Chapter 524: A Failure That Cannot Be Admitted
Colonel Albert was stunned the moment he rode out of the trench and witnessed the scene before him.
Blood and corpses were everywhere. Infantrymen were charging forward with their bayonets, waves upon waves of them, swarming like ants. They howled as they stepped on the bodies of their fallen comrades, pressing forward only to be riddled with bullet holes by the dense hail of gunfire.
Blood sprayed in the air; screams pierced the battlefield.
Some were shot through the torso, clutching their wounds as they collapsed to the ground, crawling in pain, moaning and crying for help.
Some were hit in the head — their skulls exploded like watermelons, bursting with shocking splashes of fluid in various colors.
Others had their arms blown off. They knelt on the ground, picking up their severed limbs in disbelief, as if they still thought they could reattach them.
…
The dense bullets continued to rake the battlefield like a sieve. It wasn't the Germans who decided life or death — it was this invisible hand, suspended in midair, arbitrating fate.
Colonel Albert did not dare hesitate. While accelerating his horse, he shouted back to his men, "Advance!"
A veteran of the Boer War, Albert knew well that cavalry's advantage lay in speed.
Only with speed could they hope to dodge enemy aim. Otherwise, a man and his horse would be nothing more than perfect targets.
He crouched as low as he could on his mount, bullets whizzing past his head and sides with a shrill whoosh. He could even feel the gusts of wind and the heat from the bullets brushing by.
Between his efforts to control the horse, Colonel Albert lifted his head for a glimpse of where the fire was coming from.
To his shock, the German position that should have been reduced to ruins had, at some point, transformed into a series of fortified bunkers.
The enemy fire was layered in depth.
The front line was the lowest, gradually rising along the slope to form three or even more trenches. Each level bristled with machine guns firing wildly, creating a three-dimensional kill zone — upper, middle, and lower — that pinned down the attacking troops with relentless ferocity.
The entire frontline, stretching for tens of kilometers, was the same. Like the scythes of Death himself, they harvested lives without pause.
This is wrong, thought Colonel Albert. This is charging straight into the enemy's gunfire — a suicidal move.
We should stop!
Albert turned his head and shouted to his men, "Fall back, immediately—"
Before he could finish, a burst of bullets struck his horse.
The galloping beast let out a desperate scream and crashed to the ground. The momentum sent it tumbling, and Colonel Albert was flung violently through the air. But his left foot remained caught in the stirrup and failed to break free.
A cry of agony.
His left foot was forcefully ripped off. Twisting at a grotesque angle, it was pinned beneath him, while the other end was still lodged under the dead horse's body, completely numb.
The excruciating pain nearly made Colonel Albert pass out. Clenching his teeth, he fumbled for the revolver at his waist. He looked at his horse, now lying beside him, its mouth frothing blood and gasping for air. He reached out with a trembling left hand and gently stroked its mane, offering broken words of comfort:
"It's alright… you were very brave. You did your best…"
"You did well…"
…
He gently pressed the barrel against the horse's head. Bang — blood sprayed. The horse exhaled its last breath and deflated like a punctured ball, going completely limp.
Colonel Albert looked around. Bullets still whistled overhead like raindrops. Cavalrymen were being cut down one after another, both man and mount falling together. Terrified horses, startled by the chaos, reared up and galloped straight into the infantry lines, spreading even more disorder.
No one's coming to save me, Albert thought. There are too many others needing help — they can't possibly keep up.
With that, Colonel Albert slowly raised his revolver to his own head and used the last of his strength to pull the trigger!
…
Inside a semi-buried bunker behind the lines, Haig watched it all silently through his binoculars, his expression dark and solemn.
Haig had not expected such strong German resistance. He now realized something: the command had severely misjudged the German defenses. The enemy positions were far from being reduced to rubble.
At this moment, the right decision would have been to halt the offensive immediately, reassess the situation, and come up with a new, realistic battle plan — or even cancel the operation altogether.
However, the promises had already been made. Doing so would be equivalent to admitting defeat, admitting to a command blunder, admitting that he was inferior to Charles.
Especially that last part — "inferior to Charles" — that was unacceptable.
If tanks could do it, cavalry must be able to do it too. They had to succeed.
Haig gritted his teeth and gave the order: "Instruct the troops to continue the attack!"
"Yes, continue the attack."
Once again, the shrill sound of whistles blew like a call from death itself. Another wave of British soldiers climbed out of the trenches, shouting as they charged the enemy.
This time was different — cavalry and infantry advanced together. They charged from the flanks of the enemy lines along the Somme River, trying to create a breakthrough.
But it was all in vain.
Cavalrymen — both human and horse — were still flesh and blood. They were helpless against the storm of steel.
A few rows of bullets were enough to bring down hundreds of horses in the front. Their corpses, along with their riders', would form a barrier that blocked those behind from advancing at full speed.
Then another wave would be gunned down, and another heap of corpses would pile up. On and on it went.
The obstacles grew so numerous that eventually, it became impossible to even stand.
Telegrams flew to Haig's hands like snowflakes:
"Cavalry can no longer advance unless the bodies blocking the route are cleared."
"The enemy is extremely well-prepared — there's no sign of ammunition shortages."
"We cannot attack like this. It's completely meaningless!"
…
But Haig turned a deaf ear. He called Nivelle on the phone.
"What's the situation?" Haig asked.
"Not good," Nivelle answered nervously. "The German firepower is far stronger than we expected. We've taken heavy losses."
Nivelle couldn't understand it — how could the Germans still possess such firepower after a week of continuous bombardment?
How did they manage this?
Haig, however, wasn't concerned about avoiding further casualties. What he feared most was the press finding out.
"This is a military secret. Understand?" Haig said coldly. "It must not be leaked, or it will shake the public's confidence in victory — and that will affect morale."
"Yes, General." Nivelle was in full agreement.
As long as there was even minimal progress — even a single step — they could prove the plan was working.
As for how many soldiers died, that was a soldier's problem. It had nothing to do with them.
(Note: The concealment of casualties at the Somme is historical fact. On the first day of the Battle of the Somme, over 60,000 casualties were sustained. But the British and French media made no mention of the massacre. Two days later, the Daily Express published a report that painted the war in a positive and optimistic light, telling the public that victory was being achieved on the Somme front.)
After hanging up, Haig stared at the map in silence for a while.
Then, before his staff could speak, he coldly ordered again: "Prepare for the next assault!"
(To be continued)
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