Chapter 579: Many Do Not Understand the Cruelty of War
Foch hardly needed to explain himself to Paris.
In the Prime Minister’s office in Paris City Hall, two high-ranking individuals sat across from each other by a warm fireplace, leisurely sipping red wine as they conversed.
"People are tired of the war," Clemenceau said coldly. "Especially the soldiers on the front lines—they're always looking to escape."
"Who could deny it?" Briand agreed. "Some have even gone as far as mutinying and refusing to fight. It's disgraceful, utterly foolish. If they don't fight, the entire nation, including themselves, will inevitably be destroyed!"
“To prevent such occurrences, we need an offensive,” Clemenceau said, swirling his wine toward Briand.
Briand looked puzzled. "I believe it's better to maintain a defensive posture. Otherwise, the soldiers might mutiny again."
Clemenceau shook his head. "Prime Minister, it seems you’ve forgotten what happened last Christmas Eve."
This reminded Briand of last year’s Christmas Eve: a massive ceasefire between enemy lines. It was said to have lasted three days, during which soldiers drank, played football, and exchanged gifts together...
Briand's expression grew grave. "We cannot let that happen. It would damage morale and fighting spirit."
Briand's lofty rhetoric concealed his true intention—he did not want to see peace.
The French army already suffered from morale issues. If another "ceasefire" occurred, the grassroots soldiers and civilians' calls for peace would only grow louder, potentially forcing Parliament to negotiate.
Yet, the Americans were unwilling to negotiate, and neither were the British and French parliamentarians bribed by American money.
Thus unfolded a bitterly ironic scene: a future Nobel Peace Prize winner who did not desire peace, racking his brain to prolong a meaningless war for monetary gain.
"This is why I propose it," Clemenceau said. "An offensive that must be fought but won’t provoke resistance among the soldiers."
Briand understood. What they needed was the form of a battle to prevent a repeat of the "Christmas Truce," not victory or territorial gains. The price? A few soldiers' lives.
“We must tread carefully,” Briand frowned. "But that’s precisely what we aren’t good at."
Parliamentarians and politicians were accustomed to discussing state affairs from the comfort of their offices. The actual implementation was the generals' concern, not theirs.
At that moment, a secretary with golden hair and a graceful figure knocked and entered, handing a telegram to Briand. "A message from the Commander-in-Chief, Prime Minister."
Briand took the telegram, and a smile of relief appeared. "The Commander-in-Chief thinks as we do. It seems we’ve chosen the right person!"
He handed the telegram to Clemenceau, who, after reading it, nodded. "This simplifies things for us."
They exchanged smiles, their glasses clinking lightly with a crisp sound.
Little did they know, this was precisely what Charles wanted...
…
On the Bloue Front, the snow fell heavier and heavier. Puddles on the ground froze over, and rooftops and branches were the first to be covered in white.
Amidst the falling snowflakes, the French soldiers, for the first time in days, cast off their gloom and fear, their laughter ringing more freely.
Charles had come to visit them, bringing abundant supplies—beef, turkey, and fresh vegetables.
"These were bought with Charles’s own money, just like last Christmas."
"Of course. Parliament would never provide us with such things. They only urge us to grab our rifles and head to the battlefield."
"Keep your voice down, you fool. You don't want to be interrogated, do you?"
"Does it matter? Tomorrow, we’re back on the battlefield—on Christmas Eve!"
…
Orders for a "limited offensive" had already been issued, and everyone knew it would commence on Christmas Eve.
When Charles stepped into the crowd, the soldiers erupted in cheers, rushing forward to shake his hand.
"It’s great to see you, General."
"We feared you wouldn’t lead us anymore!"
"Thank you for the food and supplies. We know they came from your personal funds."
…
Charles responded while shaking their hands, "It’s the least I can do. Tonight, we can celebrate Christmas Eve."
For tomorrow night, they would attack.
Naturally, the soldiers thought of the impending offensive. Someone asked, "What exactly is a 'limited offensive,' General? It sounds odd!"
With an apologetic shrug, Charles replied, "I’m sorry, I don’t know either."
This wasn’t the truth—Charles knew precisely what it was.
But his words left the soldiers stunned. They exchanged puzzled glances. Was it possible that even Charles wasn’t privy to this offensive?
Was this offensive not Charles's plan? Or worse, had Charles lost command of the Sixth Army, as many had speculated?
Charles sighed helplessly. "All I can say is to follow orders. Your officers will explain what to do."
With that, he gave the soldiers a meaningful pat on their shoulders before departing.
The soldiers seemed to grasp Charles’s unspoken message. Watching his dejected figure, they whispered among themselves:
"My God, our suspicions were right. Those Parliament bastards stripped Charles of command."
"Isn’t it obvious? They took over the Sixth Army while Charles was on leave."
"Yes, and though he returned before his leave ended, it was too late. He’s powerless now!"
…
The soldiers grew increasingly agitated. Their gazes at the arrogant officers took on a different edge.
They began to realize that without Charles’s leadership, they would once again be sent to die on the battlefield, as they had before. The carnage at the Somme was still fresh in their minds.
As for the officers’ assurances—"This offensive won’t cost too many lives; I promise"—only a fool would believe them. They had always said such things.
Even Nivelle had claimed they’d return home to bask in glory within days. Those who believed him all perished in battle, and the Somme offensive still hadn’t ended!
Thus, a storm began brewing quietly within the troops.
However, the soldiers didn’t know what to do. Some wanted to help Charles regain command, others thought of mutiny, and still others contemplated a coup...
Charles sensed it all.
He knew his soldiers and understood their thoughts, something the aristocratic officers and military school graduates were utterly oblivious to. Even Gamelin, hailed as "France's brightest general," remained clueless, locked away in his office.
So Charles found Christine.
He said two sentences to Christine:
"The battlefield is chaotic, swords have no eyes."
"If there are grievances, seek justice; if there are grudges, seek revenge!"
Christine’s gaze swept over the commanders and staff officers planted among the troops. He nodded in understanding and, with a double-edged response, said, "Many do not understand the cruelty of war, General!"