. We should wait until their next push."
General Gadd glanced at the scene. Indeed, the charge had lost montum, the battlefield littered with French corpses and wounded soldiers. Those still alive crawled back under a hail of bullets.
"Do as you're told!" General Gadd snapped. "I know when it's ti to attack."
"Yes, sir," Brownie responded, aware that Gadd had taken his advice but refused to admit it.
On his way back, Brownie didn't return to his post. Instead, he turned and ran along the trench, disappearing out of Gadd's line of sight, heading towards Davaz.
His pace quickened until he broke into a full sprint, dashing to Charles's house as if running a hundred-ter race.
The door was slightly ajar. Brownie pushed it open and entered, but the house was empty. His heart sank.
They must have left, he thought.
Then he heard faint sounds from below. Realizing what it ant, he hurried to the basent door, banging on it while calling out loudly:
"Charles! It's Brownie! I need to speak with you—please open the door!"
Hearing the voice, Derek hesitated. Was Brownie here to drag Charles to the front lines to command the tanks?
Despite his reservations, Derek opened the door. He knew that a locked door wouldn't stop Brownie, who carried a sidearm.
Brownie pushed past him, breathing heavily, asking, "Is Charles here?"
Derek's eyes narrowed. "I won't allow you to take him to the battlefield, Major. He's only seventeen."
Thank you for the support, friends. If you want to read more chapters in advance, go to my Patreon.
User Comments
0 comments from readers