The Qing Dynasty is about to end

Chapter 962 Who Will Be Next?
On the morning of September 10, 1884, the wheat fields outside Lille rippled with golden waves in the morning mist. Lieutenant Ludendorff's armored company struggled along the muddy country lanes, the tracks of ten Panzer II tanks grinding against the damp earth with a dull thud. Second Lieutenant Adolf's Panzer 07 led the way, its machine gunner scanning the surroundings warily—the seemingly peaceful wheat field was unsettlingly quiet.

"Maintain formation! Cavalry, take cover!" Ludendorff issued the order through the vehicle's loudspeaker, his voice particularly stern amidst the roar of the engine. Reports from the forward reconnaissance cavalry indicated that the main road was riddled with concrete "dragon teeth" anti-tank obstacles. These pyramid-shaped obstacles, while not particularly offensive, were extremely obstructive.

Moreover, if a tank stops on the road and waits for engineers to clear the serpentine fins, it might be bombarded by enemy artillery fire!

Adolf spat, his bloodshot eyes beneath his greasy helmet fixed on the front. "Turn to the wheat field!" he roared to the driver. "Go around to the side!" The tank company immediately adjusted its course, the steel behemoths plunging headlong into the waist-high wheat fields. The ripe wheat was crushed by the tracks, golden grains mixed with black soil and stuck to the armor.

Suddenly, a deafening explosion shattered the morning tranquility. Tank No. 09, following Adolf's No. 07 tank, shuddered violently, its left track shattering in the flash, and the entire hull tilting precariously into a crater. "Landmine!" Adolf's cry of alarm had barely faded when a resounding bugle call rang out.

"For the Motherland! For the working class!" Hundreds of Red Guards in blue overalls leaped from the wheat stalks, armed with Molotov cocktails and anti-tank grenades, surging towards the tank formation like a tidal wave. Adolf flung open the turret hatch, grabbed the Maxim machine gun mounted on top of the turret, and unleashed a deadly barrage of fire. Bullets whistled through the wheat stalks, tearing the workers at the forefront to shreds, but many more continued their charge, stepping over the corpses of their comrades.

The German cavalry company opened fire simultaneously with their carbines, a dense hail of bullets carving bloody paths through the wheat field. However, the Red Guards' offensive showed no signs of abating—a boy, his face covered in soot, climbed onto the hood of tank number 05 and smashed a Molotov cocktail into the observation window. Instant flames engulfed the compartment, and a secondary explosion from the ignited ammunition sent the turret flying several meters into the air. On the other side, three workers were stuffing anti-tank mines, secured with nails, into the tracks of tank number 03. As the tracks snapped, they pried open the escape hatch and tossed an anti-tank grenade inside.

The battle lasted a full thirty minutes. By the time the last Red Guard fell to machine gun fire, the wheat field was scorched earth. Two tanks were burned to blackened iron skeletons, and the bodies of 57 workers were scattered around their tracks. Adolf wiped the blood splattered on his face, gazing at the hazy steelworks of Lille in the distance, and muttered, "These madmen... madder than the old soldiers who defended Paris in 1871."

A messenger galloped up, his hooves pounding the muddy path: "Lieutenant! Regimental orders—abandon Lille immediately and advance at full speed toward Gabriel!"

Inside the operations hall of the General Staff Headquarters in Berlin, the heavy atmosphere was almost palpable. Prince Wilhelm pounded his fist impatiently on the edge of the sand table. "A week! A whole week!" His voice trembled with anger. "Not a single one of the three fortresses on the northern front has been captured! Dunkirk has British warships, Calais not only has British warships but also coastal fortifications, and Lille is full of reckless laborers!"

Quartermaster General Schlieffen's finger traced the sand table, finally settling on the southern front: "Your Highness, the biggest problem lies here. The main French force south of the Karl Mohr line has not only not retreated, but is instead diverting troops to fill gaps on the flank." He picked up a red piece and planted it heavily in Bennett's position. "Now we must turn the First Panzer Army southeast! Only by outflanking the French rear on the southern front can we prevent them from retreating to Bennett and forming a pincer movement with Paris."

Field Marshal Moltke stood silently by the window, rain streaming down the glass, blurring the afternoon streetscape of Berlin. The bronze clock on the wall ticked rhythmically, as if counting down the 39-day deadline for his "Moltke Plan." But he could no longer worry about "reaching Paris in 39 days," because the French resistance was far more intense than he had imagined, and the stalemate on the southern front was alarming—the French were holding out desperately in their deep fortifications, and the Germans were suffering thousands of casualties for every kilometer they advanced.

This war cannot continue like this.
“Turn to Benitez!” Moltke’s voice was old and hoarse. “A direct assault on Paris would be a mistake.” His finger moved to the meticulously crafted city model, which was covered with red triangles marking barricades, underground tunnels, and “Red Guard artillery.” “Given the strength of the resistance in Dunkirk, Calais, and Lille, we will be worn down to our last drop of blood in street fighting.”

Prince William sneered: "So you're going to bow down to those red bastards?"

"No!" Moltke suddenly slammed his fist on the sand table, and Bennett's emblem fell to the ground. "Your Highness, war cannot be taken lightly, much less acted on impulse!"

