I Became a Tycoon During World War I: Saving France from the Start

Chapter 41: Maintain Speed

It was early afternoon. Warm sunlight filtered through the canvas of the tent, where Kluck sat in a camp chair, staring at the cup of coffee in his hands. Though it emitted a tempting aroma, in Kluck's eyes, it looked like a congealed, black pool of blood, filled with death and suffering.

"According to reports from each unit, we've sustained around sixty thousand casualties," his aide announced, marking positions on the map as he reported. "The 2nd and 3rd Corps are on our left flank, the 4th Corps on our right. The location of the 9th Corps is unknown—they seem scattered in our rear and have yet to regroup."

Kluck, previously motionless like a statue, suddenly looked up. His voice was quiet but chilling. "Relieve Major General Dimke of his command and replace him with Major General Baldwin. Order him to have the 9th Corps organized by nightfall."

"Yes, sir!" The aide replied, quickly sending a runner to relay Kluck's orders.

Kluck's remarkable memory was one of his greatest assets; he had memorized the roster of the First Army, knowing each corps and division commander's strengths, quirks, and dispositions as if etched in his mind. He could manage troop movements without referencing files, never making a mistake.

After a moment of silence, Kluck asked, "Where is the Second Army now?"

The aide checked the map. "About five kilometers behind us. Since we're in retreat, they've halted their advance."

Kluck nodded calmly. "Inform them they can resume their advance tomorrow morning."

"But, General!" The aide protested, growing anxious. "The Chief of Staff ordered us to continue the retreat. We face two enemy armies, and the British Expeditionary Force has also joined the offensive…"

Without a word, Kluck gave his aide a cold, withering look that silenced him immediately. The aide gave a meek "Yes, sir" and set off to relay the command.

Kluck knew he still had a chance. Though the First Army had lost over sixty thousand men, they still had over two hundred thousand troops remaining—a force with real fighting power.

The French forces, despite their numbers, were little more than an intimidating spectacle. French tactics were painfully predictable; Kluck could practically foresee their every move. All the German forces needed to do was hold their ground, inflict as many casualties as possible, wear down the enemy, and then counterattack to secure victory.

As for the Chief of Staff's orders, Kluck dismissed them. The Chief had simply been frightened by the size of the enemy force. Once the First Army defeated the French again, he'd see reason.

Victory is assured, Kluck thought. Even with those "iron monsters," the French would fall—my artillery will blast them to pieces!

He rose and walked to the tent window, looking out over the open field where the troops were resting. There, three mixed infantry brigades of the army's reserves, numbering over twenty thousand, were assembled. They were the most loyal and elite units of the Empire—well-trained soldiers who showed no signs of discouragement even under these bleak circumstances.

Watching their orderly movements, Kluck made a confident prediction: "Nothing will stop them from advancing to Paris. Nothing!"

It was as if fate had heard his boast. Suddenly, a burst of gunfire shattered the camp's calm. The meticulously arranged camp was thrown into chaos as soldiers fell to the ground, screaming as they were hit.

"What's going on?" Kluck shouted.

He recognized the sound as Maxim machine gun fire—but the French didn't use Maxims. Could it be friendly fire, with German units mistaking them for the enemy?

As Kluck pondered this, several bullets whistled through his tent. A three-wheeled motorcycle, barely ten meters away, sped past his line of sight, the sight of it shocking him. Before he could make out more, his security chief dove at him, pushing him to the ground just as a stream of machine gun bullets zipped over their heads.

In that fleeting glance, Kluck had confirmed the enemy's identity. The Germans had no such motorcycles, and the riders wore the distinctive red trousers of the French army.

But how had the enemy reached his camp? Why hadn't the rearguard issued any warning? Could they all have been wiped out without getting a message through?

Impossible!

And yet, the enemy was here—mere meters from him, nearly turning him into a sieve.

The force that had stormed into Kluck's camp was indeed led by Major Browning and his Third Infantry Battalion. At dawn, they'd set off from the motorcycle factory, bringing along two locals familiar with the terrain. Along the way, they managed to evade Major General Garde's main forces and took a mountainous route.

The motorcycle convoy twisted through the narrow mountain roads for hours before finally rejoining the main road. They hadn't been back on the main road for long when they rounded a hill and suddenly saw a vast, open plain filled with a sprawling military encampment.

Caught off guard, the motorcycles slowed, the soldiers staring in disbelief at the mass of enemy troops spread before them. The Germans didn't react initially, assuming the riders were friendly forces—who else could have penetrated this deeply?

"Oh, God, that's at least twenty thousand troops!" Gunner Yves, sitting in his sidecar, called out to Major Browning, who had just caught up. "What are we going to do, Major?"

Browning stretched his neck to peer over the front motorcycles, gritting his teeth. "What choice do we have? There's no turning back!"

He glanced at the line of sidecars trailing behind them, then raised his hand in a quick, decisive gesture: "Enemy ahead! Prepare for combat!"

"Enemy ahead! Prepare for combat!"

The command echoed down the line as the motorcycles' drivers crouched low, keeping their heads beneath the armor. The gunners loaded ammunition belts, cocked their guns, and gripped their triggers, ready.

Browning, manning a machine gun himself, issued one final command: "Keep up the speed! Go as fast as you can—don't look back!"

Nervous responses trickled through the ranks:

"Yes, sir!"

One soldier asked, trembling, "Major, if we make it through, and the enemy's still in front of us… what then?"

Browning replied flatly, "Then kill them."

Before anyone could ask further, Browning raised his weapon and shouted, "Let's go, men! Wipe them out!"

With a roar, the motorcycles swerved off the main road and surged onto the open field, slicing like a blade through the left flank of the German camp.

The Maxim guns on the right-side sidecars burst into life, unleashing a hurricane of bullets that tore into the German ranks, cutting a path of devastation through the unsuspecting soldiers.

(Note: Following Napoleonic customs, France adopted right-hand driving, unlike the British, so French sidecars were placed on the right side.)

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