Chapter 57
Demons of Amiens (5)
***
In the dead of dawn, when everyone should have been asleep—
Rumble—!!
Before the sun had even risen, a thunderous roar echoed, loud enough to startle beasts and birds alike into fleeing.
“326! 326!”
“KILL! KILL!”
The M1917 tanks of the 93rd Division’s 331st Light Tank Battalion surged forward without hesitation, Rangers racing behind them.
“Too slow.”
“…Pardon?”
Watching them, irritation welled up inside me.
Yes, I knew. This was the limit of the era. But still—wasn’t there some way to make them move faster?
If I’d had just a bit more authority, I would’ve conscripted every vehicle I could—like taxis—and dragged them into service, just like a mechanized assault. But after already being called insane for pulling the front line this far forward, that was impossible.
“Too slow. They need to move faster.”
“How could they possibly go any faster?”
“That’s exactly why it’s driving me crazy.”
Haji gave me a strange look, but it couldn’t be helped.
For someone who came from a place where you could put people in vehicles and move them quickly at will, watching this crawling advance felt like torture.
“…Wouldn’t it be better for you to return, even now?”
After hesitating for a while, Haji spoke seriously.
“Why?”
“Why? The supreme commander should naturally be at division headquarters, where all communications are concentrated. There’s no benefit to you being out here!”
“No benefit? Look at those soldiers. Can’t you see their morale is through the roof?”
“If you die out here, their morale will hit rock bottom.”
This guy’s getting sharper. Studied education, and now he’s trying to persuade me like a teacher.
“Chief of Staff Bradley can handle things. Honestly, he’ll probably do better than I would.”
“You’re joking, right? He hasn’t even commanded a regiment—how could you possibly know his ability?”
“I’m just that good.”
“…Right. Of course you are.”
“Talented people recognize other talented people.”
I miss you, Colonel MacArthur… a man who truly lived on his own brilliance…
To outsiders, my absolute trust in my subordinates might look like favoritism.
But my judgment was perfectly rational. By stepping forward, I could help Bradley grow—and at the same time, respond directly to the ever-changing situation on the battlefield.
It wasn’t because my blood was boiling or I had some urge to kill like Patton. I was always a rational man. I had to go home, see Henry and Dorothy—
“Haji.”
“Should I turn the car around?”
“If my wife finds out what I’m doing right now… do you think she’d let me live?”
“…Honestly? She’d probably launch a more ferocious offensive than the Germans.”
In the eastern sky, a faint red glow slowly spread like diluted paint.
A good day to die.
***
“Outside! There are negroes swarming outside the city!”
“Well, obviously. Haven’t those been the ones we’ve been fighting this whole time?”
The German 185th Regiment commander, abruptly awakened, responded calmly instead of angrily.
But the next report snapped him fully awake.
“No, sir! Not the enemy holding position at eleven o’clock outside the city—we’re seeing another force moving as if to encircle us!”
“To the command post.”
They were still just negroes.
With enough numbers, it was a reasonable idea.
But they were mistaken. A unit with inferior individual combat ability attempting an encirclement meant nothing.
“Inexperienced Americans indeed. Interior lines are the specialty of the Imperial German Army.”
These were the same Americans who couldn’t even hold a trench line against a single offensive and fled in panic.
If anything, they should have concentrated their forces to strengthen their defense. And now they were trying to encircle? Laughable.
“What about the stormtroopers?”
“They are fully prepared to break out of the city. They await your orders, sir.”
“Then there’s nothing to worry about. The 1st Battalion will cover them. The 2nd Battalion will remain in the city and block the enemy at eleven o’clock if they move.”
But the moment he entered the command post and saw the situation map, the regimental commander couldn’t help but sigh.
“The forest?”
“Yes, sir.”
The Moreuil Forest.
The road connecting them to the main force ran straight through it.
Securing that forest was obvious—but because those damned stormtroopers had stubbornly remained in the city, ignoring orders, the situation had come to this.
“The enemy has taken position in the forest… and we didn’t detect them until they filled it completely?”
“Well, sir…”
His subordinates hesitated.
He understood. It was the classic ‘someone else will do it’ mentality.
No one had bothered to keep watch.
The wine and meat in the city were limited. If they went out on duty, someone else might take it all. Who would want to go out on reconnaissance?
So discipline had collapsed to this extent?
Instead of lamenting, the regimental commander chose anger.
“The enemy outnumbers us! Of course they’d want that forest! Damn it all!”
“My apologies!”
“Apologies won’t fix anything! Fine—you’ve all eaten your fill, so now you can fight! Battalion commander!”
“Yes, sir!”
“Take the stormtroopers and clear those negroes out of the forest—by any means necessary!”
“Understood!”
His next frustration turned toward the artillery.
“How much fire support can you provide?”
“It will be difficult.”
The blunt answer irritated him, but he held back. They were cooperating units, after all.
“…Very well. Then if the enemy in front attacks, support the 2nd Battalion with firepower.”
Anxiety crept in.
What if they couldn’t push them out?
What if this semi-encirclement held, and their route to the main force was cut?
Would they have to abandon the city?
If the enemy had been British or French troops—forces with real combat power—he would have abandoned the city without hesitation and attempted to rejoin the division.
“…No. The enemy is just negroes.”
Inexperienced vermin who didn’t even understand the horrors of the battlefield.
There was no way the invincible German army could lose to Yankees.
If they retreated now, they would earn an unprecedented disgrace in the history of the German Empire—
The unit that showed its back to the Americans.
The cowards who fled from negroes.
Retreat was not an option.
Muttering that to himself, he uncorked another bottle of wine.
