The Qing Dynasty is about to end

Chapter 961 Red France will no longer be isolated!

January 6, 1884, dawn.

Lieutenant Ludendorff's Panzer II crushed the last barbed wire, the sound of breaking wooden obstacles echoing from beneath its tracks. He pushed open the hatch; the morning mist filled the air with the acrid smell of gunpowder and burning rubber. Dunkirk was just ahead!
Now, less than 24 hours have passed since Lieutenant Ludendorff’s tank company crossed the Franco-Belgian border!
In just 24 hours, Ludendorff and his men broke through three French lines of defense, advancing more than 15 kilometers and defeating at least three Red French battalion-level units. The only cost to them was six tanks temporarily rendered inoperable (half due to mechanical failure) and 27 men killed or wounded.

As it turns out, the French didn't have many cannons that could deal with tanks at all!
"Attention, the whole company! Maintain wedge formation!" Ludendorff roared at a tank messenger. "Tell Adolf that his No. 07 tank will lead the charge!"

The turret of tank number 07 spun, revealing a pair of bloodshot eyes beneath Lieutenant Adolf's greasy helmet. He spat and yelled at the driver, "Forward! Don't let the French breathe!"

A German armored company's six tanks formed a wedge formation, their tracks grinding across the muddy fields. Behind them, a company of cavalry brandished their sabers, while a battalion of motorized infantry roared from their truck engines, kicking up clouds of dust.

The French resistance was fiercer than expected. Although they lacked usable anti-tank guns, they would mow down the observation windows of tanks with Gatling guns, smash the tank hulls with Molotov cocktails, dig trenches, and lay mines. At one anti-tank ditch, another German tank became stuck. French soldiers leaped out of the trench and stuffed explosive charges into the chassis. In the flash of the explosion, Ludendorff saw a young French soldier, his face covered in soot, waving a red flag and shouting "For the Republic!"—before being riddled with bullets by another tank's machine gun.

“Madmen…” Adolf gritted his teeth, “They even dared to stab tanks with bayonets!”

Ludendorff did not answer. The clock tower of Dunkirk was already clearly visible through his binoculars.

Dunkirk Port at noon on September 6.

When Ludendorff's tank company stormed into the city, the streets were deserted. Broken glass and spent shell casings rattled under the tracks as cavalrymen scouted ahead. Suddenly, a messenger came running up: "Lieutenant! There's artillery fire at the harbor!"

Before the words were even finished, a piercing whistle like a train roared through the sky—followed by a deafening explosion that shook the very ground. In the distance, a newly erected German 105mm howitzer position was instantly engulfed by a massive orange-red fireball.

"The French railway guns?" Adolf frowned.

Ludendorff, leaning halfway out of another tank, shook his head: "The sound is wrong. It sounds like a naval gun!"

They rushed towards the harbor. As they rounded the last street corner, everyone froze—

Six massive steel warships stretched across the harbor like a mountain range, their black gun barrels slowly turning. The white numbers on their bows stood out starkly against the smoke. They were the British Royal Navy's Admiral-class battleships, colossal behemoths with a standard displacement of 11000 tons, their 10-inch main guns still smoking.

"My God..." Adolf's Adam's apple bobbed, "How are we supposed to fight this?"

On the bridge of the flagship HMS Admiral Howe, Sir John Horatio Nelson-Smith lowered his binoculars and a cold smile crept across his lips: "Germany's little toys dare to come to Dunkirk?" He turned to the gunnery officer, "Teach them a lesson with 6-inch guns."

Amid the roar of the secondary guns firing in unison, Ludendorff's tank company was forced to retreat. One Panzer II tank was unfortunately hit directly, its turret flying into the air like a toy.

As evening fell, an armored train, billowing steam, pulled into Dunkirk East Station. The carriage doors burst open, and Red Guard soldiers, wearing red caps, surged onto the platform, singing "The Internationale." Commissioner Dombrovsky jumped off, his boots splashing through puddles, raising pale red sprays—whether from paint or blood, it was unclear.

"Comrades!" he shouted, brandishing his revolver. "Drive the Germans out of France! Long live Red France!"

"Long live France!"

The Red Guards from Paris roared with fervor! To them, the war hadn't just started yesterday, but had been going on for over a decade. So they weren't afraid to fight the Germans; in fact, they longed to fight those damned Germans as soon as possible. Only by defeating the evil German imperialism could Red France have a future!
On the Admiral Howe in the harbor, Sir Smith narrowed his eyes: "Reds in Paris? Interesting." He grabbed his pen and said to the communications officer, "Send a telegram to Dover—"

Telegram: To Royal Navy Headquarters
Dunkirk remained in Allied hands. Six Admiral-class naval guns suppressed the German offensive, and reinforcements from the Paris Red Guards arrived. It was recommended that the Home Fleet immediately blockade the Kattegat Strait and Heligoland Bay.

