Chapter 56
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Translator: Ace
Chapter: 56
Chapter Title: Devils of Amiens (4)
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"Ugh, a bed! A bed!!"
"Meat! Meeeaaat!!!"
"In the world... It's white bread. No sawdust whatsoever! The French fought on this stuff and still got pushed back?"
The soldiers of the German 208th Division were plunged into shock.
How on earth had the French survived on bread and meat?
We could barely get turnips on the rare special ration days...
Every last one of the German soldiers writhed in agony at this horrific reality. As they crammed bread and meat into their starved bellies, they reflected on their own wretched lives, waves of regret surging through them with every bite.
Rifles in hand, they kicked open any house door they came across, only to be greeted by roofs, beds, and food.
This was paradise!
It didn't take long for everyone to grasp this shocking truth. The soldiers quickly scraped every scrap of meat from the butchers, then started a massive campfire right in the middle of the street to feast.
Raid the bakeries, raid the butchers, raid the greengrocers!
Jewelers and goldsmiths came later. For the proud soldiers of the German Empire, food was far more urgent than gold rings. Of course, once their bellies were full and reason began to return, they headed straight for the jewelers—no need to mention that.
Just as the soldiers and junior officers lost their minds, the savory smell of grilling meat wafting through every corner of the city...
The senior officers weren't any different.
The only class distinction was that they elegantly stormed the homes of the city's elite, devoured meat first, then cracked open the wine barrels in the cellars for a merry binge.
"To the glory of the German Empire, cheers!"
"Cheers!!"
Wine—real wine! Alcohol!
Not the vinegar swill they usually choked down, but genuine booze!
The fact that it was wine instead of beer didn't bother these Germans one bit. So what if it wasn't beer? All that mattered was savoring that sweet, tangy, heady bliss sliding down their throats.
By the time they were soaked from top to bottom in the joy of feasting after so long...
The messenger they'd sent to division HQ returned.
"Division orders, sir."
"Hm, let's see..."
The officers' faces twisted as they read the orders.
"Resume operations at 0500?"
"We should start preparing soon, no?"
"Think about it. Can't you see out the window?"
A grizzled sergeant snapped at the oblivious commander.
"If we tell those soldiers to stop the feast and head back to the front, it'll be mutiny for sure. No doubt about it. We'd be the first ones turned into beehives."
Four years.
Four years without proper rest.
When was the last time meat vanished from the table?
When did potatoes become a distant memory?
The everyday luxuries of bread, potatoes, and beer had vanished, replaced by an eternity of hellish trench life, day after grinding day.
And now, by some miracle, that old life had returned.
Even they, the officers, were tearing up over wine without realizing it. Tell those poor soldiers to go back to the front?
They never should have entered the city in the first place.
Unless the Kaiser himself showed up, there was no controlling the troops. Hell, judging by their state, they looked ready to shove the Kaiser aside and keep gorging on meat.
"Hey, messenger."
"Yes, sir!"
"How about a plate of steak?"
"I-I'm on duty—"
"Wine too. Eat up, say you got knocked out by shell shock. Orders? Lost 'em."
The soldier hesitated.
One officer slid his steak platter over.
As the soldier glanced away in conflict, he saw it: hands drifting to holsters.
The solemnity of military discipline—worth more than life itself—versus the mouthwatering aroma rising before him. And the murderous intent from afar.
The messenger grabbed the sizzling steak barehanded, no fork, and tore into it.
"Mmmph!!"
"Good choice. I'll give you a bed. Sleep tight."
He'd sold out.
They suppressed their guilt. Controlling this was pure madness—they knew it from long service.
Better to enjoy the wine and meat here than get riddled with bullets by their own men, right?
The next day, when the 185th Regiment under the 208th Division entered the city, they were greeted by the aftermath of utter madness.
"What the hell—these bastards—"
"They ate well and slept like kings?"
"Look at that. Meat! They left meat behind!"
As the soldiers buzzed, the 185th Regiment command was in a shouting match with the Stormtrooper detachment leader.
"What in God's name is this! Why—"
"We never got any orders."
"Amiens is right there! We need to push in now, but this?!"
"Don't worry. We're this close—cutting their rail lines is just a matter of time. Adjacent units are waiting anyway, right? Let's discuss over a drink. Heh."
The regiment commander's face flushed red, but the stonewalling left him speechless. Orders vanishing midway? Hardly rare.
And a few hours later, the 185th Regiment commander had to give up everything as his own men refused orders too.
Anyway, the wine was delicious.
That was the only consolation.
I stared at the map for a long while, deep in thought.
Had I given them too much?
No. It was worth every bit.
Division HQ was apparently flipping out over how the corps command was abandoning defense lines left and right under the guise of "support," but whatever. Oh, I can't read French well. We'll pay it back later.
How many years had it been since all German sea routes were blockaded?
If those guys pushed this deep into the rear, of course they'd go nuts over the amazing meat. No way they'd stay sane.
Just think of the tough South Korean army—even in training, rice with seasoning versus plain made all the difference in morale.
But these guys weren't eating vinyl-packed MREs. They'd been chowing down turnips and sawdust for years. If they hadn't cracked yet, the Germanic spirit deserved respect.
