Chapter 152
Chapter 152
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Translator: Ace
Chapter: 152
Chapter Title: Border Battle (2)
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“You goddamn parentless frog bastards! Necrophiliac fucks who pay money just to gawk at corpses!!!”
On the other hand, the day after France's invasion of Belgium.
At 10 Downing Street in London, Prime Minister Herbert Henry Asquith's ceaseless roars and curses echoed in response to the urgent news from the British ambassador to Brussels, fleeing as a refugee, and the British ambassador to Paris, who had been expelled.
“Prime Minister, calm down. This isn't the time for this!”
“Belgium's neutrality, guaranteed by our Great Britain, has been trampled. The Low Countries are under threat. The public is already clamoring for war with France. Britain has no choice now but to intervene.”
David Lloyd George, Chancellor of the Exchequer in the Asquith cabinet, and Foreign Secretary Edward Grey spoke up one after another with anxious faces. Only then did Asquith, who had been unleashing over a hundred curses at France, regain his senses and breathe heavily.
“Huff... huff... You're right. This isn't the time. We need to convene Parliament immediately and assemble an expeditionary force for Belgium.”
The silver lining was that, with the undeniable pretext of France's invasion of Belgium, there would be almost no opposition to intervention this time, unlike before—as evident from the fervent public opinion in Britain.
“And His Majesty...”
“I'll speak to His Majesty myself. That's my role as Prime Minister.”
He hadn't wanted war.
If possible, he wanted to stay far removed from the continental conflict, selling war materiel from the sidelines.
But the French had dragged Britain into the flames of war, and now it was time for Britain to fight back.
“In the end, it comes to this.”
As Asquith wiped sweat from his brow and issued various orders to Lloyd George and Edward Grey, Winston Churchill, the First Lord of the Admiralty, leaned against the wall smoking a cigar, looking smug as if he'd predicted this all along.
“That's why I kept telling you intervention was inevitable. If you'd listened to me and acted sooner, we could have prevented France's invasion of Belgium entirely.”
“Quiet, Winston. Who do you think you're blaming right now?”
Edward Grey frowned at Churchill's obnoxious face.
“Because you meddled with those Ottoman battleships on your own, the ambassador in Berlin and I got an earful from Marquis Hans von Choi. He said he never imagined the Royal Navy was so broke!”
In truth, Hans had held back considerably out of regard for Grey's face.
On the train to Luxembourg, upon hearing the news, Hans had unleashed a torrent of abuse, wondering if that bald bastard would break out in hives if he didn't steal the battleships.
Thanks to that, Baron Hans von Wangenheim, the German ambassador to the Ottoman Empire, had to work overtime soothing the Ottoman government, whose nerves were frayed enough to trigger his chronic neurasthenia.
“Winston, Edward. Enough bickering. This isn't the time for us to fight among ourselves.”
“My apologies, Prime Minister.”
“Ah, Lloyd. Fetch Earl Kitchener at once.”
“Earl Kitchener...? Are you planning to appoint him as Secretary of State for War?”
Asquith nodded at Lloyd George's question.
No one objected.
Sir Horatio Herbert Kitchener of Khartoum.
The man who succeeded Gordon, killed in Sudan, led the Mahdist War to victory, and shone in the Second Boer War would surely excel as a wartime War Secretary.
“We're facing the worst crisis since Napoleon Bonaparte. But just as the proud British Army and Royal Navy bravely fought at Waterloo and Trafalgar to preserve Europe's order, we too shall fight courageously and seize victory.”
“Yes, Prime Minister.”
The cabinet ministers bowed their heads in unison at Asquith's words.
Soon after, Parliament officially decided on intervention, and on July 18—two days after the invasion of Belgium—Britain declared war on the French Third Republic and the Russian Empire.
Of course, both nations' reactions were more like, "What took you so long?"
Simultaneously with the declaration, Britain hastily scraped together forces to form the British Expeditionary Force (BEF) for Belgium.
As a nation reliant on conscription, Britain's expeditionary force initially consisted of two corps of two infantry divisions each and one cavalry division. But these were Britain's elite troops, well-armed and battle-hardened from colonial wars—they were no force to underestimate.
Meanwhile, as the BEF—disliking the French despite their name—prepared to cross the English Channel under Field Marshal John Denton Pinkstone French, the hero of the Boer War brimming with zeal for battle, the situation in Belgium grew dire.
July 19, 1913.
In Belgium's capital Brussels, reduced to rubble by the merciless French 155mm howitzer barrage, the Belgian army was waging a desperate defense against the French.
Boom! Kwang! Boom! Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat!!
“Goddamn baguette bastards! How many bloody cannons did they bring?!”
“Lieutenant Das, sir, ammo's almost gone!”
“Resupply?”
“No contact at all. They must've been hit on the way!”
Lieutenant Nello Das of the Belgian Light Infantry bit his lip in frustration at his subordinate's report.
Under Major General Lemans' command, the Belgians held the line against waves of French assaults, but it was reaching its limit, as anyone could see.
No matter how bravely the Belgians fought, the enemy had superior numbers, ammo, and firepower.