—John Horatio Nelson-Smith, September 6, 1884.

After sending the telegram, he looked out the window. The searchlights of the harbor swept across the sea, illuminating the turning silhouettes of ships. Further away, the German artillery was still flashing, but under the suppression of 24 10-inch guns on six "Admiral"-class destroyers, how much power could those 150mm and 105mm howitzers exert?

The Germans could, of course, deploy a large number of 280mm railway guns to bombard Dunkirk. But that would take a considerable amount of time!

Time is not on the Germans' side!

At dawn on September 7, the main German forces bypassed Dunkirk and split into two groups—one heading towards Calais in an attempt to cut off shipping across the English Channel; the other marching towards Lille, with its sights set on the industrial heart of Red France.

Meanwhile, in the North Sea, two squadrons of the Royal Navy's Home Fleet were speeding towards the Kattegat Strait and Heligoland Bay. On an old ironclad warship, sailors were cleaning the rusty 8-inch guns. The captain, gazing at the horizon in the morning light, muttered to himself, "It's time to let those Prussian bastards know that the British Empire is the true master of Europe." September 7, 1884, Palais des Popes, Paris.

In the simple, undecorated meeting room, the highest echelons of power in Red France—Blanqui, Mohr, Friedrich, Varlan, and others—sat around a long table. The air was thick with the smell of cheap tobacco and coffee.

Blanqui slammed the telegram from the front onto the table: "Comrades, Dunkirk has been held for the time being!"

Varlan suddenly stood up: "It's the British warships that have entered the harbor?"

“Six ‘Admiral’ class battleships,” Friedrich sneered. “11000-ton steel coffins. These battleships would be sitting ducks in the Pacific, but in the English Channel, they would still be invincible.”

Moore slowly exhaled a puff of cigar smoke, a slight smile playing on his lips beneath his gray beard: "The situation is developing in the best possible direction—not just a little, but a great one!"

Everyone at the table turned to the bearded theorist. Moore's finger traced a red line across the map of Europe, drawing it between Berlin and St. Petersburg.

"Emperor Wilhelm's ambition will be his own downfall," he said in a low but firm voice. "The Germans may seem unstoppable now, but their armored spearhead will surely break beneath the walls of Paris!"

Blanqui frowned: "But our defenses are crumbling. Dunkirk probably won't hold for long either. Once the German railway guns reach the front, the British battleships will probably have to slink away."

"The difficulties are only temporary!" Moore interrupted him. "For every kilometer the Germans advance, their front line stretches by a kilometer. How long can their logistics hold out? A month? Two months?"

Friedrich continued, "And what will Tsar Alexander III do if the German army suffers a setback in Paris?"

Varlan's eyes lit up: "That idiot will definitely head for the Balkans!"

“Exactly!” Moore slammed his fist on the site of Constantinople. “The Russian bear has long coveted the wealthy Balkans. As soon as Germany shows signs of fatigue, the Tsar’s army will immediately rush towards Bulgaria and Serbia—that Russian bear has always had a very high opinion of itself!”

"Then Germany and Russia will fight to a standstill?" Blanki finally realized.

Moore nodded emphatically: "When a total war breaks out between imperialist powers, there will inevitably be losers. And the defeated empire..." He looked around at the crowd, "will inevitably erupt in revolution! Comrades, who do you think will become the next red nation?"

The temperature in the conference room seemed to rise suddenly. Varran pondered, "Germany? Russia?"

“Anything is possible.” Friedrich unfolded a statistical table. “The German Social Democratic Party already has 50 members, and the Russian working class is also awakening. Once the war cripples the economy…”

"But we must hold Paris first!" Blanqui roared, slamming his fist on the table. "Without the persistence of Red France, all theory is just empty talk!"

Moore nodded: "So tomorrow's People's Daily front page should read—'Every barricade is a fortress of revolution, every rifle a pen of the proletariat'!"

Suddenly, the communications officer burst into the conference room: "Urgent telegram! The German army has divided its forces into Calais and Lille!"

Friedrich strode to the sand table, grabbed the small blue flag representing the German army: "Dividing our forces is definitely a mistake; it will further weaken our ability to attack Paris!"

Varlan sneered: "Moreover, Calais and Lille are fortresses even tougher to conquer than Dunkirk!"

Blanqui turned to Moore: "How long do you think it will take for the Tsar to make a move on the Balkans?"

“Six to eight months,” Moore analyzed. “Given the Russian climate, it’s unlikely the Tsar will send troops out in the coming winter. After the frost season in Eastern Europe next spring, the Tsar’s grey cattle will rush into the Balkans!”

"June to August?" Varlan gritted his teeth. "The Red Guards can hold out in Paris until at least December!"

Moore said, "Not 12 months, but forever! Paris will never surrender, will never fall!"

(End of this chapter)