I Became a Tycoon During World War I - Chapter 10

Chapter 10: These Damn Liars

The cold wind howled as autumn leaves withered away.

By September, the temperature in France had dropped to eight degrees, carrying a noticeable chill.

Hiding in the grass, the commander of the German First Army, General von Kluck, raised his binoculars to observe the town of Davaus across the mist-shrouded Marne River.

As he expected, French soldiers were indeed building defensive fortifications along the river. The only bridge in the vicinity had been reinforced: machine guns were positioned at its entrance, trenches had been dug in two layers with hundreds of men stationed, and faintly visible were figures setting explosive fuses, ready to destroy the bridge if it became indefensible.

A faint smirk of disdain appeared on Kluck’s lips. These fools, did they really believe he intended to launch a frontal assault across the river?

Turning slightly, Kluck whispered to the adjutant lying beside him, “Where is the First Regiment now?”

“General!” The adjutant pulled out his pocket watch and replied, “Barring any unforeseen delays, they should reach the designated position within twenty minutes!”

Kluck grunted softly, then issued an order: “Prepare for battle!”

“Prepare for battle!”

“Prepare for battle!”

...

The command echoed down the line. Hidden in the grass, the dense ranks of German soldiers calmly and methodically checked their equipment. Some affixed bayonets to their rifles—these were the vanguard troops, likely to engage in brutal hand-to-hand combat as soon as the fight began.

Having given his orders, Kluck waited silently for the arrival of the First Regiment.

Numbering over 4,000 men, the First Regiment was a crack unit personally cultivated by Kluck. They often served as the spearhead in battles, renowned for their decisive strikes. Last night, under cover of darkness, they had crossed the Marne River to flank the enemy’s defenses.

Their mission was twofold: first, to seize the bridge with lightning speed and secure it for the main force to cross the river; second, to capture the machine gun factory located on the western side of Davaus.

Kluck had great confidence in this plan. His experience fighting the French thus far had taught him their strengths and weaknesses.

The problem with the French army wasn’t its soldiers or officers—they were brave and courageous.

The true issue lay in the fact that it was a military controlled by avaricious banking capitalists.

These capitalists only knew how to bleed the populace dry, refusing to adopt advanced foreign equipment. The Maxim gun, for instance, had been rejected outright.

It wasn’t out of national pride, but to maintain a monopoly on arms production and reap higher profits without the pressure of competition.

Even though the Saint-Étienne machine gun was prone to frequent malfunctions, unreliable, and exorbitantly priced, it still became the army’s standard weapon. Privately manufactured Hotchkiss guns were even superior.

(Note: The Saint-Étienne machine gun was essentially a reverse-engineered Hotchkiss gun, deliberately modified to circumvent patents, but the modifications introduced numerous unreliable components.)

Laughably, these capitalists, who drained the lifeblood of the French people in peacetime, fled at the first sign of war, using the soldiers and civilians as their shield.

Who were the French soldiers really fighting for?

To protect these capitalists?

To let them live long and continue exploiting their labor?

Germany was different. To unify and strengthen the nation, 80% of its national income was dedicated to military development.

From the reign of Wilhelm I onward, German kings spared no expense for their military. Wilhelm I’s coronation ceremony had cost only 2,547 silver coins. (By comparison, another European monarch once spent 5 million silver coins on their coronation.)

German soldiers knew why they were fighting, understood that their blood wouldn’t be spilled in vain, and grasped the significance of their sacrifices on the battlefield.

Such a force was invincible!

“General!” The adjutant whispered to Kluck, interrupting his thoughts. “They’ve arrived!”

Kluck raised his binoculars and looked upstream along the Marne River. Sure enough, a black cloth fluttered above a building—it was the First Regiment’s signal indicating that they had reached their designated position and were ready.

Kluck nodded slightly, his voice low and chilling as he commanded:

“Prepare...”

The word was drawn out to give the soldiers time to ready themselves before his tone shifted decisively:

“Attack!”

The adjutant sprang to his feet, waved his arm, and shouted: “Attack!”

The German soldiers leapt from their positions in the grass, shouting as they emerged. What had appeared to be an empty woodland was suddenly teeming with men. Everywhere, heads clad in spiked helmets and rifles glinting in the sunlight emerged, eyes locked on the French defensive lines with a fierce resolve.

Across the Marne, the French soldiers, who had been casually chatting as they worked on their fortifications, froze in shock at the sight. Their faces turned pale, and they stood rooted in place. Only when gunfire erupted did they snap out of their stupor, yelping and scrambling into the trenches.

“Germans!” A French colonel shouted, “They’re here! Stay... calm!”

His voice trembled, betraying his own inability to remain composed.

“Bang! Bang!” Sporadic gunfire broke out as nervous French soldiers opened fire prematurely. The machine guns soon joined in, spewing bullets in furious bursts as they raked the advancing Germans.

The French colonel was livid. He hadn’t even ordered them to fire, but panic had rendered his men uncontrollable.

Now that gunfire filled the air, it was impossible to issue a ceasefire. Gritting his teeth, the colonel bellowed: “Fire! Open fire!”

However, neither he nor anyone else on the French side realized that they had fallen into the Germans’ trap.

Any clear-thinking individual should have known that a direct German assault across the river was impossible.

The bridge could be blown up at any moment, and the river, though only 70 meters wide, was icy, deep, and would turn troops into slow-moving targets if they entered it.

The Germans’ frontal attack was clearly a diversion to draw their attention.

What the French soldiers should have been guarding against was their flank.

But no one considered this. Almost everyone had been so rattled by the sudden appearance of the Germans that they abandoned reason, mechanically firing across the river, as if afraid the enemy might suddenly leap across to their position.

Suddenly, intense gunfire erupted on the left flank.

The French colonel’s face turned pale. At that moment, he realized the Germans’ true intent. Peering cautiously over the top of the trench, he saw German troops emerging on their flank.

Caught unprepared, the French soldiers on the left flank were routed in moments. Some were killed, others abandoned their positions and fled, while most, realizing escape was impossible, dropped to their knees and raised their hands in surrender.

The French colonel tried to maintain his composure, shouting: “Blow up the bridge! Blow up the...”

“Bang!” A single gunshot rang out.

A bullet pierced the colonel’s head, causing it to tilt at an unnatural angle before his body crumpled like a deflated balloon.

The Germans had prepared snipers to eliminate officers giving orders, ensuring their assault on the bridge proceeded smoothly.

Now, the French soldiers were unsure whether they should detonate the bridge.

Some thought: The Germans have already crossed the river. Is there any point in blowing up the bridge now? Isn’t it better to just run for it?

Before long, the French defensive line completely collapsed. Soldiers fled toward Davaus in disarray, their red caps and trousers resembling a crimson tide.

The bridge fell intact into German hands, allowing their main forces to stream across the Marne River unimpeded.

Watching the scene unfold from the rooftop of his villa, Francis erupted in fury.

“These scoundrels! So useless!”

“Where is General Garde? Where is he?”

General Garde was the commander of the Fifth Army. Francis had spent the past few days entertaining him with fine wine, beef, and even two charming maids, providing impeccable hospitality to make him feel at home.

Garde had repeatedly reassured Francis: “Don’t worry, Mr. Francis. With the Marne River defenses in place, the Germans won’t break through. I guarantee it!”

“Sir!” The butler replied anxiously, “I just saw General Garde leave by car, along with Mr. Pierre...”

Francis felt as though he had been plunged into icy water, his entire body turning cold.

It was over. Finished.

The factory, the family, his wealth and reputation—everything!

These damn liars!

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