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Backfire said:
Really great book BTW. somebody should make a Mod for HoI of RSR. But this AAR is good enough. For now.
Great updates.
StephenT said:Allenby learned his AAR-writing skills from me
An outrageous slur on my character!
I'll have you know that I learnt all my AAR authoring skills from MuckyPup...
Chapter 30
We shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing grounds, we shall fight in the fields and in the streets, we shall fight in the hills; we shall never surrender.
- Winston Churchill, 4 June 1940
Surrendering British troops captured on the beaches of Hampshire
The Battle of the Channel, as it becomes known, is a disaster for the Reich: it marks the biggest loss of life on any single day in Germany’s history. The Kaiser is hit particularly hard, as the Navy was always his pride and joy. As a grandson of Queen Victoria, he has always felt a love-hate relationship for his British cousins, mixing admiration and resentment: and these emotions now hit him with full force. He alternates between violent rages against ‘perfidious Albion’, and bemoaning the fact that two countries as closely linked as Britain and Germany should ever have gone to war in the first place. Indeed, he goes so far as to order the Foreign Ministry to explore the possibility of a negotiated settlement with Asquith’s government – but this causes outrage among Navy commanders who see it as a betrayal of the sacrifice of so many lives, and so His Majesty is persuaded to drop the idea. Instead, an Imperial Conference is summoned at Strassburg to plan our next move.
The meeting starts in an acrimonious manner, as Army and Navy dignitaries hurl recriminations at each other. With some effort, order is restored, and serious business can commence. The first question is how much of our fleet still remains. The destruction is not quite so total as originally feared: over the few days after the battle, a handful of surviving ships have limped into port. Also, we are informed through the Red Cross organisation in Switzerland that the Royal Navy rescued many survivors from our sunken warships, although of course they are now prisoners of war. Even Admiral Hipper is recovering in a British hospital, although his untreated leg wound had turned gangrenous before he could be picked up, and the surgeons were forced to amputate. Unfortunately, most of the ships that have returned are facing months of repair before they can ever be considered battleworthy; and the only other vessels remaining in European waters are a handful of coast defence ships and antique cruisers dating back almost to the age of sail. General Falkenhayn expresses his willingness to risk the crossing even with such a poor escort; but it is agreed that this would be far too dangerous. Even supplying Hindenburg’s men already in Britain is fraught with terrible danger. However, the Navy Ministry has developed a plan to slip small convoys of fast motor vessels across the Channel each night. These will be crewed by volunteers and will take a different route every time – sometimes to Portsmouth or Southampton, sometimes to Plymouth, sometimes even around the Cornish peninsula to Avonmouth. Even if the British fleet discovers one convoy, the others stand a good chance of evading them. By this means, 3. Armee should be provided with enough supplies to maintain a defensive front – but any offensive action is out of the question. Still, this is better than nothing, and the plan is agreed.
At this point, the Navy ministers sketch out their ideas for rebuilding the fleet. These are certainly ambitious: French and Italian shipyards will be pressed into service alongside those in Germany proper, and a new class of battleships will be built that far surpass the British Queen Elizabeth class that caused us so much damage. For a moment, the Kaiser forgets his depression as he eagerly questions the ministers on the technical specifications of the proposed ships. However, Generalleutnant Hoffman rudely spoils the celebratory mood by asking how long it will take to build this new navy. When told, ‘Two years’, he explodes in rage that our army in England cannot hold out that long, and at this rate we may as well go back to the idea of a negotiated peace with Britain. This provokes a furious argument, until Falkenhayn interjects in a quiet voice, “What about the SDF?”
The sigh of relief around the table is almost palpable. Of course! The Sonderdienstflotte has been operating independently in the Far East, and is currently based in Vladivostok; but Hutier’s XX Korps are now well inland, following the Trans-Siberian Railway westwards towards Irkutsk, and so their need for naval support is minimal. The SDF includes several modern capital ships as well as a full range of supporting vessels, and is experienced in conducting amphibious operations. The Navy Ministry quickly agrees to send a telegram to Admiral Souchon ordering him to return to Europe as expeditiously as possible. Although the increasingly militaristic stance of the United States is a matter of great concern to the Foreign Ministry, it is agreed that since speed is of the essence, the SDF will need to transit the Panama Canal. Our ambassador in Washington DC should therefore warn the Americans of our plans – in general terms – and assure them that no threat to their neutrality is envisaged.
