Chapter 3: You Say This Is the Achievement of a Corporal?

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“Sir, this is the French warning broadcast script.”
“This one is in Dutch.”

After more than half an hour, two soldiers with some foreign language proficiency clumsily handed over the freshly translated scripts to Lelouch, whose expression grew increasingly solemn.

He knew he had to make a decision that might determine the fate of many lives.

Earlier, he had advised Captain Andrei twice and even overstepped his bounds to request instructions from the division headquarters and warn allied forces. Those actions were urgent and did not require careful timing.

This time was different. Lelouch was acutely aware that once a broadcast in the enemy’s native language was sent, the enemy would immediately intercept, understand it, and might be prompted to detonate the dam prematurely.

If that happened, the 16th Infantry Regiment rushing toward the scene might be submerged even earlier.

Should the warning be sent earlier to save more lives, or delayed to save more people?

Before crossing over, Lelouch had never faced such a grave decision. He felt a sudden wave of fear.

After all, he was no demon.

“Should we delay another half hour before broadcasting? Bet that the Belgians won’t blow the dam within that time? Or at least wait fifteen minutes?”

As he wrestled with this inner turmoil, the telegraph receiver suddenly responded.

Startled, Lelouch quickly recorded the message.

It was a coded broadcast from division headquarters.

“The reconnaissance plane dispatched by the army group command has confirmed the Belgians’ demolition operations downstream of the Yser River and is continuously tracking them. All units, accelerate evacuation from possible flood zones!”

Lelouch translated the message as fast as he could, and a thought crystallized in his mind.

“Our reconnaissance plane has captured photos of the enemy preparing the demolition! This is a major victory! Historically, the Belgians’ dam blasting was never photographed, which allowed for prolonged disputes, with both sides accusing each other’s artillery of causing the damage.

But now, the evidence is irrefutable! In this era without fighter jets, reconnaissance planes cannot be intercepted or shot down while photographing from the air! And there’s no Photoshop back then, so no one can claim the photos are forged!”

With this realization, Lelouch’s spirit soared. He immediately sent a secure telegram to the division headquarters:

“We have confirmed photographic evidence of the enemy’s pre-demolition activities. Recommend promptly broadcasting clear-text warnings in surrounding villages and towns and advising our troops to inform civilians to evacuate. If possible, assist civilians in escape.

Additionally, our unit has prepared bilingual French and Dutch warning broadcasts, ready for immediate transmission pending your approval.”

In just a few sentences, the message was sent within minutes.

Reception and decoding on the other side would also take several minutes, so altogether, permission should arrive within twenty minutes.

After sending, Lelouch sat anxiously in front of the radio, repeatedly glancing at the battered clock on the wall.

Several times, he even suspected the clock was damaged by shelling, its mechanism running unusually slow.

“Has it been only ten minutes? Fifteen?”

Just as he was drenched in cold sweat from waiting, the telegraph receiver finally buzzed again.

Twenty-two minutes had passed since he started transmitting.

Sure enough, it was a reply from division headquarters!

After another six minutes of reception and decoding, Lelouch confirmed the authorization had come through!

Moreover, the headquarters said they were also hastily preparing bilingual warning broadcasts and that all units could decide to carry out humanitarian broadcasts independently.

In that case, headquarters could not possibly beat Lelouch to the “first broadcast,” since he had translated everything in advance, saving half an hour.

Minutes later, the French warning broadcast echoed across the land, followed by the Dutch version, with the bilingual message continuously looping.

In 1914, the world was still underdeveloped; not every nearby town had a radio receiver, and even if they did, many would ignore or fail to translate the message.

But regardless of how many received it, even if only one out of every three or four towns heeded the warning and evacuated promptly, it would be a monumental good deed.

The number was not the key—the key was that someone had taken action.

Within fifteen minutes, unbeknownst to Lelouch, several Belgian mayors on both banks of the Yser River anxiously used loudspeakers to urge remaining townsfolk to evacuate quickly.

