The Opening of the Great War
The First World War had begun. My first act in this world war was to throw myself into the border battle.
Outdated tactics and doctrines from the Napoleonic era still lingered, making this border skirmish far removed from the trench warfare that defined the rest of the First World War. It was, in truth, the last battle fought in the Napoleonic style. Soon after, the overwhelming firepower of machine guns and anti-personnel artillery barrages would force warfare into the grim reality of the trenches.
And I knew the future of this battle all too well.
"Never advance the troops under any circumstances."
The result was predictable: massive casualties on both sides. It was only natural. This wasn't the Napoleonic era anymore. Both armies were armed with high-explosive shells and machine guns, so sending infantry charging across open fields was nothing short of suicide.
That's why I strongly advocated for a defensive strategy—absorbing the enemy's advance and letting them break against us.
"Mind your own business, Falkenrain. I know you're chummy with the colonel of the 16th Regiment. But that doesn't fly here. You got your orders—fire the guns as commanded."
My current post was as staff officer to the brigade commander of the 1st Infantry Artillery Brigade of the Kingdom of Bavaria. But the role he wanted from me wasn't strategic advice whispered at his side; it was silently directing the artillery.
I wasn't dismissing the artillerymen. It was just that exploiting the enemy's mistakes mattered more than manning the guns.
The brigade commander ignored my counsel. "Stop worrying about nonsense. Strategy and tactics are for the higher-ups. Just fire the guns as ordered."
"And as you know, we can't expend all our shells in this battle. Conserve ammunition—shoot sparingly."
"But lives are more precious than shells. This is our chance to inflict maximum damage—if we don't act now, the opportunity vanishes."
"Obey my orders!"
On top of that, he issued utterly unreasonable commands. He restricted daily shell usage.
Sure, during the trench phase, ammo shortages did cause real hardship. But pouring shells now would yield returns in kind. Holding back for the trenches wouldn't match this payoff. The most cost-effective use was to unleash everything we could right here.
"An incompetent commander is more dangerous than a competent enemy general—no need to explain that, right?"
Those words from my instructor at the Grosserichsfeld Cadet Training Corps echoed in my mind. This was exactly what he meant.
Of course, with Napoleonic notions still entrenched, no amount of explanation would change minds until they experienced it firsthand. But I wasn't powerless.
'This attempt is different from before. Things are better this time. There's definitely more I can do.'
In my first loop, I'd commissioned as a lieutenant but died to artillery in the trenches. In the second, I survived to World War II as a lieutenant. This third loop was entirely different: commissioning as a first lieutenant, not in the 2nd Guard Infantry Regiment, but as staff in the Kingdom of Bavaria's 1st Infantry Artillery Brigade.
'If necessary, I have to do it.'
My personal safety? If things went south, I'd just skip to the fourth loop. What mattered was acting for Germany, even at risk.
I headed straight for a nearby artillery battalion prepping their guns. Dismounting, I relayed the enemy positions I'd scouted earlier to the battalion commander.
"Lieutenant Falkenrain. Good work. No instructions on shell limits?"
"None. Ah—pour maximum effective fire. Here's the order."
It was blatant forgery. But necessary. I might face execution for insubordination—or demotion, losing all I'd built.
Still, my resolve was firm. 'Worst case, jump to the fourth loop.' My lives weren't singular.
Misled, the battalion commander had his men haul every shell from storage and unload them. The enemy was crossing open ground—no trenches, marching in Napoleonic fashion. We couldn't miss this.
The guns roared to life, flames erupting from muzzles in thunderous blasts.
"Just in case, hold back a portion—but dump the rest!"
True to his artillery roots, the commander grinned ear-to-ear, hands over his ears in glee. His men sweated rivers loading shells, laughing all the while.
"Heave-ho!"
"Blow the French bastards away!"
Confirming the barrage, I returned to HQ with mixed feelings.
In that week-long Lorraine Offensive, over 8,000 French troops were obliterated by our shells. The overwhelming field gun barrage shattered their assault, forcing a division-scale retreat.
"Lieutenant Falkenrain. What the hell did you do?"
"No excuses. It was necessary."
I didn't deny my fault—claimed it as duty. The brigade commander exhaled smoke in my face, irritably grinding out his cigarette. He slid a document my way.
"Thanks to you, our brigade's battle record shines. Even got priority shell resupply. The 1st Infantry Artillery Battalion commander got a medal."
"..."
"Because you defied my orders. One question."
"Ask anything."
"Why forge the command on your own?"
"It was necessary. The last chance to stop them in open ground. Soon, neither side will expose themselves there—that moment was optimal."
"You predicted all this?"
"No prediction needed. Just applying what I learned from cadet training through War College as an artillery officer."
I framed my solo action as textbook protocol from academy days.
The commander smirked. I tracked his rising form with my eyes, standing at attention.
"The MPs haven't arrested you yet, so you know I haven't reported it. The shell limit never existed... for now."
"..."
"I believe you did it for patriotic reasons. Right?"
"I devote this body to Germany."
"Fine. I admit my error. But your action was foolish—too risky. Subordinates must obey commanders."
"..."
"It worked out, but I can't keep a headstrong officer like you on staff."
He pulled a file from his drawer, dropped it before me, and left without a word.
Relaxing, I read it. An evaluation praising my tactical prowess, recommending me as company commander in the 1st Bavarian Royal Division's infantry.
'Demoted...'
Yes. My career started in artillery; I'd focused there at War College. Sending me to infantry company command was a demotion.
But crisis breeds opportunity. Excel here, and I'd rack up combat experience more directly than as staff—maybe even promote.
'I'll struggle to the end.'
I'd survive. Return and seize the German Empire's helm. My goal wasn't just winning the First World War. Build merits here, then lead Germany. This time, not Hitler's way.
In the end, the regimental recommendation passed. In no time, I switched units again.
6th Army, 1st Bavarian Royal Division. 11th Company commander.
Surprisingly, the slot opened because the previous commander fell in the last battle—to French bullets.
Quick handover, and I took command of the 11th Company amid the chaos of reassignment.
The world wouldn't let me rest.
"August 20th counteroffensive...?"
It was maddening. We'd hammered the French harder with our barrage, inflicting heavier losses than in original history. Yet push forward now? After seeing their slaughter, it was our turn to charge in?
I shredded the orders before me and burned them for security.
Just a week into command, I had to lead my battered company into the assault.
"..."
The 11th had suffered heavily already. Scraping by with remnants, charging with them seemed reckless.
But the army marches on orders. I had to rouse these war-weary men.
"Hoo..."
I assembled the troops before the company camp. No podium—just climbed a supply crate, blew my whistle for attention, and began my speech.