Chapter 173
Translator: Ace
Chapter: 173
Chapter Title: All Quiet on the Western Front (1)
While Serbia and Montenegro had been knocked out of the World War, and the entire Eastern Front was gearing up for a grand offensive against the Russian Empire.
Peeyeeee───!! Peeyeeee───!!
"Chaaaarge! Attack!!"
"Vive la France──!!"
"The frog bastards are coming!"
"Kill them all!!"
On the Western Front, beneath the trenches of promised death, French, German, British, and Belgian troops alike suffered massive casualties in a hellish spectacle that unfolded day after day, without discrimination.
This carnage spared neither the main battlefields around Verdun nor Belgium itself. Generals from the Entente powers and the French high command alike stared in horror at the growing mountains of corpses piling up with each passing day, their nationalities irrelevant.
Of course, having learned the horrors of trench warfare from the lessons of the Russo-Japanese War—unlike the American Civil War, which Europeans had conveniently ignored—these men already understood its terror. But watching it happen to others was one thing; experiencing it firsthand with their own bodies was entirely another.
"We can't just sit here forever. We have to drive those German scum out of the sacred soil of great France as soon as possible!"
"Requesting retreat? Denied, denied! Don't you know that to end this war quickly, we need to kick the French army's asses in Belgium and march straight to Paris?"
Yet even after burying thousands, tens of thousands of soldiers in the dirt right in front of the enemy trenches, the French and their allies refused to halt their assaults on one another.
The French had dug in along the Meuse River, determined to push the Germans back across the border.
The German-British-Belgian coalition pressed on, aiming to eject the French who had seized half of Belgium, liberate the country, and advance into France proper.
Tat-tat-tat-tat-tat! Tat-tat-tat-tat!!
"Kwaaaagh!!"
"Huaagh!"
"M-Mom..."
Of course, as in all of human history, it was the poor infantry who died in place of the generals barking orders from the rear.
They perished with their guts draped over barbed wire, bludgeoned to death in the muddy lowlands with bayonets and entrenching tools smashing skulls, or swept away by blind artillery shells without even a scream.
Though their nationalities and languages differed, in the hell called the Western Front, all soldiers were but pitiful lambs denied even the mercy of their Lord.
Tat-tat-tat-tat! Tat-tat-tat-tat!!
"Waaaaah! Charge! Charge!"
"Los! Los! Los!"
"Merde! It's the assault teams!"
"Don't let those Hun bastards into the trenches! Kill them before they get close!"
"Hahaha! Germany's submachine guns are the best in the world!"
At the very least, the Germans had it better than the French or the other Entente forces.
They were armed to the teeth with cutting-edge weapons like submachine guns.
Thanks to that, the French defenses were breached—or nearly breached—daily by assault teams leaping into their trenches, guns blazing.
The Belgians, short on manpower, focused on support roles rather than leading charges themselves.
But for the British, holding one sector of the Western Front, the story was different from the Germans or Belgians.
September 20, 1913, Tielt, Flanders, Belgium.
"All hands, fall in."
At the gloomy officer's command, the British soldiers slumped in the waterlogged trench rose with heavy sighs.
It was a far cry from the cheerful bunch who had crossed the English Channel with songs of saving Europe from the wicked frogs and Russian bears.
And for good reason: in five minutes, many of them would close their eyes forever in the cold mud of the lowlands, never to return home.
"Attack order. As of now, our unit will assault the French trenches to the front."
The British officers knew it too, so they didn't bother sugarcoating it—just delivered the command short and to the point.
"May God's grace be with us."
Peeyeeee───
"Forward!"
"Move it, out of the trench!"
Soon, cheers and whistles signaling the assault echoed from every British trench. The soldiers poured out, surging through layer after layer of barbed wire toward the French lines ahead.
Tat-tat-tat-tat! Tat-tat-tat-tat!!
"Ugh!"
"Khek!"
And as always, French machine guns and shells greeted them warmly.
Most British soldiers were buried in the lowland mud before they could even glimpse the French trenches. Those who made it were swiftly dispatched by trench clubs and shovels from the defenders.
Thus, the British attack failed once more.
It was routine on the Western Front by now.
"If only we had a ton of submachine guns, at least."
Tasting yet another defeat—God knew how many—the British officers muttered with heavy sighs.
The British submachine gun shortage was that dire.
It wasn't as if Germany had suddenly turned hostile and refused to supply them.
"Submachine guns! We need German submachine guns too!!"
"How much? What'll you pay?!"
"Everyone, please calm down. Demand is so high—not just from you—that we're critically short ourselves. Wait your turn!"
