Chapter 552: Speaking Honestly
"Winter rains in the south bring a rare tranquility, and here I find myself unburdened by worldly concerns."
The French troops on the Somme front seemed to embody this sentiment, living momentarily detached from the miseries of the world.
In the early morning drizzle, the air was thick with the stench of decaying corpses. Muddy water pooled underfoot, and the occasional whistling of shells overhead punctuated the oppressive quiet, sending waves of dirt and water cascading down upon the trenches when they exploded.
Yet, the soldiers entertained themselves within the confines of the trenches.
Some were nestled in dugouts, snoring away, while others carved shapes into wood with bayonets under the shelter of their rain ponchos. A few held their helmets upside down to catch rainwater and meticulously shaved in front of cracked mirrors.
Captain Jeremy sat under a poncho playing cards with a few subordinates, seizing the moment before the cards, soaked by the humidity, turned to pulp.
“This setup might let us play all day,” Captain Jeremy said optimistically.
But his words had barely left his mouth when the clumsy orderly, Leo, fumbled the deck, dropping two cards. They were instantly soaked and muddied.
This drew groans of annoyance from the soldiers: “Maybe you should practice baa-ing like a sheep more often, Leo.” “You’re worse than those officers sending us to the slaughter!” “Well, there goes another boring day…”
…
Picking up the cards, Leo suddenly froze and glanced toward the far end of the trench. In a low voice, he muttered, “Look who’s coming—the ‘Shepherds.’”
The soldiers called themselves "sheep" and referred to the senior officers who ordered them to charge as "Shepherds."
Startled, the others followed Leo’s gaze and saw several officers striding leisurely through the muddy trenches, guarded by aides. The figure at the front was slight in stature, their face and rank obscured by a raincoat and cap.
Captain Jeremy snorted dismissively. “Ignore them. If all the ‘sheep’ refused to obey, the ‘Shepherds’ would be useless.”
The soldiers chuckled quietly, a touch of defiance in their mirth.
Leo carefully wiped the mud from the cards and fanned them out. “If we dry them, we might still be able to play.”
They assumed the officers would pass them by. Instead, the lead officer stopped and asked, “What are you playing? Mind if I join?”
Everyone froze.
This was not what they had envisioned. They had expected barked orders to man battle stations or prepare for a charge.
“We’re playing Barbu, sir!” Leo replied hesitantly.
But Captain Jeremy shot him a glare—soldiers weren’t supposed to address officers casually.
Leo shrank back, silent.
“Well,” the officer said, pulling back the hood of his raincoat slightly. “It seems I’m not welcome here.”
Without thinking, Captain Jeremy blurted out, “That’s right, sir…”
Then he froze, staring intently at the officer. Recognition dawned, and he stammered, “Charles? Is that you, Charles?”
Around them, soldiers paused, their actions halting as they turned shocked gazes toward the scene.
Charles nodded, scanning the gathered men. “Gentlemen, is everything alright?”
Under any other circumstances, the soldiers would have taken this as mockery—nothing about their situation was “alright.” They might even have punched the officer or forced him to share their misery in the trenches.
But this was Charles. His presence felt natural, even comforting.
Many among them had benefited directly from Charles’s aid. His company frequently donated supplies to the front lines and published articles in The Meritorious Report explaining tactics and survival skills.
To them, Charles represented hope—the hope of winning and surviving the war.
One soldier, his voice thick with emotion, said, “You’ve finally come, General!”
“Are you here to lead us, General?”
“We’re fine, General!” another chimed in.
…
But someone quickly countered, “No, General, we’re not fine. We need your help!”
Charles nodded. “I understand. That’s why I’m here.”
A tense silence followed, broken only by the patter of rain on waterlogged ground.
Captain Jeremy, still reeling from surprise, snapped to attention and shook Charles’s hand.
“General,” Jeremy said, “you may consider me their representative.”
A flicker of surprise crossed Charles’s face. “That’s brave of you.”
Mutiny often led to execution, whether or not negotiations succeeded.
Jeremy smiled faintly. “No difference, General. Either way, we won’t live much longer.”
Charles understood. For these men, being executed was just another way to die.
Jeremy got straight to the point. “We respect you greatly, General. All of us do. But I’m sorry—we can’t simply pick up our rifles and return to the front lines because you ask us to.”
“That’s not what we want.”
Charles nodded. “Of course.”
Then he added, “What are your terms?”
Jeremy replied, “First, we refuse to attack.”
“But please don’t mistake us for cowards or deserters. Holding the line is fine—we just don’t want to die pointlessly under enemy fire.”
Charles raised an eyebrow, hesitating only briefly. “That’s difficult, Captain.”
“War requires offensives. Defending alone isn’t sustainable.”
“But I can promise this: there will be no more senseless charges.”
Jeremy hesitated, caught off guard by Charles’s response.
He glanced at the growing crowd of soldiers, now joined by several more representatives.
After a moment of deliberation, he turned to the others and said, “I believe Charles’s words are trustworthy—not just because he’s Charles.”
“Exactly. Other officers would promise anything to placate us, only to backtrack later. He could’ve done the same.”
“But he didn’t. He set limits: wars can’t be fought without attacks.”
…
This honesty was a calculated decision Charles had made before arriving. He believed only the truth could earn the soldiers’ trust.