Chapter 466: The Battle of Verdun
Pitié-Salpêtrière Hospital, early afternoon.
Gallieni's condition had finally stabilized. Perhaps due to exhaustion and the effects of medication, he had drifted into a light sleep on his hospital bed.
Seizing the moment, Charles sought out Gallieni’s attending physician, Artier, a man in his late fifties and the hospital’s most skilled surgeon.
“The situation isn’t looking good,” said Artier, pointing at an X-ray image. “There are still several small shrapnel fragments in his abdomen, some too tiny to see with the naked eye. Surgery is necessary, but...”
Charles interjected, “His condition might not withstand surgery?”
“Precisely, General,” Dr. Artier replied with a hint of regret in his voice. “That’s why it’s been postponed for so long.”
“So, we can continue to delay?” Charles pressed.
“That’s right,” Artier said, nodding reluctantly. “Unless it becomes absolutely necessary, surgery isn’t recommended. Just ensure he avoids any intense emotional fluctuations.”
Charles thanked the doctor and walked out into the hospital’s corridor. Alone, he lit a cigarette, lost in thought.
As he strolled, soldiers would occasionally snap to attention and salute him, while beautiful nurses cast flirtatious glances his way. They whispered softly to each other, some intentionally passing close by him.
Yet Charles was utterly unresponsive, as though detached from the world around him, immersed in his own thoughts.
History recorded that Gallieni was infuriated to death by Joffre. At the time, Gallieni had just undergone surgery, and the Parliament had removed Joffre from his post as Commander-in-Chief.
Initially, Parliament intended to dismiss Joffre outright due to his disastrous performance on the battlefield, where he repeatedly led the French Army into well-laid German traps.
However, Gallieni believed Joffre still had a role to play as a figurehead and proposed an alternative: to nominally promote Joffre while effectively demoting him, reassigning him as a government military advisor and elevating him to the rank of Marshal of France.
Joffre, interpreting this as a conspiracy orchestrated by Gallieni, stormed over to confront him, seething with rage.
Gallieni died in May 1916.
Standing at the end of the corridor, Charles gazed out at the plane trees lining the street, their branches swaying gently in the breeze. He resolved silently that he would not let such a tragedy repeat itself.
Just then, a messenger approached and saluted. “General, Command Headquarters has sent a telegram. It seems the Germans are preparing for an offensive. They’re massing troops near Verdun.”
Charles froze momentarily, taking the telegram to confirm its contents. Verdun, indeed.
Was this infamous battle of attrition about to begin?
It seemed to be coming earlier than expected!
(Note: Historically, the Battle of Verdun broke out in February 1916, six months from now.)
Before long, Charles seemed to piece together the rationale:
The Germans, having realized their inability to outmatch Charles’ forces in mobile warfare and armored operations, aimed to switch tactics by targeting a strategic location the French Army had no choice but to defend.
Verdun was precisely that location—a fortified stronghold consisting of over twenty fortresses, situated just 210 kilometers from Paris, essentially the city’s gateway.
If Verdun remained unconquered, the Germans would be forced to advance via either the northern or southern flank, exposing themselves to layers of resistance. However, if Verdun fell, the remaining defenses would be weak. German armored units, mirroring Charles’ tactics, could potentially pierce through to Paris in mere days.
In such a scenario, Paris would be perpetually in danger.
Charles nodded to himself, extinguishing his cigarette with deliberate force. The opportunity to ensnare Joffre had presented itself.
For someone like Joffre, so consumed by personal glory, the most devastating blow would be public disgrace—transforming him from a revered figure into an object of universal scorn.
Turning to instruct the guards stationed outside Gallieni’s room, Charles strode decisively toward the hospital’s exit.
...
The hospital was not far from the City Defense Command, and within twenty minutes, Charles arrived at the dimly lit officers’ club.
The club had just opened, and it was deserted.
As Charles stepped inside, he suddenly recalled that Lucia might still be in Belgium with her family.
To his surprise, he spotted Lucia behind the bar, busy with her tasks.
“You’ve returned?” Charles asked.
Startled, Lucia looked up, a flicker of joy dispelling the fatigue on her face. “Yes, General. I only took two days off, and even swapped shifts with Garrel to make it back in time.”
Then, noticing his presence, she asked, “And you? Why are you here...?”
Mid-sentence, Lucia let out an “Oh” and answered her own question. “Is it because of General Gallieni?”
Although the matter should have been confidential, the sudden circumstances had drawn much attention, spreading news quickly before any measures could be taken.
“Yes.” Charles nodded lightly. “A coffee, please.”
Without waiting for a response, he turned and walked toward his usual seat.
Watching his retreating figure, Lucia felt a sudden unease. The man before her seemed different, as though he wasn’t the Charles she knew.
Soon, a cup of coffee was placed before Charles. Lucia brought one for herself and sat across from him.
“I’m sorry,” Lucia said with concern. “I just heard about it. How is General Gallieni?”
“He’s fine,” Charles replied impassively.
“He’ll be all right,” Lucia reassured him. “Pitié-Salpêtrière has the world’s finest doctors...”
“Lucia,” Charles interrupted, leaning forward and speaking in a low voice. “Pass this information to the British intelligence: the Germans’ target isn’t Verdun; it’s Belfort.”
Belfort, another key city on the Western Front, was farther from Paris at 400 kilometers, but its defenses were far inferior to Verdun’s twenty fortresses and hundreds of artillery pieces.
Lucia felt a sinking sensation.
Indeed, he didn’t need my comfort. He came to issue orders. His mind was occupied with war and General Gallieni.
“Yes, General,” Lucia replied, suppressing her feelings.
Unaware of her emotions, Charles added, “Make sure they don’t uncover your identities. This must appear as intelligence the British obtained and analyzed on their own.”
“Yes, General,” Lucia said. “Don’t worry. The ‘Ladies in White’ are ordinary people with their own jobs and daily routines. The British won’t suspect a thing.”
Charles nodded in satisfaction.
This was exactly what he wanted. The strength of the “Ladies in White” lay in their invisibility, while British intelligence operated in the open.
If the “Ladies in White” slightly polished the intelligence, withholding or altering key details, the British would trust their findings wholeheartedly.
And if the British believed it, Joffre would walk straight into the trap.