The soldiers of the 1st Company watched the enemy flee in disarray, but did not cheer. Instead, they silently raised their weapons and continued to charge. The drivers and Machine Gunners of the four Tachankas were flushed with excitement. Before this, who would have thought that their Heavy Machine Gun squad could also participate in a ‘Grand Assault’ with the infantry?
“Don’t celebrate too early!” Morin was also pleased, but he remained calm. “Don’t let them escape! Keep the pressure on and pursue them!” He knew that opportunities to strike a decisive blow were rare.
Thus, a very strange scene unfolded on the battlefield. Two companies of Britannian soldiers ran desperately ahead, followed by the soldiers of the Instruction Assault Battalion’s 1st Company, led by Morin, pursuing relentlessly. The four ‘Saxon-Style Tachankas’ acted like four hounds, sometimes overtaking the infantry on the flanks, sometimes stopping. Whenever the Britannians attempted to stop and reorganize, the Tachankas would immediately turn and drive them back onto the road to retreat with a burst of accurate fire.
Near the railway station on the southwest side of Arras City, the atmosphere was tense and chaotic. The platform was crowded with heavily armed Britannian soldiers. Several officers were shouting loudly, directing the soldiers to load boxes of documents and equipment onto a prepared special train.
Field Marshal John French, Commander-in-Chief of the Expeditionary Force, stood in the Command Post’s temporary Operations Room, his face grimly fixed on the map. The Operations Room was located in a small building next to the station, allowing for quick withdrawal by rail.
“Your Excellency, Field Marshal, the delay operation has failed!” A staff officer rushed in, sweating profusely, his voice trembling: “The two companies we sent out have been routed by a heavily armed Saxon unit! They… they are rushing toward the direction of the railway station!”
“I know.” John French’s reaction was surprisingly calm. He sneered, muttering to himself: “Coming for me? Too bad, I won’t wait for you here.”
He had expected that the Saxon assault unit, which had mysteriously appeared on his flank, would eventually target his headquarters. Seizing the commander and the banner—that was the choice any sensible commander would make since ancient times. But he, John French, was not the kind of fool who would sit idactively and wait to be captured.
“Order the rearguard units to hold the enemy outside the city at all costs! Buy the last precious time for the headquarters to evacuate!” He looked up and commanded the staff officer.
“Yes, Field Marshal!” The staff officer saluted and ran out.
“Gentlemen, it is time for us to leave too.” John French scanned the staff officers in the Operations Room, who were also busy packing documents, and said calmly. He picked up his cap from the coat rack, put it on, and even took the time to straighten his uniform before walking out of the Operations Room with a steady gait. It was as if he were attending a grand parade, not conducting a hasty retreat.
On the platform, the steam engine of the special train had started, hissing loudly, with thick smoke pouring from the chimney. John French boarded the last car of the special train, escorted by guards. He stood at the door of the car, turned back, and took one last look at the city he had only stayed in for less than two days. There was no nostalgia in his eyes, only cold calculation.
“Saxons… I’ll see you at Amiens.” He whispered, then turned and walked into the carriage.
“Whoo—” With a long whistle, the special train slowly began to move, leaving Arras Railway Station and heading toward the unknown distance.
“Damn it! They ran!” Morin lay prone on an embankment, clearly seeing the accelerating train through his binoculars. On his system map, the golden unit token representing the ‘Britannian Expeditionary Force Headquarters’ was moving away with the train. He punched the dirt beside him in frustration.
Just that close! If he had been just a little faster, if he had even a single cannon—even a mortar—he might have been able to stop that train! Capturing the Commander-in-Chief of the Britannian Expeditionary Force would have had an incalculable impact on the entire campaign! But now, it was too late.
“Battalion Commander, what should we do now? There is a Britannian battalion ahead; they have dug in. A direct assault will be too difficult!” Klaus crawled up to Morin, asking anxiously.
During the pursuit, they had run straight into a Britannian infantry battalion that had been ordered to cover the retreat. This fresh unit, under orders to fight to the death, quickly established a defense line using the buildings and terrain outside the city, firmly blocking Morin’s 1st Company. Several probing attacks had been repulsed by the enemy’s dense rifle and Machine Gun fire, resulting in several casualties.
