I Became a Tycoon During World War I: Saving France from the Start

Chapter 10: Those Damned Deceivers

The cold wind whistled, scattering fallen autumn leaves.

In September, the temperature in France had dropped to a chilly eight degrees. General von Kluck, commander of the German First Army, crouched in the tall grass, holding his binoculars and surveying the mist-covered town of Dawaz across the Marne River.

As expected, the French soldiers were indeed fortifying defenses along the riverbank, reinforcing the only bridge nearby. Machine guns were stationed at the bridgehead, two layers of trenches were dug, and a few hundred men were positioned there. Kluck could also make out figures installing explosives, likely to destroy the bridge if they failed to hold it.

A slight smirk crept onto Kluck's face. These fools—do they really think I'll launch a direct frontal assault to cross the river?

He turned slightly and asked his aide in a hushed tone, "Where is the First Regiment positioned?"

The aide checked his pocket watch and replied, "General, barring any delays, they should reach their designated position within twenty minutes!"

Kluck nodded. "Prepare for battle!"

"Prepare for battle!" The command echoed down the line, as German soldiers hidden in the grass calmly and systematically checked their equipment. Some attached bayonets to their rifles, ready for close combat—the first wave would be at the forefront of the assault, likely to engage the enemy in hand-to-hand combat.

Kluck settled in to wait for the First Regiment's arrival.

The First Regiment, a force of over four thousand elite soldiers trained under Kluck's direct command, often served as the spearhead in battle. Under cover of darkness, they had crossed the Marne the previous night, positioning themselves at the enemy's flank. Their mission was twofold: seize the bridge with lightning speed to enable the main force to cross, and capture the machine-gun factory on the western edge of Dawaz.

Kluck was confident in this plan. After fighting his way here, he knew well the limits of the French forces.

The problem with the French army wasn't the bravery of its soldiers or officers. Rather, it was a force controlled by greedy banking capitalists. The capitalists had no interest in modernizing the army, refusing to adopt advanced foreign equipment like the Maxim machine gun. It wasn't about national pride—it was about maintaining a monopoly on arms and ensuring their profits were unchallenged.

Thus, despite the Saint-Étienne machine gun's constant malfunctions, high price, and questionable reliability, it was the standard issue for the army. Ironically, the privately manufactured Hotchkiss was better by comparison.

(Note: The Saint-Étienne machine gun was actually a modified Hotchkiss, with added components to avoid patent infringement—components that often led to breakdowns.)

Laughably, these capitalists, who normally fed off the blood of France's citizens, were now the first to flee, leaving the French soldiers as shields.

Who were the French soldiers fighting for? To protect those same capitalists?

In contrast, Germany, united and focused on strength, devoted 80% of its national income to its military. From the time of Wilhelm I, the German kings had poured every penny into the army, with Wilhelm's own coronation ceremony costing only 2,547 silver coins (while another monarch had once spent five million silver coins on a similar event).

The German soldiers knew exactly why they fought. They knew their sacrifices would not be in vain, and that their bloodshed held meaning on the battlefield.

Such an army was unstoppable.

"General!" the aide whispered, bringing Kluck out of his reverie. "They're in position!"

Through his binoculars, Kluck spotted a black flag fluttering atop a building upstream. It was the First Regiment's signal: "Position secured and ready."

Kluck nodded slightly, then, in a low, steely voice, commanded, "Prepare…"

The word stretched out, giving the soldiers a moment to steel themselves. Then, his tone shifted to one of firm resolve:

"Attack!"

The aide leaped up, gesturing backward as he shouted, "Attack!"

German soldiers erupted from the underbrush, pouring out of the empty forest, filling the terrain in waves. They wore pointed steel helmets, rifles in hand, eyes fixed with ferocious determination on the French defenses across the river.

On the far bank, French soldiers who'd been casually chatting while working on their fortifications were paralyzed with shock at the sudden sight of the German forces. Their faces turned pale, and only after the gunfire started did they snap into action, scrambling into the trenches with panicked yelps.

"Germans!" shouted the French colonel. "They're here! Keep ca—calm!"

But his voice trembled, betraying his own lack of composure.

Gunfire crackled from the French line, followed by the staccato roar of machine guns, a barrage of bullets whistling across the river towards the Germans.

The colonel, furious with his men's lack of discipline, hadn't yet ordered them to open fire; the troops were already firing in a panic. But now that the shots had started, there was no stopping it.

The French colonel could only yell, "Fire! Fire!"

But none of them, not even the colonel himself, realized that they had already fallen for the German ruse. With clear heads, they might have noticed that a frontal assault across the river was impossible.

The bridge could be blown up at any moment. The river was deep and cold, only seventy meters wide, but soldiers in the water would make for easy, slow-moving targets.

Clearly, this attack was a distraction meant to draw their fire and focus.

At that moment, the French soldiers should have been guarding their flanks, not their front.

Suddenly, a fierce burst of gunfire erupted from the left flank.

The French colonel's face drained of color. Glancing out, he saw German troops pushing into their flank. The French forces, unprepared, collapsed in panic. Many fell or scattered from the trenches, while others, realizing escape was impossible, crouched down and raised their hands in surrender.

Trying to remain calm, the French colonel shouted, "Blow the bridge! Blow the—"

A shot rang out, silencing him. A bullet pierced his head, and he slumped to the ground, lifeless, his neck twisted at an unnatural angle.

He should have known that the Germans had deployed snipers specifically to target commanding officers.

Now, the French soldiers, uncertain whether to blow the bridge, hesitated. Some thought, The Germans are already across the river—what's the point of blowing it now? Better to run for our lives!

Within moments, the entire French line had broken, retreating towards Dawaz in a wave of red caps and trousers, like a red tide.

The bridge was left intact, and the main German force surged across, streaming south of the Marne.

Watching this unfold from the rooftop of his villa, Francis cursed furiously.

"These bastards—so weak and spineless!"

"Where is General Garde? Where is General Garde?"

General Garde was commander of the 5th Army, and in recent days, he and Francis had gotten along famously. Francis had wined and dined him with the finest wines and cuts of beef, attended by two stunning maids, making sure General Garde felt thoroughly at home.

Not once but several times, Garde had assured Francis, "Don't worry, Mr. Francis. With the Marne River defense line, the Germans won't break through. I guarantee it!"

"Sir!" the butler answered nervously, "I just saw General Garde leave by car…with Mr. Pierre…"

A chill washed over Francis, freezing him to the core.

It was over—finished.

His factory, his family, his fortune, everything he'd built!

Those damned deceivers!

(End of Chapter)

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