Of course, their resistance wasn't meaningless.
In fact, the French were growing extremely anxious.
Their plan was to seize Brussels quickly, swing around to the rear of Namur and Liège, secure Belgium's fortress belt, and face the Germans.
But now their advance was stalled at Brussels, tripped up by the "chocolate soldiers" they'd dismissed. The French generals were at their wits' end.
“Keep pounding them with shells! If we can't have Brussels, we'll raze it to the ground. Bury the Belgians with their city in the spirit of Elan Vital!”
Retreating from here wasn't an option for the French.
Resolved to obliterate Brussels entirely, they redoubled their assault, and the improvised Belgian defenses shook perilously.
Weeee───!
“French ahead!”
“How much machine-gun ammo left!?”
“This is the last!”
Sharp whistles and charging French shouts rang out,
while their machine guns became useless scrap.
Yet Lieutenant Das and the Belgian soldiers held their ground, refusing to flee.
“Fix bayonets! Prepare for melee!”
If they ran now, Antwerp—Belgium's last bastion—would be next.
And refugees had fled there, empty-handed.
For their homeland, their loved ones, their families waiting for their return—they could not yield.
“Damn, this might be our last day.”
“Hmph, no intention of dying here. I'm going back to Hoboken and marrying Aroa, who's waiting for me!”
“Guys who say that die first.”
“Ah, screw you!”
After snapping at his men's banter, the lieutenant drew his saber with a resolute face and shouted.
“All hands, charge! For Belgium!”
“Long live His Majesty the King──!!”
Lieutenant Das and the Belgians charged the oncoming French waving their tricolor.
“Kill! Slaughter every one in those blue uniforms!”
“Taste the Belgian welcome, frog bastards!”
Shouts erupted everywhere as blood sprayed.
Belgian soldiers grappled with French, thrusting bayonets, swinging entrenching tools, stabbing daggers.
“Push them back!”
Lieutenant Das, determined to return to his village near Antwerp where his love awaited, fired his pistol and slashed at charging French with his saber.
Surrender wasn't an option.
Even if they fell here, Das and his men were resolved to send as many of those damned frogs to the Lord as possible.
But the French numbers only swelled.
Bang!
“Urk!”
“Lieutenant!”
Perhaps due to his death flag, Lieutenant Das took a bullet to the leg and collapsed.
A French soldier seized the chance, raising his bayonet to impale him.
“Woof! Woof woof!”
“Argh!”
“Patrasche!”
A large dog lunged at the French soldier, tearing into his throat.
It was the machine-gun cart dog Lieutenant Das doted on.
He'd released it to flee amid the fierce battle, but it had returned.
“Damn, now I owe you my life.”
Saved by Patrasche, Das panted as he stroked the dog's head.
But it was too early for relief.
The French were still swarming blackly.
As Das, supported by rushing subordinates, gazed at the onrushing French and thought it was over—
[Bam! Bwaa-bwa-bam! Bwaa-bwa-bam! Bam-bam-bwa-bam!]
A massive trumpet blast echoed from afar.
Lieutenant Das and the Belgian soldiers froze at the sudden sound.
What was that?
Enemy reinforcements?
Bwoooong──
As they tilted their heads warily, a familiar sound hummed overhead.
Das and the soldiers looked up at the sky.
“Ah...”
Tears welled in their eyes, faces on the verge of sobs.
Airplanes.
Dozens of colorful planes with proud black crosses on wings and fuselages sliced through the clouds.
Not enemies.
Allies. Hope.
As the Belgians stared blankly at the planes and the French fell into shouting chaos, the distant trumpets morphed into a song echoing across Brussels.
“Report to Commander Castelneau! Germans! The Huns are here!”
To the French, a warning to cease their rampage.
“Germans! The Germans are coming!!”
“Damn, right on time, as expected from the Germans!”
To the Belgians, a reassuring voice saying all was well now.
The eagles had descended upon the battlefield.
“Whew~! Talk about a black swarm.”
Lieutenant Manfred von Richthofen, freshly assigned from rookie lieutenant to pilot in Germany's Imperial Air Service Jasta 1, looked down at the blue-uniformed French filling the city with a queasy expression.
If they'd arrived just a bit later, this city would have fallen.
[Zzzt—Richthofen! Focus on the mission—zzzt!]
“Yes, yes, Dad.”
Richthofen mumbled apologetically at Boelcke's familiar scolding over the radio, then chuckled involuntarily at how the static made his voice sound funny.
This new bidirectional portable radio, developed recently by its inventor Tesla, was a huge help in the skies where signaling was the only option before. But tech limits meant short range and heavy noise.
Still, better than nothing.
[Zzzt—Immelmann here! 1 o'clock—zzzt! French planes below—zzzt!]
At Immelmann's voice, Richthofen dipped to check the direction.
A French reconnaissance plane was veering away in panic at the sudden German squadron.
[Zzzt! Ignore it. Not important right—zzzt.]
True— no time for unarmed recon trash.
[Jasta 1. Commence ground attack. zzzt! Time to hunt!]
[Jawohl!]
Helping those poor Belgians waving from the ruined city took priority.