The Entente armies—no, the entire coalition—simply had demand outstripping supply.
Not just the Western Front; the Eastern Front and even the distant Far East were clamoring for them.
Germany could barely meet its own needs, let alone outfit allies. It was enough to make them spit blood.
The shortage was so bad they'd even dusted off early-model German Stens—er, MP01s—from storage to support the Serbian front recently.
Of course, Germany was doubling production, and Britain had licensed them from the Reich to produce their own. But it would take time to reach the front lines, so it was no immediate help.
"The unit getting 200 submachine guns today... is Herbert's 3rd Battalion!"
"Hell yeah!!!"
"Our CO is the best!"
"Knew it!"
As a result, frontline British officers were drawing lots—calling it a "duel"—for submachine gun allocations. A sight to behold.
And this wasn't limited to the army.
"The pilot taking this Eagle fighter... McCudden!"
The Royal Flying Corps (RFC), desperate for fighters against French air force retaliation, competed fiercely for German Adler fighters.
"Yes! Finally, a real fight."
"Damn it, boss! This is rigged!"
"Blame your luck, Hawker."
The cold voice of Hugh Dowding—CO of RFC 6 Squadron and future Fighter Command head who shone in the Battle of Britain—drew laughs from the pilots.
Though Lanoe Hawker, who didn't score the Adler, wasn't laughing.
"Don't worry, Hawker. I'll handle your share of frogs!"
"Shut it, McCudden!"
Hawker snapped at the playful James McCudden, RFC ace with seven kills overall in the Great War.
The German Adler was that special to the RFC.
With dogfights raging overhead against French retaliation, the RFC's Vickers F.B.5 Gunbus couldn't keep up with either the Adler or French newbies—not to mention lacking radios.
The promised new fighters? Radio silence.
Thus, every RFC pilot coveted the superior Adler with its wireless set.
Though Germany's air buildup meant wishful thinking wasn't enough.
And Britain's shortages went beyond submachine guns and fighters.
Combat ground to a frustrating stalemate, enough to force the impatient British government—eager for German victories—to finally shift its heavy arse.
"Long time no see, French."
"...Minister Kitchener."
John French furrowed his brow in displeasure at War Secretary Herbert Kitchener's unannounced solo visit to the British Expeditionary Force HQ in Belgium.
The field uniform on a man who should know he was out of the army irked him, but his presence on the front without notice spelled trouble.
"What brings you to Belgium?"
"You know why, John."
"That damn offensive again."
French clicked his tongue at Kitchener fiddling with his teacup.
Prime Minister Herbert Henry Asquith was in crisis over the army's stagnation.
Then German zeppelins bombed Petrograd, returned, and hit Paris next. Enraged French retaliated by bombing undefended London with Russian Ilya Muromets bombers.
[Asquith Questioned as War Leader!]
[Plummeting Polls! Liberal Cabinet in Crisis?!]
[Londoners Slam PM: Asquith Lacks Energy for Wartime!]
Press and public flayed Asquith daily.
Conservatives piled on, and even Liberals questioned his fitness for war leadership.
An unpopular PM's options: resign or get ousted.
To cling to power, Asquith hounded French for results—enter the solo British offensive.
"I agree an offensive is needed. We can't cede more initiative to Germany."
"Heh, sounds just like Churchill."
Despite French's jab—neither fond of Kitchener—the minister didn't retort.
Churchill indeed warned that playing second fiddle to Germany would hand postwar Europe to the Reich.
Kitchener frowned at Churchill's bombast—like demanding a Black Sea showdown after the Baltic Fleet massacre—but agreed on that point.
"For the Empire to maintain its voice henceforth, we need victory more than ever."
"Victory's fine. I'm not against an offensive. But deliver shells on time first."
As summer turned to fall, the BEF faced severe shell shortages.
Blame the uncontrolled, inefficient private-sector munitions under government oversight.
This chronic crisis was hampering operations badly.
"Shells? Everything's short."
"Shells will be sorted soon."
Really?
French eyed him skeptically, but Kitchener stood firm.
"Dominions and colonies sending more troops. Canadians and Indians arrive in days for the front. Enough for a solo push."
"..."
"And our dear commander knows results are needed to keep his post."
True enough.
Stagnant fronts threatened not just the PM, but Expeditionary Force commander John French too.
"...Fine. I'll discuss with the staff."
French nodded reluctantly, face sour. He didn't fancy losing command without a proper fight.
Thus, as the BEF planned a Western Front offensive, the French—edgy over Serbia and Montenegro's surrender—huddled to reverse their fortunes too.