The only problem now is that it will take Souchon many weeks to sail his ships halfway around the globe back to Europe…
The days pass by slowly. In the Far East, Hutier’s men are engaged in their back-and-forth struggle with the Russians (see chapter 28, above). In Britain, Hindenburg’s 3. Armee settle into a stalemate of sporadic bombardments and trench raids. It is difficult to keep up the morale of our hungry troops, and the British forces opposite us are building up their strength in an ominous manner. On 6 November comes more worrying news from the United States. President Wilson has been re-elected, and has vowed to continue and even intensify his military build-up. The extent of this new US militarism is seen by many in Berlin as a major threat to world peace and our establishment of a unified Europe. However, there is little we can do about it in the current circumstances.
Finally, the long-awaited day arrives. Souchon’s salt-caked and storm-battered warships sail into Brest harbour, where they are greeted by flags, cheers from the assembled crowds, and a military band playing Beethoven’s Ode to Joy. A hasty refit is put in hand, and the troops of Falkenhayn’s 6. Armee are brought from their barracks and assembled at their embarkation points. By now it is well into December, and the crossing date is set for Christmas Day – in the hope that this will take the British by surprise. In the event, the actual operation is a total anti-climax. The Royal Navy is nowhere to be seen, and Souchon’s fleet shepherds our transport convoy across the Channel in perfect safety. The convoy brings extra supplies as well as troops, and so for the first time in many weeks the men of 3. Armee enjoy a ration of cigarettes, chocolate and (for those off-duty) alcohol on the evening of 25 December. Four days later, we re-start offensive operations in England.
Europe at war: 1 January 1917
The plan is to launch a two-pronged attack north and south of the Thames Valley, with the aim of surrounding London, cutting it off from supply and then reducing the city. 3. Armee is concentrated on the southern front, and makes its attack first. Falkenhayn’s men have further to march to reach their jumping off point, and so the northern wing will be slightly delayed. On 29 December, a massive artillery bombardment hits the British lines between Farnham and Haslemere. It is short but intense, and before the defenders can recover from the shock, our infantry are among them. In accordance with the new infiltration tactics, they rely on speed and firepower, outflanking enemy strongpoints and breaking into their rear areas, Shocked and confused, the British are unable to put up an adequate resistance, and surrender in droves. By 30 December, the line has burst wide open, and German troops are pouring through the gap. One column heads due east, towards Kent and the Channel Ports; the other swings north towards London.
However, on New Year’s Day 1917, the northern wing runs into trouble. By rapid marching through the leafy lanes of Surrey, it has reached the outskirts of the London suburbs without difficulty; but there, in the hilly and increasingly urban terrain, enemy resistance stiffens…
The shrill whistling overhead causes Oberst Franz Kornhaber to duck involuntarily. Although a veteran of many campaigns in the early part of the war, he has spent the last two years in peaceful garrison duty in central France, and has lost the knack of judging how close the shells will fall. These hit safely a couple of hundred metres behind his observation post, doing little more than raise a few puffs of dust. Kornhaber notes sourly that his adjutant, Leutnant Albert Müller, did not even flinch, but continues to gaze through his binoculars.
“That sounded like a 6-inch howitzer salvo,” says Kornhaber, thinking ‘At least I can remember that much’. Did you spot where it came from?”
“No sir” replies the younger man. "But with a 10-kilometre range, it could be nearly anywhere. I’d put my money on here though,” he adds, tapping the map spread on the table next to him. “A high point, giving excellent observation all around.”
“’Crystal Palace’? A reasonable guess. But since most of the artillery went with XIV Korps to the east, there’s not much we can do to counter them at the moment. We need to break through this valley quickly, before their resistance stiffens even more.”
“Er, yes sir.” says Müller hesitantly. Through his binoculars he can still see the sorry remnants of the last attempt by the 6th Bavarian Division to advance northwards from their current position outside the village of Coulsdon. German stormtrooper tactics might be effective, but they don’t make men bulletproof; and the British have several machine guns cunningly emplaced in houses high on the hillsides, ready to sweep the entire valley.
