At dawn, the sun had just begun to rise through the mist. Major General Garde, freshly out of bed and not yet washed up, stood in his tent, frowning over a map, sighing from ti to ti.
Suddenly, intense gunfire erupted from the front lines. Startled, Garde looked up, turning his gaze toward the tent's entrance. Monts later, a ssenger rushed in to report, "General, the reconnaissance unit was ambushed by the enemy—over seventy casualties!"
The adjutant followed closely, wearing an expression that suggested he had expected this result all along.
"Order the troops to launch an attack!" Garde commanded, his voice unwavering. "At all costs, wipe them out!"
"Yes, sir!" the ssenger replied, hurrying off to relay the order.
Garde let out a weary sigh. Although the Fifth Army had won its battle and was pursuing the enemy, it felt as though they were being led by the nose. Every hill, rise, and even small cluster of trees might be a German ambush.
The Germans had proven extrely flexible. Their ambushes varied in scale, sotis just a handful of soldiers, other tis an entire unit. When the French sent small squads forward, the Germans would engage them in force, wiping them out. But if the French attempted to surround them with larger numbers, the Germans had already vanished, often leaving mocking notes in broken French.
Because of this, the Fifth Army advanced a re eight kiloters per day, with hundreds of casualties per kiloter.
Garde ground his teeth in frustration: "Tanks! We need tanks! If we had tanks leading the way, this wouldn't be happening. Where are they? What is Major Browning doing?"
"Sir," the adjutant said carefully, "the old tanks couldn't be repaired, and no new tanks have been delivered to Major Browning."
It was the first ti Garde found himself resenting the capitalists. When Charles had invented the tank, he'd managed to produce twelve in half a day—it was little more than steel plates welded onto a tractor. But now, capitalists were playing their gas again, using "scarcity marketing" tactics to delay production and create the illusion that tanks were rare and desperately needed. Soldiers would soon be pleading for them, and the military would have no choice but to pay a premium.
Garde could ignore a high casualty rate, but if this continued, his Fifth Army would be decimated, and he'd be left a commander with no troops. Worse still, he feared that the Germans weren't truly retreating, but were regrouping for a counterattack. Without tanks, Garde doubted his ability to withstand such a move.
Just then, cheers erupted outside his tent, accompanied by the roar of engines.
"What's going on?" Garde asked. "Reinforcents?"
Hearing the lighter, higher-pitched engines, Garde assud they were transport vehicles carrying reinforcents. His adjutant was about to step outside to investigate when a breathless ssenger rushed in.
"General, Major Browning has arrived with the Third Infantry Battalion!"
"Major Browning?" Garde's eyes brightened. "Does that an his tanks have been repaired?"
"No, sir!" the ssenger replied. "They arrived on, uh… well, it seems to be so kind of three-wheeled motorcycle."
"A three-wheeled motorcycle?"
Driven by curiosity, Garde grabbed his binoculars and exited the tent with his adjutant. Looking through the binoculars toward the road half a kiloter away, he saw a convoy of motorcycles racing along in formation.
Indeed, they were three-wheeled motorcycles, each equipped with a mounted Maxim machine gun.
Garde's eyes lit up. Could this be a new type of tank—another one of young Charles's inventions? But sothing didn't sit right: the motorcycles showed no sign of stopping.
"Where are they going?" Garde exclaid in surprise.
The adjutant glanced in the direction the motorcycles were headed. "Sir, they seem to be aiming for the mountain road."
"No, no! Tell them to stop!" Garde shouted, furious. "They're supposed to stay here and fight with us, not flee to the mountains… They're nothing but deserters!"
The adjutant imdiately relayed the order to the ssenger, who jumped onto a nearby horse and galloped off in pursuit of the motorcycles. Yet, when the adjutant saw the horse struggling to keep up with the plu of dust and exhaust the motorcycles left behind, he realized that the order would never reach Major Browning.
This was deliberate on Browning's part—he didn't want Garde's ssenger catching up to him and issuing orders. It was also precisely as Charles had instructed him.
"One critical point," Charles had said, crouching over the map, "is that you must operate independently of the main forces."
"But why?" Major Browning asked, an edge of fear in his voice. Two hundred n couldn't accomplish much alone—without support, they'd be like fodder for the enemy.
"Your commanding officer doesn't know how to use these sidecars effectively," Charles explained. "He'll see them as tanks and try to send them ahead to draw fire. If that happens, you're as good as dead."
Browning flushed with embarrassnt. He had been considering exactly that approach—sending the sidecars in front, guns blazing at enemy lines.
"So…" Browning hesitated. "That's not how we're supposed to use them?"
He didn't care about looking foolish. If he didn't ask now, it wouldn't just be embarrassing later—it could cost them their lives. Besides, he didn't think Charles would judge him; Charles was a genius, after all.
"Of course not," Charles replied. "The armor on the sidecars is only five milliters thick—a German rifle could pierce it easily from two hundred ters away. The sides and rear are completely exposed without any shielding whatsoever."
Charles added, "We can't add thicker armor, or it'll make the bike harder to maneuver."
This left Browning puzzled. "If the sidecar can't withstand gunfire or be used in a frontal assault, what's the point?"
"Speed, Major," Charles said. "Its advantage is speed."
"Speed?" Browning looked baffled. How could speed be useful on a battlefield? Wouldn't it just make them faster targets?
Pointing to the map, Charles explained further: "The reason the Germans can retreat and fight simultaneously is because they've stationed units at the rear to cover their withdrawal."
"They're prepared for this type of combat. They've dug trenches, positioned themselves on high ground, and are ready for us to walk right into their crosshairs."
"Obviously, we're not going to do that."
"But we have no other choice but to chase them from behind…" Browning said, trailing off as Charles fixed him with a pointed stare.
Suddenly, Browning understood. Infantry had no choice but to follow the enemy's retreat, but the motorcycles, with their vastly superior speed, could move differently.
Hesitating, Browning asked, "You're suggesting we bypass the German rearguard and strike directly at their main forces?"
"Exactly!" Charles said. "Their main force is unprepared for an attack from behind. With their rearguard covering them, they believe they're safe. So, they'll be marching with their rifles slung over their shoulders, artillery still hitched to horses, moving in a single line down the road, or perhaps resting in an open field. And if a hundred Maxim guns suddenly appeared on their flank…"
Browning, now fully excited, finished the thought: "They'd be done for. They wouldn't even have ti to react!"
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