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“Fellow villagers, run! The army is going to blow the dam and flood the enemy!”

The local population staying behind was not large, as this was already a war zone; more than half, especially the young, had fled long ago.

Those who stubbornly remained despite the enemy’s advance were mostly the elderly, women, and children.

At least a thousand Belgian civilians hurriedly left their homes, carrying the old and young, trying to escape the valley toward higher ground north and south.

Yet many refused to believe the German Empire would act so benevolently or that the Belgian army would flood their own people, dismissing it as rumor.

...

While mayors on both sides of the Yser received the broadcast, the Belgian army command at Ostend Harbor, twenty kilometers east of Nieuwpoort, also received it.

Because it was a clear-text message in their mother tongue, requiring no intelligence deception, it spread very quickly.

The Belgian Commander-in-Chief was their king, Albert I—a handsome man in his forties with a neatly trimmed mustache and angular features.

Upon learning the content of the German message, he hid away in his office, his complexion dark and grim.

“You useless fools! How did this leak? Such a secret operation, yet enemy reconnaissance cavalry got so close and found the flaw!

Drobk! Felix! Explain yourselves! If anyone believes this, how will we face our people afterward!”

The two officials named immediately adopted humble, respectful demeanors, accepting the reprimand.

Drobk was a civilian official, the Minister of Defense of Belgium.

Felix held the rank of lieutenant general and served as Chief of Staff.

After the king vented his fury, Felix resolutely said, “The Yser River defense line falls under Major General Victor’s 6th Infantry Division. The demolition task was assigned to him.

However, the General Staff’s plan was to hold as long as possible—detonation was only authorized in the direst circumstances when the German breakthrough was unstoppable and the main force would completely cut off our army’s retreat. Thus, no action has been taken yet.”

Felix’s few words cleared him of blame—he never ordered reckless demolition; his plan had prerequisites: only at the brink of national ruin would demolition be permitted.

King Albert did not reproach further but took a breath and asked,

“Do you think we’ve reached that last life-or-death moment? If we delay, is there still a chance to act? Or will it only give the enemy more leverage?”

Felix’s face changed dramatically; he knew it was time to take the blame.

“Yes, Your Majesty, I know what must be done.”

He left the king’s office, returned to the General Staff, and made a direct call to the 6th Infantry Division headquarters at the Yser frontline.

“Put me through to General Victor! This is the Chief of Staff! Victor, do you copy? Execute the final resistance plan immediately!”

The voice on the other end trembled, and the message was unclear.

But twenty minutes later, explosives buried deep beneath several weak points on the northern bank downstream of the Yser Canal detonated.

The rushing seawater surged from east to west, sweeping everything below sea level away in a furious torrent.

...

“Run! The canal dam has really been blown!”

“Devils! Who did this? Must be those German dogs! I don’t believe they’d warn us kindly; it’s a false cry!”

“Who knows! No emperor or king is any good—damn them all!”

Flooded riverside villagers wailed and cursed helplessly, desperate but powerless, abandoning everything to flee toward higher ground or, if they lived in multistory houses, retreating upstairs to await the receding waters.

The elevation in this area was not extremely low—near the riverbank, it dipped about five or six meters below sea level, but most areas were only two or three meters below.

The real danger was being trapped by floodwaters for too long, risking supply shortages or house collapses.

At the same time, three kilometers south of Nieuwpoort on a gentle slope, Colonel Lister of the German Empire’s 12th Division, 16th Infantry Regiment, was desperately urging his troops to run faster.

Earlier, he could have marched a bit faster, but after receiving the division’s pragmatic order, he realized that rescuing some Belgian civilians would help secure witnesses and prevent the Belgian royal family from smearing the empire later.

So, partly out of military honor and partly for evidence, he ended up saving a few hundred civilians along the way.

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As the roar of the upstream floodwaters grew louder, Lister pushed his soldiers to speed up.

