The Opening Salvo of the Spring Offensive
September 1917. After about a month's grueling war of attrition, the results of the Falkenrain Minor Offensive were in. We had held the line from the Noyon sector all the way to the southeastern outskirts of Saint-Quentin—a long, unbroken defensive front. As the relentless assaults dragged on, French casualties mounted, and their offensive finally crumbled.
Yet the Falkenrain Minor Offensive hinged on two pillars: attack and defense. Defense had succeeded, but the attack fell short of major gains. Just as we repelled the French assaults, they held firm against our counterpushes, leaving neither side with a clear strategic victory. Still, overall, our tally was superior.
"The Falkenrain Minor Offensive yielded no major objectives for either the enemy or ourselves. That said, we managed to encircle a handful of their divisions in isolated pockets. One might call it a draw... but we've secured something more."
Our offensive hadn't fizzled out like the French one. Word was, it was the first real synergy from mission-type tactics. Especially the stormtroopers' decentralized command paired with Hutier tactics—it clicked perfectly. Estimates put French losses at around 36,000. Ours, including missing, hovered at 25,000. The enemy bled 11,000 more than us. Even by exchange ratio alone, it wasn't a loss. Pushing the front forward was just gravy.
The problem? France wasn't isolated; Germany was. This ratio wasn't bad, but from the big picture, our 25,000 were worth more than their 35,000.
"And since we've pierced deeper into their lines, expanding the front, high command's directive is to switch to defense until we rebuild offensive momentum. Sixth Army divisions will focus on holding until further orders."
Thus, the Vélos Offensive and its Falkenrain sub-operation ended in strategic victory for the German Empire. It was really just capitalizing on the Nivelle Offensive's flop and French disarray, but a win nonetheless.
Time marched on.
December 1917. Russia finally buckled under internal chaos and raised the white flag. Not a full surrender—more a separate peace. But the terms they signed were humiliating, rivaling any capitulation treaty.
By March 1918, Russia inked the Treaty of Brest-Litovsk, officially exiting the Entente. The Russian Civil War sent shockwaves through the Allies. Germany overcame its two-front nightmare, freeing most troops for the West.
And so, the inevitable arrived.
"Still not satisfied after the Vélos Offensive?"
The most catastrophic strategic blunder in history: the Ludendorff Offensive.
Naturally, I and Sixth Army got swept up. The Vélos butterfly effect tweaked the details, though. High command was probably debating with General Vélos and Colonel-General Ludendorff about striking before American reinforcements—staff room armchair quarterbacking.
"Major von Falkenrain. Here's your orders. Report to the 1st Infantry Gun Brigade of the 5th Bavarian Royal Division and stand by until the next offensive."
Six months after Falkenrain and Vélos wrapped, I transferred from Sixth Bavarian Kingdom Army staff back to frontline command. Staff officer to a brigade commander this time, but effectively running a battalion.
Leveling up RPG-style was fun, but grinding in the WWI meat grinder as a fresh hunting ground? Depressing.
"You Falkenrain? Heard about you. Hero of the Minor Offensive, right?"
Upon arriving at the infantry gun brigade, I was summoned to the local HQ. There I met Georg Bruchmüller, artillery colonel under Army Group Center.
"Your record's... eclectic. Artillery one day, infantry the next, then leading stormtroopers in assaults?"
"Yes, sir."
"And now back to guns. Does the Empire hate you?"
"Seems the Fatherland despises me, sir. But I love her. Unrequited passion."
My light jab drew a chuckle from the stern German, Bruchmüller. He handed me orders.
"Operation kicks off dawn of the 21st. Your gun battalion joins the barrage on schedule. Sixth Army HQ approved—don't ignore it just because different units."
"Understood."
"For Kaiser Wilhelm!"
"For Kaiser Wilhelm!"
Orders delivered, the German Empire took its final doomed steps.
Dawn, March 21, 1918. Every gun in the 1st Infantry Gun Brigade of Sixth Bavarian Kingdom Army roared open. Shellfire lit the dark sky in place of the sun.
"Limit shell expenditure. No need to dump everything here."
I capped ammo use for my men. Commander's discretion. Ludendorff's opening barrage punched through easier than expected—no need to burn shells en masse.
Minimize attrition. Preserve...
My goal now: husband Germany's strength. Survival, assassinating Hitler, publishing Junker's Defecation, feeding my speeches and lame jokes to the masses—side quests mostly cleared. No reason to die here, couldn't stop defeat anyway.
So, act for the Germany I'd lead later.
Shells are cheaper than men. Save them for Ypres and Amiens.
The Spring Offensive—or Ludendorff Offensive—started creaking at Amiens, a small French town. Urban fighting is hell. Knowing that, I planned to encircle and shell it flat.
Guns are the gods of war.
By early April, Bruchmüller's barrage sparked visible gains. Enemy numbers thinner than thought; Entente's manpower drain bit hard. They folded easier.
Then things stalled. Army Group Center's First and Third Armies bogged down at Amiens. Sixth Army at Ypres...
I fired off a request to halt advances. Pushing further was just pride-fueled sacrifice.
Denied.
"Hold your sector. I respect your strategic eye, but this isn't your call."
Reason: no chance later. Once Yanks crossed the Atlantic in force, Entente's half-million on the West would double to a million. No countering that; had to push now.
Last trick up my sleeve.
"Then at least lift fire restrictions."
"What? Raze Ypres?"
"And Amiens if possible—our key targets."
"..."
I petitioned to unleash artillery on infrastructure. High command had banned shelling certain spots pre-op: intact capture preserved value. Amiens rail station, Ypres roads, etc.
I argued: destroy infrastructure, trade shells for lives.
Amiens denied; Ypres approved.
"This far, yes. Can't sway them further."
"Thank you, sir."
Enough. This alone would save 2,000-3,000 German lives before defeat.
Instead of infantry, we poured shells. Landscape shattered, war's flames devoured all nearby.
French choice: retreat. Flee the obliterating barrage.
"Hah, raze it all then occupy? Eat rubble and leave."
Entering Ypres, French graffiti on crumbled walls mocked us.
I sat on debris, bitter smile. Gun battalion officers gathered.
"Good work. Congratulations—you became avatars of destruction to save our boys."
"Not sure, Major. Was this extreme necessary?"
"How many more German youths die without it?"
"That's infantry talk. Not ours."
I nodded to the junior officer—seven years my senior, really. Valid point. He saw from a gunner's view, not the Empire's. His dream in the army.
Mine lay beyond.
"Those thousands saved will rebuild postwar Germany. Just smashed a French town for it."
I gazed calmly at the ruins. Soldiers setting up guns in the plaza.
"This war ends soon."
"If the offensive succeeds."
"No—opposite. It can't succeed."
Germany had hit its limit. Plain as day.