“Don’t worry, Müller, we’re going to do it differently this time. Get me a runner; I’m sending a despatch to Brigade HQ.” He swiftly begins scribbling a few lines on a notepad, as his aide summons a messenger. Sealing the note in its envelope, Kornhaber carefully instructs the short, dark-haired young man who comes hastily running up. “This must get through, Corporal. It’s vital to the success of the division’s operations.” Once the messenger has left, on his highly dangerous run across ground swept by British artillery fire, the Oberst takes his own binoculars and studies the British positions. He isn’t proud of what he’s just ordered.
German troops prepare for their next assault
Night falls. To the forward troops of the 23rd Bavarian Grenadier Regiment, it brings no rest. Only added fear, as every shadow could hide a British trench raiding party. Suddenly, a noise breaks the silence from behind them. A panicky sentry calls out a challenge - his finger on the trigger of his Mauser 98K; his eyes straining to break though the darkness; but then he sighs in relief as a welcome German voice calls out the correct counter-sign. Moments later, a small column of men in odd uniforms make their way into the hastily-prepared field position, lugging huge metal cylinders and muffling curses as they attempt to manoeuvre them around the walls of the trenches. With them is a corporal in the more familiar uniform of the Bavarian Infantry, and the sentry, searching for reassurance, asks him what is going on. “Reinforcements from Brigade. I was told to guide them back here, since I took the Old Man’s message up there in the first place. Some kind of secret weapon, apparently.” At this point, the leader of the newcomers steps up and says, in an officious voice, “Inform your commander of our arrival. You must be ready to attack at dawn.”
Sergeant Jack Greene of the Royal Machine Gun Corps sits at his post, carefully checking the .303 rounds in a belt of ammunition. Each belt holds 250 bullets, but the Vickers machine gun beside him can fire off every one of them in just 30 seconds. A single faulty round could cause the gun to jam; and if the Germans keep up their attacks as they have done for the last two days, that could be fatal. Suddenly, a movement catches his eye. Greene peers out into the pre-dawn dimness, then taps his gunner on the shoulder and points. It might be nothing, but a quick burst of machine gun fire will settle the Jerries if they are trying anything sneaky.
It is the last thought he will ever have. There is a strange hissing, a smell of petrol, then the whole world explodes in flame and searing heat. Greene is lucky; he dies within seconds as the thousands of rounds of ammunition surrounding him cook off and explode. As the great jets of flame play along the rest of the British lines, others are less fortunate. Some even run screaming into the open, beating at their clothes, their hair, their skin as it burns with unquenchable fire. Shots ring out from the German lines, killing these victims; but for those who fire it is an act less of war than of mercy.
The Bavarians are almost as horrified as the British, but after a moment they recover their wits and advance forwards. Nobody tries to stop them. As they reach the former British position, a horrible smell meets them, of mingled petrol fumes and cooked flesh. Most horrible of all, for soldiers who have not had any breakfast or even a hot meal for several days, is that the smell reminds many of sizzling bacon, and makes their mouths water even as they retch with disgust. As the men of the flamethrower detachment gather up their equipment and come forward to join them, the looks many give them are of real hatred; but there is still the British second line to penetrate, and the flamethrowers are still needed.
Once more they do their job; but this time the enemy is better prepared. Heavy fire is concentrated on the source of each jet of fire, and the flamethrower crews suffer serious casualties. One lucky British bullet even pierces the canister of fuel strapped to one man’s back, exploding it and soaking him with liquid fire. Screaming as metre-high flames leap from his body, he runs desperately along the German line until the very flesh melts from his bones. But the British successes are not enough, and this position too falls to our troops. They are now optimistic, foreseeing an imminent breakthrough to the enemy artillery positions: but those enemies have one last trump card to play.
No sooner has the British second line fallen but a flare goes up, and a heavy artillery barrage comes crashing down from the north. The British are firing on their own former trenches, whose positions they had naturally mapped out to within centimetres; and so the gunfire is hellishly accurate. Worse, mixed in with the high explosive are many gas shells. The German troops, stunned and taken by surprise, are slow to don their gas masks; and many fall to the ground clawing at their tear-filled eyes and coughing up blood. And whilst our men are incapacitated and shaken, the British reserves seize the moment for a counter-attack. They quickly surround our spearhead, and cut it off; then close in for the kill. Many of our soldiers are left with no choice but to surrender. The flamethrower operators, however, do not get that option. Those who try are swiftly bayoneted or bludgeoned to death with rifle butts, as grim-eyed Tommies with levelled guns herd away the rest of the prisoners - their expressions daring them to protest. None do, and the official reports record the flamethrower crews as “killed while resisting capture”.
