While Morin was recovering in the Field Hospital, the sound of gunfire in Amiens City gradually thinned out. The main force of the Britannian Expeditionary Force had broken out to the south, but they retreated in such haste that they could not take everyone with them. When General Mackensen, leading the First Army Group main force, pressed in from the west and completely sealed the final gap, approximately three thousand Britannian soldiers were firmly trapped in the city, which now offered them nothing but despair.
These trapped men were mostly wounded soldiers who could not be moved, along with comrades who refused to abandon them. They were segmented and surrounded in several blocks southwest of Amiens. Their external communication was severed, leaving them completely isolated.
The Saxon soldiers responsible for launching the final attack on this area advanced cautiously along the ruins and broken walls after the order to attack was given.
“Hey, Hans, do you think the allies of those Gaul bastards are crazy? They know they’re surrounded, so why won’t they surrender?” A young soldier crouched low, speaking to the veteran beside him from behind a demolished wall.
The veteran, named Hans, was vigilantly aiming his rifle at the Grand Theater across the street, which stood starkly amidst the ruins. He simply scoffed: “Stop talking nonsense and be careful! These fellows are no pushovers. Last night, the 3rd Company lost nearly half a platoon because they were careless and were ambushed from the sewers!”
The young soldier pulled back his neck, daring not to speak more. Soon, a figure in an officer’s uniform ran up from the rear, gesturing to them and the surrounding Saxon soldiers.
“Prepare to assault that theater ahead! The engineers have already blasted a breach in the outer wall! Everyone, sharpen your wits!” As the officer spoke, several soldiers carrying modified MG08 Heavy Machine Guns—men from the General’s Guard—followed him. For this final push into the area, the participating Saxon forces were all elite.
With the officer’s command, several MG14 Light Machine Guns, borrowed from the Instruction Assault Battalion, opened fire simultaneously. Dense bullets struck the windows on the second floor of the theater and the nearby walls, raising plumes of dust.
“Charge! Charge! Charge!” Dozens of Saxon soldiers, urged on by the officer’s charge whistle, leaped up from behind their cover, moving swiftly toward the blasted breach. However, just as they reached the halfway point, several muzzle flashes erupted from the windows on the second and third floors of the now-quiet theater.
“Da-da-da!” Britannian Machine Guns opened fire, and the intersecting fire instantly mowed down the leading Saxon soldiers.
“Get down! Find cover!” The attacking soldiers dove for the ground, scrambling to find anything to shield them from the bullets. The Light Machine Guns immediately redirected their fire toward those windows, but more and more shots rang out. By the time the veteran, the young soldier, and their comrades charged into the interior of the theater with the help of the General’s Guard, the real battle was only just beginning.
The internal structure of the theater was far more complex than ordinary residential buildings. The spacious hall, crisscrossing corridors, and countless private boxes and backstage rooms all served as excellent defensive positions. The Britannian soldiers remaining here were almost all wounded, yet their eyes showed no sign of fear. They knew they had no retreat, and surrender was not an option for these isolated forces.
“First Squad, take the left! Second and Third Squads, follow me up the right corridor to the second floor!” A Saxon Platoon Leader ordered loudly. However, the moment the words left his mouth, a dozen Britannian soldiers suddenly appeared on the circular corridor of the second floor. They fired down, their rifles and grenades—many of them captured from Saxon soldiers—unleashing fire onto the Saxon soldiers below.
“Boom! Boom!” Grenades detonated in the narrow hall. Shrapnel flew everywhere, and several Saxon soldiers immediately fell with screams.
“Damn it! An ambush on the second floor! Suppress them!” The Saxon soldiers immediately counterattacked. The ‘Plate Armor Supermen’ of the General’s Guard quickly set up their Machine Guns and sprayed fire at the second floor. The entire theater filled with the roar of gunfire. Shouts, screams, and explosions mixed together, like a true hellscape.
