Outside Namur, on the German defensive line amidst the wind and snow.
This line was initially defended by Lieutenant General Nicholas's 21st Corps to block attacks and pursuit by Belgian forces and Charles's First Armored Division.
But the elite troops had already been transferred to Antwerp, replaced here by the 37th Corps, freshly returned from rest and replenishnt in Berlin.
This so-called "rest" simply ant that the battered unit was withdrawn from the front lines, replenished hastily with nurous recruits, given minimal training, and sent straight back into combat.
Deploying raw recruits directly into frontline action was unusual for the Germans. Normally, recruits joined reserve units first, gradually participating in less intense combat missions to adapt to battle conditions. But now, manpower shortages forced them to bypass these steps entirely.
Colonel Ralph stamped his feet in the trench, shaking off the cold with an irritated shiver, then cautiously stepped onto the trench platform, carefully raising his head to observe the Belgian lines opposite.
Nothing. Too quiet.
Just whiteness everywhere; even bodies and blood had vanished beneath the snow.
When Ralph lowered himself back into the trench, his adjutant Peter approached. "What are you worried about, Colonel? A Belgian attack?"
Ralph didn't answer imdiately.
Nearby German soldiers confidently chid in:
"Relax, Colonel. Although we have many recruits, dealing with the Belgians is no problem."
"Yes, Colonel. We know the Belgians well. Their rifles and artillery were mostly bought from us—they can't defeat us."
"If we're inexperienced, so are they."
Ralph responded grimly, "You seem to forget. Besides the Belgians, Namur has Charles's First Armored Division."
This imdiately silenced the soldiers. A chill wind seed to sweep through the trench, extinguishing their brief optimism.
After a long pause, Peter responded weakly, "But Colonel, Charles's division is supposed to be heading to Brussels soon."
The soldiers quickly echoed:
"True, everyone knows Charles will attack Antwerp."
"Our troops have the British running scared near Antwerp—Charles must go rescue them."
"No, it's about supplies. Coastal cities are crucial for the Allies, so Charles has no choice but to act."
Ralph didn't respond. Although their logic was sound, sothing felt off.
If Charles truly intended to rescue Antwerp, his tanks would already have moved toward Brussels. Yet Ralph had heard nothing of the sort.
This ant Charles's forces might still be in Namur, with objectives other than Antwerp.
Suddenly Ralph's expression shifted sharply. "Quiet!" he commanded.
The soldiers instantly fell silent. Even those cleaning rifles froze, turning their puzzled eyes toward Ralph.
"Listen carefully," Ralph whispered. "Do you hear anything?"
Soldiers strained to listen, so removing ear coverings and hoods.
Peter cautiously stood, peering over the trench. Ralph was right. Amid the freezing wind was a strange, low sound.
Like sobbing, or wolves howling, or perhaps—
No. It was the roar of engines.
"Tanks," Peter gasped, turning back toward the n.
Instantly, fear and shock filled every face, including Ralph's.
Belgium had no tanks. Tanks ant Charles—the approaching First Armored Division.
"Impossible!" soone shouted in terror, unwilling to believe what was unfolding.
The noise grew louder; even the "clink-clank" of tank tracks biting into icy snow beca clearly audible.
Ralph rapidly raised his binoculars above the trench edge, where dark tanks erged from the white curtain of snow, filling his field of view. They could only be Char A1 tanks, and so armored bridging vehicles too.
"Sound the alarm!" Ralph shouted urgently. "Battle positions—"
His command was cut short by a bullet that pierced his head, leaving a bloody streak on the trench wall. Ralph fell stiffly to the ground like a toppled log, instantly dead.
Panic erupted as soldiers scrambled toward firing positions, hastily aiming rifles and preparing machine guns. But before they even understood what had happened, deadly accurate shots dropped them one by one into pools of blood.
Behind, German recruits preparing to reinforce stared in horror. This was not what they'd been told.
Veterans repeatedly assured them:
"The enemy always fires artillery before charging."
"Then they'll charge. Just aim carefully and fire when ordered."
"Don't worry. Defense is safe. Rember the Som—we killed 100,000 British soldiers in one day."
Yet, these recruits watched veterans rise from trenches only to have their heads instantly blown apart by precise, invisible gunfire.
No artillery preparation, no visible enemy—only sudden, precise shots.
What was happening?
Could they even raise their heads?
If they did, would they et the sa fate as the veterans?
So brave recruits tested this, only to suffer identical fates—brains splattered, bodies falling lifeless. Machine gunners firing wildly were quickly silenced by bullets.
The surviving recruits, terrified, crouched helplessly in trenches, screaming incoherently, unsure of what to do. All they'd learned seed useless. No one had prepared them for this.
Charles had employed a tactic known as "hidden warfare."
The snowstorm was perfect cover. Soldiers wrapped rifles in white cloth, wore white cloaks, and crept silently through darkness, settling just fifty or even fewer ters from enemy trenches.
Lying motionless for half an hour or more allowed snow to conceal every trace.
By dawn, thousands of soldiers lay hidden, rifle barrels aid directly at oblivious enemies re ters away.
(Note: This tactic was commonly used by Chinese volunteer forces, enabling close-quarters surprise attacks and hand-to-hand combat even without superior firepower. Chinese martyr Qiu Shaoyun famously sacrificed his life rather than reveal his position, exemplifying the extre discipline required.)
(End of Chapter 607)
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