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I Became a Tycoon During World War I - Chapter 12
🕑 Added 2025-01-31 15:53:20 +0000 UTCChapter 12: You Saved France
Blood spattered as screams echoed across the battlefield.
German soldiers fell like stalks of wheat being harvested. Yet with Colonel Jonas leading at the front, no one dared to flee. They lay prone, gazing at the colonel with pleading, terrified eyes, as if silently begging: "Order a retreat, sir! We cannot fight that thing!" But Colonel Jonas knew there was no way out.
Behind him was the Marne River, and the only bridge was undoubtedly packed with people. The First Army’s main force surged across it like a tide.
If he ordered a retreat, the soldiers of the First Regiment would either be trapped on the bridge or driven into the river.
Neither option was viable. Both would doom the regiment. Thus, Colonel Jonas had no choice but to hold his ground. Clenching his teeth, he rasped out the order:
"Hold your position!"
"Pick up your weapons—whatever they are—and fire at it!"
This was the only order Colonel Jonas could give, the only one that came to mind.
Since the war began—or rather, since he was born—he had never felt such despair. There seemed no way to stop "it." Death awaited them all here.
German bullets failed to pierce the "monster," while the machine gun mounted on its head spewed relentless streams of fire. From every angle, German soldiers standing, crouching, or firing fell in waves under its barrage.
The machine gun's fire blanketed the area. Meanwhile, the French soldiers sheltered behind the "monster" took precise aim, picking off German soldiers. The combination of sweeping suppression and pinpoint shots wreaked havoc on the Germans.
Even lying prone did little to help. The area was open, offering no cover, and bullets flew mercilessly, striking legs, bodies, and heads alike. The Germans’ leather helmets provided no protection.
Conversely, it was nearly impossible for German soldiers to hit the French. Shielded behind the "monster," the French would dart out to fire a shot and retreat instantly to reload, giving the Germans only a fleeting moment to react.
In his despair, Colonel Jonas suddenly recalled the defensive structures the French had built along the banks of the Marne River. Those fortifications might offer his soldiers some refuge.
Seizing on this thought, he shouted, "Retreat to the riverbank—"
Before he could finish, German soldiers scrambled to their feet and fled.
Colonel Jonas was aghast. Never before had his troops behaved this way. His command was incomplete, yet they were already retreating—not a controlled withdrawal, but an outright rout!
Then, the realization hit him like a hammer: if the men only heard the word "retreat," the chaos he feared—his troops colliding with the main force streaming over the bridge—might actually occur.
"Stop!" Colonel Jonas shouted in panic. "Everyone stop—"
But no one listened. The "retreat" had spiraled out of control.
Colonel Jonas had overestimated the discipline of his men—or underestimated the power of fear. Everyone, including himself, teetered on the brink of collapse.
Once he shouted "retreat," it was like breaking a dam. The flood was unstoppable.
Helpless, Colonel Jonas could only run with his troops. As he fled, he shouted:
"Form a defensive line at the riverbank! At the riverbank—"
A bullet whizzed through the air, piercing Colonel Jonas’s back.
His upper body lurched forward from the impact, arms and legs flailing outward.
Time seemed to stop as Colonel Jonas fell face-first to the ground. Around him, dirt flew from bullet impacts, blood sprayed from wounded soldiers, and terror-filled eyes watched in horror.
Amidst the searing pain and the final throbs of his heartbeat, Colonel Jonas's consciousness faded away.
...
Charles was thoroughly pleased with the battle's progress. Seeing the Germans retreat, he turned to a waiting messenger and ordered:
"Send in the reserves to attack the Marne Bridge!"
"Yes, sir!" the messenger replied, his voice trembling with excitement.
The thrill of victory coursed through him. He wished he could witness the miracle on the battlefield himself! Waving his signal flag vigorously, he conveyed the order to the front lines.
Soon, signal flags waved back in acknowledgment. Three reserve "tanks," accompanied by three units of French soldiers, accelerated from the flanks and advanced toward the Marne Bridge.
Camille, unable to bear the carnage, curled up in a corner behind a building, arms wrapped tightly around herself. Despite her fear, she couldn’t bring herself to leave Charles’s side. She shivered as she occasionally asked:
"Are we winning?"
"Are we… are we really winning?"
Djoka, gazing at the battlefield, replied passionately:
"Yes, we’re winning!"
"Our soldiers are brave—three hundred of them have driven back thousands of Germans…"
"No, it’s not just the soldiers. It’s Charles’s invention. It’s helped them repel the Germans!"
"And now, the others are returning. We’re counterattacking!"
Djoka was right. The French army, initially in retreat, had turned to find the Germans no longer pursuing.
Not only that, the Germans were in full flight, scattered in chaos.
The French soldiers hesitated briefly. They didn’t understand what had happened and lacked orders from their officers, but they all knew what to do: counterattack. After all, no one would reject the chance for victory, glory, and promotion. They turned their rifles back to the fight.
The tide had turned. The German defeat was only a matter of time.
Francis observed the battlefield impassively, letting out a faint "hmph."
He admitted that he had misjudged Charles. The young man’s military brilliance rivaled Napoleon’s and far surpassed the reliability of General Garde.
A smile crept across his face as he realized the implications. Everything he had lost—his family’s legacy, two major factories, a machine gun production line, and countless honors and benefits—was now within his grasp once more.
His eyes locked onto Charles as he pondered how to handle this remarkable young man.
Unaware of the scrutiny, Charles approached Joseph near the observation stand and comforted him:
"It’ll be over soon. The battle is almost won."
Joseph exhaled a sigh of relief, his tense expression softening.
"Yes, Master Charles."
Out on the battlefield, Matthew maneuvered one of the "tin cans" with precision.
Watching intently, Joseph couldn’t contain his admiration:
"This is your doing, Master Charles. It’s your leadership that secured this victory!"
"You’ve saved us all—perhaps even France itself!"
Charles replied calmly:
"It’s too early to say that just yet."
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