Barely half an hour after the poison gas had begun to dissipate, the Germans launched their assault.
This was General Jonas's order. He feared that the 105th Regint might regroup in the rear, establish another defensive line, and then execute Charles's "mobile defense" strategy to reclaim the front.
At the sharp sound of a whistle, German soldiers climbed out of their trenches. Wearing pilot goggles, with faces covered in cotton cloth soaked in sodium bicarbonate solution, they gripped their rifles tightly, advancing cautiously across the muddy ground.
This improvised gas protection was developed by German chemist Fritz Haber himself. After creating poison gas, he devised ways to protect his soldiers from its deadly effects.
However, this cotton protection had similar limitations to the activated carbon filters used by the French—its protection only lasted for a limited ti.
Before long, German troops reached the French line.
A thin yellow-green mist still lingered in the trenches, a sign that the gas had settled and hadn't fully dispersed. Colonel Fabian reached the trench edge, pistol in hand, taking a quick peek before pulling back imdiately. Just that brief look was enough to confirm his suspicion.
Inside the trench lay twisted, contorted bodies alongside scattered belongings—overturned food, discarded personal items, and crates of ammunition. The French had retreated in haste, leaving even their machine guns behind.
A few German soldiers tried to climb down to retrieve the valuable machine guns, but Colonel Fabian stopped them.
"Keep moving forward!" he shouted, his voice muffled behind his cloth mask. "Look at those corpses! If you don't want to end up like them, don't bother with those guns!"
The soldiers murmured in agreent, setting wooden planks across the trench so they could cross without stepping inside. Occasionally, a soldier would stumble and fall into the trench, frantically climbing out while holding his breath and quickly swapping his cloth for a spare.
The German soldiers had no idea that, hidden in the trench tunnels below, an entire regint of French soldiers lay in wait—the very 105th Regint they were pursuing.
Watching through his binoculars, General Jonas saw his troops disappear into the haze, then signaled for another regint to follow.
These were his finest regints, the elite units of his army.
"Against the 105th, we can't afford mistakes," Jonas muttered to himself, putting down his binoculars. "Charles's unit deserves our caution."
Then he turned to his aide. "Send a ssage to the troops—advance at least two kiloters."
"Yes, General," the aide replied, and the ssage was relayed by signal flags to the advancing forces.
Jonas felt a certain satisfaction as his troops disappeared into the distance. With gas, battles seed almost easy. Perhaps Germany should manufacture more poison gas; victory would co step by step, and the war would end, sparing countless lives.
Far from a "demonic weapon," gas was simply a tool—a weapon that could ultimately save lives.
Just then, a movent in the French trenches caught Jonas's eye.
At first, he thought it was one of his own soldiers who had fallen behind. But soon, he realized sothing was wrong. The movent was growing—more heads were popping up from the trenches, and as the gas swirled, it began to lift, revealing French soldiers erging from the toxic fog.
Jonas's face turned pale. They're alive. A whole force hiding in the trenches—clearly immune to the gas.
A chill ran through him. I was right, he thought, stunned. Charles has developed so kind of anti-gas equipnt!
As if to confirm his suspicion, his binoculars focused on the French soldiers, who wore a peculiar full-face apparatus with a protruding, snout-like filter over the mouth and nose.
"Enemy attack!" Jonas shouted, turning to his officers. "Prepare for battle! They're advancing!"
His troops were stunned. An attack? Here? Now?
Following Jonas's gaze, they saw sothing that filled them with dread: French soldiers in gas masks erging from what should have been a deathly quiet trench, their lenses reflecting the morning light, giving them an eerie, inhuman look.
The German soldiers panicked.
In the trench, only a single infantry battalion and a security unit remained, totaling barely five hundred n. The advancing French force appeared to be a full regint.
Jonas's face drained of color. He knew what they were up against. Desperately, he gave another order. "Signal the 297th Regint to retreat and reinforce us!"
The 297th had been his second advancing regint, and if they hadn't strayed too far, they might close in and launch a pincer attack on the advancing French.
But in war, things are rarely that simple.
Before Jonas's orders could be relayed, a few sharp gunshots rang out, taking down the signalers waving the flag.
"Snipers!" Jonas's face twisted. Of course, this was the 105th Regint.
It was almost poetic. Jonas had chased them, determined to wipe them out, only to find himself cornered, the tables turned.
Before his troops could react, the French began their assault.
Squads of soldiers, clad in the red pants of the French army, surged forward like a storm.
Their silence was almost more terrifying than a battle cry; even with their masks obscuring their faces, the German troops could feel the unmistakable intent of their foes.
Jonas shouted, "Machine guns! Set up a defensive line and hold them back!"
But it was no use. The 105th had snipers positioned around the battlefield, neutralizing the German machine gunners with surgical precision.
Then ca the mortars. French mortar shells rained down on the German trench, filling it with screams as explosions tore through the ground. The machine gun positions, along with their operators, were blown sky-high.
Jonas glanced at the row of gas canisters behind him—his last desperate option. Perhaps he could release the gas and end it all.
But he quickly realized the futility of the plan. The enemy soldiers all wore gas masks. Releasing the gas would only poison his own n.
"General, we need to retreat!" an aide yelled.
Jonas froze. Retreat would an total defeat, possibly leaving both of his infantry regints stranded and lost.
But if they didn't fall back…
His hesitation was barely a second, but it was already too late.
The French had closed within fifty ters, and a hail of grenades arced through the air, landing with smoking trails in the German trench.
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