Chapter 484: Fort Douaumont
Fort Douaumont was an extremely crucial anchor point within the Douaumont defensive line. Its position was strategically located at the very center of the trenches, dominating the flat terrain around it for several kilometers.
Whoever controlled Fort Douaumont could use its artillery and machine guns to suppress enemy trenches stretching out several kilometers to both east and west.
Whoever controlled Fort Douaumont effectively controlled the entire Douaumont defensive line.
This was precisely why the Germans, immediately after capturing the fort, quickly moved in an infantry battalion and an artillery battalion to occupy it.
Colonel von Gernathen was appointed commander of the fort. The moment he took command, he ordered the artillerymen to dismantle their heavy guns and move them inside for defense.
Yet, he quickly noticed an issue and shouted irritably at his men, "You idiots, those 150mm guns belong on the flanks, not at the front!"
The artillery battalion commander objected, "But Colonel, the enemy is at our front!"
"Use your brain!" Colonel Gernathen snapped back angrily. "Exactly what threat could they possibly pose? Rifles? Machine guns? Or their puny 75mm cannons?"
The artillery officer paused, immediately realizing his mistake. Sheltered within the fort, their 77mm guns alone could dominate the French 75mm artillery to the front, effectively neutralizing any potential enemy threat.
Meanwhile, the larger-caliber, long-range 150mm guns placed on the flanks could not only provide fire support to their friendly trenches stretching over a dozen kilometers east and west but, should any trench be breached, they could rain devastating fire upon the enemy forces from their superior elevated position.
"Yes, Colonel!" the artillery commander hastily corrected himself, quickly issuing orders to relocate the heavy 150mm artillery pieces to the fort's flanks.
Colonel Gernathen was satisfied with his adjustments, believing he had created an impregnable defensive arrangement. Fort Douaumont was a problem the French simply could not solve. They lacked heavy-caliber, long-range artillery capable of reaching the fort. The French would be forced into futile, densely packed infantry charges, easily cut down by German machine guns and artillery.
Yet, the events unfolding this particular night unsettled Colonel Gernathen deeply.
He stood outside the fort observing the advance of the Seventh Army through his binoculars, sensing something unusual in tonight's offensive.
Previously, artillery fire should have already extended deeper into the enemy lines, yet tonight it was persistently exploding in close proximity to their own advancing soldiers without moving forward.
Was the attack faltering?
Gernathen pondered uneasily.
Just then, a messenger arrived, reporting urgently, "Colonel! Frontline casualties are overwhelming. They're sending some of the wounded here for treatment."
Without hesitation, Gernathen gave a curt nod of approval. The area around the fort was spacious and flat, and well-stocked with medical supplies, an ideal location for temporarily treating wounded soldiers. Especially since the messenger had indicated only "some" wounded would arrive, Gernathen saw no reason to refuse.
However, as this supposed "some" of the wounded began to arrive, Colonel Gernathen was dumbfounded.
They numbered over five hundred, accompanied by countless stretcher-bearers and medical personnel. Within moments, the fort was utterly congested, with even more wounded soldiers continuously arriving.
"No, no!" Gernathen shouted desperately, barring a few soldiers from bringing wounded into the fort itself. "You cannot enter! You'll compromise our defenses!"
A medical officer stepped forward, protesting forcefully, "These are severely wounded soldiers, Colonel! They require immediate surgery. Would you prefer we operate on them outdoors, under flashlight beams?"
Colonel Gernathen hesitated. Operating outside, amidst dust, smoke, and the danger of drawing enemy fire with flashlight illumination was indeed impractical.
But still…
Seeing Gernathen hesitate, the medical officer coldly added, "Someday, Colonel, your soldiers might also end up wounded."
The implicit threat was clear—offending a medical officer could mean future reprisals. Reluctantly, Colonel Gernathen stepped aside, allowing them entry. In any case, defensive requirements were minimal at this moment; the French were still distant.
Yet, once he had yielded, there was no stopping the flood of casualties.
Soon, the fort transformed entirely into a makeshift field hospital. Injured soldiers were carried inside alive but frequently came out again as corpses.
Colonel Gernathen anxiously hoped it would soon end so defenses could be restored. Though sympathetic to the wounded, their presence had severely compromised the fort's defensive readiness.
The artillerymen within the fort had even been recruited by the medics as surgical assistants. Instead of handling ammunition, they were now carrying buckets filled with severed limbs.
Several times Colonel Gernathen phoned headquarters urgently, but the only response was reassuring yet hollow: "Don't worry, Colonel. This arrangement is temporary. They'll soon be moved elsewhere."
Gernathen desperately wanted to believe that, but he saw no signs of numbers decreasing—rather, the wounded continued to flood in.
Suddenly, among the stretcher-bearers, Gernathen noticed something strange. A rifle slung across a soldier's back appeared suspiciously familiar: a French Lebel rifle!
He froze momentarily, pupils dilating in sudden shock. Quickly, he chased after the man, flashing a beam of light from his torch—confirming his fears. It was unmistakably a French Lebel rifle!
"Hey! Seize him!" Colonel Gernathen shouted urgently. "Enemies have infiltrated the—"
Before he finished speaking, a shot cracked sharply behind him. Gernathen jolted violently, staring incredulously down at the blood rapidly staining his chest. His knees gave way, and he collapsed heavily to the ground.
In his fading consciousness, Gernathen heard chaotic gunfire erupting both inside and outside the fort, screams of panic mixed with cries of agony echoing everywhere.
This was a surprise attack orchestrated by Shire.
Initially, Shire had never considered retaking Fort Douaumont—it seemed utterly unrealistic. Stabilizing the frontline had already seemed difficult enough. Recapturing a heavily fortified position, strongly guarded and strategically advantageous for the Germans, felt impossible.
Yet, after the devastating effect of the directional mines inflicted tremendous casualties on the attacking German units, the improbable suddenly became feasible.
"Major Jules!" Shire turned abruptly.
Major Jules was busy compiling intelligence reports while hurriedly chewing a piece of bread—his first meal in nearly a full day. Jules had been tormented by guilt, haunted by the devastating casualties suffered by his comrades in the 19th Infantry Regiment. A brutal 90% casualty rate meant only ninety-four survivors. He considered himself a shameful deserter who ought to have died alongside his men.
When Shire summoned him, Jules immediately put down the bread, quickly rushing to attention. "Yes, General!"
"Are you familiar with the layout of Fort Douaumont?" Shire asked directly.
"Of course, General!" Jules replied emphatically. "The 19th Regiment defended there for nearly a year. We practically named every stone in the fort!"
Shire nodded thoughtfully. "If I give you one infantry battalion, can you recapture it?"
Major Jules froze briefly, then tears suddenly streamed down his face. His voice shaking with emotion, he answered fervently:
"Yes, General! I guarantee it!"
"Thank you, General! Thank you so much!"
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