The Belov Offensive
June 1917, French Army General Staff.
The aftermath of the revolution in Russia and the failure of the Nivelle Offensive had sparked riots among French soldiers—strikes, outright mutinies. These disturbances, which began in April 1917, were gradually stabilizing under the new commander-in-chief, Philippe Pétain. By early June, nearly all had been quelled.
Yet Pétain couldn't let his guard down.
"If the Germans launch an offensive right now, our trenches will be blown wide open."
"How dare those Jerry bastards attack our trenches? We know their tactics have shifted to the defensive already, don't we?"
"On paper, their attack looks doomed to fail. But my friend, that's a grave mistake if you think war is just numbers. Our troops' morale, equipment, and supplies are in shambles. Even on the defensive, we might end up conceding more men if things go south."
Pétain knew full well how precarious the disorganized French army was. He mulled over the face of his predecessor, Nivelle—a man who never had the chops to lead the French Army in the first place.
"He should've just stuck to lobbing shells from the rear like always..."
Cleaning up the mess left by the last guy was burden enough. If the Germans advanced now, Pétain might just lose his mind.
Fortunately, through early June, the Germans made no moves. Considering the manpower they'd burned at Verdun, France wasn't the only one hurting. Or so he thought.
"Your Excellency...! Commander-in-Chief, sir! Disaster! The Germans are launching an offensive!"
That illusion shattered in an instant. His worst fears had come true.
"Details."
"The German Sixth Army's central and southern groups are hitting our right flank! A massive assault from Arras to Noyon and Pas-de-Calais!"
"What...? Of all the timing! Get artillery support rolling immediately—hold them! I'm lifting shell expenditure limits temporarily. Authorize limited withdrawals from the front trenches. Do not let them break through!"
Pétain knew: greedily trying to hold everything meant losing it all. His call was spot-on. The German assault was fierce, and the demoralized French main forces buckled.
"Request British reinforcements!"
While issuing orders, Pétain decided to max out diplomatic channels too. They needed every ounce of support from the British and Commonwealth Expeditionary Forces. Shell limits lifted. Even if it meant shortages later, stopping this push was priority one. The weight on his shoulders grew heavier.
General Belov, commander of the Sixth Army, launched his offensive. Though the main thrust came from the Sixth, virtually the entire Northern Group of Armies piled in. Reserves and follow-ups would be swapped with freshly repositioned Eastern Front troops. In the original timeline, these forces would've been bled out a year later in the "Ludendorff Offensive." Now, they were burning up early.
And I was attached as staff officer to the Bavarian 1st Royal Division of the Sixth Army.
"Falkenrain, the Sixth Army Bavarian Kingdom command is watching your views closely. They say your strategic and tactical insights played a key role in greenlighting this offensive."
"You're too kind, sir."
"Major Falkenrain. The Brits hold Calais sector; French defend Arras. Where would you strike hardest?"
"I'm hardly qualified to opine on grand strategy like this. Not at my level."
"Doesn't matter. Just spitball it."
"Very well, if I may be so bold. I'd skip a push at Arras. That's where French and British are co-located. Most staff would call that a weak spot, but I'd prioritize the French at Noyon."
"Why?"
"Their morale's in the gutter. Bypass Brits and allies; hammer the French relentlessly. Don't let them recover. I'd reposition artillery to Noyon, soften 'em with massed barrages and sporadic fire, then commit air support and advance."
Of course, this was less military genius than regurgitating strategies from Hearts of Steel 4 in my head. Any offensive here was doomed anyway. Germany would lose like in the original timeline; even the Ludendorff Offensive was set to flop. Perfect timing might've worked, but with Pétain restoring discipline, this push was mostly symbolic.
"Noyon... But strategically, a salient there could cramp our defenses later, no?"
"Not if you expand it right—it becomes an opportunity. Sure, the enemy might worry about a revolving door effect, but we could turn their counterattack against them."
I demonstrated on the map, sliding pieces around. Our forces push into central France. Enemy northern groups swing to envelop us. We hit their flanks instead, isolating them. Their jaws unhinge to swallow us—only to get bitten themselves. Like a Taijitu symbol: endless circling bites, but tilted in our favor.
"Of course, that assumes Noyon succeeds—which is a long shot. I wouldn't greenlight it myself."
High risk, high reward—and the risk was catastrophic. I wasn't being humble; botch this, and Germany might splinter worse than Weimar—not just Bavaria, Prussia, Saxony, Baden, Württemberg, Mecklenburg, Hanover. A French wet dream.
"Hmm... Flip side: if conditions align, it's worth a shot, right?"
"Too risky, sir. Just idle thoughts."
"Noted. Dismissed."
My division commander—the 1st Bavarian Royal—pondered my pitch, then waved me out. Please don't take this seriously... A fourth-loop start like this was hard pass.
No way... right?
A battle-hardened staff officer from Germany's war machine should dismiss a mere major's brainfart. I trusted German rigidity.
And that trust was promptly betrayed.
"Congratulations, Falkenrain. Your strategic eye carried the day."
"...Pardon?"
"Tomorrow, we unleash hell on Noyon. You'll direct artillery on-site. Shouldn't take long."
My mind reeled.
BOOM!KABOOM!
Shells screamed out. German infantry guns devoured ammo like mad. I flinched at the still-unfamiliar thunder, muttering curses.
"What kind of lunatic country reports a pissant major's hunch up the chain?"
I clamped hands over my ears, grumbling. The guns belched fire regardless, pounding French lines at Noyon, south to Pont-à-Noyon.
Plan was simple: Four divisions peeled from central/northern sectors smash Pont-à-Noyon first, then squeeze Noyon from all sides with barrages, consolidate, and bulge the line central. Once deep in French center, Anglo-French counter-maneuvers to cut us off—that's when we envelop them.
Heinz Guderian, father of mobile warfare, might pull this with proper armor. Barely. A mad gamble.
But it kicked off—and shockingly, against reorganizing French, Germans racked up gains, advancing steadily.
"Why the hell is this working...?!"
It followed the script. 1st and 2nd Bavarian Royal Divisions, 1st Bavarian Infantry Artillery Brigade, plus two from Fourth Army pierced Noyon south, forming a three-pronged noose.
Pétain's call: retreat. Thirty-one hours in, French evacuated Noyon—we took it. Forty-two hours: fresh infantry assault chased fleeing French through abandoned trenches, big advances.
But gains stalled.
"Enemy counterattack!"
"Shift artillery to defense. Crush the counter-pushers."
French retreat was textbook—no heavy losses, quick regroup, counterstrike. Germany scored a strategic win; France recovered from Nivelle fallout.
And then—the Entente surged from Saint-Quentin, northeast of Noyon. If that fell, our salient was pocketed. The operation's real crux: now it was defense.