Cambrai (1)
"Our engineer regiment has a portion carrying out a separate mission in the rear."
Pershing said, tapping a section of the operations map.
"Your tank battalion will take on the role of covering them."
"A tank battalion… providing cover?"
At Colonel Rockenbach's words, I nodded as well.
"It's just how I'm putting it. You'll participate only in the initial offensive, then return immediately and guard the engineers."
Don't like it?
Then don't borrow them.
It was a very simple choice. Either add dozens of tanks to the initial offensive, or keep them safely in the rear.
There was no way the British would refuse.
"That sounds acceptable."
"We'll notify the British Expeditionary Force, so prepare for your first deployment. Good luck."
***
The first problem Patton and I faced while preparing for battle was the limitation of this era itself.
"Hey, junior. These tanks break down way too easily. I'm not joking."
"What can we do? This is the result of our best efforts. So we at least need to drill proper response procedures for when breakdowns happen."
If we win, it doesn't matter.
If we win the battle, we can leisurely clean up the battlefield, recover the disabled tanks, and repair them. No problem at all.
But if we lose?
We'll be abandoned in that hellish no man's land between trenches. Survival would be unlikely.
"What we need right now is to advance alongside infantry, covering them and capturing enemy trenches together. Tanks alone can't seize German trench lines anyway. So if a tank breaks down, the crew dismounts immediately, climbs onto another tank, and provides covering fire."
"Damn it. You want them riding on top? The moment they fall, they're dead. I can't afford to lose my boys like that. Do you know how hard it was to train them?"
"They'll die if they stay there anyway. This way at least gives them a better chance."
It was a matter of probability.
If they stayed stranded with a broken tank, it was certain death.
This was the only way to bring even one more man back alive.
"No matter how I think about it, our battalion's role should be like cavalry. High-speed maneuver, pin down the enemy's flanks and rear, and beat the hell out of them! Then we wouldn't even need to move with infantry.
If we neutralize their defenses with superior mobility, even the guys left behind on the battlefield could make it back alive."
"If that were the goal, they would've formed us at least at regimental scale… Is there even a 'flank' or 'rear' weak point in this battlefield that can be struck with high-speed maneuver? And even if there is, a battalion-sized unit can't capture and hold it."
"Hmmm."
Patton shook his head in frustration.
Maybe decades into the future, that might work—but not now.
The M1917 tank's top speed didn't even reach 10 km/h. Even compared to the Renault FT from the original timeline, this was only a slight improvement, and British Mark-series heavy tanks were even slower. Maneuver warfare with machines like these was unrealistic.
We still disagreed on the operational doctrine of the tank battalion, but at least we agreed on one thing: we had to bring back as many men alive from Cambrai as possible.
From that day on, Patton and I pulled all-nighters.
"Maintain your equipment properly! Hey! You bastards! If those break down on the battlefield, you're dead! You hear me?!"
"You spineless idiots! Remember this! If it breaks down, get out immediately! Three seconds! If you can't escape in three seconds, you die with the tank!!"
Somehow, Patton had gotten his hands on that damned red cap again. Among the soldiers, rumors were already spreading that Patton dyed it with the blood of an unfortunate German prisoner whose heart he tore out. Just what the hell was he doing?
Regardless, it had become routine for the two of us to wear them and bark at the troops.
"The life of a tank depends on coordination between the commander and the driver! One body, one mind! Think of it as your lover! Me! The tank! Your comrade! The three of you are in a threesome, you bastards!!"
"Hey! Can't you drive properly?! At this rate, even the commander above you—who doesn't even have a womb—will end up pregnant! He's gagging! Did you knock him up or what?! Huh?!"
In the original history, the Renault FT had no means of communication between the commander and driver. The engine noise drowned out voices, so the commander in the turret had no choice but to kick the driver to communicate.
Knowing that miserable reality, I devised a communication method for the M1917—something like a gear lever made of a metal rod. When the commander moved it, the driver would see and follow the instruction. I had originally considered signal lamps, but that was far too advanced for this era. Just my luck.
Tank drills.
And firing drills.
We trained every soldier intensively—not just with rifles, but also with the grease gun. We scraped together whatever ammunition we could for live-fire practice. We did everything we possibly could.
And then, the day of fate arrived.
***
Pershing had argued with Haig for quite some time, and for our battalion, the outcome was at least acceptable.
November 18.
The 326th Light Tank Battalion arrived at the British Third Army's position.
