Falkenrain's Salient: Bait for the Trap
The Falkenrain Minor Offensive in the Noyon sector wrapped up successfully, and we deliberately created a salient. Sure enough, Entente forces launched an advance from St. Quentin, the city northeast of Noyon. Their target was obvious: sever the base of the salient and encircle us. But that would force the enemy to form their own bulge, which we intended to envelop in turn. Defense was one of the operation's key pillars. In essence, we had to yield parts of the salient while holding the enemy just short of severing our supply lines.
I returned to the staff headquarters right after completing my mission and dove into discussions on strategy and tactics over the maps.
"The 2nd Army provides support from the north, the 6th Army handles the central defense. Our 1st Royal Division joins the defensive effort as well. Any questions? None, I see. Oh, and Major Falkenrain—stick around a moment. I have a spot to introduce you to."
Having proposed a minor offensive amid the broader Vellore Offensive, I'd drawn excessive attention from the top brass. My workload piled up like a mountain, dragging me to meetings everywhere. And now, I was being hauled to high-society gatherings for the officers. A German Empire Army social exclusive to the menfolk—one even Manstein and Guderian hadn't crashed. I had no idea where to put myself.
"This is the fellow who gave that speech in Berlin last time. Yes, Lucas von Falkenrain. Sharp as a tack for such a young pup. They say he's the prodigy of the Falkenrain house—guess there's a reason it's such a renowned family."
"Ha... haha..."
"Oh, right, Falkenrain. It might be a sub-operation under the Vellore Offensive, but the plan you devised will bear your name: the Falkenrain Minor Offensive. What do you think? Like the sound of it?"
"Immensely... flattering, sir. Yes."
History now bore my stain.
"By the way, what's your read on the war's outcome? Predicting a German victory isn't hard. The real question is... when?"
"Around November 11, 1918, I suspect this war will end."
"Is that so? Earlier than expected. And remarkably precise."
Sorry, but I never said Germany would win. There'd probably be an armistice by then, signed in a train car deep in the Compiègne Forest. Germany would lack the stamina to keep fighting, and France would impose punitive terms.
"Well, if we claim victory on November 11th, everyone can head home for Christmas. Good for the enemy, good for us, right? Here, have a drink."
"Thank you, sir."
Even at a "social," it was soldiers only—no women in sight—and men together inevitably turned to war stories and women. Soon enough, officers started bragging about wives and girlfriends, escalating to bawdy jokes.
"Ha... I hope this war ends soon so I can get home. If I went back now, I'd keep my wife up for a solid month."
"Pfft! You? The guy who can't even pitch a field tent in the morning?"
"You idiot. Pitch a field tent in wartime? It'd be so big and noisy, it'd paint a target on us for French aviators!"
That was the level. Inevitably, the chatter circled back to me.
"Speaking of which, Major Falkenrain—you're the youngest major in the 6th Army, aren't you? How old are you?"
"Twenty-seven."
"The world's gone mad. A major at twenty-seven? Haha, just kidding. With your Junker lineage, Grosserichsfeld Cadet Training Corps grad, and a semester at the Prussian War Academy—you elite must have a wife waiting, right?"
"Handsome, capable, book-smart—surely there's a girl back home to embrace?"
"None."
"No girl?"
"No. There isn't."
"Wait, there was?"
"Just... none."
"..."
Pathetically, despite my stacked specs, I had zero romantic history. First loop: a fiancée, arranged by my father. We exchanged a few words—that was it. She died in World War I. Second loop: I married the nation. Yeah, I was a total virgin. To escape this filthy quagmire, I'd ignored women entirely. And this third loop? No different. Never taken romance seriously. No time for marriage or dating when racing to secure Germany's victory. Why build a family, endure all that emotional labor, just to keep the lower half happy?
Stephen Hawking, father of unified field theory and genius physicist, said it best: "Women are a bigger mystery than the universe." I wholeheartedly agree. Women rarely cared for pretty maps, grand strategy pros and cons, or the geopolitical and historical significance of Manstein's plans. They couldn't grasp it. Why obsess over encircling enemy forces, CAS armament design, or battleship naming when handbag value was the real debate? For all those reasons, I'd sworn off women after loop two. Not because my game was weak. Absolutely not.
"Uh... Major Falkenrain. When the war's over, I'll introduce you to a fine lady. Promise."
"Yeah, me too. This time, no empty words."
"Why the sudden silence? I'm married."
"...What? Why say that now?"
"I married the nation."
"..."
My superiors' faces turned solemn, then resolute as they clapped my shoulders.
"Your patriotism will be rewarded someday."
"You make me feel ashamed today."
Women? No clue. Men? Hooked 'em.
The main force of the Falkenrain Minor Offensive shifted to defense. French forces struck from St. Quentin, targeting the German center, while we halted our offensive and committed to holding the line. Machine guns mounted in pre-dug trenches, zigzagged to evade shellfire. Soon, the enemy's assault and barrage began.
"Here they come. Everything hinges on southeast St. Quentin."
Who bites first? Like a taijitu, we'd pierce each other's bellies. The German 6th Army units defending the central breach were primed. But the French 5th Army, fresh from reorganizing after Nivelle's defeat, was no pushover. As attackers, they outnumbered the Imperial German Army and enjoyed eased supply lines.
Whoooosh!
"Charge! Forward, forward! Out of the trenches!"
Post-barrage, whistles blew. French troops surged from their trenches toward ours. Heavy shelling had neutralized midway obstacles and wire; southeast St. Quentin's drier mud made it prime for advance. German crossfire erupted. French smoke and stun grenades cleared paths as they pressed on.
Rat-tat-tat!Whoooosh!Boom!
Germans opened with artillery. Machine-gun barrages could be endured, but open fields left French exposed to shells. Anti-personnel rounds showered lethal fragments like rain. The French took heavy losses.
But such casualties were within their calculus. They'd confirmed numerical superiority before launching; a few breaches would sever Noyon salient supplies, enabling encirclement. High reward for the risk. And Pétain wouldn't squander it.
Bang!
"Guhk...!"
Bang!Thud!
"Urk..."
French reached point-blank. They pushed despite fire. Inevitably, infiltrators stormed trenches with grenades and rifles, shifting to close quarters.
French bayonets gleamed as they charged.
Bang!Thud!
"Die! Die! Die!"
"M-mercy!"
Crack-crack-crack!
It was brutal, savage. Germans bashed French skulls with Stahlhelms till skin split and bone crumbled, blood spraying faces. German bodies riddled by French bullets. Others lunged with entrenching tools, half-severing necks—victims writhed in agony, not quite dead.
Germans claimed the melee. Despite reaching the trenches, depleted French failed to hold them.
Undeterred, French prepped the next wave. Melee ended in barrage; barrage in assault. Endless pressure wore Germans down.