Chapter 578: The Christmas Offensive
Charles could now feel the full weight of the difference.
Just days ago, he had stood at the center of attention, the darling of France. Now, he was a commander in name only—isolated, powerless, and surrounded by strangers.
The officers around him still showed him respect, at least on the surface. Even Gamelin kept up appearances.
After all, Charles was the man who had repeatedly defeated the Germans, saved countless French lives, and—on top of it all—held financial assets and industrial patents rivaling France's most powerful capitalists.
Ordinary men would need just one of those things to be admired for life. Charles had them all.
But in the command post, the staff treated him with a smile and a distance that made it clear—he was being politely ignored.
"I'd like a copy of the investigation list."
"Apologies, General," an aide replied. "We've been too busy with training. Since we just arrived, the list hasn't been compiled yet."
"What about the detention list?"
"All temporary, sir. Most of those detained were only held for a few days. There's no formal list."
"Then let's go see the holding cells."
"General," the aide hesitated. "We suspect there may be spies among them. During interrogation, no outside contact is permitted. Otherwise…"
Otherwise, someone might accuse Charles of colluding with "enemy agents."
The answers came fluidly, almost rehearsed. Every excuse was airtight.
Charles wasn't fooled. He knew this was a power game. And he was ready to break the board.
Parliament was naïve. These bureaucrats had no idea how brutal war really was. They thought their parliamentary scheming could control a military at war.
…
The next afternoon, Charles sat alone in a meeting room, sipping coffee.
If they wanted to ostracize him, fine. Let them. For now, he would wait.
This was the first time since arriving in this world that Charles had experienced such calm.
But he wasn't wasting time.
He was giving Wei Gang a chance—a chance to approach him without drawing suspicion.
Sure enough, a little while later, Wei Gang entered with a folder in hand.
He handed Charles a copy of the officer roster—something a general should be familiar with. But as he flipped the pages, he whispered:
"Prime Minister Briand gave this order personally. Even the Commander-in-Chief's office has been compromised. There are eyes everywhere."
Charles's expression didn't change.
He knew the name well. Briand had long been Joffre's protector. It was thanks to Briand that Joffre had managed to cling to his command for so long, despite repeated failures.
The only reason Joffre was finally dismissed was because he had become a liability—the cost of defending him no longer justified the effort.
"What should we do?" Wei Gang asked. It was a question from Foch, passed through trusted hands.
Charles took a sip of coffee, then said calmly:
"Christmas is coming. To prevent a repeat of last year's truce, I think we should launch an offensive."
"But the mutiny was just resolved. The scale should be small."
"Let's call it a 'training exercise.' The objective isn't to seize ground or kill enemies—but to train troops."
Wei Gang frowned, confused.
What did this have to do with their current situation?
But Charles didn't explain. Instead, he handed the instructions back.
"Pass this to the Commander-in-Chief. He'll understand."
It wasn't wise for Charles to send a telegram directly. Even though he had his own comms team and radio unit, they were likely under surveillance.
Wei Gang was the perfect messenger.
"Yes, General," Wei Gang replied.
Just then, someone entered the room. Wei Gang shifted instantly, speaking louder:
"There are over 130 officers above the rank of major. If you'd like to add anyone, we'll take your input seriously."
Charles sneered:
"My opinion? Since when did that matter?"
He pushed the roster back toward Wei Gang with disdain:
"I don't need this. Get it out of my sight!"
"Yes, General," Wei Gang said with a bow and exited smoothly, playing his part to perfection.
…
The Somme Front, north bank.
A steady rain fell. Gunfire and artillery boomed in the distance.
Since Charles had led the Sixth Army to push the front five kilometers forward, the southern bank had stabilized.
Not only because of Charles's victory, but because the French had seized a series of well-constructed German trench lines.
Though not as sturdy as rear-line fortresses, they were leagues ahead of the muddy ditches that the British and French had dug for themselves.
Foch had set up his new headquarters there.
The Battle of the Somme wasn't over. On the north bank, the British were still launching attacks, and casualties were piling up.
Their assaults had grown even fiercer.
Because Charles had gained five kilometers with just over a thousand casualties, while the British were bleeding thousands every day for almost no gain.
Both Haig and Kitchener were furious.
The only thing Haig could do now was pour in more troops—and keep pushing.
Foch wasn't focused on any of that.
He sat at his desk, absentmindedly signing documents while thinking of Charles and the Sixth Army in Belgium.
Parliament had stopped pretending to be fair. Their attempts to sideline Charles were now open and blatant.
What would Charles do?
If he allowed himself to be neutered, there would be no hope of lifting the naval blockade. The resource crisis would continue.
Foch would become nothing more than a puppet of the British.
Just then, an aide approached with a telegram.
"Sir, message from Wei Gang."
Foch raised an eyebrow. He glanced around cautiously. No one else seemed to notice. He gave a small nod and took the paper.
He didn't open it immediately. He kept signing forms as though nothing had happened, even though his fingers itched to tear it open.
Once the room was clear, he tossed aside the papers and casually sorted through his telegrams.
There it was: Wei Gang's report.
"Christmas offensive.
Mutiny suppressed.
Goal: troop training through limited action."
Foch read it twice. Then a slow smile spread across his face.
Charles had found the answer.
Parliament had finally met its match.
Foch checked the calendar—three days until Christmas.
He turned to his aide.
"Colonel Enès, draft a telegram to Paris. I intend to launch an attack on Christmas Eve. Estimated duration: five days."
"But sir," the aide objected. Others in the room turned to listen.
"Morale just recovered. A large offensive could provoke another rebellion."
"I'll explain it to Paris," Foch said, cutting him off.
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