Chapter 5: The Western Front Opens!
In October 1939, having conquered Poland, Hitler ordered plans to be drawn up for his next objective: the conquest of France.
Army Chief of Staff Franz Halder revised the Schlieffen Plan used during the First World War and drafted an operation named 'Case Yellow (Fall Gelb).'
But upon receiving the details of Case Yellow, Hitler flew into a rage.
"You call this a plan? It's just the Schlieffen Plan reheated! Do you think those baguette-eaters will fall for the same trick again?!"
Despite Hitler's tirade, the German high command had no winning move.
Picking a fight with the French Army, which boasted of being the strongest in Europe, seemed like suicide from the start.
And for good reason: the German army hadn't even completed its rearmament yet. They were soldiers in name only, and reservists who had nothing but their uniforms abounded.
Furthermore, they hadn't fully recovered from the losses suffered during the invasion of Poland.
In contrast, France possessed a fully armed force of six million, and their tanks far surpassed the Germans in both quality and quantity.
Add the British army to that, and it simply wasn't a contest.
But what choice was there? The die had already been cast. To avoid repeating 1918, they desperately needed to find a way to fight and win.
The problem was that no such method came to mind.
Despite the victory in Poland, the military was in a panic over the impending war with France. To top it off, Halder was even plotting to assassinate Hitler.
Unaware of this, Hitler insisted they had to attack as soon as possible, even a day earlier, before the French army finished mobilizing.
The high command sweated every time trying to dissuade him.
It was a total impasse.
It was then that Manstein appeared.
Erich von Manstein. A genius of war and an opportunist who would later be hailed as the greatest commander with the finest strategic mind of World War II.
Setting aside his character, the reason he was called a genius was because he thought of something no one else could.
"Why do you only think of climbing over the wall? If you cannot climb over it, you must think of going around!"
Manstein's 'Sickle Cut plan' was a 180-degree turn from the existing Case Yellow.
Spearheading with armored divisions to break through the Ardennes region—thought impassable for tanks—and encircling and annihilating the Anglo-French allied forces was the main objective.
But Halder, a stickler for principles, dismissed Manstein's strategy as the ravings of a madman and sent Manstein to the rear so he could no longer make trouble.
It was a promotion in name, but in reality a clear demotion.
And so, Manstein and the Sickle Cut seemed destined to be forgotten by history.
However, on January 10, 1940, an unexpected event twisted the current of history.
A plane carrying Luftwaffe Major Helmuth Reinberger, who possessed the plans for Case Yellow, made a forced landing in Belgium.
Realizing the plane had landed in Belgium, Reinberger hurriedly tried to burn the documents, but he was captured by Belgian troops who arrived on the scene before the papers turned to ashes. The operational documents were seized by the Belgian army intact.
A top-secret classified document had leaked to a foreign nation, a potential adversary no less—a catastrophic incident of the highest magnitude!
Upon hearing this news, the German command immediately scrapped Case Yellow and seriously reviewed Manstein's proposal.
No matter how outlandish the plan, defeating France was the priority.
In the end, after deliberation, the Sickle Cut was adopted.
Based on this, Germany devoted itself to preparing thoroughly for the attack on France.
Time passed, May arrived, and Hitler, judging preparations complete, ordered the commencement of the Sickle Cut.
"Führer, all preparations are complete."
"Good. Begin."
***
May 10, 1940, 5:35 AM.
A whistle signaled the start of the bombardment, and a battery of cannons spat fire.
"Fire!"
"Give 'em hell!"
Shells fired by the hulking 150mm sFH 18 heavy howitzers traced arcs through the air and struck Belgian positions beyond the border.
The Belgian army, caught in the German bombardment, was immediately thrown into emergency.
"Emergency! Enemy bombardment!"
"Everyone to your positions!"
While Belgian soldiers panicked under the shelling, the German vanguard crossed the border and advanced into Belgium.
That same day, the Netherlands, which like Belgium had claimed neutrality, was also invaded by German forces.
The Belgian and Dutch armies resisted desperately, but they were no match for the Germans.
The front lines were breached in an instant.
Before news of the breakthrough could even reach the headquarters in the rear, German armored vehicles were launching surprise attacks on the rear.
Soldiers who had lost the will to fight wasted no time discarding their weapons and surrendering.
But the German troops showed little interest in the prisoners.
Their only concern was advance, advance.
When the lead units collapsed in moments, other units hearing the news began to disintegrate at the mere mention of Germans approaching.
"The Germans are coming!"
"Run!"
German troops arriving much later would find the weapons and supplies abandoned by the Belgians and let out hollow laughs.
The abandoned weapons and supplies, especially fuel and vehicles, provided a tremendous boost to the German advance.
It was common to see Germans who had been traveling by horse-drawn wagons abandon them and advance in captured Belgian trucks.
As time passed, the German advance only picked up speed, as if lit by fire.
***
News that the German army had crossed the Belgian border reached the French army as well.
Upon hearing the news, French Commander-in-Chief Maurice Gamelin advanced his troops into Belgium in accordance with the Dyle Plan, drawn up in preparation for a German invasion.
Gamelin was firmly convinced the Germans would come through northern Belgium into France, just as they had in the First World War.