“Faster! Hurry! The division engineers calculated that from the dam break to the flood’s arrival is half an hour, and it will take two hours to completely fill the area!

Everyone, give it your all! If you can’t cover two kilometers in half an hour, have you not eaten?!”

Hearing the distant rushing water from the east and rear, the soldiers ran the best long-distance race of their lives, never daring to pause, pushing themselves to the limit.

Even if their lungs felt like they might burst, no one dared rest.

Some artillerymen who had been dragging 77mm field guns on horseback dismounted to exchange mounts with exhausted infantry comrades, allowing foot soldiers to rest for the last two kilometers.

With mutual support and strict discipline, the vanguard of the 16th Regiment managed to reach Nieuwpoort town just before the flood.

The rear units were trapped about half a kilometer in the water but could still wade to the town.

...

“Water... is there water?”

Though Colonel Lister had ridden all the way, he was breathless and disheveled as he entered the town, sitting down casually against a wall.

Captain Andrei, responsible for town defense, hurried over, dusty but proud, and handed the colonel a canteen.

“Respected Colonel, this is Hans Andrei, cavalry reconnaissance company commander, reporting in.”

“François Lister, commander of the 16th Infantry Regiment. What’s the situation?” Lister replied briefly, then began gulping water.

Unexpectedly, Andrei did not waste time with small talk and immediately spread out a map, pointing and explaining:

“Half an hour ago, our forces repelled another French attack. Though the enemy is numerous, they have only recently arrived from Dunkirk and De Panne, armed mostly with light weapons.

As for the Belgians to the east, I can see they have been routed from Antwerp, losing all heavy equipment and relying only on human waves. As long as we have enough ammunition, we can hold off ten times their number!

Now with a full regiment’s reinforcement, the fight is still on.”

According to the original plan, the 12th Division was to arrive in full force, but only one regiment made it. The other three infantry regiments and the artillery regiment were trapped south of the flooded area, meaning only about twenty percent of the planned strength reached the interception point.

Regardless, this was a more than tenfold increase compared to the single reconnaissance company before.

Historically, the reconnaissance company had to face two hundred foes alone; now, it was only a dozen or so.

However, Lister seemed dissatisfied with Andrei’s report, interrupting with two crucial questions:

“Those details aren’t the most important. Answer me these: first, how much area has the floodwaters submerged? Has it only blocked our reinforcements? Does it affect the enemy’s breakout?”

Andrei replied, “I’ve had people survey the water situation. This town is completely dry; the enemy’s attack and breakout routes on the east and west sides are unaffected—in other words, the entire coastal road remains passable.

This stretch of coastline, spanning dozens of kilometers, has always been a natural peninsula, not reclaimed land, so its elevation is naturally high. The south side along the Yser River is protected by a large sea dike.

Therefore, the flood’s only effect is to block our reinforcements from the south, with no impact on the enemy—

If anything, it forces them to launch frontal assaults along the coastal road, narrowing the battlefield and preventing flanking maneuvers through the flooded areas. We just need to hold the east and west sides without worrying about the south.”

Lister furrowed his brows, showing no clear emotion.

After some thought, he asked one final key question:

“How did you discover this danger? Were the emergency measures your own idea? I just read the coded messages the cipher clerk collected along the way—you seem to have anticipated the division headquarters.”

Andrei felt both proud and embarrassed at the praise.

He could not shamelessly steal credit and hesitated a few seconds before honestly replying:

“Actually... it was a sergeant from the army group’s communications battalion who laid the lines that discovered the situation and devised the emergency response.

I was busy commanding the battle, so the telegraph room was temporarily entrusted to him.”

Colonel Lister was stunned, speechless.

“A sergeant?! Ridiculous! Is this how the empire wastes talent? How could a sergeant possess such keen insight and strategic foresight? He saved my entire regiment! Bring him to me at once! No, take me to see him!”