Chapter 157: Charles's Elite Troops
The heavy rain poured down relentlessly, each raindrop striking the ground with the force of a bullet. Mud and blood merged into rivulets that streamed through the battlefield, flowing into the trenches. Inside, French and German soldiers were locked in brutal hand-to-hand combat, indistinguishable from one another in the muck.
Bayonets, rifle butts, shovels, even rocks and teeth became weapons—anything that could end the opponent's life. The German troops, hardened veterans with the advantage of numbers, fought tenaciously in these close quarters. Meanwhile, the French forces capitalized on the disarray following the grenade explosions, surging into the German ranks and opening fire before transitioning to close-quarters combat, gaining a tactical edge through superior equipment and technique.
The fighting grew desperate, with screams and the clash of metal echoing throughout the trench. Pools of water turned red, blending rain with blood. On both sides of the trench, reinforcements surged forward in an attempt to break the stalemate. If both sides succeeded, the trench would turn into a slaughterhouse, with soldiers funneled in only to be torn apart until one side inevitably crumbled.
Yet this fragile balance didn't last long.
The tanks rumbled forward, with their 8-meter frames effortlessly bridging the 1.5-meter trenches as if they were mere ditches. Then, they pressed relentlessly onward, crushing the German reinforcements as they attempted to advance. The Germans, like an advancing tide, suddenly found themselves obstructed by an impenetrable wall of steel.
The scene was chaos and carnage, with blood and mud splattered everywhere. Screams of terror erupted as the tank treads rolled over soldiers, the sound of bones snapping like dry twigs underfoot. All who heard it shuddered, as if that sound of snapping bones were coming from their own bodies.
Machine guns mounted on the tanks began firing, the Vickers gun rattling off rounds like a relentless hailstorm, cutting down German soldiers in swaths. Men fell screaming, helpless against the onslaught. Some tried desperately to use K-bullets to pierce the metal behemoth, but the Mark I's 17mm armor held fast against their attacks. Others attempted to flank the tank, only to be mowed down by side-mounted Hotchkiss guns.
Each tank's side guns provided overlapping coverage for the next, forming a deadly crossfire. Number One's side gun protected the flank of Number Two, and vice versa, creating an unbreakable wall of defensive fire. Any German soldiers attempting to weave between the tanks were mercilessly cut down.
Within two short minutes, the tanks had obliterated the German reinforcements. The French soldiers in the trenches had gained the upper hand, swiftly bayoneting or shooting any Germans who continued to resist, granting no quarter. With each victory, they immediately advanced, scaling the other side of the trench with rifles raised to protect the tanks.
A shrill whistle sounded, and French soldiers pulled grenades from their belts, lit them, and hurled them toward the next line of German defenses.
Boom! Boom!
With each explosion, the soldiers yelled, charged forward, and the cycle of tank-led assaults, grenade explosions, and close-quarters combat repeated again and again. The German trenches were overrun in quick succession with minimal resistance.
Colonel Klopp, watching from the rear, could hardly believe his eyes.
He had organized at least ten prior assaults on this line, replenishing his forces seven or eight times, with countless French soldiers sacrificed to no avail. And here was Charles's force, one thousand strong, moving swiftly and efficiently, making short work of the defenses without any apparent need for additional support.
Colonel Klopp had assumed that Charles's men would be walking into a massacre. He had even said a quiet prayer for them, thinking, Forgive these poor souls—they know not the horrors of the battlefield, and their commander is just an artillery officer...
But before his prayer was even complete, the battle had already shifted in Charles's favor. The expected massacre had indeed happened—just not to the French.
"What's happening out there?" Klopp raised his binoculars, watching in stunned amazement as Charles's troops continued their rapid advance, the front line pushing forward with incredible speed despite the rain obscuring his view.
"Colonel!" a radio operator reported breathlessly, "They've broken through the second line! The Germans are in full retreat!"
Klopp was astounded. "That line had over three thousand Germans defending it... and they were beaten by a thousand men?"
Is this the same German army we've been fighting all along?
Klopp realized that this wasn't an indictment of his own troops' abilities—it was the result of Charles's elite forces in action. Though the outcome was unexpected, it made sense. Charles's reputation preceded him, and it was now clear that these were no ordinary soldiers.
Unconsciously, Klopp's perception of Charles's unit had shifted from a "doomed rabble" to "Charles's elite."
The German line broke as the French breached the second trench. Realizing that nothing could stem the French advance, the German soldiers panicked. They saw that every fortification, every defense would be crushed beneath the relentless tank treads. Resistance seemed utterly futile.
But Estini wasn't about to let the Germans escape. He knew from experience that retreating Germans could regroup or ambush them from the sides of the road, harassing them despite their rout. So, he ordered squads of machine-gun-mounted motorcycles to pursue the fleeing soldiers, maintaining a safe distance while keeping them under constant threat. This tactic of close pursuit was an old favorite of the motorcycle units—they knew exactly how to handle it.
The realization set in among the Germans that they couldn't escape. One by one, large groups began to surrender, throwing down their weapons and raising their hands.
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