Trench Bolts and Magic

Chapter 202 Allied Forces
Just as the generals of the Saxon army were sharpening their swords, preparing for a major battle.

In contrast, the atmosphere at the headquarters of their adversaries, the allied forces of Gaul and Brittany, was gloomy and somber.

General Langlezac, commander of the Fifth Gallic Army, had locked himself in his tent for a whole day.

The reports of Charleroi's disastrous defeat and the annihilation of the 3rd Cavalry Division were like two slaps to his face.

All he wants to do right now is to be alone.

The camp was in complete disarray.

Some documents were torn to shreds and scattered on the ground.

The table was overturned, and documents, ink bottles, and plates were scattered all over the floor.

Langlezak paced back and forth in the cramped space like a wild beast trapped in a cage, cursing incessantly.

"Xiafei! You damned butcher! You idiot!"

His voice was hoarse, filled with endless anger and despair.

"Offensive! Offensive! What else is in your head besides offensive?!"

He kicked over a chair, which slammed against the tent pole with a dull thud.

“I told you long ago! The Saxons’ main attack direction is to the north! In Flanders! Our left flank is empty! Empty! Don’t you understand?”

"You've concentrated our most elite troops in Lorraine to ram into the Saxons' strongest defenses! You're sending my soldiers to their deaths!"

"Now look what's happened! Charleroi is lost! My Ninth Division is decimated! The Third Cavalry Division is gone! The entire flank of the Fifth Army is exposed! Are you satisfied now? You butcher sitting in your Paris office drinking coffee!"

His roar echoed through the tent.

The guards and staff outside the door dared not go in, hearing the sounds coming from inside.

They knew that the general was on the verge of collapse.

The defeat at Charleroi was a devastating blow to the Fifth Army.

This is not simply a matter of losing a division and a cavalry division.

More importantly, morale collapsed.

As the survivors who had escaped from Charleroi described to their comrades the steel behemoth in the sky that seemed like divine punishment, and the streets littered with thousands of corpses, an unprecedented fear spread throughout the Fifth Army.

The Saxons are no longer the stereotypical, conservative adversaries they once knew.

They possess unimaginable weaponry and an iron will.

This psychological shock is far more terrifying than physical injury or death.

Langlezak plopped down on the ground, leaning against the canvas wall of the tent, panting heavily.

After the anger came endless exhaustion and regret.

He regretted not having more firmly opposed Joffre's plan back then, but it was no use thinking about it now.

But right now, Langlezak knows he must pull himself together and think about the next battle plan.

He couldn't help but think of the impromptu meeting he had attended yesterday in the rear, where he had met the commander of the Brittany Expeditionary Force.

Although there was a minor friction between the two sides at the meeting, the Brittany Expeditionary Force is, in any case, the only friendly force at present.

"Perhaps we can only hope that the Britannians can hold out a little longer, until we can regroup our defenses."

Field Marshal John French, commander-in-chief of the Holy Britannian Expeditionary Force, was in a terrible mood.

He felt like a professional firefighter, sent to put out a fire that had grown into a raging inferno.

Meanwhile, the victims of the fire continued to pour oil on the fire.

First was the Dunkirk landing operation. The original plan was for the main force of the expeditionary force to land at Dunkirk and then quickly spread eastward, like a sharp knife piercing the flank of the First Saxon Army.

This is a very good plan, but it is based on one premise—that the Saxons' advance will not be that fast.

The results of it?
While his vanguard was still adrift at sea, the Saxon cavalry had already reached the outskirts of Dunkirk.

This directly led to the subsequent landing operation being forced to halt.

The division that had already landed was trapped in the narrow landing area, unable to move.

Although it is temporarily safe with the support of the Royal Navy's firepower, it has completely lost its tactical value and become a useless piece.

To make matters worse, according to news from the Royal Navy, the main force of the Saxon high seas fleet has already left port and is patrolling the North Sea.

This means that the Royal Navy can no longer keep its valuable battleships stationed off the coast of Dunkirk as fixed gun emplacements for extended periods.

John French had no doubt that once the Royal Navy withdrew, the besieged division would be swallowed whole by the Saxons within three days.

He had even begun to seriously consider whether to withdraw that division as soon as possible, while the Royal Navy was still around.
After losing Dunkirk as a landing site, he could only lead the main force of the expeditionary force on a long detour, landing in Le Havre and Rouen in western Gaul, and then urgently transporting them north by rail to plug the already enormous hole.

Then came the Allied Command Conference that nearly made him draw his sword on the spot.

When he arrived at the Allied provisional headquarters in Amiens, covered in dust from his journey, the first thing he did was to have a big argument with Joffre, the Gallic commander-in-chief, and Langlezac, the commander of the Fifth Army.

"Generals, I need an explanation!"

John French slammed the map on the table and pointed bluntly to the large blank area stretching from Alaska to the coastline.

"Why is this place empty? Where is your left wing? Are you planning to use the air to protect the flanks of Paris?"

His Gaulish was not fluent, and he spoke with a heavy Breton accent.

But he believed he had made his meaning clear enough.

However, he was met not with an explanation, but with ridicule.

"Oh? Are our Brittany friends teaching us Gauls how to fight?"

General Joffre leaned back in his chair and spoke slowly, a hint of arrogant smile on his face.

General Langlezak went even further. This commander, who had just suffered a defeat and was in a bad mood, even imitated John French's accent, saying in a sarcastic tone:
"Yes, my dear Marshal, your Gaulish is truly 'perfect'."

A suppressed laugh rang out from the command post.

John French's face instantly turned a deep purplish-red.

He felt his blood pressure soaring.

He suppressed his anger and said, word by word:

"I'm not joking, gentlemen! The Saxon First Army, numbering at least four hundred thousand, is advancing here at an alarming pace! If you don't immediately reinforce the left flank, Paris will be in danger!"

"Danger? I think you've been scared out of your wits by the Saxons, Your Excellency Marshal."

Joffre snorted coldly: "Our main force of the Gallic army is in the Lorraine region, and is making successive victories! Soon we will be able to break through their defenses and strike deep into the heart of Saxony! At that time, their northern troops will naturally retreat without a fight!"

"victory?"

John French could hardly believe his ears.

"You call that kind of suicidal charge a victory? Do you know how heavy your casualties are? You are using soldiers' lives to satisfy your ridiculous 'offensive' fantasies!"

"enough!"

Joffre slammed his hand on the table, stood up, and pointed at John French's nose.

"Watch your words, Marshal! Are you questioning the military honor of the Gallic Republic? Let me tell you, we Gallic soldiers are the bravest soldiers in the world! They crave attack, they crave glory! Unlike you Britannians, who only know how to hide under the robes of mages!"

(End of this chapter)