Chapter 579: Many Do Not Understand the Cruelty of War
Foch hardly needed to explain anything to Paris.
Inside the Prime Minister's office at the Paris City Hall, two of France's most powerful men sat across from each other by a warm fireplace, sipping red wine in comfort and engaging in casual conversation.
"People are tired of war," Clemenceau said coldly.
"Especially the soldiers at the front. They're always looking for an excuse to avoid fighting."
"Who can blame them?" Briand replied with a shrug.
"They even dared to mutiny and refuse combat—it's disgraceful. Stupid, even. If they don't fight, the entire country will be lost. Them included!"
"Which is why we need an offensive," Clemenceau said, swirling his wine glass.
"A show of force."
Briand frowned.
"I think we'd be better off maintaining a defensive stance. Another offensive might trigger another mutiny."
Clemenceau shook his head.
"Prime Minister, you seem to have forgotten what happened last Christmas Eve."
That stopped Briand. He remembered now.
Last year on Christmas Eve, there had been widespread unofficial truces between French and German troops. Soldiers from both sides drank together, played football, exchanged gifts…
Briand's expression darkened.
"We can't let that happen again. It would destroy morale and combat resolve."
He said it with patriotic conviction, but the real reason was different: they didn't want peace.
Morale in the French Army was already shaky. If peace ever seemed possible again, public pressure might push Parliament into serious negotiations.
But the Americans didn't want negotiations. And neither did the British MPs or French officials who had accepted American bribes.
And so, an ironic situation emerged:
A future Nobel Peace Prize winner was now actively working to prevent peace, doing everything in his power to keep a meaningless war going—for the sake of money.
"This is exactly what I mean," Clemenceau said.
"We need an offensive. One that must be launched, but not so intense it provokes resistance."
Briand finally understood.
They didn't need a victory. They needed the appearance of combat to prevent a repeat of the Christmas Truce.
A few deaths—acceptable losses.
"We need to be very careful with this," Briand murmured.
"Unfortunately, careful is not something we're very good at."
Indeed, politicians were good at drafting grand strategies in their cozy offices, but they knew nothing about actual battlefield operations. That was up to the generals.
Just then, a tall, elegantly dressed blonde secretary entered the room. She handed a telegram to Briand.
"A message from the Commander-in-Chief, sir."
Briand opened it. His eyes lit up as he read.
"The Commander-in-Chief thinks just like we do. It seems we picked the right man."
He handed the telegram to Clemenceau.
After reading it, Clemenceau nodded.
"This saves us a great deal of trouble."
The two men smiled at each other and clinked their glasses. The crystal produced a crisp, harmonious chime.
What they didn't know was that this was exactly what Charles wanted.
…
Jambes front line – The snow was falling heavier now. Water on the ground had frozen solid. Rooftops and branches were dusted in white.
Among the falling snowflakes, French soldiers were slowly regaining their spirits. The fear and pressure of the last few days began to lift.
Because Charles had come to see them. And he brought supplies—beef, turkey, fresh vegetables.
"These were all bought with Charles's own money—just like last Christmas."
"Of course. The Parliament would never send us this. All they send are orders to attack."
"Quiet, you fool! Do you want to be dragged in for questioning?"
"What's the difference? We're going into battle tomorrow. On Christmas Eve!"
…
The attack orders had already been distributed. Everyone knew that on Christmas Eve, a "limited offensive" would begin.
When Charles walked among the men, the camp erupted in cheers. The soldiers rushed forward to shake his hand:
"It's good to see you, General!"
"We were afraid you wouldn't be leading us anymore!"
"Thank you for the food and supplies—we know that came from your personal funds."
Charles smiled and replied as he shook hands:
"It's my duty. Tonight, we'll celebrate Christmas Eve together."
Because tomorrow night, they would be sent into combat.
Naturally, the conversation shifted to the next day.
"General, what exactly is a 'limited offensive'? It sounds… odd."
Charles gave a helpless smile and spread his hands.
"Sorry. I don't know either."
That wasn't the truth. Charles knew exactly what it was.
But the soldiers looked stunned. They exchanged glances.
The General doesn't know?
Did that mean the offensive wasn't his idea?
Worse yet—had he lost command of the Sixth Army, just as many had suspected?
Charles offered a tired smile.
"All I can say is—follow your orders. Your officers will explain what to do."
He patted a few shoulders and walked away.
The men stood watching his retreating figure. Whispered conversations rippled across the camp:
"God… so it's true. Parliament stripped him of command."
"Obviously. They took control of the Sixth Army while he was on leave."
"He came back before his vacation ended, but it's already too late. There's nothing he can do now."
Anger brewed.
The soldiers' eyes shifted toward the new officers—arrogant, unfamiliar men who hadn't seen the horrors of the Somme.
Without Charles leading them, they knew exactly what would happen:
They'd be slaughtered.
They remembered Somme vividly.
The promises:
"This offensive won't be too bloody. We guarantee it."
What a joke.
Nivelle had said the war would be over in days. The ones who believed him were all dead.
The Battle of the Somme still hadn't ended.
A storm was brewing again.
Some soldiers wanted to help Charles reclaim command. Others whispered of another mutiny. A few even dreamed of a coup...
Charles sensed it.
He knew his men. He could read them easily.
But the new officers—aristocrats, military academy graduates—had no idea what was coming.
Not even Gamelin, France's so-called "smartest general," sitting in his cozy office, saw it coming.
That night, Charles found Christine.
He said only two sentences:
"The battlefield is chaos. Blades don't see faces."
"If someone wronged you—settle it."
Christine glanced across the camp at the new regimental commanders and staff officers.
He nodded.
And replied with a phrase full of layered meaning:
"Many people don't understand the cruelty of war, General."
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