Chapter 111
Chapter 111
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Translator: Ace
Chapter: 111
Chapter Title: The Schlieffen Plan (2)
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“A tank?”
“The term ‘armored combat vehicle’ might be easier to grasp.”
“An armored vehicle? You mean slapping armor on a car like some knight from the old days?”
In a way, it wasn’t far off.
I flipped open my notebook and sketched a simple outline of a tank, showing it to Chief of the General Staff Schlieffen, who tilted his head in curiosity.
“This is the kind of tank I have in mind.”
Of course, it wasn’t the lumbering landship look of Britain’s original Mk series. I’d based it on the Renault FT-17, the father of the modern tank.
Personally, I preferred the early beasts like the Mk series or France’s Saint-Chamond—the ones that really fired up a man’s romantic fantasies about war machines. But knowing how tanks would evolve, there was no point in taking the long road around.
Besides, those landship-style tanks were slow, poor at crossing rough terrain, and way too expensive for mass production.
Just look at the numbers: the most-produced Mk IV barely hit 1,200 units, while the Renault FT-17 churned out around 3,400 in a single year from 1917 to the armistice in 1918.
“It looks nothing like any car I know. Or maybe it’s just your disastrously bad drawing skills making it seem that way.”
“Ahem. The point is, it’s not about the looks—it’s the performance that matters, right?”
I cleared my throat at Schlieffen’s deadpan joke and began explaining the tank’s key features as simply as I could.
“First off, the whole body is covered in thick armor to protect against machine-gun fire and give it some survivability under artillery bombardment.”
“Hmm. Come to think of it, the British tried something like that a while back.”
He was probably thinking of the Simms Motor War Car.
Developed in 1902 by Britain’s Frederick Simms, it was the world’s first armored car.
And if you went way further back, even Leonardo da Vinci—the ultimate Renaissance man—had sketched something tank-like.
Though it didn’t look much like what we know as a tank today.
Anyway, I pressed on.
“Second, it’s armed with cannons and machine guns for firepower. And we make the turret rotatable, like a battleship’s main guns, so it can fire in any direction.”
“And third?”
“To smash through barbed wire and handle rough terrain, we replace wheels with continuous tracks.”
“Continuous tracks?”
I nodded at Schlieffen’s question.
This was before the Holt tractor—the one that hugely influenced the Mk series—so I couldn’t cite that as an example. But continuous tracks themselves had been around and evolving for ages.
Especially the Lombard Steam Log Hauler from 1901, the first commercially successful tracked vehicle, which helped solidify the design we know today.
“Fascinating. Truly fascinating! Lead with these tanks to neutralize machine guns and barbed wire, then follow up with infantry armed with submachine guns charging behind. No need to pile up mountains of corpses like the Japanese did.”
True to his reputation as the finest mind in the German army, Schlieffen instantly grasped the tank’s potential. He flashed a bright smile and spun out visions of the future.
In fact, the tank’s debut had a massive impact on World War I’s outcome.
During the Hundred Days Offensive—the final push on the Western Front—German soldiers facing hordes of Allied tanks felt the same shock and terror as ROK troops staring down North Korean T-34s in the Korean War.
‘Maybe that’s why Germany became synonymous with tanks in World War II—the memory was just too vivid.’
And if you secured air superiority with planes for bombing runs and artillery spotting via reconnaissance, trench warfare would lose its invincible shield.
“But there’s one thing that bothers me.”
“What’s that?”
“Can we even build it with current technology? I don’t know much about cars, but it seems like it’d be damn tough.”
Schlieffen had a point.
Tanks were the pinnacle of automotive engineering.
Even I knew developing one now would be no easy feat.
Especially when cars were still seen as playthings for the elite.
The real automotive boom wouldn’t hit until Ford’s Model T brought mass production and affordability to the masses.
‘Not to mention standardization and assembly lines.’
Still, my radio factory had already proven mass production chops with conveyor belts, shipping radios worldwide in record time. That might sway them.
If the German car companies balked with their “artisan craftsmanship” nonsense, I’d have to get tough.
“Shouldn’t we at least hear out the German automakers first?”
“Hmm…”
“Even if they can build it, getting a satisfactory tank will take years. Either way, we’ll have to wring the engineers out like rags.”
“You say the scariest things so casually sometimes.”
Schlieffen chuckled heartily, and I shrugged.
I felt bad for the poor engineers who’d be ground to dust over this, but getting wrung out was just an engineer’s fate.
“Anyway, before I retire as Chief of the General Staff, I’ll get the ball rolling on tanks.”
Schlieffen took a sip of water—his throat must’ve been dry—and continued.
“Cars, though. I always saw them as fun toys, but they’ve got real military value. Sorry, Mackensen, but maybe tanks and trucks will replace cavalry someday.”
“Cars can take armor to stop bullets; horses can’t. It might not be immediate, but in a few decades, they’ll be gone from the battlefield.”
