Chapter 664: The Germans Counterattack
The moment the British saw a wave of German tanks advancing toward them, their will to fight evaporated.
They had assumed, as always, that the Germans would defend from trenches—using barbed wire, anti-tank ditches, machine gun fire, and a wall of artillery to hold them back.
Though they knew they would suffer heavy casualties, they believed they could eventually break through, especially with over 70 tanks charging in formation behind them.
This was Captain Monty's plan, something he proudly called "shield wall tactics," inspired by the Roman legion's testudo formation.
In his view, if a tank at the front was destroyed or broke down, the tank behind it would simply push forward and fill the gap.
But reality didn't unfold the way Monty expected.
British soldiers cried out in disbelief:
"Bloody hell! The Germans are counterattacking—with tanks!"
"They have more tanks than us! And bigger ones too!"
"What do we do now?!"
All eyes turned to Captain Monty.
Monty quickly raised his binoculars, scanned the field, and shouted,
"Don't worry! They're just copies of our tanks—we can beat them!"
He fired two rounds into the air from his revolver and roared,
"Forward! Kill them all!"
"Kill!" British troops responded, charging toward the German tanks at full sprint.
Their training had drilled into them that once the charge began, they had to give it everything they had.
Some stumbled in the uneven, cratered snow, only to be crushed under the tracks of their own advancing tanks.
They died without understanding: didn't the tank know they were in front of it?
Inside the British tanks, the crews were just as confused.
The gunners had aimed their machine guns at the enemy—only to suddenly see the backs of their own men blocking every line of fire.
The drivers couldn't see anything either; the periscopes and viewports were obscured by panicked infantry who had rushed ahead.
Inside the claustrophobic tanks, the crew shouted in frustration,
"Move! Get out of the way, you idiots!"
But no one could hear them.
In contrast, the German forces advanced in perfect coordination.
German tanks rolled into position on flatter ground, carefully aligning their guns.
Behind them, infantry squads emerged in waves, calmly taking aim and opening fire.
Bang. Bang bang.
British infantry dropped one after another, collapsing in awkward positions around the tanks.
Those who were only wounded were soon crushed under the tracks of the Whippets behind them.
Blood sprayed, limbs flew, and the screams were unbearable.
Boom boom!
German tanks opened fire.
At less than 100 meters apart, the LK2's 37mm short-barrel Krupp cannon had no trouble penetrating the Whippet's thin 12mm armor.
Tank after tank was hit—some slowed to a halt, others erupted in flames, their engines ignited, black smoke and the stench of burning metal and oil choking the air.
(Note: The Whippet tank was equipped with only four machine guns and no main cannon—so there was no chance of internal ammunition detonation.)
The second wave of British tanks, moving up under Monty's shield wall doctrine, were likewise reduced to twisted heaps of scrap.
Soon, the two lines of tanks collided in a tangled mass.
British soldiers, forced into narrow gaps between burning hulks, tried to continue their charge—but what had started as an organized assault now resembled a fragmented trickle.
And what awaited them at the end of each stream was the cold, dark barrel of a German rifle or the steel of a tank.
Many British troops never even got a shot off.
Their own men blocked their path, and they found themselves stuck behind human shields.
Then, someone in front dropped—revealing German muzzles already flashing with fire.
The soldiers fell without ever raising their weapons.
From his position, Monty realized the attack had failed.
He bellowed, "Retreat! Everyone, fall back!"
But the German tanks surged forward again.
With the sound of grinding steel, they rolled over British corpses, tore through the remains of the Whippets, and burst into the rear lines like wolves in a pen.
Each German tank was trailed by a platoon of infantry.
There weren't many—just a few dozen per tank—but they were highly trained.
They knew how to work with tanks, where their vision was limited, how to guide them with rifle butts tapping the hull, leading them forward.
British soldiers began dropping en masse.
The organized withdrawal turned into a rout.
Chaos. Panic.
Even Monty was forced to flee.
Under the protection of his guards, Monty crawled back into the trench on hands and knees.
He gasped for breath, devastated. Days of planning had come to nothing. The casualties were enormous.
Damn it… how was he going to explain this to General Haig?
Then, shouts from soldiers pulled him back to the present.
"Captain!" a guard cried, panic in his voice. "The Germans haven't stopped! They're coming for our lines!"
Monty turned and saw them: German tanks—still advancing. But now it was the heavier medium tanks leading the charge.
"Form a defense!" Monty shouted hoarsely, panic etched on his face. "Hold them off!"
But his troops stood frozen.
Some lifted their rifles over the trench edge, some stared blankly at Monty, and most just stared in terror at the advancing armor.
How were they supposed to stop tanks?
With their rifles? Bayonets?
Someone—no one knew who—turned and ran.
Then another.
And then the rest.
A wave of men surged away from the trenches, abandoning their positions. Monty's screams were useless. No one listened.
…
Back at British Expeditionary Force headquarters, Haig poured himself a glass of French wine.
He hoped to savor a moment of peace before the news of victory arrived.
Seventy tanks, three infantry divisions—over 60,000 men.
Surely it would be enough to break through the German line.
Losses were expected. That's what the next conscription act was for.
But before he could finish his first sip, a guard burst in, breathless.
"General—you need to evacuate. Now."
"What?" Haig asked, confused.
"The Germans… they're counterattacking. They'll be here soon!"
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