But the Germans were actually advancing through the Ardennes Forest, which the French had dismissed as impassable for tanks.
Between May 11th and 12th, a reconnaissance aircraft of the French Ninth Army spotted columns of German troops passing through the Ardennes and reported it.
But the Ninth Army's intelligence section ignored the report, and a new report that came in on the morning of the 12th was also dismissed in turn.
"The Germans are passing through the Ardennes? That impossibly rugged Ardennes? Nonsense! It's a trap to deceive us!"
Between the 12th and 13th, French reconnaissance aircraft once again discovered Germans passing through the Ardennes.
In the pitch-black darkness, the headlights of German vehicles were clearly visible from several kilometers away.
Yet the French high command ignored this report once again.
"The Germans will undoubtedly come through northern Belgium! We wait here, and when they appear, we hit them with one blow!"
"You are absolutely correct, sir!"
Gamelin's staff were busy chiming in with his words.
"Let's put aside needless worries. Now, shall we have some wine? A Bordeaux, I believe."
***
By the time I opened my eyes, the Sickle Cut had already begun.
Even after the Germans' full-scale invasion of Western Europe began, the unit remained quiet for a while.
We woke at the usual time, ate breakfast normally, and went about our daily routine as usual.
As for what I did during that time...
As soon as the day's duties ended, I ran straight to my room and drank whatever alcohol I could get my hands on.
Praying desperately that all of this was just a dream.
I knew it was the worst thing for my health, but there was nothing I could do.
If I didn't drink, I simply couldn't keep my sanity.
Even then, I hadn't let go of that last thread of hope.
The hope that if I drank until I was completely plastered and passed out, I would wake up back in the reality I knew.
Even though I knew it was a futile endeavor.
Well, of course, it never happened.
After falling asleep heavily intoxicated, every time I woke up, I had to taste the same despair.
Instead of waking up in my bedroom in 21st-century Korea, I opened my eyes in a barracks in France, 1940. Every single day.
To make matters worse, my body was slowly breaking down from the continued drinking.
I would retch and dry-heave even when I was just lying still.
Now I understand why heavy drinkers die young.
But later, I couldn't even do that anymore.
Why? The reason was simple.
Because I was caught drinking myself into blackout every day by those around me.
As usual, I got off duty and was pulling out a bottle with a 'please, this time...' mindset when Captain Harrison burst through the door.
Startled by the sudden intrusion, I could only stare blankly at the scene.
The captain who entered the room saw his good-for-nothing subordinate staring back with a blank expression and the bottle in his hand, and his face quickly flushed crimson with rage.
It was the first time I learned that a person's face could turn that red without drinking alcohol.
"You little bastard..."
"S-Second Lieutenant Arthur Gray!"
"Sucking down booze right after getting off duty... do you think this is your goddamn bedroom?!"
"No, sir!"
"The hell it isn't! Get outside right now!"
In the end, my life dependent on alcohol to escape reality met its demise.
And in the worst possible way.
Captain Harrison confiscated every drop of alcohol I had and heightened surveillance to prevent me from buying any at the canteen.
To add insult to injury, I was punished by running laps around the parade ground in full combat gear until Captain Harrison's mood improved.
The punishment didn't end until 1 AM.
Blisters the size of 500-won coins were thickly embedded in the soles of my feet by the time I barely made it back to the barracks.
***
After that commotion, changes gradually began to take place in the unit as well.
With the Germans' full-scale invasion underway, everyone from officers to privates knew it was only a matter of time before we were deployed to the front lines.
Jokes and laughter dwindled, and orders were handed down to pack gear so we could deploy at any moment.
Having given up everything and resolved to accept reality, I packed my things in silence, sensing the fate that approached.
I organized all unnecessary items, put them in boxes, and loaded them onto trucks heading to the rear.
I took this chance to clean out the overflowing wardrobe too. They were clothes the real Arthur had enjoyed wearing—expensive tailored suits that all looked quite pricey.
What kind of soldier has so many clothes?
I thought this at first, then suddenly remembered these were the clothes Arthur wore every time he went out to play, and let out a bitter smile.
You were a real playboy, you bastard. Thanks to you, I'm the one suffering, you jerk.
"Uh, Platoon leader. Aren't those the clothes you usually treasured?"
One of the squad members—I can't recall his name—looked surprised at the clothes I was stuffing into the box and asked.
"Yeah, is there a problem?"
"No, it's just you cherished them so much. What wind blew to make you pack them all up all of a sudden?"
"Am I going to fight on the battlefield in a suit? I have to pack up all the useless clothes now. They won't all fit in my kit, will they?"
I said something obvious, but he looked shocked. So shocked you could fit a fist in his gaping mouth.
"The clothes you valued more than your life... Platoon leader, are you really feeling unwell? Especially since you were drinking non-stop until just two days ago. Perhaps you still haven't fully recovered."
"I'm fine. Don't worry about me; mind your own future."
I could tell what kind of impression the real Arthur had made on the squad members.
Nothing more, nothing less than a troublesome officer who liked to go out and play in his suits.
And part of it was purely my own fault.
Until just two days ago, I'd been holed up in my room drinking as soon as work ended, so my image couldn't have been worse.
It seemed like it would take some time to escape from the persona the real Arthur had created.
No, not some time—a very long time.