Blood splattered, mingling with cries of agony.
German soldiers fell like harvested wheat, row upon row. With Colonel Jonas still commanding from the front, none dared flee; instead, they lay on the ground, looking up at him in terror, their eyes silently pleading: Order a retreat, sir—we have no way to fight this thing!
But Colonel Jonas knew he had no option to retreat.
Behind them lay the Marne River, and the single bridge was undoubtedly jammed with people. The main force of the First Army was pouring over it like a flood.
If he ordered a retreat, his troops would either get trapped on the bridge or be forced into the river, both scenarios spelling disaster for the regiment. Left with no other choice, Colonel Jonas gritted his teeth and gave the only command he could think of:
"Pick up your weapons—whatever you have—aim, and fire on that thing!"
But even as he issued his order, Jonas felt a sense of despair unlike anything he'd experienced before. Since the beginning of this war, or even in his entire life, he had never faced something so utterly hopeless. It felt as if he had been sent here to die.
The Germans' bullets still couldn't penetrate the "monster," but the machine gun on the "monster's" front continued to spray fire, felling German soldiers in clusters as they crouched and fired. Each burst of bullets seemed to target them from all angles, leaving nowhere to hide.
While the machine gun on the "monster" provided relentless cover fire, the French soldiers crouched behind it, using the "monster" as a shield, popping out to fire with careful aim before quickly ducking back under cover. In comparison, the German soldiers were helpless. Even lying prone was futile; the ground around them was barren, offering no shelter, and bullets found their way into legs, bodies, and heads alike. The German leather helmets, woefully inadequate, offered no protection whatsoever.
Colonel Jonas, in his desperation, suddenly thought of the French defensive structures on the Marne's banks—trenches that could offer his soldiers some shelter.
"Retreat!" he shouted. "Fall back to—" ᴜᴘᴅᴀᴛᴇ ꜰʀᴏᴍ NovᴇlFɪre.nᴇt
But before he could finish, the German soldiers, sensing his intent, scrambled to their feet and began running.
Colonel Jonas was horrified. His troops had never acted this way; he hadn't even completed the order, and they were already fleeing. This wasn't retreat—it was an all-out rout.
Jonas's horror deepened as he realized what he'd feared from the beginning: his soldiers, now in chaotic flight, would collide with the First Army's reinforcements still streaming over the bridge.
"Stop! All of you, halt!" he screamed, frantic.
But no one listened. The "retreat" had devolved into a frenzy beyond anyone's control.
Jonas had overestimated his troops' discipline or perhaps underestimated the power of sheer terror. The entire regiment, including himself, teetered on the edge of collapse.
One word—"retreat"—had broken them. Now they ran as though swept away by a flood, unstoppable.
Unable to do anything else, Jonas joined the retreat, running alongside his men while shouting, "Form a defensive line at the riverbank!"
A bullet pierced Colonel Jonas's back. His body lurched forward, his limbs flinging wide.
For a moment, time seemed to stop. Jonas's face hit the ground, surrounded by dirt kicked up by bullets and the splashes of blood from fallen soldiers. As pain surged through him and his heartbeat slowed, he felt consciousness slipping away.
Charles watched the battlefield with satisfaction. Seeing the Germans break ranks, he turned to the waiting messenger.
"Order the reserves to advance on the Marne bridge."
"Yes, sir!" the messenger replied, thrilled. The victory unfolding before him had him buzzing with excitement—he could only wish he were out there, bearing witness to the miracle firsthand.
Waving his signal flags vigorously, he relayed the command to the front line.
Soon, a reply came, and the three reserve "tanks" picked up speed, leading three units of French soldiers along the flank in a charge toward the Marne bridge.
Camille couldn't bear to watch the bloodshed, but she couldn't bring herself to leave Charles's side either. She huddled behind the building, arms wrapped around herself, shivering as she whispered over and over:
"Is it… are we truly winning?"
Watching from afar, Deyoka answered, his voice filled with emotion:
"Yes, we're winning! Our soldiers are brave—just three hundred of them are driving back thousands of Germans..."
"No, it's thanks to Charles's invention. It has allowed our soldiers to drive the Germans back!"
"The others have returned, and now we're pushing forward!"
Deyoka was right. The French army, initially in retreat, turned around, astonished to see the Germans fleeing. In fact, they weren't just holding their ground; they were now routing the enemy. Although the soldiers didn't fully grasp what had happened, nor had any orders from their officers, they knew what to do: seize this unexpected chance. Victory, glory, and the promise of promotion—who would refuse?
And so, rifles in hand, they turned and joined the fight.
At this point, the outcome was clear. The German defeat was inevitable, only a matter of time.
Francis gave a slight, inscrutable nod.
He had to admit he'd misjudged Charles. The boy's tactical insight was remarkable, akin to that of Napoleon himself—far more reliable than General Gard.
A smile crept onto his face, and with it, he could sense the rewards of this triumph: all that he thought he'd lost had been restored. His family's standing, the factories, the machine gun production line, and an immeasurable amount of honor and wealth...
Finally, he turned his gaze to Charles, mulling over how to define this boy's role.
This young man's talent had exceeded all expectations. But how could he control him?
Unfazed by the eyes upon him, Charles walked over to where Joseph stood near the viewing platform, offering reassurance:
"It's almost over. We're safe now."
Joseph exhaled, his face softening.
"Yes, Master Charles."
Joseph's son, Matthew, was driving one of those "iron boxes" on the field. Watching the scene unfold, Joseph couldn't help but praise Charles:
"This is all thanks to you, Master Charles! You're the one who led them to victory!"
"You saved us all—perhaps even all of France."
Charles responded calmly:
"It's still too soon to say."
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