Hello and welcome! I'm DaTumpelo, and this is A Line Breached.

What exactly is it? It is the brainchild of yours truly and a fellow RWBY fan and history buff ThiccBuddha. A while ago we were talking, like we usually do, and somehow the conversation turned into an argument about RWBY cast fighting in WW2. Weird, right? Well, that got me inspired, and I drafted the first chapter overnight to see what it would look like. I wasn't sure about continuing it any further, but ThiccBuddha convinced me to keep going. So I did.

So, back to the question at hand. A Line Breached is essentially RWBY meets World War 2, but with some (very big) liberties taken. It's not going to be anywhere close to being historically accurate, and all of the characters and events are purely fictional. As such, don't use this as a reference for your history homework. This would've probably worked just as well, if not even better, as a Great War Remnant fic without any mentions of real history, but at this point I'm not willing to change it. So think of it as an alternate history WW2 with RWBY cast thrown in there.

What else? As a WW2-inspired fic this is bound to get political at times, but I want to make it clear that I'm not picking sides here. This is not meant to be a pro-French/anti-German story, but it is mostly told from the perspective of French soldiers. Some of whom are not too friendly with the Germans. Still, the purpose of this fic is not to bash Germans, for the record.

But that's enough about that, read and (hopefully) enjoy!

Beta: ThiccBuddha

Chapter 1

"War is nothing but organized murder." -Harry Patch

"I would do fucking anything to get out of this," colonel Weygand sighed as he skimmed through the report of one of his captains. He managed to read it halfway through before shaking his head and placing it on top of the ever-growing pile on the right side of his desk. An untouched cup of coffee stood next to the pile and with a grimace, he grabbed it and took a sip of the lukewarm drink. Closing his eyes and steeling his nerves, he placed the cup back where it had been a few seconds ago and reached for the next paper from the pile on his left that was somehow even taller than the one on his right.

"Boches making another push for Eguisheim, twenty percent of defending troops combat ineffective, rations low and a storm incoming, requesting reinforcements, supplies and an evacuation for the wounded," he read before placing it down and rubbing his eyes in exasperation. There was nothing he could give them. His regiment was already running on reserves, each company undermanned and undersupplied. Unlike those accursed Germans, who seemed to have an endless supply of men, tanks and artillery shells to throw against their dwindling defenses.

"That damned relief better arrive soon," he thought with a frown as he reached for the pile again, reading the first two lines of the report before putting it away. A casualty list and a request for replacement bodies, he didn't even need to see rest of it to know he wouldn't be able to help. He absent-mindedly reached for his coffee again, snapping out of his thoughts when he heard a crash and saw the cup lying broken on the floor, its contents spilled over the carpet. "Why did it have to become like this?" he sighed.

"I would do fucking anything to get out of this," lieutenant Jaune Arc internally screamed as he sprinted through the barrage of gunfire. His once-blue uniform was dirty, charred and torn, a pale shadow of the imposing figure it had been less than a week ago. His revolver was nowhere to be found, and the only weapon on his person was Crocea Mors which hung uselessly in its sheath as bullets whizzed past him. Lungs burning, he dived behind a pile of logs serving as a makeshift barricade, allowing himself a few precious seconds to catch his breath.

The landscape surrounding Eguisheim looked nothing like the idyllic countryside it had once been. Trenches, barbed wire, and tank traps littered the fields, and the smooth, beautiful meadows had been buried under dirt, rubble and bodies after hours of repeated artillery bombardments. Falling to his hands and knees, Jaune threw away what little dignity he had left and vomited on the ground.

"How did this happen? Where did I go wrong?" Jaune muttered. Eguisheim's defenses had been solid. His troops had been well-equipped and rested. The scouts had reported only minor enemy movements in the nearby woods. Everything should have been fine. They should have been able to hold the village.

When he heard the Germans were advancing towards their lines he had smiled. Their intel had put the boches just under platoon strength with only a few armored cars for support, nothing capable of assaulting a well-defended position like theirs. Not worried in the slightest, he had ordered his troops to man their positions.

At first, things had gone just as expected. The Germans had halted their advance immediately when they came under fire, and one of their armored cars was turned into a smoldering wreck by a well-placed shot from his command H35. With nowhere to fall back to and under heavy fire, the Germans had hugged what little cover they had and held their ground. The firefight had continued for almost an hour, the German numbers slowly but surely dropping as their rifles and machine guns took their toll.

Looking back at it now, Jaune knew he should have realized something was wrong with what was almost a suicidal attack by a scouting party. But seeing the Germans cowering under their fire had lit something inside of him. He had felt brave. He had felt important. He had felt like a hero.