Though contrary to popular belief, cavalry still played a role in World War I.
The trench-locked Western Front limited them, but on the vast Eastern or Middle Eastern fronts, their mobility and shock power remained effective.
Even in World War II, as tanks, armored cars, motorcycles, and planes advanced, units like Polish lancers and Cossacks still saw action.
‘The Germans used cavalry on the Eastern Front for anti-partisan ops too.’
But after two world wars, cavalry faded, vanishing entirely after the Korean War—except in deserts or steppes.
“Ha~ You really should join the war academy.”
Lost in thought, I barely registered Schlieffen’s wistful mutter.
I’d told him a dozen times I wasn’t interested, but he still clung to the idea.
“At least audit some military science lectures later. Even if you don’t go full soldier, they’ll come in handy.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll keep that in mind.”
“This plan needs more refining. After retirement, I’ll have time. Hans, drop by often with your thoughts.”
Music to my ears.
The Schlieffen Plan was Germany’s WWI blueprint; refining it was huge.
It wasn’t fully fleshed out yet—trench warfare worries held it back—but from the maps, Schlieffen still eyed sweeping through Belgium into France.
Problem was, Belgium had Britain’s guarantee of independence. Even as allies, Britain wouldn’t stomach us invading to hit France.
Prestige aside, Britain saw Low Countries’ neutrality as vital to its security.
And pulling Belgium to our side? With France looming below, they’d stick to neutrality.
Begging wouldn’t open the road.
‘Do we really need to invade Belgium ourselves?’
The thought flashed through my mind, and I pondered deeply.
I wasn’t blindly following original history’s logic: “France will hit our borders first, so they’ll swing through Belgium; we preempt by allying with them.”
But circumstances had changed. Could we bait France into invading Belgium instead?
Like Bismarck’s Ems Dispatch tricked France into declaring war.
‘Time to sketch a plan.’
My ideas were just concepts orbiting the Schlieffen Plan. Too early for details.
Failure was possible, so Plan B was needed.
But worth a shot.
***
Unlike the eventful first half of 1905, the latter half was busy but peaceful enough.
While I traded ideas on the Schlieffen Plan with Schlieffen at his home during his recovery, Mr. Bradop’s DRR fulfilled my deal with Edward VII: supplying radios to Britain and helping set up broadcast stations.
The Wright brothers, riding the wave of popularity from footage of Prince Heinrich’s flight, toured tirelessly promoting airplanes.
Stimulated, Count Zeppelin reportedly doubled down on airship development, refusing to be outdone.
Amid all this buzz, word came that Crown Princess Cecilie was already pregnant—not long after her wedding to Crown Prince Wilhelm.
“Sounds like quite the passionate honeymoon, Your Highness.”
“Ahem. First my siblings, now you teasing me, Hans?”
As Luise stared wide-eyed at Cecilie’s belly—housing her first niece or nephew—Crown Prince Wilhelm flushed but couldn’t hide his grin.
He could hardly believe he’d soon be a father, yet the joy was plain.
‘His first kid should be Prince Wilhelm, right?’
Damn European royal naming conventions.
Emperor Wilhelm, Crown Prince Wilhelm, and now grandson Wilhelm. A mess.
I didn’t know much about this Prince Wilhelm; he wasn’t famous like his dad or grandpa.
All I recalled: he defied Wilhelm II to marry beneath his station, lost succession rights, fought in WWII, and died.
Not even born yet, but his tragic life tugged at me.
Would this world change his fate?
“How’re things with Luise?”
“We went to Dresden together recently. Invited to Strauss’s opera premiere.”
“Huh? Salome? You took that as a date?”
“...I didn’t suggest it.”
I mumbled excuses under Crown Prince Wilhelm’s incredulous tone.
I’d hesitated, but Luise insisted, so...
“...It’s hot in here.”
“...Yeah.”
The result? No need to spell it out.
Salome was a bit too much for us.
Time marched on through 1905 into 1906.
Come New Year, Alfred von Schlieffen officially retired as Chief of the General Staff.
“You’ve served well, Count Schlieffen. The German Empire will forever remember your over fifty years of devotion.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty. It was my honor to serve you.”
No longer Chief but Count Schlieffen saluted Wilhelm II one last time.
As he turned and exited the palace, Chancellor von Bülow and others regretting his departure snapped crisp salutes, capping his military career.
“Great. Free from the hassle now—I can focus on the plan. Come visit more often, Colonel Hans.”
Schlieffen himself wasn’t sentimental; he brimmed with zeal to perfect the plan.
Was he more energetic than as Chief? Or just my imagination?
But days after the ceremony...
I received heartbreaking news.
“Hans, Foreign Minister von Richthofen has passed away.”
“Pardon?”
Wilhelm II’s somber words made me drop my pen to the floor.
January 17, 1906.
Oswald von Richthofen, one of my staunchest supporters, had closed his eyes forever.