He turned to Schlieffen and said in an unquestionable tone: "The First Panzer Army must immediately turn southeast! The Nancy-Paris railway must be cut off within a week!"

Prince William did not argue with Moltke, the old German military genius, but silently watched as his operations staff quickly took action.

Schlieffen leaned closer to Moltke and lowered his voice, saying, "If the encirclement succeeds, the French army on the southern front may collapse, and then Paris will be an isolated city." His gaze swept over the small blue flag on the sand table representing British reinforcements, "But we must do it before the British can react." Moltke did not answer, but stared intently at the Nancy-Lyon railway line, lost in thought.

Inside the Palais des People in Paris on September 16, Blanqui, who had rushed there in the rain, shook the rain off his military overcoat and slammed a stack of frontline telegrams onto the long table: "Breaking news! The German armored forces have turned towards Bennett!"

Dombrovsky, who had just returned from the front, jumped up, tracing an arc on the map with his finger: "Excellent! They've fallen into our trap! The three armies on the southern front have begun their planned retreat to Nancy." His finger dug into Benitez's mark on the map, almost piercing it. "Moltke thought he was outmaneuvering us? In reality, he was sending hundreds of thousands of German troops into a meat grinder!"

Mohr slowly exhaled a wisp of cigar smoke, his eyes gleaming with wisdom beneath his greyish eyebrows. The Karl Mohr Line, painstakingly built by the French people over more than a decade, was never just a "line," but an entire defensive system!

Lille, Dunkirk, Calais, Sedan, and Nancy—these key cities were all part of Karl Mohr's defensive line! Simply breaking through the line was ineffective for the Germans, because those fortified cities possessed the resources and fortifications to sustain themselves for a long time! Lille and Nancy, in particular, could each accommodate hundreds of thousands of defenders fighting for 6-8 months!

Nancy's defensive capabilities are particularly outstanding! This is because Nancy not only has a railway line to Paris, but also to Lyon, France's second-largest city! Even if the Nancy-Paris railway is cut off, Nancy is not an isolated city; it can fight to the end with the support of the Lyon working class!

Friedrich slammed his fist on the table and exclaimed, “The real turning point is fast approaching!” He grabbed a red pencil and drew a sharp crack on the map, stretching from Berlin to St. Petersburg. “When Germany is bogged down in France, the Tsar will definitely launch an attack on the Eastern Front. Although the German navy cannot defeat the British Royal Navy, it is confident of blockading the Baltic Sea. At the same time, the Ottoman Empire, supported by Germany, will not easily lose control of the Turkish Straits!” His gaze then turned to St. Petersburg. “At that time, Russia will be blockaded by Germany! Only Murmansk in the north will remain as a route to foreign aid, but that will not be enough! The chains of imperialism will break at their weakest point!”

Varlan strode to the window and abruptly pushed open the heavy oak frame. The Parisian night wind, carrying the scent of autumn rain, rushed into the meeting room. In the distance, beside the barricades, workers braved the rain to reinforce the fortifications with railroad tracks and sandbags. He turned around, his eyes slightly red: "Comrades, let the Germans bleed in Bennett and Nancy! Every day of delay brings the revolutionary volcanoes of Berlin and St. Petersburg one step closer to eruption! The sacrifice of the French people is worthwhile!"

On September 17th, torrential rain poured down on the Gabriels front. Adolf's tank company struggled through the mud, the mud kicked up by the tracks almost submerging half of the tanks. Ludendorff clutched tightly the order from the regimental headquarters, delivered by a messenger through the rain: "Cross the tributary of the Marne River to clear a path for the following troops."

Meanwhile, in the North Sea, Sir William Howard Drake, commander of the British Home Fleet aboard the Royal Navy's Sovereign-class battleship HMS Queen India, peered through binoculars into the thick fog of the Kattegat Strait. His chief of staff handed him a newly translated telegram: "The German High Seas Fleet is avoiding battle, seemingly using the Kiel Canal to divert to Kiel."

Sir Drake frowned slightly: "The Germans want to blockade Russia. It seems this war has reached a point where it's a test of endurance!"

He turned to the signalman and roared, "Order—mine-laying ships to move out immediately and blockade Heligoland Bay!"

On the top floor of the Palais des People in Paris, Mohr spent the entire sleepless night standing by the window. As the eastern sky began to lighten, he returned to his desk, dipped his brush in red ink, and wrote a striking title on an upcoming editorial: "Let the blood of imperialism water the roots of world revolution!"

In the trenches far ahead at Benitez, a French sentry suddenly sounded the alarm. In the post-rain morning mist, the German helmets gleamed coldly in the dawn light, like a steel torrent surging towards the lines. As the sentry sounded the alarm, he remembered what the comrade-in-charge had said the night before: "Comrades, remember—every hour we hold out, the revolution is one step closer to victory!"

Inside the Prime Minister's office in Tianjing, Luo Yaoguo put down the European war report in his hand and gazed at the rising sun over the Qinhuai River outside the window. His fingers tapped lightly on the desk as he murmured to himself, "Who will be next? Germany? Russia? Or..."

(End of this chapter)