As he lies on the ground, blinded and left for dead by the gas attack, the messenger who brought the flamethrower detachment curses them, the British, and his own commanders equally. “This is not the way wars should be fought,” he rages to himself, “They have all betrayed us. But they will pay. Someday, if I survive this, they will all pay. I swear it!”
The first attack on London has failed, but by 2 January most of the south coast is in our hands, and the lead elements of 3. Armee are making preparations to seize crossing points along the Thames Estuary. Three days later, Falkenhayn’s men begin their own drive northwards across the River Avon, towards Stratford and Coventry, before swinging eastwards into the Home Counties to approach the British capital from the north. The noose is tightening...
To be continued…
We shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing grounds, we shall fight in the fields and in the streets, we shall fight in the hills; we shall never surrender.
- Winston Churchill, 4 June 1940
Surrendering British troops captured on the beaches of Hampshire
The Battle of the Channel, as it becomes known, is a disaster for the Reich: it marks the biggest loss of life on any single day in Germany’s history. The Kaiser is hit particularly hard, as the Navy was always his pride and joy. As a grandson of Queen Victoria, he has always felt a love-hate relationship for his British cousins, mixing admiration and resentment: and these emotions now hit him with full force. He alternates between violent rages against ‘perfidious Albion’, and bemoaning the fact that two countries as closely linked as Britain and Germany should ever have gone to war in the first place. Indeed, he goes so far as to order the Foreign Ministry to explore the possibility of a negotiated settlement with Asquith’s government – but this causes outrage among Navy commanders who see it as a betrayal of the sacrifice of so many lives, and so His Majesty is persuaded to drop the idea. Instead, an Imperial Conference is summoned at Strassburg to plan our next move.
The meeting starts in an acrimonious manner, as Army and Navy dignitaries hurl recriminations at each other. With some effort, order is restored, and serious business can commence. The first question is how much of our fleet still remains. The destruction is not quite so total as originally feared: over the few days after the battle, a handful of surviving ships have limped into port. Also, we are informed through the Red Cross organisation in Switzerland that the Royal Navy rescued many survivors from our sunken warships, although of course they are now prisoners of war. Even Admiral Hipper is recovering in a British hospital, although his untreated leg wound had turned gangrenous before he could be picked up, and the surgeons were forced to amputate. Unfortunately, most of the ships that have returned are facing months of repair before they can ever be considered battleworthy; and the only other vessels remaining in European waters are a handful of coast defence ships and antique cruisers dating back almost to the age of sail. General Falkenhayn expresses his willingness to risk the crossing even with such a poor escort; but it is agreed that this would be far too dangerous. Even supplying Hindenburg’s men already in Britain is fraught with terrible danger. However, the Navy Ministry has developed a plan to slip small convoys of fast motor vessels across the Channel each night. These will be crewed by volunteers and will take a different route every time – sometimes to Portsmouth or Southampton, sometimes to Plymouth, sometimes even around the Cornish peninsula to Avonmouth. Even if the British fleet discovers one convoy, the others stand a good chance of evading them. By this means, 3. Armee should be provided with enough supplies to maintain a defensive front – but any offensive action is out of the question. Still, this is better than nothing, and the plan is agreed.
At this point, the Navy ministers sketch out their ideas for rebuilding the fleet. These are certainly ambitious: French and Italian shipyards will be pressed into service alongside those in Germany proper, and a new class of battleships will be built that far surpass the British Queen Elizabeth class that caused us so much damage. For a moment, the Kaiser forgets his depression as he eagerly questions the ministers on the technical specifications of the proposed ships. However, Generalleutnant Hoffman rudely spoils the celebratory mood by asking how long it will take to build this new navy. When told, ‘Two years’, he explodes in rage that our army in England cannot hold out that long, and at this rate we may as well go back to the idea of a negotiated peace with Britain. This provokes a furious argument, until Falkenhayn interjects in a quiet voice, “What about the SDF?”