The only warning he had received before everything went to shit was a faint whistle he had only heard in training videos. It took his brain a few seconds to recognize the sound through the euphoric bliss he was still feeling at the moment, and when his eyes finally widened in realization it was already too late. Just as his mouth opened to shout out a warning for his troops, the bombs hit their lines.

A loud crack snapped Jaune from his thoughts, and he hastily scrambled to his feet when more bullets impacted against the logs. Scanning his surroundings, he considered dashing to a nearby trench before shaking his head. "I need to get to a radio, call for reinforcements, and reorganize our defenses," he mused. Which was easier said than done, given the circumstances. His Hotchkiss had had a radio, and his platoon's signaller Aubin had carried one as well. Unfortunately, his command tank had been knocked out by the initial bombing, and he had seen Aubin fall with his own eyes when the Germans began their second assault.

"I need to get back to the tank, with any luck the radio is still in working condition," Jaune grimaced. He had been running away from the wreckage of his command tank for the past fifteen minutes, and between him and the possibly working radio was almost a kilometer of craters, barbed wire, and angry Germans. Had he still a few dozen men and a couple of tanks under his command he might have attempted to push against the advancing boches but alas, he didn't. Most of his troops had decided that holding was out of the question, and he couldn't really fault their logic on the matter. Seeing your commanding officer falling down from his command vehicle and then making a beeline away from the fighting wasn't exactly inspiring or encouraging.

While the sudden bombardment had been effective, the subsequent assault by the Germans had been downright devastating. The remaining German soldiers had broken cover and charged their lines, still staggered from the bombs, while a second group of boches had somehow managed to reach their left flank without anyone noticing. Spearheaded by no less than five Panzers.

Jaune had no clear picture of what had happened after that. All he remembered was his mind screaming for him to survive, and after barely managing to jump out of his Hotchkiss before the bombs hit he had legged it without a second thought. The gunfire, cries of the wounded and roar of the Panzers' cannons had melted into one massive cacophony, which did nothing but encourage him to run faster. Fifteen minutes and eight hundred meters later, he had taken cover behind a hastily constructed log barricade and proceeded to empty his stomach next to a body of his countryman.

"Okay, the situation isn't ideal, but it's still salvageable," Jaune whispered to himself, preparing to run back to his command tank, angry Germans or no. "Get to the Hotchkiss, get the radio working, call for support and…" his voice died out as he peeked past the logs.

There were dozens, no, hundreds of Germans moving across the battlefield, with at least six Panzers paving the way. The flanking group hadn't been just a platoon with armored support, it was a whole damned company with extensive armored support.

His mouth running dry, Jaune could do nothing but stare in a mixture of shock and horror as a squad of Germans cleared out a trench still holding a few stubborn defenders. One of the Panzers, having ran out of French vehicles to crack open instead targeted the second floor of a two-story building, easily destroying the wooden wall and turning the surprised sniper hiding behind it into little less than paste. Bile rising to his throat again, Jaune stumbled back as a stray shell struck a tree near him, sending splinters flying in every direction.

"What even… What is this…" a quiet whine of distress left his lips, his mind desperately trying to make sense of the situation. The Germans had somehow managed to move a whole fucking company to their flank, without him or anyone else noticing. And started their assault in perfect sync with the bombers. After that, it had been a simple matter of cleaning up any stragglers.

Jaune didn't know what evil spirit possessed him to stand up but he did, not caring about the carnage happening all around him. As he simply stared at the destruction, the top hatch from one of the Panzers opened, and a creature from his nightmares stood up from the vehicle.

She was wearing a German officer's uniform, complete with a rapier strapped to her hip. Her hair was as white as snow, tied to a long ponytail that would have been against at least four different French uniform regulations. She held a pair of binoculars in her hands, silently looking at the devastation surrounding her with cold indifference. Lowering the binoculars she motioned to a soldier near her, Jaune unable to make out the words. The soldier saluted and immediately barked out some orders of his own, the rest of the boches surrounding the tank quickly spreading out to carry out whatever commands they had received.

Seemingly satisfied, the white-haired horror lifted the binoculars up again, slowly moving her gaze over the remains of the French defense line. Paralyzed for some reason he couldn't explain, Jaune stood still as her eyes scanned the ruined landscape before finally settling on him.

For a moment there was a perfect silence between them, the sounds of their surroundings forgotten. Then, slowly, the white witch lowered her binoculars and nodded once.

Whatever devil had seized control of Jaune's limbs suddenly let go, and he staggered as the witch brought the binoculars to her eyes once more. Before she could turn her gaze away from him he snapped to attention and brought his right hand to his forehead in as crisp a salute as he could muster. After managing to hold his composure for three whole seconds he let his hand finally drop, before turning his back to the witch and taking off in a sprint.

"Why? Why?! WHY?!" he weakly croaked as tears of anger and humiliation streamed down his face. "Why did it have to become like this?!"