The battle devolved into a bloody stalemate. Every room, every corridor, had to be taken with lives. A Saxon Lieutenant, leading a platoon of soldiers, finally managed to push up to the second floor. They kicked open the door of a private box, but before they could see the situation inside… they saw a Britannian soldier, wrapped in bandages, grin with blood-stained teeth, and violently pull the pin of the last grenade clutched to his chest.
“For Her Majesty the Queen!”
“Boom——!!!”
A devastating blast erupted in the small box. The fragile brick-and-stone structure of the theater, against the 203mm shells, was as weak as paper. The Britannian soldiers inside the theater were buried alive in the rubble before they could scream.
After an hour, the Saxon Regimental Commander leading the assault on this sector looked at the stream of casualty reports and his face turned grim.
“One hour! We’ve lost nearly three hundred men! And we’ve only secured the first and part of the second floor of the theater?” He slammed his fist onto the wall, roaring at the officers beside him: “What the hell kind of battle is this? Are we trading the lives of our soldiers for a handful of lunatics?”
The Aide-de-Camp and other officers were helpless: “Sir, these Britannians are fighting with the resolve to die, and the theater’s structure is heavily disadvantageous to us.” “The situation at the Post Office is similar; we cannot advance without sustaining massive casualties.”
The Regimental Commander paced back and forth, his fists clenched. For the Saxon Army, which had essentially secured Amiens, this kind of needless attrition was entirely avoidable. He could not allow his soldiers to be wasted in Street Fighting against a few remnants.
“Send an urgent request to Command…” He took a deep breath, making a decision. “Tell them our unit is meeting stiff resistance and suffering huge casualties in clearing the remnants! Requesting…”
He paused, looked up, and glanced at the colossal shadow of the Armored Airship hovering in the sky.
“I request the L29 Armored Airship for aerial fire support!”
Upon learning of the high casualties suffered by the attacking unit, the Regimental Commander’s superior unit approved the request for support, transmitting the application via Radio to the airship.
On the bridge, Captain Schneider looked at the marked area on the map, nodding slowly. “The rate of ammunition consumption these days has far exceeded the Air Force’s pre-war estimates… And these Army fellows really don’t care about our shells.”
Despite his complaint, he unhesitatingly issued the order.
“Attention all gun crews! Target the southwest urban area—the theater and Post Office complex! Prepare for saturation strike!”
“Notify ground friendly forces to clear the strike zone to avoid friendly fire!”
The colossal L29 Armored Airship slowly adjusted its position. Its massive 203mm main gun turrets began to turn, aiming their muzzles at the final pocket of resistance below.
Inside the theater, after the Saxon attack forces retreated again, the gunfire gradually subsided. A Britannian officer leaned against the wall, panting heavily. A deep, bone-deep gash on his left arm bled through the makeshift bandage.
“Water… who has water?” he called out hoarsely.
A young soldier nearby handed him the last bit of water from his canteen. The officer took it and drank greedily, then looked at his equally exhausted and wounded comrades. A flash of despair crossed his eyes. They had held out here for an unknown amount of time. Ammunition was nearly spent, casualties were mounting, and they had run out of even simple bandages. The Saxon assault was relentless. They couldn’t hold much longer.
“Sir, can we… can we still expect reinforcements?” the young soldier who handed him the water asked, his voice cracking.
The officer fell silent. Reinforcements? Their main force had long retreated; there were no reinforcements. He was about to say something to comfort the young soldier when a low, deep, oppressive roar suddenly came from overhead. The sound grew louder, as if some giant monster was approaching in the sky.
All the Britannian soldiers inside the theater instinctively stopped what they were doing and looked up through the large hole in the theater’s dome, blasted open by artillery. They saw a colossal shadow that covered the entire sky. The War Behemoth that had been circling Amiens for two days was slowly descending, hovering almost directly above them.
“It’s… it’s the Saxon airship!”
“What is it trying to do?”
