Morning mist shrouded the Som, its cold dampness seeping into the bones. Trees on both sides of the river stood bare, their last withered leaves scattered on the muddy earth. The landscape, once peaceful, was now devastated, scarred by endless bombardnt and littered with countless corpses.
The British artillery barrage had finally paused for a few hours, granting an eerie silence across the battlefield. But no one was under any illusion—this temporary calm rely signaled preparation for the next brutal assault.
"Stay alert!" shouted Colonel Ralph, commander of the German 21st Infantry Regint, at his exhausted soldiers.
He complained irritably, "Don't think for a second that the British have given up."
"But Colonel," one soldier replied wryly, "isn't it themselves they're not letting go?"
A brief chuckle rippled through the weary troops. None of them understood why the British kept launching these suicidal charges, wave after wave, despite massive losses.
Ralph remained unmoved. "Exactly my point. You think the enemy is foolish enough to continue doing the sa thing? This is war! If they want to survive and win, they must change their strategy."
His voice grew sterner, emphasizing every word. "That's precisely why it's so quiet right now. They're undoubtedly preparing sothing new. Stay vigilant!"
His reminder sobered the soldiers, who imdiately began checking weapons and ammunition, murmuring nervously among themselves.
"What do you think the British will try next?" one soldier asked his comrade.
"Who knows?" another replied. "Maybe they'll send in Charles's tanks."
Suddenly, the soldiers stopped working, staring at each other in horror. The thought of Charles's armored divisions—undefeated, relentless—terrified them more than any artillery barrage.
They'd been lucky so far. If the British ever called upon Charles, the war would shift drastically in favor of the Allies.
Then, the distant rumble of engines pierced the silence.
Colonel Ralph stiffened, quickly discerning the sound. "Tanks!" he shouted. "The British are deploying tanks! Load armor-piercing rounds!"
Soldiers hurriedly replaced their regular ammunition with K-bullets, scrambling to ready themselves. Yet fear lingered. Everyone assud these tanks belonged to Charles, aning their bullets might prove useless.
But before they could fully organize, British tanks surged from behind cover, tracks churning through mud and crushing bodies as they moved steadily toward the German lines.
However, rather than terror, German soldiers soon expressed relief upon closer inspection.
"Those aren't Charles's tanks!" soone cried joyfully.
Indeed, these were the British "Whippet" tanks.
At the forefront was Captain Bernard Law Montgory, commander within the 5th Infantry Brigade of the British Fourth Army. Montgory had never previously commanded tanks—truth be told, he hadn't even known Britain possessed tanks until the previous night.
Nevertheless, Montgory convinced himself this was no major issue; after all, no British officer had tank experience. He attempted to emulate tactics employed by Charles but found nothing in British military manuals. Thus, he defined a simple strategy on his own: tanks would act as mobile shields, enabling infantry to capture enemy trenches.
He knew nothing about tanks' strengths and weaknesses, nor how to exploit their full capabilities. His ignorance laid the groundwork for disaster.
As they advanced, what troubled Montgory most wasn't enemy fire but the horrific stench of decomposing corpses. The battlefield was a putrid swamp of blood and rotting flesh. As he trudged behind the tanks, gore and human remains churned up by their tracks splattered him relentlessly.
Several soldiers couldn't endure it and began vomiting uncontrollably. So, driven to madness, broke ranks, charging recklessly ahead into certain death, likely intentionally ending their own tornt.
"Hold the line!" Montgory shouted, raising his revolver to rally his n. "Stay behind the tanks!"
He noticed an eerie cracking sound beneath the tanks' tracks—bones snapping as bodies were crushed. The grisly realization churned his stomach, and he, too, succumbed to nausea, spewing his last al onto the ground.
Yet, Montgory refused to falter. Despite retching violently, he forced himself forward. To hesitate now was to share the fate of the fallen, becoming another naless corpse trampled into the mud, stripped of dignity.
Then British artillery resud, shells hamring German positions again. Montgory had requested the barrage, assuming the presence of tanks could protect infantry from friendly fire. The idea seed sound; German resistance montarily faltered under renewed shelling.
Exploiting this opportunity, British troops surged forward, Montgory among them. They reached the first German trench surprisingly easily, sparking initial euphoria.
But their triumph proved short-lived.
Just as they consolidated their newly acquired position, the Germans counterattacked ferociously. British tanks stopped abruptly at the edge of the trench, uncertain if they could safely cross the widened gap. Immobilized, they beca perfect targets for German artillery.
A sudden bombardnt of 77mm and 105mm German shells pounded the tanks, quickly reducing most of them to burning wreckage. Montgory realized, too late, they'd fallen into a carefully planned trap. German artillery had pre-registered this precise location—their own trench line—anticipating British occupation.
Pinned down, Montgory understood clearly what ca next: a fierce German infantry assault intended to retake the trench and slaughter everyone trapped within.
Without hesitation, Montgory shouted to his aide amid the deafening explosions, "When the shelling stops, we retreat imdiately!"
"Retreat, sir?" the aide asked in disbelief. They'd just seized their first objective—shouldn't they press forward?
"Yes, retreat!" Montgory insisted. "The mont the bombardnt pauses, withdraw!"
The aide saluted, rushing off to relay the urgent order.
Montgory's instincts proved correct. The Germans intended to annihilate his entire unit. His swift decision allowed many of his soldiers to escape the subsequent massacre.
As the surviving troops staggered back, the shattered remains of their tanks burning behind them, Montgory reflected bitterly.
They had advanced only a few hundred yards, paying for it with thousands of lives. Yet, this futile, blood-soaked assault would soon be proclaid a "glorious victory" by generals desperate to hide their incompetence.
No honor. No glory. rely a senseless slaughter, utterly devoid of dignity.
(End of Chapter 528)
Get 30% off on my Patreon and enjoy early access to new chapters.
You can also purchase the next 100 chapters of the novel directly from my Patreon page.
Hurry up! The promotion ends on March 2, 2026.
Read 30 Chapters In Advance: patreon/Franklin1
User Comments
0 comments from readers