"Pleasure to meet you. Colonel William Barclay Parsons, commanding officer."
"Major Yujin Kim, commanding the 326th Tank Battalion."
The 11th Engineer Regiment was a volunteer unit primarily composed of railway workers from New York.
Colonel William Parsons was the same. Originally an engineer, he was the founder of the famous company Parsons Brinckerhoff. And yet he had volunteered to come to this battlefield. An impressive man.
"To be honest… it feels a bit strange that a tank battalion is assigned to protect us. Aren't those offensive weapons?"
"Haha. That's just how things turned out."
In this war, railroads were critical. To transport millions of men's food, clothing, shelter, and ammunition to the front, railways were indispensable. In the Cambrai offensive as well, this engineer regiment was tasked with constructing railways to facilitate the advance.
"In our view, the best form of protection is offense. We'll push the Germans back as much as possible, then return."
"I like your spirit. I'll be counting on you. Though I doubt anything major will happen—go earn yourselves some decorations. Soldiers do love their honors, don't they?"
After exchanging pleasantries, I immediately returned to where our lovely tanks were waiting.
"Maintain them properly! Properly!! Where are the trench-crossing planks?!"
"What a mess."
No matter how much we trained, it was hard to shake off the pressure of real combat. If I was nervous, how much worse must it be for the soldiers?
"Kim, junior! What's with that expression?!"
"What do you mean? Haha."
"You should be excited going into battle! Smile! Smaaile! This is the glorious chance to smash German skulls for the first time—don't look so grim!"
Patton, worked up on his own, suddenly climbed atop a tank and raised both arms. The soldiers, busy with their tasks, erupted into cheers as if possessed.
"Soldiers of the great 326th Tank Battalion!"
"Patton! Patton! Patton!"
"Let's go! Berlin is calling us!!"
"KILL! KILL! KILL!"
At this point, I might be the only sane one left in this unit.
***
November 20.
Three companies. Fifteen tanks per company. Some modified with frontal upgrades for cutting through barbed wire.
In addition, command tanks for Patton and me. Eight support tanks, including recovery vehicles. A few reserve tanks. Some were already inoperable due to poor condition. It was bleak.
Around fifty tanks finally assembled in formation.
Behind us, British Tommies filled the area. They were the troops who would follow immediately if we succeeded in opening the battlefield.
I kind of want to crack a few British skulls. Cooperation was a fantasy from the start—our tea-loving friends had simply lumped everything together as "tanks" and "requested" that we charge straight into the front line. Unbelievable.
6:20 a.m.
As the sun began to rise, artillery fire that seemed to tear the heavens apart thundered across the land.
A desperate struggle to break through the Hindenburg Line—the worst hell ever constructed by the Germans.
The bombardment pounded the trench lines relentlessly, tearing apart barbed wire and bringing disaster down upon the heads of unfortunate German soldiers.
The German troops, thrown into chaos by the sudden large-scale offensive, were next engulfed by poison gas released for the sole purpose of killing. Among the panicked soldiers, those who had no time to put on their gas masks began to lose their lives one by one. Above them, British aircraft swooped down in aggressive low-altitude flights, launching ground attacks.
This was the lesson Europeans had learned through blood:
Efficient bombardment, gas, air power—
And now, the age of tanks had arrived.
I anxiously watched my clock, waiting for the scheduled moment.
"Junior. Are you alright?"
"Shouldn't I be asking you that? You don't look so great either."
Even Patton, of all people, seemed unable to escape the tension before his first full-scale engagement. He couldn't hide the tremor in his expression.
"Of course. The men we've raised and trained might not come back. How could I not be nervous?"
So he was human after all.
I almost felt sorry for thinking of him as some berserker from the Stone Age.
Through the deafening roar of artillery and rising smoke, a single brilliant beam of sunlight pierced through and illuminated this hellish battlefield.
And in that moment, something changed in Patton's eyes.
"Ah—Aaaah!!"
"Sir? Captain Patton?"
"Ancestors! My ancestors are watching me! Forgive me! How dare a descendant of the Patton family feel fear on the battlefield! This unworthy descendant has spoken madness!!"
What the hell—he was right next to me the whole time. When did he lose his mind?
"All units! To battle positions!! I, Patton, shall open the road to heaven! Ancestors! Today, another Patton joins you!!!"
"Waaaaaaah!!"
At Patton's frenzied shout, the tankers began pounding on their hulls and yelling in unison.
