Chapter 427: The Disaster at the General Staff
Berlin, Wilhelmstrasse, Germany.
The General Staff under Falkenhayn was in chaos. Staff officers were rushing about, drenched in sweat, as telegrams flew in and phones rang incessantly. The air was thick with tension and anxiety. Even the usually composed Falkenhayn was not immune.
Pacing by his desk, Falkenhayn turned to Colonel Moritz, who was scrutinizing a map, and asked in a low voice, “Are you certain there are no enemies near Tiebiz?”
Colonel Moritz hesitated. “That’s what the intelligence indicates. An infantry battalion managed to escape encirclement from Tiebiz without encountering any resistance.”
Falkenhayn detected the underlying doubt in Moritz’s tone. “‘That’s what the intelligence indicates’?”
“I’m not sure, General,” Moritz admitted. “I find it hard to believe that Charles would leave such a glaring gap. I suspect…”
“You suspect it’s a trap set by Charles?” Falkenhayn grasped Moritz’s implication.
“Yes, that’s right,” Moritz wiped the sweat off his brow. “It could be, but it might not be.”
This lack of decisiveness was unlike the Moritz of old, who had always been bold and confident.
Charles had completely crushed him psychologically, despite the two never meeting.
This day was destined to be a disaster for the General Staff’s brains trust.
When Charles launched his offensive, Colonel Moritz had estimated it would take Charles several days to make significant progress, and that the French would suffer heavy casualties in the process.
“Our defenses at Cambrai are robust,” Moritz had analyzed. “After the last battle at Cambrai, we’ve learned Charles’ tactics. We’ve fortified the area with numerous 105mm howitzers, the First Tank Division, and a comprehensive trench system. It’ll feel like running into a brick wall.”
Falkenhayn nodded. His assessment was similar.
He studied the map for a moment before ordering, “Immediately dispatch the 91st Reserve Division to reinforce Cambrai.”
This infantry division, undergoing training in Berlin, was to be rushed by train. At best, they could arrive in Cambrai the next day.
But before the words left his lips, a radioman exclaimed, “General, Charles has breached our defenses! Our entire front line has collapsed!”
Falkenhayn froze in shock. The reversal was too abrupt.
Colonel Moritz’s eyes widened in disbelief as he turned to the radioman. “Whose report is this?”
His first thought was that someone, out of cowardice, had falsified the battle report. How could the front line collapse in just half an hour after the attack began?
“It’s from Major General Nicolas’ telegraph,” the radioman promptly handed over the message.
Moritz examined it thoroughly several times but found no issues. As commander of the First Tank Division, Major General Nicolas was not the type to shy away from battle.
“What about our artillery?” Moritz clung to a sliver of hope. “The 105mm howitzers—why didn’t they perform as expected?”
“They were suppressed by enemy bombers,” the radioman reported. “It’s evident the enemy had already pinpointed our artillery positions.”
Moritz swallowed hard, forced to accept this grim reality.
...
Later, Colonel Moritz analyzed the map again. “Charles’ forces may reach Valenciennes by afternoon. We can deploy the 182nd Infantry Regiment from Maubeuge to reinforce. That regiment has been resting in the second line for over half a month, with replenished troops and equipment. If they move quickly, they can establish a defensive line.”
Valenciennes, located near the French-Belgian border, was about twenty kilometers from Cambrai.
Moritz’s judgment was based on Charles’ previous advance speed.
However, those earlier advances were achieved with “Mark I” tanks, and the infantry had not yet been fully mechanized. The march speeds were incomparable.
Falkenhayn didn’t object. Even if the regiment failed to hold Charles’ advance, it could at least slow him down, allowing other reinforcements to arrive.
But before Falkenhayn could give the order, the radioman reported again, “General, Vallo Town has fallen. French vanguard troops have already reached the town!”
At first, Moritz didn’t think much of it. Unfamiliar with the geography of the Belgian region, he assumed Vallo Town lay west of Valenciennes, meaning the French hadn’t reached Valenciennes yet.
But after searching the western map in vain, a quick-eyed staff officer pointed out Vallo Town’s location: “Here, about five kilometers inside Belgian territory.”
Moritz was petrified. Once he recovered, he turned sharply to the radioman and demanded, “Whose report?”
“Major General Nicolas,” the radioman replied. “His forces were ambushed by guerrillas and French vanguard troops while being bombarded by bombers. He had no choice but to abandon tanks and equipment and retreat toward Jemont.”
Moritz still couldn’t believe it.
In just over two hours, Charles’ forces had crossed Valenciennes and advanced to Vallo Town, thirty kilometers from Cambrai?
“The maximum speed of the ‘Charles A1’ tank is only 15 kilometers per hour. Even if they moved at top speed, they couldn’t cover that distance…”
Perhaps noticing Moritz’s doubt, the radioman added, “Colonel, the intelligence indicates the enemy is equipped with vehicles covered in steel plates. They’re much faster than tanks. The French used these vehicles to clear the way for the tanks.”
Moritz glanced nervously at Falkenhayn.
Falkenhayn, too, was now panicked. Without dwelling on Moritz’s misjudgment, he pointed at the map. “Mons—dispatch reinforcements to Mons immediately.”
“Yes, General.”
But once again, it was too late.
In truth, it wasn’t just “too late.” By the time Charles’ forces occupied Mons, German reinforcements were still an hour away.
Then came Brussels.
Moritz believed the reserve division stationed there, with over 20,000 troops, would at least halt Charles’ rapid advance this time.
But with the explosion of an ammunition depot, the 82nd Reserve Division retreated before the French even arrived.
The final misjudgment was at Antwerp.
Exhausted, Moritz finally breathed a sigh of relief, thinking Charles’ offensive for the day had reached its limit.
By this time, night had fallen. Antwerp, known as the “national fortress,” had once been breached by the Germans only with the help of the “Big Bertha” super-heavy artillery. Without heavy-caliber guns, Charles could only stare at the city walls.
Even if he attacked, it wouldn’t be until dawn, Moritz thought.
However, as Moritz and the staff worked through the night to deploy troops, a sudden telegraph arrived: “Colonel, Antwerp has fallen. Charles’ forces have entered the city!”
Moritz, who had been mapping defensive lines, froze, then calmly set down his pen, sat back in his chair, and stared blankly into the void with a sigh.
He was utterly numb.