Chapter 437: Futile Resistance
As dawn broke in the east, a soft reddish glow spilled over the land through a veil of clouds, casting an ominous light as if foretelling the bloodshed about to sweep across this soil.
Upon realizing that the enemy tanks were advancing from the rear, Major General Johannes stood frozen, paralyzed by shock and at a complete loss.
"General!" shouted the captain of his guard company from his vantage point above. "The enemy is here—over a hundred tanks! What are your orders?"
From his rooftop position, the captain could see clearly in the growing light. The horizon was filled with French tanks, with the closest ones just over 300 meters away. He could even see the dark, gaping barrels of their cannons.
The massive steel beasts moved forward relentlessly, clattering and roaring, kicking up a storm of dust in their path. It was as if a sandstorm was sweeping in, threatening to engulf the tiny village of Preuilly.
Johannes hesitated before stammering, "Hold them off… we must buy time for the main force!"
The captain was silent for a moment—how were they supposed to hold them off? With rifles? Wooden buildings?
But a soldier's duty is to obey, and the captain, despite his reservations, relayed the command to his men: "Prepare for battle!"
The soldiers, without hesitation, took up their rifles and hurried to their assigned positions, acting on reflexes instilled through rigorous training. Each soldier settled into place, assuming a stance that would have been effective against infantry.
But in this situation, their preparations seemed tragically inadequate. Some soldiers scrambled onto rooftops with machine guns, others crouched on balconies, and a few took cover behind windows.
"Bang. Bang-bang."
…
The Germans fired first, but their bullets merely sparked off the tanks' armor, even the armor-piercing rounds (K bullets) proving useless.
This seemed to alert the French tank crews.
They hadn't expected enemy forces to be holed up in the wooden church, essentially a death trap. But the flashes from the Germans' gun barrels quickly set them straight.
The leading tanks slowed down slightly, though not stopping entirely. In a coordinated motion, their guns swiveled toward the Germans on the church's high ground and unleashed a torrent of fire.
The rattle of machine-gun fire struck the wooden walls with a furious popping sound, sending beams of light piercing through the gaps as bullets tore through. German soldiers were ripped to pieces in a hail of bullets, their blood spattering everywhere.
The 37mm cannons followed, each blast tearing massive chunks from the church's walls, throwing jagged splinters through the air. German soldiers, even if they avoided direct hits, were struck by the wood shards flying through the air like shrapnel, leaving them writhing on the ground, soaked in blood and on the brink of death.
Seeing the catastrophe unfold, Johannes quickly ordered his guards to retreat toward the trenches.
But they hadn't gone far before the tanks closed in, their engines rumbling ominously as they advanced. Several of his guards dragged him behind a small wooden house.
But this was far from a safe spot.
Without warning, a tank tore through the house with a thunderous crash, bursting through its walls as if they were paper.
Two guards crouched against the wall barely had time to react before being crushed to pulp under the tank's treads, their bodies reduced to blood and gore that splattered across Johannes's face in a warm, nauseating spray.
Johannes stared in horror at the carnage, his eyes fixed on the blood-soaked ground, where the remains of his men had become one with the dirt. The tank tracks left gruesome imprints, with severed arms and legs twitching lifelessly on either side.
A seasoned veteran with a reputation for bravery, Johannes had seen many battles and earned numerous commendations. But at this moment, he was utterly defeated by terror, a chilling realization of his powerlessness against the onslaught of these machines. He felt the futility of all his preparations—of his men, their defenses, and his entire strategy against this mechanized foe.
"Surrender," he murmured, his voice quivering, eyes wide with fear.
"What did you say?" The captain of the guard looked at him in disbelief, barely able to process that his general was the one saying this.
"Surrender," Johannes repeated, louder this time. "Right now. Immediately!"
All he wanted was to escape this nightmare as quickly as possible.
"Yes, General." The captain acknowledged with a shaky nod, then turned to his soldiers, shouting, "You heard him! Prepare to surrender! Get a white flag!"
One of the guards quickly grabbed a tablecloth from inside and tied it to a broomstick, waving it frantically toward the French forces.
They were fortunate. This time, Charles's orders were to take prisoners.
The reasoning was simple: with around 30,000 enemy troops, including wounded, killing them all could provoke a backlash from the Germans, who would then choose to fight to the death in future battles, believing surrender to be pointless.
The tanks continued forward, ignoring the Germans with their hands raised in surrender and rolling on toward the trenches.
Armored vehicles followed behind, with soldiers manning machine guns and rifles, watching the Germans with wary, threatening eyes, their fingers resting on the triggers, ready to shoot at the slightest movement.
Finally, the Belgian guerrillas arrived, some of them locals from the village itself, to disarm the German troops and gather them into a group.
Meanwhile, a few hundred meters away, the German forces in the trenches still hadn't realized what was happening. Many of them thought the tanks advancing from the rear were their own reinforcements and waved excitedly.
…
Not long afterward, news of the successful capture of Preuilly reached Charles's command post.
The outcome exceeded his expectations: over 20,000 German soldiers had surrendered, along with more than 6,000 injured who couldn't be evacuated. They had also secured substantial supplies and a defensive line they could now use.
It was remarkable, considering that only one armored regiment and one mechanized regiment—a total of around 6,000 men—had been sent to Preuilly. Yet, they had effortlessly captured a force several times their size.
In hindsight, however, it made sense. War isn't just about numbers—it's about strength and strategy.
On the other hand, the German forces in Preuilly had likely been pushed to their limits. Escaping the initial encirclement must have felt like a reprieve from death, only to find themselves trapped again just days later, now with the French bearing down on them from behind. Such emotional whiplash could easily shatter their resolve.
Standing by the radio, Tijani excitedly turned to Charles. "What's our next move? Should we leave Preuilly under the guerrillas' guard?"
Lack of infantry had long been a sore point for Charles, which was why only an armored regiment and a mechanized regiment had been sent to capture such an important position.
Charles shook his head. "The Germans might launch a major counterattack on Preuilly. The guerrillas don't have the experience or training to withstand such an assault."
"Contact General Foch," Charles continued. "Tell him to send reinforcements."
Then he added, "Tell them they can march forward safely—our armored regiment will clear a path and meet them halfway!"
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