The Age of Irrationality (1)

In a chaotic melee like this, an orderly retreat according to the field manual was practically impossible. Just attempting to pull back meant accepting the grim reality of devastating casualties.

"The French encirclement to the east is ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠still loose, sir."

"We pour all our remaining ammunition into a single point and force a breakthrough."

"But won't the units disintegrate during the retreat?"

"We will have to have small units disperse and move alongside the refugees, then regroup at our designated coordinates."

It was less of a cohesive operational plan and more of a loose set of guidelines. But there was no other choice. The Armed Cooperative Alliance was already isolated north and south of the main avenue. Even the military forces were scattered down to company and platoon levels, making the transmission of commands nearly impossible.

So, how does one issue a retreat order in such a situation? You throw security out the window and broadcast the retreat to the four winds.

"How do we shake off the French pursuit?"

"Sacrifice is inevitable. We must establish defensive lines at key strongpoints, and some units must remain behind to cover the retreat..."

"Covering" was just a polite euphemism for staying behind, drawing the French army's attention, and dying.

That was when Marx Stahl stepped forward.

"Since I made the proposal, it is only right that I remain."

"...Absolutely not, Representative Stahl. Not only must you return to Austria, but you are effectively the general headquarters of this Black-White War. What commander-in-chief volunteers for such a role? You must lead the refugees."

Stahl was about to argue further when a junior officer, who had been quietly listening in the back, spoke up.

Although the Armed Cooperative Alliance was the main force, the German regular army was not entirely absent from the battle. Though they were a mere handful in terms of numbers—about two battalions—a small contingent of German troops existed. And throughout the battle, they had performed brilliantly, moving back and forth between the most critical and urgent sectors.

The German Shocktrooper battalion had played the largest role on the battlefield and, consequently, suffered the heaviest casualties. Since their battalion commander was already missing in action, a company commander was acting in his stead. Thus, even a mere lieutenant was able to attend the headquarters meeting and had a voice.

"If anyone is to stay, it should be our battalion, the most elite."

"Indeed. I apologize ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠for placing too much of the burden on the German forces. What is your name, officer?"

"Lieutenant Erwin Rommel, sir."

Stahl quickly turned his head to look at the lieutenant. He had a typical German appearance, though his face was still youthful, looking to be in his early twenties.

"I will remember your sacrifice. I will assign you your defensive strongpoints shortly. Take two companies and hold the French back."

"Understood, Commander."

It was no wonder Stahl hadn't recognized him until now. He didn't know what Rommel looked like, and with a massive army of two hundred thousand moving through the city, how could he possibly keep track of every junior officer's personal details?

Even people who don't know much about World War II know Rommel.

And the commander of the unit slated for sacrifice was Rommel? Perhaps, through sheer grit and spite, he might actually make it back alive.

In any case, due to Stahl's strong recommendation, Rommel was suddenly thrust into the role of acting battalion commander despite being a mere lieutenant.

And so, an unprecedented escape operation in history was about to begin.

"We are receiving continuous intelligence that the Armed Cooperative Alliance is attempting a massive breakout."

"They've been beaten this badly, and they're trying to escape without surrendering? Stubborn to the very end."

Because the retreat was so urgent, the rumors had spread rapidly. In fact, even without rumors, it was obvious. All the remaining remnants of the defeated army had begun moving east in unison.

General Auguste Dubail grimaced in deep displeasure.

During the hellish urban warfare, they had used every underhanded trick in the book to hold back the 1st Army. Endless ambushes, surprise attacks, night raids, agitation, and booby traps.

Since when did the honorable German army become so depraved?

Regardless, the French 1st Army had been defeated, and Auguste Dubail was practically a defeated general. He hadn't achieved a single strategic objective, so how could this be called a "victory"?

The German Armed Cooperative Alliance had already perfectly achieved its strategic goals. Just how much more did they want to gain? Did ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠they really expect to get all those troops out alive?

"The encirclement to the east is not yet complete. They will surely try to strike here, near the main avenue and the textile factory."

Auguste Dubail pointed at the map with his swagger stick.

"Do not let a single German escape. We must appease the souls of our fallen soldiers, who died like dogs, with Stahl's head."

Still, if they could just capture Stahl, Ludendorff, and Trotsky on the battlefield, France could at least break even. Even if the Western Front ended like this, who knew what would happen to the Eastern Front without Stahl?

The news of the German Armed Cooperative Alliance's retreat reached the city's civilians as well.

"What? They're retreating?"

"...Then what happens to us?"

"We'll all die at the hands of the French. Look at what we've done."

Although the citizens had actively cooperated with the Alliance, most had only helped to the extent civilians could, rather than acting as direct combatants. However, it was also true that some had joined the volunteer militia to fight the French.

Therefore, the French army would likely shoot any civilian not wearing a uniform without questioning. For the past fortnight, this had been a battlefield where identifying friend from foe, or soldier from civilian, was impossible.

"We might not die. We didn't do anything except... bandage up the bleeding soldiers who were running away!"

"The question is whether the French will care."

Panicked by the advancing occupation forces, the civilians naturally began planning their escape.

"Let's follow the Germans right now. We can survive that way."

"...Go ahead if you want. I can't go."

"Why?"

"I have my mother. How can I run away and leave my mother, who can barely walk?"

"...The Germans will protect us. They're soldiers."

But Charles smiled cynically.

"Do you really think so?"

"What?"

"In the end, they're just soldiers too. Soldiers who will do anything for victory. They'd probably prefer we stay here and die. That way, we'll slow down the French and they can accuse them of being butchers."

