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

Chapter 42: Want to Try That Again?

Blood splattered, and screams filled the air. Bullets whizzed through the German camp, leaving visible trails like strings pulling down kites. But instead of beautiful patterns at the end of those strings, there were mangled bodies and sickening pools of red.

The unprepared German soldiers were in disarray under the relentless rain of bullets. Many fell without even realizing what was happening. Officers shouted commands to try and regain control, but they, too, were clueless and helplessly calling, "Enemy attack, prepare for battle!"

But where was the enemy? What exactly were they supposed to prepare for? Where should they aim?

In front of them lay their own men—some standing, some cowering, some sprawled lifelessly in blood-soaked mud. Now and then, a shadow flitted by in the roar of a motorcycle engine, followed by the terrifying sound of machine-gun fire that cut through soldiers like a giant scythe.

Panicked soldiers clutched their guns but hesitated to fire. Shooting now would only mean hitting their own men.

The horses in the cavalry section, tied at the other end of the camp, sensed the danger and neighed in terror. Breaking free from their reins, they trampled over countless soldiers in their wild flight, crushing them beneath iron-shod hooves.

One of the ammunition carts, pulled by frightened horses, began racing around the camp. Boxes of shells strapped to it bounced with each lurch, and soon the ropes snapped, scattering shells across the ground. A stray bullet struck the cart.

An explosion erupted, tearing the cart and horses to pieces and sending a mushroom cloud of fire and smoke soaring over the camp. Nearby German soldiers were thrown into the air, torn to pieces, and then scattered back to the ground.

Major Browning, watching the devastation, was momentarily stunned. He had never seen German soldiers so vulnerable; all they had to do was aim and pull the trigger.

The sidecars rocked unpredictably as they sped along, making bullets fly wildly up and down. The jolting impacts caused bullets to scatter horizontally too, reducing precision. But precision wasn't needed—only chaos.

Because the enemy was right in front of them, packed together. No matter where their bullets hit—high or low, left or right—they would find a target.

However, Browning noted that more Germans seemed to fall from the chaos than from their bullets. In the panic, the soldiers injured each other, accidentally firing on their comrades, fleeing in terror, or trampling each other. And the stampede of horses, coupled with the ammo explosion, only added to the confusion.

Finally, the motorcycle convoy tore through the camp, cutting a bloody swath. As Charles had instructed, "Don't stay too long in battle, Major. Use the speed to your advantage. If you slow down, you're finished!"

So Browning didn't linger. He led the convoy back onto the main road, much like a gang of bikers tearing through a marketplace, leaving chaos in their wake.

Back on the road, the motorcycles cruised smoothly. The soldiers, though, were silent, as if they were still caught in the haze of combat, or perhaps unable to believe what had just happened.

After a long pause, someone let out a gasp:

"What did we just do? Did we actually thrash the Germans?"

"Of course! Didn't you see how pathetic they looked? My wheels are red with German blood!"

"Incredible! There were only two hundred of us, but we took on twenty thousand and left them crippled, barely able to fight back. How did we even do that?"

Browning swallowed hard, equally shocked at the result. Looking around, he saw that most of his men were still with him. If they had any losses, they were minimal.

It was unbelievable. This tactic actually worked—Charles had done it again.

The young man had created another miracle.

After a moment's reflection, Browning pulled out his map, glanced over it, and shouted to the exhilarated soldiers, "Hey, boys, who's up for another round?"

Kluck stumbled to his feet, surveying the chaos around him in disbelief. Only moments ago, his camp had been a picture of order, but now it was a complete disaster. Tents were ablaze, bodies littered the ground, and the wounded writhed in agony. Survivors seemed frozen with fear—some sat stunned on the ground, while others lay flat, too terrified to move.

Where was the enemy?

Kluck looked around, seeing no trace of them. If it weren't for the carnage before him, he might have doubted the enemy had even been there.

His aide appeared, gasping for breath, visibly shaken. "General, we captured a few of the enemy and one of their… three-wheeled motorcycles!"

Kluck clenched his jaw and gestured for his aide to lead the way.

It was a wrecked sidecar motorcycle lying upside down, its wheels still spinning. The machine gunner's head had been crushed in the accident, and the driver had been shot through the chest. Only the soldier in the back seat had survived, though his right leg was broken, twisted at an odd angle beneath him.

He lay there trembling, pale with pain, sweat pouring down his face, too afraid to cry out, his eyes wide with fear as German soldiers aimed their guns at him.

Kluck paid no mind to the prisoner, instead examining the overturned vehicle with interest, occasionally leaning down to inspect its inner workings.

After a long pause, he straightened, his face impassive as he muttered, "A genius design. Mounting a Maxim machine gun on a motorcycle gives it tremendous firepower, along with mobility and maneuverability."

Kluck was beginning to understand why his rearguard hadn't sounded an alarm. The motorcycles had likely taken the mountain paths, bypassing the German defensive line to strike their vulnerable rear.

Right here.

A sudden thought struck him, and he glanced toward the direction where the motorcycles had disappeared. He coldly ordered his aide, "Instruct the 9th Corps to prepare defenses—the enemy is heading their way!"

"Yes, sir!"

Then Kluck added another order, "And be prepared for them to double back. Deploy defenses to the north."

"Yes, sir!"

Following orders, his forces set up defenses in the north, leaving the rear to the support units who were cleaning up the wreckage. The artillery was positioned in an open field with their guns aimed at the road, ready to blast any motorcycle that dared to return.

"Come on, you little rats," Kluck muttered from his concealed position, watching the road with anticipation. "Let's see where you'll run now."

But suddenly, the hum of engines rose up from behind.

Kluck felt a jolt of dread. He whirled around, his hands shaking as he raised his binoculars. Could it be another enemy convoy?

He quickly saw that it was the same convoy as before, now streaked with blood—a grim trail of their recent attack. But unmistakably, it was them.

Those bastards—they had circled back along the road!

The realization stung deeply. A German general, ambushed by the same unit twice in a single day.

And this time, they were targeting his fragile artillery and support units, alongside stockpiles of shells.

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