Chapter 418: The Liberation of Brussels
Major General Halil was about to order reinforcements to the ammunition depot when a thunderous explosion shattered his command.
The ground quaked violently, like an earthquake, causing windows to shatter in a rain of glass. A few shards nicked Halil's face, leaving a thin line of blood. Colonel Effrey, clutching the window frame, was also cut by the glass, his hand now bloody—but neither of them noticed. These wounds were nothing.
"It's the ammunition depot," Effrey said, looking at Halil in terror. "It must have been blown up!"
"'Must have' isn't necessary," thought Halil. It was all too clear.
Everyone in the command room was frozen in shock, looking toward the explosion, where a massive cloud of smoke was rising, accompanied by distant cries of pain and chaos.
Finally, a communications officer rushed in to confirm: "General, the depot was attacked by guerrillas."
Halil's face contorted with rage as he turned to Effrey, gritting his teeth. "How much ammunition do we have left?"
"Only training rounds, sir," Effrey replied, his tone grave. "About thirty rounds per man and around three thousand grenades."
That was the number they'd started with. Now it was near midday, and a half day's worth of training had likely burned through half of it.
"What about other ammunition reserves?" Halil pressed.
Effrey shook his head.
Brussels, previously considered part of the rear, had never needed substantial ammunition reserves. This depot was only for training.
Without hesitating, Halil barked orders to his stunned staff: "Why are you all standing around? Contact every possible unit, anyone and anywhere with ammunition!"
"Yes, sir!" The officers sprang into action. Some contacted higher command, some reached out to nearby units, and others turned to the railways.
If they worked quickly, a shipment could arrive in three hours by train.
But Effrey shook his head slightly. "It won't help, General. The French hold the skies. If Charles went through the trouble of blowing up our depot, he wouldn't leave a gap in his plan by allowing us to replenish our ammo."
Halil stood frozen, feeling as if he'd been struck by lightning. He stared at Effrey, unable to speak.
…
Effrey was only partially correct. At that moment, Charles was indeed using bombers to attack Brussels's supply lines, particularly the railways.
But the bombers were spread thin. They were also tasked with suppressing German artillery, supporting guerrilla forces, and striking high-value targets. And because Charles had limited aircraft available, using them to destroy transport lines was insufficient, especially on the roads, where bombing merely left a few craters that could be quickly filled in with dirt.
For this reason, Charles had also deployed guerrilla forces to disrupt the railways and roads leading into Brussels.
The guerrillas had been preparing for months. In some places, they had hollowed out the foundations of roads, reinforcing them with wooden beams that could be easily sawed through to trigger a collapse. They left only two main routes open: the road from Mons to Brussels and the route from Brussels to Antwerp—reserved for Charles's advancing forces.
Even those two paths were guarded, with explosives planted along the way. If any German ammo trucks tried to pass, they'd still be at risk of ambush.
…
After trying every connection, Halil finally understood the gravity of his situation: Brussels was practically encircled.
There was no ammunition and hardly any food. Reinforcements were out of the question, as they were either stationed in Germany or deployed a hundred kilometers away at the front, where they might already be in retreat.
A terse reply came through the telegraph from Group Army Commander General Dim: "No matter the difficulty, Brussels must hold its ground. Not a single step backward!"
Halil only glanced at the order before crumpling it up and tossing it aside.
"Send a response," he ordered, his voice calm and resolute. "Inform the general that we cannot complete the mission. Staying here would mean only surrender or death. Therefore, I refuse to carry out the order!"
He turned to Effrey, who met his gaze and nodded in agreement.
Stuck in the Belgian capital with a nearly unarmed force, surrounded by guerrillas bent on eliminating them, and with Charles's troops arriving within hours—how could they hold out?
Staying would mean either being killed or taken prisoner—no third outcome existed.
…
Brussels was not taken by Charles; it had already been liberated by the time his forces arrived.
At first, the people didn't know what to make of it. Even as they saw the Germans fleeing like defeated dogs, they assumed it was merely a routine redeployment.
But the guerrilla fighters, already aware of the truth, took to the streets, shouting, "Come out, everyone! We're free! The days of German occupation are over!"
Still, some people hesitated, not daring to believe it.
"Did we really win?"
"But where is our army?"
It was hard to believe that a small group of guerrillas with a few rusty rifles had driven the Germans out of Brussels.
With pride, the guerrillas shouted back, "It was Charles! Charles's forces are advancing on Brussels!"
"The Germans knew they couldn't beat him, so they chose to run."
"They're never coming back—as long as we help Charles finish the job!"
Finally, the people began to believe. They broke out into cheers, the entire city erupting with joy. Crowds flooded the streets, celebrating and organizing to welcome Charles's troops.
Over an hour later, Charles's forces reached the city.
The French troops were greeted like heroes, with Belgians showering them with flowers and food. Some Belgian women were so moved that they embraced the French soldiers, even offering them kisses.
Charles and Tijani made cautious preparations before entering the city, swapping their insignias for those of a lower rank—major and second lieutenant—and hiding their radios to avoid exposing their true positions.
They took these precautions in case the Germans had left agents behind to assassinate him. Charles wasn't willing to risk his life just to enjoy the cheers and thanks; to him, those were trivial matters. But his life was his own, and he only had one.
Yet Charles was eventually recognized.
A young girl holding a bouquet ran frantically after his armored vehicle. Catching up, she climbed up onto the vehicle, nearly losing her balance.
Standing before him, she caught her breath and offered the flowers. "Thank you, sir. Thank you so muc—"
Her voice trailed off, her smile freezing. Then her bright blue eyes lit up with excitement, and she gasped, "Charles! Oh my God, you're Charles!"
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