Ripples of the Butterfly
After killing Hitler in the wake of the Nivelle Offensive, time flew by. April 1917. Serving as a staff officer with the Kingdom of Bavaria's army, I played a key role in successfully repelling the offensive. For my efforts, I was awarded the First Class Iron Cross.
"It's thanks to you, Captain. You truly have a strategic eye."
"You're too kind, sir. But this isn't over yet."
In real history, the Nivelle Offensive ended in failure too. But I dug relentlessly into its weaknesses, magnifying my battle honors. Once the offensive wrapped up, I strongly advocated for immediate artillery barrages followed by a massive counterattack. I knew exactly how chaotic the French army's internals were at that point.
In the original timeline, Germany didn't bother launching a counteroffensive. If they'd known Nivelle had failed and how much of a mess the French were in, the German war machine never would have let the opportunity slip.
"Have you lost your mind? Assaults aren't the paradigm of war anymore, Falkenrain."
"I know that, sir. At the very least, give me a minimal assault force. We need to expand our gains here."
"I'll give you one company. No more than that."
"Thank you, sir."
Nivelle's vaunted creeping barrage tactic wasn't exclusive to the French. I requested that our artillery use it in a very limited sector, and they approved. Then I headed back to the front.
Mud that sucked at your boots with every step. Swarming insects, rot, everything horrific and filthy—the Western Front Trenches. I'd returned to this quagmire after all.
There, I decided to pour fire into the French trenches along the Oise River valley. My plan reached the artillery, and with thirty minutes until zero hour, I gathered the troops and began my speech.
Whoooosh—!Boom—! The creeping barrage began. Shells pulverized the enemy's barbed wire and obstacles, advancing slowly like a wall of fire. We popped smoke grenades to blind them and rushed forward.
About three hundred assault troops—no whistles, just silent approach to the French trenches.
"Hey, over there. That puddle's dangerous. Fresh shell crater. Get out."
"Whew, almost fell into a shitter. Gangrene's no joke."
"Jokes in a time like this? What's your name?"
"Corporal Yahn Krichz, sir."
"Right, Krichz. See that yellow tinge? It's contaminated. If that water gets in a wound, you'll die just like from gas. Avoid it."
During the advance, I gave a few tips to a green recruit clueless about the Western Front. With powerful artillery support at our backs, we closed in on the French trenches. Only when we were at a certain distance did their fire start.
"Down! Take cover!"
"Smoke! Grenades!"
But by the time they fired back, we'd already crossed half the gap between our lines and theirs. We returned fire, creeping closer, lobbing grenades and Molotovs, tossing fresh smoke to disrupt their counterattack.
Once we were close enough, I blew my whistle, signaling the assault.
"Long live His Majesty the Kaiser!"
Preeeeee—!
"Where's our barrage support?!"
"Incoming...! Fix bayonets! Fix bayonets!"
Stab—! I plunged my entrenching tool into the neck of a French officer as I entered the trench, then pushed forward.
"We're in!"
Our assault company successfully infiltrated the enemy trench, sowing chaos. We ignited their stockpiled flamethrowers and grenades, captured machine guns, and racked up kills. In the end, we wiped out roughly two French platoons, suffering only about sixty casualties.
But you have to know when to start—and when to stop. Even if the French were a mess after Nivelle's failure, pushing further risked reinforcements and a massive counterattack.
Judging we'd done enough, we blew whistles and began withdrawing.
"That's sufficient! You there, grab that one as a POW and drag him! Assault team, fall back now!"
Whiiiish—! Before French artillery could respond, we expended our remaining smoke and made it safely to our lines.
Scale-wise, it was a skirmish barely worth calling a battle. But you could feel the French coordination between trenches and their artillery response had slowed. Pétain would soon restore discipline and reorganize, but for now, they wouldn't be launching any offensives.
"The strategic gains outweigh the battle honors."
This fight's real value lay in intelligence and psychological warfare, not kills. I drafted a report on it and sent it to the 1st Bavarian Royal Division HQ—never imagining it would spark a new butterfly effect.
"Falkenrain's report. Have you read it?"
"I have, sir."
"What a sharp fellow. The Falkenrain family's eldest son, eh? It's talents like his that bring glory to Germany now. Division commander, I'm jealous of your subordinate."
"You're too kind."
"No, it's no exaggeration. Now that the French offensive has crumbled, isn't this our chance?"
"Sir, what do you mean...?"
"Prepare an offensive. Draft plans fast for a counterattack. Name it... the Below Offensive, after me."
Otto von Below, colonel general of the German Empire's 6th Army, read the report and assessment from Lucas von Falkenrain and grinned with delight. Normally, a mere captain's paper wouldn't reach him, but its strategic weight had sent it up the chain to his desk.
And that single captain's report shifted Below's thinking, turning it into an opportunity.
"French morale is confirmed broken. Strike now—we can't give them time. If they regroup, our losses mount. Right?"
"Sir, but... our forces are short. We lack numerical superiority for an offensive. Failure could shatter the Western Front's left flank in catastrophe."
"I know. But sitting tight dooms us to attrition too. How long can we survive on turnip bread and sawdust? Our morale's higher than theirs—strike now, or never."
"...Understood."
Below's resolve was firm, rooted in reason. Germany's war-sustaining capacity was already exhausted, while America and most of the Americas joined the Allies, isolating us diplomatically. We couldn't win a long war. The high command knew it; even Kaiser Wilhelm II had to face it.
We were backed into a corner, forced to gamble. No gamble, no victory. Trench warfare favored the defender's exchange rate, but maybe not now.
The hitch: just as Below committed, General Philippe Pétain began rallying the French. History's whirlwind was unpredictable.
In the end, the tiny flap of wings from one Lucas von Falkenrain was reshaping history on a grand scale.
June 1917. Barely a month after Nivelle's offensive stalled. Word spread of an absurd 6th Army push from the Western Front's left flank. Separately from that wild plan, I was summoned to Berlin.
"Why... am I being called to Berlin?"
"Why? You're a hero. The people want heroes like you."
"What do you—"
"No time. Nothing major—just a few photos, a short speech for the nation."
At this critical juncture, I was assigned a special mission and shipped to Berlin. Rattling in a bone-jarring train to the rear, I'd been promoted from captain to major for leading that company assault and disrupting the enemy trench.
Puking my guts out in the swaying car while pinning on new rank insignia wasn't exactly thrilling. Thus, I became the empire's youngest field-grade officer—and a hero, for some reason.
It was what I wanted, but... something felt off. Like I'd been forcibly dragged into the adults' shadowy games.
"It was an honor to serve Major Falkenrain."
"Thank you."
A soldier saluted crisply as I disembarked. Honestly, it left me a bit awkward.
Upon arriving in Berlin, I was dragged to meetings, socials, balls, strategy classes—whatever came up. Sleep? Maybe three hours a day. Better bed than the front, sure, but the brass wouldn't let me rest.
"Alright, photo time. Hold still for three minutes."
"Ah..."
This era's cameras... Anyway, after one shot, my face was plastered in propaganda papers. Unwittingly, I introduced my name and image to the German people for the first time.
Then, shuttled around for forced speeches.
"Your oratory's famous from superiors to juniors. I want to hear what makes a front-line hero's words special."
"Yes, sir."
Order's order. I hawked my face and name like mad, then two weeks later, returned to the front as staff.
Too late. The offensive had begun—just as Pétain started his reorganization.