Damn it—fine, whatever.
"We are the first American soldiers to enter this battlefield! Don't you dare flinch, you bastards! Just die if you must—die on the battlefield! The moment you show your back, the honor of the United States is dragged through the mud! Got it, you idiots?!"
"Yes, Sir!"
"Let's go!!! Time to take the Kaiser's head!!"
I'd stayed up all night preparing a proper speech, but Patton devoured the moment completely. I'll deal with him after the battle.
"Tanks, advance!!"
***
Rumble—!!
The giants of steel awaken one by one.
Engines roar violently from all directions.
The tanks begin to move in unison, and behind them thousands of British troops surge forward.
Since the beginning of World War I, this had always been the same—human waves charging forward.
Shells falling over their heads, survivors stopped by barbed wire, desperately trying to cut through it, only to be torn apart by machine guns.
But this time was different.
One particularly unlucky tank took a direct hit from a shell. A horrific sound—and it was destroyed. Despite all our warnings, the crew couldn't get out in time. They must have died instantly.
But there was no time to mourn them.
"Open fire!"
Signal flags waved, and the M1917 tanks began firing their main guns all at once.
"Machine gun nests first! Suppress the machine guns!! Clear the wire! Tear down that damned barbed wire so the Tommies can live! Open a path! A path!!"
They wouldn't hear my screaming voice—but at least they could see the flags.
Without radios, my command existed only through signal flags.
And damn those Germans using circular barbed wire—hey, that patent is mine.
If they didn't pay royalties, I swear I'll go to Berlin myself and roll around demanding my money. Bastards. I'll write it into the Treaty of Versailles—"Pay Yujin Kim his barbed wire royalties."
"Take the hits! Damn it! Our men are dying! Take it with your armor!! You might die if you're unlucky, but those Tommies will definitely die without you!!"
Rat-tat-tat! Clang! Clang!!
A horrifying sound. The thin armor might be pierced at any moment.
To see the battlefield more clearly, I leaned out of the hatch as bullets rained violently past me.
Am I going to die?
Am I going to die here, on foreign soil?
No.
If I were meant to die here, why would I have been given a second chance?
Clinging desperately to a faith I didn't even have, forcing absurd bravado into my mind, I shouted even louder.
"Hey, you bastards! Suppress those machine guns! Into the trenches! Get into the trenches!!"
Machine-gun pillboxes, hammered relentlessly by main guns, fell silent one by one. The fortifications collapsed, crushing both guns and soldiers beneath them.
The enemy was getting closer.
German troops waiting in the trenches.
The defenders of Cambrai were clearly second-rate units. Even the way they wore gas masks and held their rifles looked clumsy.
"Charge! Fire! Field guns! Suppress their artillery positions! Patton, you bastard! Take them out before they can fire direct!!"
Boom!!
Men who had once been German soldiers were reduced to chunks of flesh, splattering inside the trenches.
A lump of flesh flew toward my face. My gas mask kept it off, and I didn't even feel disgust anymore. I was simply grateful it wasn't a bullet.
"Commander! What are you doing?! Keep firing! Fire!!"
"I am firing!!"
"Crush them! Run them all over!!"
A wave of steel crashed into the trenches.
The Germans, stunned out of their wits, didn't know what to do.
"The enemy is retreating! They're falling back!"
Even before the commander shouted, I was already scanning the battlefield.
Instead of resisting, the Germans were retreating.
Machine-gun positions had been silenced in an instant. There was no sign of organized resistance anywhere. Instead, they were fleeing in orderly fashion.
British troops poured into the trenches, shouting in triumph, tears streaming down their faces.
"At last! At last we've broken through!"
"We did it!!!"
"Hurrah!!!"
That cursed line had finally been breached.
They had finally set foot on the Hindenburg Line—the line that had devoured the blood of countless British soldiers.
They were overwhelmed with emotion.
"Tell the Tommies to secure the trenches—we're pulling back immediately to reorganize. This is only the beginning. We've got a long way to go!"
"Did… did we really do it?"
"Yeah. We did."
"Really…?"
"For now."
It had been too easy.
This wasn't a true victory. They had simply given up the first trench line and withdrawn to the next defensive position.
But we had no choice but to keep pushing. We had to strike their rear even harder to seize momentum.
The Battle of Cambrai.
In the original history, the British achieved a great victory on the first day—but that was all.
The long prelude to destruction that would follow was only just beginning.
And we had to charge straight into it.
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