A powerful sense of dread surged through everyone’s hearts. The next second, they had their answer. The 203mm main guns on the airship’s belly simultaneously spat fire.
“Boom! Boom! Boom!”
The thunderous sound of the shells leaving the barrels shook the entire earth. Several heavy high-explosive shells, trailing long streaks, accurately slammed into the theater and the adjacent Post Office.
“Rumble——!!!”
A blast more terrifying than any before erupted. The sturdy brick and stone structures were as weak as paper against the 203mm shells. The entire roof of the theater was instantly ripped away. Following that, the load-bearing walls and pillars shattered in the fierce explosion. The entire building collapsed with a deafening roar, like building blocks stomped on by a giant. Innumerable bricks, steel bars, and wood, mixed with human flesh and blood, were flung skyward, then rained back down like a storm. The Britannian soldiers inside the theater were instantly buried alive in the rubble of the tomb they had chosen, unable to utter a single cry.
On the street, the Saxon soldiers organizing the assault fell silent as they watched the scene.
The L29 Armored Airship did not stop. After obliterating the main buildings, it dropped several rounds of aerial bombs, saturating the area with a carpet of fire.
When the smoke and dust of the explosion gradually cleared, the city block that had once stood with several buildings was completely leveled, leaving behind only several massive, smoking craters. The battle was finally over.
Saxon soldiers carefully moved into the wreckage to clear the scene. They dug out dozens of survivors from the rubble. These surviving Britannian soldiers were mostly dazed by the shockwave or had broken limbs from the collapsing building, now completely unable to resist. Although most had not been killed directly by the artillery, the lives of the severely wounded were already on a countdown.
With this, the final pockets of resistance in Amiens City were completely cleared.
And as the Battle of Amiens concluded, an even more alarming piece of news arrived from the St. Quentin direction.
The Saxon Second and Third Army Groups, after several days of fierce fighting, successfully annihilated the main force of the Gallic Fifth Army Group in a pincer movement. Aside from one corps that narrowly escaped due to a timely retreat, the rest of the Gallic Fifth Army Group was virtually destroyed as a cohesive fighting force. In this battle, the Saxons even deployed the 420mm ‘Big Bertha’ siege cannons that were originally intended for the Liège and Namur Fortress Clusters. The Gallic soldiers at St. Quentin suffered the horrific power of these siege weapons, which played a decisive role in the battle.
The victories at Amiens and St. Quentin meant the Saxon Empire had completely torn open the northern defense line of the Gallic Republic. From Amiens to the Gallic capital, Paris, the path was flat and undefended by any natural barriers. More critically, the destruction of the Gallic Fifth Army Group and the retreat of the Britannian Expeditionary Force created a massive gap in the entire Gallic front line.
Gallic Army General Headquarters.
Marshal Joffre and his Generals stood clustered around a large sand table, their faces solemn and grim.
“The left flank… the left flank has completely collapsed!” A staff officer reported, using a stick to adjust the placement of the enemy forces on the sand table: “Two Saxon Army Groups can now rush south through this gap and drive straight for Paris!” Silence fell over the headquarters. Everyone knew what this meant.
However, amidst the despair, another staff officer, responsible for the Southern Front, brought news that stood in stark contrast.
“Reporting, Field Marshal! Our offensive in the Alsace and Lorraine regions is progressing smoothly!”
“Despite the suppression from Saxon Armored Airships, our forced deployment of anti-air Magic Guided Arrays on the front line has proven miraculously effective! We successfully shot down one airship and heavily damaged another in combat!”
“Along the Verdun-Metz line, our Third and Fourth Army Groups have achieved breakthroughs and may even coordinate with the First and Second Army Groups to completely sever the Saxon defense line in the center!”
“In the Mediterranean sector, although we are temporarily hampered by the Saxon fleet’s artillery fire, the situation will turn once our main fleet passes through Gibraltar and links up with the North Africa Fleet!”
(End of this Chapter)
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