Morin lowered his binoculars, looked at the defense line composed of houses, rubble, and hasty fortifications in the distance, and frowned. A direct charge was out of the question. He wasn’t a Gaul. The enemy was a complete infantry battalion, several times his strength, and held the high ground. He only had one company here. Even with the formidable firepower of the Tachankas, they were still just carriages. The carriages could resist bullets, but the horses couldn’t. Charging in like that would be suicidal.
“Sigh, if only I had artillery that could accompany the infantry…” Morin sighed helplessly again. If the reinforced artillery battalion attached to him could catch up, twenty cannons firing on that position for ten minutes would flatten any defense line. But sending the artillery rushing in was somewhat rash.
“Order the unit to halt the attack! Dig in and maintain contact with the enemy!” Morin finally made the most rational, yet most frustrating, decision. He looked at the train that had become a small black dot, his heart filled with unwillingness.
The battle for Arras did not last long. Against the absolute numerical superiority and overwhelming artillery fire, the Britannian unit tasked with covering the retreat, though fighting stubbornly, was eventually overwhelmed.
As the last sounds of gunfire faded at dusk, the Saxon Army’s banner was raised over the roof of Arras City Hall. The entire ‘Assault Battle Group’ and the First Army Group’s forces successfully occupied the important transportation hub, annihilating and capturing nearly eight thousand Britannian soldiers, including the rearguard unit.
Just as the Saxons were celebrating the victory of occupying Arras and preparing to launch a new round of pursuit…
At the Gallic Fifth Army Group Headquarters in St. Quentin, the atmosphere had dropped to freezing point. One bad piece of news after another poured in from the front line. The staff officers were in utter disarray, their faces filled with panic.
“General, what should we do? We are surrounded!”
“Send a plea for help to Commander-in-Chief Joffre! Have him transfer units from Lorraine!”
“It’s too late!” General Lanrezac stood up abruptly, interrupting the staff officers’ argument. The anger in his eyes was gone. He knew there was no hope of relying on the pigheaded butcher in Paris. The only person who could save the Fifth Army Group now was himself.
Should he stay here and fight like a ‘hero’ until the last man, only to be written into the Saxon military textbook as a cautionary tale? Or should he try to save as much of his army as possible? He looked at the rapidly closing encirclement on the map.
One thought became terrifyingly clear in his mind.
“Pass on my order!” Lanrezac’s voice was unusually clear in the chaotic headquarters. “The entire army, abandon St. Quentin! Immediately move south and break out at full speed! We must fight our way out at all costs!”
As the Gallic Fifth Army Group began its desperate breakout to the south, the Saxon Army’s right wing transformed into a chase of unprecedented scale. The pursuit was split into two objectives.
The main forces of the Second and Third Army Groups fiercely pursued the Gallic Fifth Army Group, which was retreating in disarray and chaos to the south. This pursuit yielded few surprises. The Gauls abandoned large amounts of heavy equipment and supplies, and organized units were continuously annihilated and captured under the Saxons’ combined air and ground attacks.
The other pursuit, led by the First Army Group with Morin’s Instruction Assault Battalion as the vanguard, resembled a military cross-country race. Their opponent, the Britannian Expeditionary Force led by John French, demonstrated extremely high military professionalism. Their retreat, though hasty, was orderly despite the chaos.
“These Britannians are truly tough to deal with!” Morin cursed, sitting in the bumpy passenger seat of the Military Truck, looking at the road ahead that had been blasted into a large pit. Since leaving Arras, they hadn’t driven on a good road. Bridges were destroyed, roads were ruined. The Britannian engineer units had carried out destruction to the extreme, creating immense trouble for the pursuit.
“Battalion Commander, they are too professional,” Kleist said, looking at the map beside Morin, his expression equally grim. “Their rearguard units use alternating cover, striking once and running, never lingering. It’s hard for us to pin down their main force.”
“Yes, this is what a true professional army looks like.” Morin nodded, sighing that the Britannians were indeed harder to deal with than the Gauls. They had not panicked at the collapse of their ally, nor had they lost their fighting will due to the unfavorable situation. To organize such a textbook withdrawal under such passive circumstances, John French truly had skill.
And their destination, as expected, was a place that Morin was intimately familiar with.
Amiens.
“So many of my cyber comrades fell here…”
“Ah? What did you say, Battalion Commander?”
“Nothing. Just lamenting that we are embarking on a sacred pilgrimage~”
(End of this Chapter)