NOVGO.NET Chapter 687: The Road to Paris
Chapter 687: The Road to Paris
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.
The French positions had collapsed hours ago; their corpses now lay scattered among shattered hedgerows and crumpled bunkers, rifles dropped in the mud like abandoned toys.
Heinrich lit a cigarette with a hand that did not shake.
His eyes followed a column of ambulances weaving carefully through the rubble, hauling German wounded back to safety.
It was always the same, precision, devastation, and then the quiet aftermath.
He exhaled slowly, smoke curling like the ghosts of battles past.
“Why?” he muttered to no one in particular. “Why did they force this upon us again?”
He remembered Paris in 1916, how the French government only surrendered the city only after forcing it to the brink of annihilation.
The two decades that followed were filled with needless provocation, sanctions, and petty interference.
France and her allies had not sought stability, only Germany’s slow strangulation.
And yet here they were, locked once more in fire and blood.
Boots crunched behind him. A junior staff officer approached, saluting crisply.
“Herr Feldmarschall, the French divisions are in full retreat. Prisoners are being collected by the battalions on the west wing. Orders, sir?”
Heinrich nodded once, his expression calm.
“Keep pressure on them. Pursue, but do not overextend. Let them run; the faster they flee, the quicker we close the corridor.”
The officer saluted and hurried back.
Heinrich remained, staring at the burning line on the horizon.
He thought of Bruno, the two of them had been friends since they had been barely men.
And throughout all those years Bruno seemed to have an uncanny ability to predict the future.
In years past Bruno once whispered over drinks how another war was inevitable, how the world seemed unable to allow Germany peace, how sooner or later it would come to this.
He could only sigh and cast his cigarette into the dirt, stamping it out as stepped inside the canvas tent.
At the center stood his senior officers: Generalleutnant Drescher, eyes bright with excitement; Oberst Bauer, a man more cautious, his fingers stained with ink from the endless logistical tallies; and a handful of brigade commanders who looked as though they had not slept in three days.
Drescher turned as Heinrich entered, unable to hide his exhilaration.
“Herr Feldmarschall! The French west column has broken entirely. Our reconnaissance reports confirm their retreat is devolving into chaos. It is only a matter of time before the road to Paris lies open.”
A murmur of agreement rippled through the room. Bauer, however, cleared his throat.
“With respect, sir, our fuel convoys are already stretched thin. We can keep this pace for perhaps a week, no more. Unless reinforcements from the east arrive sooner than expected, we risk outrunning our supply lines.”
Heinrich studied both men in silence for a long moment.
Drescher’s grin, Bauer’s worry, the silent expectation of every officer in the tent.
Bauer wasn’t wrong. Though they were given ample supply, and logistic routes had been set up long in advance for this campaign.
Even Bruno miscalculated how quickly the French would crumble.
In his past life they had collapsed within six weeks.
It had been less than one, and already the route to Paris was wide open.
Heinrich drew once on his cigarette, then tapped the ash into a tray beside the map table.
“Do you know what I see out there?” he asked quietly.
No one answered.
“I see the same mistake that France made twenty years ago. They mistook our patience for weakness. They mistook our desire for peace as fear of war. And so they spent two decades sharpening their knives, convincing themselves they could dictate the shape of Europe. And now they learn what folly it was.”
He reached across the table, sliding a marker down the map to trace the corridor his armor had carved into French lines.
“This war will be even easier to win than the last. Because this time we are on the offensive from the start. Their spirit is already broken. Their armies are scattered, their politicians desperate, their people weary before the true storm has even begun. And why? Because they chose it. They forced it. They could not abide a Germany that stood tall.”
The words hung heavy in the tent.
Drescher’s smile faltered; Bauer’s frown deepened.
Heinrich’s voice hardened.
“I do not say this with triumph. One must never celebrate before the enemy has been thoroughly laid to waste. But if they believed they could provoke us into another conflict and emerge the stronger for it, then let them choke on the consequences. We will finish this swiftly. Brutally. And when it is done, there will be no third attempt.”
One of the younger brigade commanders, emboldened, spoke up.
“Sir, what of the British? Their fleet may harry our coasts, their troops may attempt another landing…”
Heinrich cut him off with a raised hand.
“The British fleet lies in ruin. Their armies are scattered shadows of their old empire. Yes, they will come, yes, they will bleed themselves to honor France’s corpse, but they cannot alter the outcome. And if history has shown us anything, the British will sue for peace before the French bow their heads in submission.”
For a moment the tent was utterly silent, save for the scratch of pens.
Then Heinrich stubbed out his cigarette, straightened his coat, and gestured to the map.
“Send word to all divisions: the advance continues at dawn. I want the roads to Paris choked with our armor within the week! Inform Berlin that the Third Army will not stop until the tricolor is torn down from the Élysée itself.”
The officers saluted.
One by one they filed out, leaving Heinrich alone at the map table.
His hand rested on the markers, his eyes tracing the lines that cut into France’s heart.
Memorizing them for the battles that were yet waged.
Outside, the rumble of engines swelled as the Third Army moved again, an iron flood rolling through the French countryside.
The night air trembled with its weight, and the fires on the horizon burned like a prelude to conquest.