"..."

"Anyway, you should run. You have that uniform you kept, right? Put it on and follow the Alliance."

"Charles..."

After sending his friend away, Charles fell into a bitter mood.

The Alliance. He had never trusted them from the start. You don't trust states or institutions. Even Stahl, whom some called a saint, was not to be trusted.

I have nowhere to go anyway. What can I do if I'm not a coal miner? I can't just abandon my home and everything I own. Who knows? Maybe I'll survive.

Charles hid a submachine gun that an Alliance soldier had dropped on the ground inside his coat.

As Charles tried to soothe his bitterness, a group of about forty people came running in his direction from a distance. From afar, they looked like a pack of beggars. They were all wearing work shirts, but seeing them carrying rifles and bayonets, they seemed to be a volunteer militia.

Are those fools still playing volunteer soldiers, not even realizing they've been tricked by the Germans?

But as they drew closer, he realized they were no ordinary militia. They didn't move in orderly ranks like the French army, but they weren't as loose as the volunteers who had signed up to defend the city.

As he tilted his head in confusion, they approached him.

When he looked at the face of the man who seemed to be their leader, a handsome, blond face was revealed. And that voice? It was definitely a voice he had heard before.

"I am Marx Stahl! Are you safe?"

"W-what? Representative Stahl? Haven't you already escaped?"

"How could I abandon the citizens who fought for us and escape? I would rather die here. There is no escape."

"...It's a dog's death. You're Austrian! Go back quickly and lead your army, why die here with us?"

"I never said I would die. And I never said I wouldn't escape."

"Then?"

"We go together."

Charles still couldn't understand Stahl. Think about it logically. What on earth did he stand to gain by taking all these civilians with him? Was he planning to use them as human shields?

"...I have an elderly mother at home who can barely walk. She is suffering from consumption. Are you going to take my mother too?"

"Consumption? Consumption, you say..."

Of course. He probably only approached because Charles was young and healthy, wanting to conscript him.

But what came out of Stahl's mouth was completely unexpected.

"Do you have a cart?"

"...What?"

"Didn't you say she can barely walk? We must carry her in a cart. And, take this."

Stahl fumbled in his pocket, pulled out a business card, and handed it over.

"Why on earth are you giving me this?"

"Thanks to penicillin, consumption is no longer a disease. After escaping all this way, wouldn't it be tragic to lose your mother to consumption? Put your mother in a cart, hide well, and make your way to the textile factory in the east. Bring weapons if you have them."

Charles accepted Stahl's card with a strange feeling. What... what on earth is this...

Saint Stahl... Saint Stahl, they say? Ah, to hell with it!

Charles rushed back home, spread blankets in a cart, and placed his mother on it. As a young man, Charles was by no means safe in this war. Even if the French didn't kill him, a conscription notice would fly his way before long. And then? He would be sent back to the battlefield where people died like dogs.

He had only experienced it for a fortnight, but he was already utterly sick of war. The moment Charles went to the battlefield, both he and his elderly mother, who had no one else to care for her, would be as good as dead.

If he was going to die anyway, he might as well gamble his life on Stahl just once.

Following Stahl, an immense number of citizens gathered at the massive textile factory.

"Break through! Break through!"

"Aaaargh!"

The Alliance forces charged toward the machine gun nests embedded in the encirclement, piling up bodies just like the French had. Whether they were trapped in the city or mowed down by machine guns, wasn't the end the same?

It was night, and snow was fluttering down, making friend-or-foe identification impossible. It was the perfect condition to flee.

But that didn't mean the machine gun fire stopped. If anything, it was even more merciless. Whether they could see or not, the machine guns fired without hesitation at the slightest sign of movement. It didn't matter if it was a ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠wounded soldier or a civilian.

Stahl, too, risked his life under the machine gun fire, stepping onto the front lines with a single pistol in hand.

"You are the heroes of Germany! The workers of all nations will remember your great deeds!"

When even the commander-in-chief, who bore the responsibility of the war, stood at the very front, what was there to fear? Even as the snow whipped their faces, making it hard to keep their eyes open, they pressed forward toward the machine gun nests with nothing but bayoneted rifles.

And then.

"It's time. Send them out."

The new weapon that Stahl had vehemently opposed using. Under normal circumstances, no sane commander would needlessly deploy such a weapon and damage morale. But in a desperate situation like this, there was no other choice.

"Workers of the world, unite!"

"Long live Stahlism! Protect the Cooperative!"

"M-Mom...!"

They shouted whatever slogans they had prepared as they ran with pressurized hydrogen cylinders strapped to their backs. Some shouted grand slogans related to Stahlism, but the most common cry was "Mom."

Once they neared the machine gun nests through the path their comrades had sacrificed their lives to clear, they pressed the buttons without hesitation.

Boom! Ba-boom!

An explosion of unimaginable scale erupted. With artillery completely absent, this was the weapon capable of producing the largest explosion. In a situation where ammunition, rifles, and everything else was scarce, this was the weapon with the largest remaining stockpile.

Several machine gun nests were obliterated by the blasts of the Hydrogen Suicide Bombers, and gaps began to appear in the defensive line.

"The encirclement is broken!"

Had heaven aided Stahl? Winter was not yet over, and the bitter wind blowing from the Rhine made it bitterly cold. Due to the cold and the snow, the machine guns began to jam one by one.

"Quickly! Move quickly!"

As the machine gun nests were breached, the Alliance soldiers and hundreds of thousands of civilians gathered at the textile factory began their march.