The road to the Marne was paved in silence.
Emil Dufort sat in the back of the lead truck, the canvas flaps pulled back to let in the cold morning air. Dust rose behind the convoy—two Sanglier tanks, six cargo trucks, and thirty-five men, half of them factory-born, the other half military rejects turned volunteers.
In the distance, artillery echoed like distant thunder. It wasn't just background noise anymore. It was the front.
Emil gripped the handle of the truck bed as the convoy crested a hill. Below them stretched a landscape of mud, barbed wire, and smoldering trees. Trenches zigzagged like scars across the earth. Men in blue coats huddled in dugouts. And just beyond the ridge, the German line shimmered like a mirage of death.
"God help us," whispered Camille, barely nineteen, perched beside a crate of spare parts.
"God's busy," muttered Antoine, lighting a cigarette. "We brought something better."
The High Command Arrives
At a forward command post near Saint-Mihiel, Emil met General Ferdinand Briand, a decorated veteran of the Franco-Prussian War with a waxed mustache and eyes like bayonets.
"So you're the boy from Normandy with the metal ox," the general said.
Emil kept his tone measured. "I brought two."
Briand laughed, then abruptly stopped. "Don't expect medals. You're here because our boys are being butchered every time they charge that ridge."
He pointed toward a map littered with red pins.
"The Germans have fortified Hill 119. Artillery on both flanks. Every advance ends in machine gun fire. We're out of ideas. That's where you come in."
Emil leaned in. "If we breach the wire and neutralize the pillboxes, can your men follow?"
"If your beasts don't break down first."
"They won't."
Prepping the Machine
Back at the temporary staging yard, the Sanglier Mk I and Mk II were offloaded by crane and ramp. Soldiers gathered around, whispering.
"It's a furnace on wheels," someone muttered.
"No—it's a fortress."
Bruno and Pascal worked in tandem, checking every bolt and tread. Camille loaded ammunition crates—armored-piercing shells, tracer rounds, and a dozen belts of Hotchkiss fire.
Louis Marchand ran diagnostics on the hybrid engine. Even now, he rarely spoke, but his eyes flicked across every gauge and dial with surgical precision.
Antoine stood atop the Mk II, sharpening his field binoculars.
"She's ready," he said simply.
Emil watched it all, hands in his coat pockets, jaw set.
"Then we move at dusk."
Rules of Engagement
That night, Emil gathered the Sanglier Division beneath a rusted canopy lit by oil lamps. The men stood in a circle, helmets off, listening.
"This isn't a parade," Emil began. "You're not here to impress generals. You're here to change war."
He pointed toward the German line.
"Tomorrow, the Sangliers will advance ahead of the infantry. You will not stop for wounded. You will not retreat unless ordered. Your job is to crack the line—so others can pour through."
Silence.
Then Camille raised his hand. "What if it's suicide?"
Emil didn't flinch.
"Then make your death matter."
The Assault on Hill 119
Dawn broke with smoke and shouts.
The Sangliers moved at 8:04 a.m., belching black fumes and grinding their way over the muddy slope. The Mk I led the charge, followed by the sleeker, better-armored Mk II. Behind them came the French infantry—blue coats, bayonets fixed, feet soaked in blood and water.
German spotters noticed too late.
"PANZER!" someone screamed across the ridge.
Machine guns opened up—but the bullets pinged uselessly off the Sanglier's angled hulls. Inside the Mk II, Pascal cheered as rounds sparked against the turret.
"Like rain on a roof!"
Antoine adjusted the cannon elevation and fired.
BOOM!
The lead German pillbox exploded in a hail of brick and smoke.
Steel vs Flesh
The Sanglier didn't stop.
It crushed wire, rolled through ditches, and turned trench lines into shredded earth. The Mk I took a hit from a field gun—but Bruno rerouted coolant pressure manually, keeping it alive.
Camille fed shells into the turret with shaking hands.
"One more!" he shouted.
Inside the tight, sweat-soaked belly of the beast, Emil barked into the comms tube.
"Pivot right—next target!"
They turned toward the bunker atop the hill. Antoine sighted in. Fired again.
BOOM!
Direct hit. The pillbox collapsed like paper.
Moments later, French infantry flooded the breach, yelling, firing, crying.
Hill 119 was taken.
In eleven minutes.
The Price of Victory
But not without cost.
The Mk I suffered engine failure from overheating and stalled 200 meters from the objective. One of the crew—Renard—was hit through a viewing slit and died instantly.
The infantry that followed took heavy fire on the flanks before backup artillery arrived. The Sanglier Mk II was damaged by an anti-tank mine laid in a trench—its left tread torn open.
Bruno surveyed the damage with a tight jaw.
"She's wounded. But she'll live."
They had done it.
For the first time in recorded military history, an armored vehicle had spearheaded a successful frontal assault.
And the world was watching.
Recognition
That evening, Emil stood before General Briand once again. His coat was soaked in oil and ash. His hands trembled from exhaustion.
"You were right," Briand said. "It works."
"It bleeds," Emil replied. "But it works."
The general handed him a telegram stamped from Paris.
"They want ten more. In three months."
Emil laughed once. "We barely built two."
Briand raised an eyebrow. "Then I suggest you find a way to scale."
Backlash and Propaganda
Three days later, headlines hit Paris:
"Metal Monsters Break German Lines!"
"Private Factory Changes Course of War"
"Who is Emil Dufort?"
Schneider & Cie responded with fury. Their lobbyists accused Emil of endangering "national industry stability." Politicians bickered over contracts. The Ministry of War, seeing public support tilt, delayed funding for Schneider's designs.
In the shadows, someone else took notice.
A telegram arrived from Berlin.
"French armored advance confirmed. Sanglier variant. Immediate counter-measure required."
The Pressure to Build
Back in Normandy, Leclerc Works had become a fortress.
Henriette greeted Emil with clenched fists.
"We've got labor strikes in Lyon. Two suppliers demanding payment upfront. And the Ministry wants a nationalized production schedule."
"Tell them no," Emil replied.
"That's not how government works."
"Then it's time it learned."