***
“So all we have to do is wipe out those negroes and come back to eat!”
“Yeah, sure. But the 2nd Battalion’s staying behind, right? What if those bastards eat everything? What do we do then—lick our fingers? Or go back to digging up turnips?”
“Keep talking and I’ll have you court-martialed. No—better yet, I’ll have you executed on the spot.”
They coaxed and threatened the soldiers into preparing for battle.
They packed their gear—familiar after years of war.
Grenades stuffed into specially made pouches.
They hadn’t seen tanks, but just in case, they prepared anti-tank weapons as well.
Each man checked his newly issued MP18 submachine gun or rifle for faults.
“It’s a forest—make sure you bring the mortars! We don’t know what might happen!”
“It’s not like this is our first time—what’s the fuss?”
“…Back then, your mouths weren’t greasy with meat. Anyway, once you’re ready, we move!”
But by the time they were ready, it was already midday.
Only after they fed the sulking soldiers lunch as well did they finally become capable of fighting.
“Alright, let’s go! Into that damned forest!”
“Don’t worry, sir!”
With confidence, the stormtroopers marched toward the forest—
To slaughter what they believed were incompetent, unmotivated fools who didn’t even understand war.
But that naïve confidence vanished the moment they approached.
Bang!!
Tat-tat-tat! Tat-tat-tat! Tat-tat-tat-tat!
“Return fire! What are you doing?!”
“We can’t see them!”
“What about the machine guns? Set them up!”
“Aaagh!!”
The entrance to the forest—
It was a slaughterhouse where all the malice of mankind had gathered.
Verdun came to mind.
The worst slaughterhouse humanity had ever created.
Compared to that, this place might almost seem… natural.
“Mortars! Get the mortars working!”
“They’re in the forest—we can’t see them! Even machine gun fire isn’t effective! We have to keep advancing!”
“Then just fire anyway!”
It was a horrifying advance—feeding men into the grinder.
Even stormtroopers weren’t machines made of steel and oil.
Their assaults were always conducted after overwhelming artillery fire had neutralized the enemy—not like this, a brute-force charge straight out of 1914.
What were the higher-ups thinking, sending them like this? Had they assumed the enemy couldn’t possibly be prepared yet?
They had long forgotten that securing this forest had originally been their own assigned task. The fact that the “negroes” had dug in and set up machine guns while they were busy grilling meat offered no comfort.
Even so, taking massive casualties, the stormtroopers barely managed to enter the forest.
Even that was only thanks to the late-arriving support of the 185th Regiment’s 1st Battalion. Had they been alone, this would have been the day the unit ceased to exist.
And was the forest a paradise?
Not at all.
The deeper they went, the more enemies appeared—popping out from everywhere, firing.
Every tree large enough to hide behind seemed to have one of those damned negroes lurking behind it. Dark enough to blend with the trees themselves!
“Yeeeeahhh!!”
“Whoosh—whoosh—yeeeahhh!!”
“DIEEE!!”
Bang!
Enemies perfectly camouflaged burst out, firing.
Few carried rifles. Most wielded those cursed “oil-can” weapons—sometimes pistols, sometimes even shovels or bayonets—aiming for throats and heads.
Strike once—then disappear.
Fire a volley—then disappear again.
Leap out from the brush—fire—then vanish!
“Aaagh! You damned bastards! If you have any courage, come out and fight!”
“Suck my dick, you idiot Jerries!”
“Hahahahaha!!”
And even when they tried to hold their ground—
It wasn’t enough.
Unlike trenches, visibility here was terrible.
Not only did they have to watch all 360 degrees—they even had to watch the treetops.
And whenever there was the slightest gap—grenades would come flying.
Tat-tat-tat-tat-tat!!
The moment they stepped into a slightly open area, machine guns opened fire as if waiting.
“Down! Get down!!”
“Aaaagh!!”
“Max! Maaaax!”
Damn it—a kill zone!
They had stepped right into a pre-cleared field of fire. Death was inevitable.
But they were stormtroopers—
Veterans who had survived hellish trenches time and again.
“Hans! Grenade! Throw it!”
Boom!
The machine gun fell silent.
Now, they could use it to pour bullets onto those vermin’s heads—Max would be smiling in heaven.
Roll… roll…
But it seemed that was the end.
A U.S. grenade rolled into view.
Time slowed.
Just enough time for final words.
“…At least I got to eat meat. Damn it.”
BOOM!!
With a single grenade, two Jerries were sent straight to heaven.
Private John Miller of the U.S. 369th Regiment immediately surged forward with his squad, firing his Grease Gun.
“Take their heads! Earn your absolution!!”
“KILL THEM ALL!”
“Freedom! Freeedooom!!”
All around, soldiers burst from hiding, cutting down the thoroughly unpitied Jerries.
Everything was unfolding exactly as their regimental commander, Major Eisenhower, had explained.
A pure contest of strength—nothing but blood, iron, and fists, beating the enemy down one by one!
“Die! Die!”
“Ghk—!”
With all his strength, he drove his knife into a German soldier’s neck.
The Grease Gun had long since run out of ammunition and been discarded.
The enemy before him looked just as depleted.
All that remained was raw, brutal knife fighting.
“2nd Platoon! Regroup! Who’s got ammo left?!”
“None!”
“I ditched my rifle!”
“Shit! Then fall back! We’re pulling back further!”
Calm.
He had to stay calm.
Blood soaked his face and clothes, but losing himself meant death.
Those who gave themselves over to the frenzy of battle were already lying dead, cut down by German bullets.
He couldn’t die here.
He had to live—and taste freedom.
That was the only way to honor the fallen.