Chapter 474: Foch’s Scapegoat
At dawn, Joffre woke up after a restful sleep and got out of bed at precisely eight o’clock. After breakfast, he strolled along a wooded path beside the command post, his rounded belly prominently leading the way.
Trailing behind Joffre was Carnes, half his size and cautiously reporting on the previous night’s battle results:
“We failed to retake Fort Douaumont as expected.”
“The Germans were well-prepared and deployed a new type of gas. This gas could be fired deep into our positions via artillery shells.”
“This has greatly increased the difficulty and danger of night operations.”
...
A faint trace of discontent flashed in Joffre’s eyes. He responded indifferently:
“At the root of it, their resolve to attack was not strong enough.”
“Once the interference from the gas is neutralized, the losses will be negligible. We can still successfully retake Fort Douaumont.”
“As long as they move forward, victory is within their reach!”
Carnes nodded in agreement and then leaned in closer, lowering his voice:
“Over 12,000 soldiers were lost last night, General.”
“There’s been some dissent in Parliament.”
“Certain members are questioning the government, asking: ‘The name Joffre is no longer synonymous with confidence—quite the opposite. Should we still tie our nation’s fate to him?’…”
Joffre cleared his throat awkwardly, prompting Carnes to tactfully stop talking.
The surroundings fell into silence, save for a few blackbirds hopping around on the branches above, chirping as if condemning Joffre’s crimes.
Joffre understood his precarious position. He had hoped that last night’s battle would secure him a victory to “untie the knot” constraining him. Unfortunately, the battle did not go as planned.
Cowards, Joffre cursed internally. Why can’t they charge the enemy bravely?
After taking a few more steps, Joffre suddenly asked, “Does Foch really appear to be unwell?”
Carnes was baffled; he had never heard of Foch being sick.
However, he quickly caught on and nodded, saying, “You think so too? I thought only General Castelnau’s staff believed Foch was ill.”
Joffre smiled faintly and said nothing more.
...
Foch’s headquarters had moved to Brussels.
This decision was made for operational convenience, as telegraphs of that era were unreliable, and telephones were often necessary.
However, telephone lines between France and Belgium were always scarce, and during the German occupation of Belgium, they had deliberately severed connections with France.
If Foch tried to command the Northern Army Group from within France by phone, the lines would not only be easily cut but also prone to interception.
Foch paid little attention to the ongoing battle at Verdun, focusing instead on advancing toward the fortresses of Leuven and Namur to expand Belgium’s gains.
“If we can push to Liège and secure an advantage in Belgium, the Germans’ flanks will be exposed,” Foch confidently told his staff. “That’s why we hold the key to ultimate victory.”
However, the small nation of Belgium was riddled with fortresses, and France was short on artillery.
To be precise, France had an abundance of 75 mm field guns.
But attacking fortresses and heavily fortified positions required large-caliber, long-range artillery, like Germany’s “Big Bertha.”
Without such artillery, the French forces would face suppression by German fortress artillery on the battlefield.
Foch was reluctant to rely further on Charles, as it made him feel as if he were fighting under Charles’s protection.
“How should we proceed with the offensive?” Foch muttered to himself. “Are we truly incapable of fighting without Charles?”
At that moment, Weygand approached with a solemn expression, holding a telegram. He hesitated, hand extending before pulling back, as though unsure how to begin.
Noticing this, Foch looked up from the map with a puzzled expression and asked, “What’s the matter?”
Without a word, Weygand silently handed him the telegram.
One glance was enough to leave Foch stunned. It was a message from War Minister Messimy: “Due to health reasons, we have decided to relieve you of your position as Commander of the Northern Army Group and appoint you as ‘Director of the Military Research Center.’ Please complete the handover and report to Paris. Thank you for your contributions to France. Long live France!”
Foch stared blankly at the telegram. He looked at Weygand, then back at the message, thinking he must have misread it: “Health reasons? Relieved of duty?”
Weygand sighed softly and replied in a low voice, “Unfavorable comments about you have surfaced in the Parisian press. They claim that the strategic mistakes at Verdun were made with your support.”
Foch understood immediately. Joffre, determined to protect his own position, had pinned the blame squarely on him.
Enraged, Foch stood up:
“If the government wants to remove me, so be it! But they shouldn’t claim I’m unwell—that’s a lie.”
“The bigger lie is about the decisions at Verdun…”
Here, Foch paused.
It was true that he had been Joffre’s advisor, involved in nearly every major decision Joffre made, either through telegraphs or phone calls. The notion that he supported Joffre’s decisions regarding Verdun was not entirely baseless.
However, the information Foch received was always filtered through Joffre. For instance, Joffre’s assessment was that reliable intelligence indicated Germany’s main attack was aimed at Belfort, with Verdun being a diversionary tactic—an assertion Foch had no reason to doubt.
Based on this, Foch had supported Joffre’s decisions, making his involvement defensible.
But who would listen to his explanations now?
“That scoundrel!” Foch cursed bitterly, rising abruptly and storming toward the telegraph room to question Joffre.
Of course, Joffre would never admit it. He responded evasively: “You’ve been dismissed? I should be dismissed too. We should all be dismissed because we failed. That’s war—victors and vanquished.”
Foch realized the matter was settled. Joffre was resolute in making him the scapegoat.
Weary, he returned to his seat, slumping into the chair and staring blankly ahead for a long while before forcing a bitter smile: “When you want to kill your dog, you start saying it’s gone mad. It’s an ancient rule, almost without exception.”
“But it’s not fair, General,” Weygand said with some agitation. “You had nothing to do with the mistakes at Verdun. You’ve even just secured a victory.”
Weygand then suggested, “Should we ask Charles to speak up? After all, we’ve just cooperated with him…”
Foch shook his head lightly. “Charles might defeat the Germans, but he can do nothing against these people.”
This was the politics of France, an intricate web of relationships far beyond Charles’s expertise.