The sigh of relief around the table is almost palpable. Of course! The Sonderdienstflotte has been operating independently in the Far East, and is currently based in Vladivostok; but Hutier’s XX Korps are now well inland, following the Trans-Siberian Railway westwards towards Irkutsk, and so their need for naval support is minimal. The SDF includes several modern capital ships as well as a full range of supporting vessels, and is experienced in conducting amphibious operations. The Navy Ministry quickly agrees to send a telegram to Admiral Souchon ordering him to return to Europe as expeditiously as possible. Although the increasingly militaristic stance of the United States is a matter of great concern to the Foreign Ministry, it is agreed that since speed is of the essence, the SDF will need to transit the Panama Canal. Our ambassador in Washington DC should therefore warn the Americans of our plans – in general terms – and assure them that no threat to their neutrality is envisaged.
The only problem now is that it will take Souchon many weeks to sail his ships halfway around the globe back to Europe…
The days pass by slowly. In the Far East, Hutier’s men are engaged in their back-and-forth struggle with the Russians (see chapter 28, above). In Britain, Hindenburg’s 3. Armee settle into a stalemate of sporadic bombardments and trench raids. It is difficult to keep up the morale of our hungry troops, and the British forces opposite us are building up their strength in an ominous manner. On 6 November comes more worrying news from the United States. President Wilson has been re-elected, and has vowed to continue and even intensify his military build-up. The extent of this new US militarism is seen by many in Berlin as a major threat to world peace and our establishment of a unified Europe. However, there is little we can do about it in the current circumstances.
Finally, the long-awaited day arrives. Souchon’s salt-caked and storm-battered warships sail into Brest harbour, where they are greeted by flags, cheers from the assembled crowds, and a military band playing Beethoven’s Ode to Joy. A hasty refit is put in hand, and the troops of Falkenhayn’s 6. Armee are brought from their barracks and assembled at their embarkation points. By now it is well into December, and the crossing date is set for Christmas Day – in the hope that this will take the British by surprise. In the event, the actual operation is a total anti-climax. The Royal Navy is nowhere to be seen, and Souchon’s fleet shepherds our transport convoy across the Channel in perfect safety. The convoy brings extra supplies as well as troops, and so for the first time in many weeks the men of 3. Armee enjoy a ration of cigarettes, chocolate and (for those off-duty) alcohol on the evening of 25 December. Four days later, we re-start offensive operations in England.
Europe at war: 1 January 1917
The plan is to launch a two-pronged attack north and south of the Thames Valley, with the aim of surrounding London, cutting it off from supply and then reducing the city. 3. Armee is concentrated on the southern front, and makes its attack first. Falkenhayn’s men have further to march to reach their jumping off point, and so the northern wing will be slightly delayed. On 29 December, a massive artillery bombardment hits the British lines between Farnham and Haslemere. It is short but intense, and before the defenders can recover from the shock, our infantry are among them. In accordance with the new infiltration tactics, they rely on speed and firepower, outflanking enemy strongpoints and breaking into their rear areas, Shocked and confused, the British are unable to put up an adequate resistance, and surrender in droves. By 30 December, the line has burst wide open, and German troops are pouring through the gap. One column heads due east, towards Kent and the Channel Ports; the other swings north towards London.
However, on New Year’s Day 1917, the northern wing runs into trouble. By rapid marching through the leafy lanes of Surrey, it has reached the outskirts of the London suburbs without difficulty; but there, in the hilly and increasingly urban terrain, enemy resistance stiffens…
The shrill whistling overhead causes Oberst Franz Kornhaber to duck involuntarily. Although a veteran of many campaigns in the early part of the war, he has spent the last two years in peaceful garrison duty in central France, and has lost the knack of judging how close the shells will fall. These hit safely a couple of hundred metres behind his observation post, doing little more than raise a few puffs of dust. Kornhaber notes sourly that his adjutant, Leutnant Albert Müller, did not even flinch, but continues to gaze through his binoculars.
“That sounded like a 6-inch howitzer salvo,” says Kornhaber, thinking ‘At least I can remember that much’. Did you spot where it came from?”