But the German army wasn't demons from hell or androids who could abandon everything for discipline. Just people—clinging to faint hope.
My counterattack goal was simple: not physical annihilation, but psychological collapse. Let their will to fight evaporate completely—build 'em up, then drop 'em hard.
"Artillery brigade still has time. 185th Regiment?"
"369th Regiment is successfully running the deception op. 370th is in minor skirmishes at the front, while 369th pulls back to reorganize."
Bradley rearranged the game pieces on the board.
At least the 369th's casualties weren't too bad.
Or more precisely, exactly as we'd predicted.
Being a soldier—especially a senior officer—is a job that drives you mad.
What other psycho profession has you thinking "good, under estimates" while getting casualty reports?
"185th Brigade commander?"
"Yes, sir."
Colonel Hayward looked up.
"This'll be tough in every way, I imagine. We're stretched thin just staffing the brigade HQ."
"Heh. It's fine."
I'd never planned to run a brigade myself at first.
With powerhouses like Eisenhower, Bradley, and Van Fleet under me, why put them under some mediocre brigade commander if I could make them regimental?
But even with full authority, dissolving a huge unit like a brigade politically? Tough sell.
And above all, Colonel Hayward had stuck to admin and organization—the stuff that tormented us most—without meddling in tactics.
"I'm National Guard originally, and this European battlefield is worlds apart from what I knew. Hell, I still want to complain to God that this isn't war.
And you trust your peers so firmly. No need for a stiff old-timer like me to step up."
It felt like a sly dig, but Hayward meant it sincerely. I just felt embarrassed.
He admitted he couldn't adapt to the Great War and acknowledged Eisenhower below him would shine.
"370th Regiment worries me, though."
"Major Duncan will handle it."
No choice now.
Time to draw swords.
"Major Bradley."
"Yes."
"While I'm gone, full authority to you."
"Did a rock fragment hit your head or something?"
Omar's personality was twisting more by the day. Blame the damn Germans. Kaiser's brainwashing Bradley from Berlin via radio waves. Gotta lop that neck soon.
"I planned and launched this op. Of course I'll see it through. Besides, I'm the only one who's scouted the front."
"Even so—"
"Want me to leave division command to Lieutenant Hodge, who toured the front with me?"
"Now you're talking nonsense."
After a brief tussle, I stubbornly got my way and joined the main assault force.
"At 0430 tomorrow, we smash the Krauts' pots. Division direct tanks lead, Rangers follow."
"Understood!"
"Goal's simple: decapitate the enemy 208th Division. That's it. 186th Brigade's 371st and 372nd Regiments widen the gap our direct units punch."
As I issued orders, the massive war machine of the 93rd Division geared up.
All the endless insults, belittlement, and brutal training ended here.
"185th Brigade, hold the Germans who took Moreuil tight. If they break free, we're done."
"No worries."
I'd given all I could.
Now, collection time.
"Let's go. Harvest the Jerries."
93rd Division direct command post.
No one slept despite the pre-dawn hour before sunrise.
The German devils marching boldly toward Amiens.
Now, the 93rd would shake off their grasp, rip open their bellies, and etch their name in history!
Morale soared higher than ever; officers buzzed with tension and excitement, sleepless.
Then came a familiar car engine roar.
"That..."
"Division commander's car?"
The bustling outpost erupted in new commotion.
Major Anastacio Quevedo Ver panicked, grabbing his hat half-on as he rushed to greet the honored commander.
Why crawl out here instead of staying at comms-central HQ? Inspection? Pep talk?
'No way.'
That guy's definitely coming along. Anastacio seriously debated grabbing a rock. Might need to bean him and roll out?
"Yoo—Colonel Kim, no, Division Commander!"
"Preparations good, friend?"
"Yes! All set!"
Eugene stepped naturally from the car toward the review line. Anastacio followed.
"My comrades!"
"Waaaaah!!"
"Now we become the daggers stabbing Jerry's chests! Tankers!!"
"326!! 326!!"
"Comrades of the 326th Light Tank Battalion who've followed me from the start! We seized glory at Cambrai! And right before us? The same damn Jerry bastards who kicked us out!"
"KILL! KILL! KILL!"
"Back then, we fled in disgrace! Abandoned our tanks like lovers, saved our skins! But don't worry! Now we trample them!"
Cambrai.
Flames ignited in the old 326th tankers' eyes at the name.
Great escape or holy sacrifice for civilians—deep down, that humiliating memory hadn't fully healed.
And now, their revered commander vowed vengeance.
"Rangers!"
"YES, SIR!"
"You are the hope of Black folk! Every step you take opens their future! No retreat! Victory only—and I'll advance with you!!"
"Division Commander??"
"If I may, you should stay at HQ—"
"Bradley's got the rear. No worries. I won't steal your glory, so quit panicking."
"It's not about glory!"
Eugene grinned, finger to lips. They sighed, giving up persuasion.
Should've grabbed that rock.
Ignoring Anastacio's lament, Eugene bellowed.
"All units, to positions! Today, we open the future!"