Chapter 662: The Battlefield—A Place Where Humanity Disappears
"You mean to launch a counteroffensive at the Somme?" Falkenhayn asked. "Have you considered that defense has far more advantage than offense?"
Falkenhayn still believed in the traditional concept that defense was stronger than attack. What he saw was wave after wave of British soldiers charging, only to be mowed down by German machine guns. He feared that if Germany launched an attack, the same fate would befall his own troops.
Colonel Erwin, sensing Falkenhayn's hesitation, began to explain calmly.
"General, when I fought the British in Antwerp, I realized something—they have almost no means or tactics to counter tanks. They've deployed tanks, yes, but only for offense. They've never thought about defense."
"I believe the same situation exists at the Somme."
Erwin wasn't entirely certain. He had been stationed at the Liège fortress for some time and hadn't seen the battlefield at the Somme firsthand. Still, he was confident in his analysis.
Falkenhayn narrowed his eyes. "What exactly are you referring to?"
"Anti-tank rifles, anti-tank trenches, anti-tank mines… and elastic defense tactics," Erwin replied, handing over a well-organized document from his briefcase.
Falkenhayn opened it. Each countermeasure was accompanied by diagrams—simple, intuitive, and clear.
Erwin continued, "I believe this difference stems from the disparity in the intensity of battles fought by the British and the French. Since the start of the war, Germany's primary adversary has been the French Army. Under the command of a military genius like Charles, they've evolved rapidly. Their tactics and equipment are now well-developed and systematic."
"In contrast, the British Expeditionary Force has been largely conserving its strength. Their only large-scale operation was the Battle of the Somme. Add to that the British arrogance and stubbornness, and their equipment and tactical thinking have fallen behind."
Falkenhayn nodded slowly as he read. Everything listed was indeed absent from the British lines at the Somme—especially elastic defense, a tactic Charles had implemented with France's Sixth Army that had shocked the German high command.
They'd all exclaimed, "So this is how armor can be used?" and "Germany must adopt this tactic. It allows us to hold longer lines with fewer troops." "We need more tanks—perhaps this is the only way to counter Charles's breakthroughs!"
Now, both the French and Germans had mastered armored tactics, while the British still clung to outdated doctrines, convinced they had nothing to learn from others. They were still fighting like it was 1914.
Even so, Falkenhayn stayed cautious. His tone remained flat. "The British have tanks, Colonel."
Erwin nodded without hesitation. "Their tanks are worthless, General. We know how to deal with those turretless tin cans."
"We've also upgraded our tanks. The British Whippet is just scrap metal compared to our new models."
He was referring to Germany's LK2 tank.
(Images: The LK1 and LK2 tanks. The most significant upgrades include a redesigned front armor plate for better protection and an angular rear hull to reduce side impact. The development process took just over two months.)
Falkenhayn asked another question. "They have more troops than we do. The British have at least fifteen divisions in the area. We only have eight on the north bank of the Somme."
"Correct, General," Erwin said. "But we have tanks. And when you have tanks, a larger enemy force just means more casualties for them. Yes, I admit it may make cleaning the battlefield more difficult for us."
Falkenhayn was silent for a moment. "They also have artillery. The British are equipped with new 152mm guns and have stockpiled a huge amount of shells. They could blast your tanks to pieces."
"Then we wait for them to attack first, and only strike after," Erwin replied confidently.
Falkenhayn understood immediately.
British tactics were rigid. They always began an offensive with a prolonged artillery barrage—sometimes hours, sometimes days. Afterward, they'd have few shells left, and the infantry would surge forward in waves.
If the Germans launched their counteroffensive at that moment, their armored lines would clash with unprotected British infantry head-on—flesh against steel.
Falkenhayn could already imagine the battlefield covered in corpses.
…
On the north bank of the Somme, the air was filled with the deafening roar of artillery.
Inside the partially buried British front-line command post, clumps of dirt fell from between the support beams with every rumble. General Haig glanced irritably at the calendar on his desk: February 23rd.
The artillery had been firing for three full days and nights. Today was the day they were meant to attack.
Haig didn't even bother observing the German trenches anymore. It was useless. Every time, the enemy's lines looked obliterated—completely uninhabitable. But the moment British troops stepped into no-man's-land, German helmets and black muzzles would spring from the ruins like ghosts.
Sometimes, Haig didn't know how to fight this war. Should he try breakthroughs like Charles?
No—at the Somme, there was no space for breakthroughs. The lines were clear and tight. Not even Charles could pull off one of his famous maneuvers here, Haig thought.
"General," a staff officer reported, "over 300 deserters from the South African Corps."
If it were just a few, the officer wouldn't have bothered reporting it. But this was an entire group.
Haig clenched his jaw. These cowards. Fleeing at the final moment of the offensive—they didn't understand the devastating impact this would have on morale.
He didn't hesitate. "Send them to the front line!"
"Yes, sir!" The officer turned and relayed the order.
Soon, a group of over 300 men was herded in small clusters toward no-man's-land—unarmed, marched forward at gunpoint.
Behind them, British officers raised pistols and shouted:
"This is what happens to deserters. Remember it."
"They'll die like the rest—but with no honor or dignity. No pensions. Everyone will know they were cowards!"
…
Gunshots rang out. German soldiers picked them off like targets on a range.
Some deserters panicked and tried to flee back toward the trenches—only to be shot down by British sentries.
The British needed them to advance—needed their bodies to fall under German fire, so they could pinpoint the enemy's positions.
The battlefield is a place where humanity ceases to exist.
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