“No sir” replies the younger man. "But with a 10-kilometre range, it could be nearly anywhere. I’d put my money on here though,” he adds, tapping the map spread on the table next to him. “A high point, giving excellent observation all around.”
“’Crystal Palace’? A reasonable guess. But since most of the artillery went with XIV Korps to the east, there’s not much we can do to counter them at the moment. We need to break through this valley quickly, before their resistance stiffens even more.”
“Er, yes sir.” says Müller hesitantly. Through his binoculars he can still see the sorry remnants of the last attempt by the 6th Bavarian Division to advance northwards from their current position outside the village of Coulsdon. German stormtrooper tactics might be effective, but they don’t make men bulletproof; and the British have several machine guns cunningly emplaced in houses high on the hillsides, ready to sweep the entire valley.
“Don’t worry, Müller, we’re going to do it differently this time. Get me a runner; I’m sending a despatch to Brigade HQ.” He swiftly begins scribbling a few lines on a notepad, as his aide summons a messenger. Sealing the note in its envelope, Kornhaber carefully instructs the short, dark-haired young man who comes hastily running up. “This must get through, Corporal. It’s vital to the success of the division’s operations.” Once the messenger has left, on his highly dangerous run across ground swept by British artillery fire, the Oberst takes his own binoculars and studies the British positions. He isn’t proud of what he’s just ordered.
German troops prepare for their next assault
Night falls. To the forward troops of the 23rd Bavarian Grenadier Regiment, it brings no rest. Only added fear, as every shadow could hide a British trench raiding party. Suddenly, a noise breaks the silence from behind them. A panicky sentry calls out a challenge - his finger on the trigger of his Mauser 98K; his eyes straining to break though the darkness; but then he sighs in relief as a welcome German voice calls out the correct counter-sign. Moments later, a small column of men in odd uniforms make their way into the hastily-prepared field position, lugging huge metal cylinders and muffling curses as they attempt to manoeuvre them around the walls of the trenches. With them is a corporal in the more familiar uniform of the Bavarian Infantry, and the sentry, searching for reassurance, asks him what is going on. “Reinforcements from Brigade. I was told to guide them back here, since I took the Old Man’s message up there in the first place. Some kind of secret weapon, apparently.” At this point, the leader of the newcomers steps up and says, in an officious voice, “Inform your commander of our arrival. You must be ready to attack at dawn.”
Sergeant Jack Greene of the Royal Machine Gun Corps sits at his post, carefully checking the .303 rounds in a belt of ammunition. Each belt holds 250 bullets, but the Vickers machine gun beside him can fire off every one of them in just 30 seconds. A single faulty round could cause the gun to jam; and if the Germans keep up their attacks as they have done for the last two days, that could be fatal. Suddenly, a movement catches his eye. Greene peers out into the pre-dawn dimness, then taps his gunner on the shoulder and points. It might be nothing, but a quick burst of machine gun fire will settle the Jerries if they are trying anything sneaky.
It is the last thought he will ever have. There is a strange hissing, a smell of petrol, then the whole world explodes in flame and searing heat. Greene is lucky; he dies within seconds as the thousands of rounds of ammunition surrounding him cook off and explode. As the great jets of flame play along the rest of the British lines, others are less fortunate. Some even run screaming into the open, beating at their clothes, their hair, their skin as it burns with unquenchable fire. Shots ring out from the German lines, killing these victims; but for those who fire it is an act less of war than of mercy.
The Bavarians are almost as horrified as the British, but after a moment they recover their wits and advance forwards. Nobody tries to stop them. As they reach the former British position, a horrible smell meets them, of mingled petrol fumes and cooked flesh. Most horrible of all, for soldiers who have not had any breakfast or even a hot meal for several days, is that the smell reminds many of sizzling bacon, and makes their mouths water even as they retch with disgust. As the men of the flamethrower detachment gather up their equipment and come forward to join them, the looks many give them are of real hatred; but there is still the British second line to penetrate, and the flamethrowers are still needed.
Once more they do their job; but this time the enemy is better prepared. Heavy fire is concentrated on the source of each jet of fire, and the flamethrower crews suffer serious casualties. One lucky British bullet even pierces the canister of fuel strapped to one man’s back, exploding it and soaking him with liquid fire. Screaming as metre-high flames leap from his body, he runs desperately along the German line until the very flesh melts from his bones. But the British successes are not enough, and this position too falls to our troops. They are now optimistic, foreseeing an imminent breakthrough to the enemy artillery positions: but those enemies have one last trump card to play.
