The fields of Champagne lay flattened beneath the steel tide.
Smoke drifted from the husks of French armor, black plumes bending in the wind, their flames licking at the grey winter sky.
Roads that had once carried farmers' carts were gouged with track-marks, churned by the weight of modern war.
Generalfeldmarschall Heinrich von Koch stood atop the forward command ridge, boots sinking into the damp earth, his greatcoat drawn close against the chill.
Behind him, the Third Army's staff tents buzzed with signals, maps, and reports, but for a moment he allowed himself to stand apart, gazing silently across the wreckage his men had wrought.
Columns of E-series armor stretched toward the horizon, advancing methodically across the countryside.
Infantry clung to their flanks, disciplined and silent, moving with the assurance of soldiers who knew they had already broken the back of their foe.