No sooner has the British second line fallen but a flare goes up, and a heavy artillery barrage comes crashing down from the north. The British are firing on their own former trenches, whose positions they had naturally mapped out to within centimetres; and so the gunfire is hellishly accurate. Worse, mixed in with the high explosive are many gas shells. The German troops, stunned and taken by surprise, are slow to don their gas masks; and many fall to the ground clawing at their tear-filled eyes and coughing up blood. And whilst our men are incapacitated and shaken, the British reserves seize the moment for a counter-attack. They quickly surround our spearhead, and cut it off; then close in for the kill. Many of our soldiers are left with no choice but to surrender. The flamethrower operators, however, do not get that option. Those who try are swiftly bayoneted or bludgeoned to death with rifle butts, as grim-eyed Tommies with levelled guns herd away the rest of the prisoners - their expressions daring them to protest. None do, and the official reports record the flamethrower crews as “killed while resisting capture”.
As he lies on the ground, blinded and left for dead by the gas attack, the messenger who brought the flamethrower detachment curses them, the British, and his own commanders equally. “This is not the way wars should be fought,” he rages to himself, “They have all betrayed us. But they will pay. Someday, if I survive this, they will all pay. I swear it!”
The first attack on London has failed, but by 2 January most of the south coast is in our hands, and the lead elements of 3. Armee are making preparations to seize crossing points along the Thames Estuary. Three days later, Falkenhayn’s men begin their own drive northwards across the River Avon, towards Stratford and Coventry, before swinging eastwards into the Home Counties to approach the British capital from the north. The noose is tightening...
To be continued…
No, he's clean-shaven.Zuckergußgebäck said:This messenger... Does he have a funny moustache?
Flamethrowers?
I wouldn't have thought that a man of your good standing would use such weapons of frightfulness.
I am shocked and appalled
I wouldn't have thought that a man of your good standing would use such weapons of frightfulness.
I am shocked and appalled
Among the Venezualan Indians, baked tarantula is considered a delicacy. Give me a good old British bacon butty in comparison any day.Henry v. Keiper said:Don't they know British cuisine is the worst in the world...?
Not a long-pig butty, though.
Anything that gets the war over more quickly is humanitarian, and saves lives.Allenby said:
Also, I'm a little perplexed as to why you should have quoted the British Minister of Munitions at the head of this update.
Surely Sir Douglas Haig's inspiring order of the day would have been more appropriate?
Surely Sir Douglas Haig's inspiring order of the day would have been more appropriate?
Allenby:
Not really. The British don't have their backs to the wall yet - wait until they're pushed into northern Scotland...
The Churchill quote was mainly chosen for the irony value of the photograph I put immediately after it...
ZgB: It's probably fortunate that nukes aren't in the TGW tech tree, or the USA would have researched them by now.
Not really. The British don't have their backs to the wall yet - wait until they're pushed into northern Scotland...
The Churchill quote was mainly chosen for the irony value of the photograph I put immediately after it...
ZgB: It's probably fortunate that nukes aren't in the TGW tech tree, or the USA would have researched them by now.
I suspect you're going to have to invade Canada anyway, as you plan on (or already have done) annexing Britain.
Why not an invasion of USA from Canada?
Why not an invasion of USA from Canada?
That was marvellous.
Do I detect a Hitler reference, with Zuckergußgebäck's quote?:
Can't wait for the next update.
Do I detect a Hitler reference, with Zuckergußgebäck's quote?:
Can't wait for the next update.
Can't win them all i guess . But at least the shpping lines are open again so it'll probably be only a matter of time before the UK is permitted to join the European Reich .
Although i guess there are still quite a few British VP provinces outside the UK itself left, which is of course good news for us readers who want this AAR to be around for a long time!!
. But at least the shpping lines are open again so it'll probably be only a matter of time before the UK is permitted to join the European Reich .Although i guess there are still quite a few British VP provinces outside the UK itself left, which is of course good news for us readers who want this AAR to be around for a long time!!