Chapter 583: To Ensure More People Survive
Gamelin dropped the telegram and walked up to Charles, his tone stiff: “Whatever you’re planning, General, you should stop!”
Charles moved the newspaper aside slightly, casting a cold glance at Gamelin. “It seems you’ve forgotten your place, General, and who you’re speaking to.”
Gamelin paused, realizing he had grown too accustomed to holding command, forgetting that Charles was the commander of the army group.
However, Gamelin still refused to back down.
The command was in his hands, he was much older than Charles, and he was considered the smartest general in France. Here, his word was law.
“You know exactly what I’m talking about, General,” Gamelin said, positioning himself as the superior. He spoke passionately, “Our enemy is the Germans, not our own men. What you’re doing is utterly irresponsible and a nightmare for the army!”
Charles seemed to lose interest in his reading, shaking the newspaper and folding it twice before tossing it onto the desk.
“First of all, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Second, I entirely agree that our enemy is the Germans.”
“But if we’re talking about a ‘nightmare,’ nothing surpasses the Somme River, don’t you think, General?”
Gamelin was left speechless.
Charles was making it clear: under the command of fools like them, tragedies like the Somme would occur repeatedly. Charles, on the other hand, was the one capable of achieving victory at the smallest cost.
From the perspective of casualties, victory, or even national interest, it was Gamelin’s efforts to sideline Charles that embodied “irresponsibility” and “nightmare.”
Charles sneered disdainfully. These hypocrites, how dare they speak of responsibility.
Unable to persuade Charles, Gamelin could only reply bitterly, “I won’t let you succeed.”
Charles spread his hands nonchalantly, signaling Gamelin to try whatever he could. Charles was curious to see how Gamelin might resolve the situation.
Gamelin returned to his desk, and before even sitting down, issued an order: “Command the troops to cease their offensive!”
After giving the order, Gamelin cast a triumphant glance at Charles.
If the officers were killed by soldiers during the chaos of an attack, then stopping the attack would thwart his plan, wouldn’t it?
Charles maintained his smile, the corners of his mouth curling into a mocking smirk.
This fool actually thought that would solve the problem.
About half an hour later, the outcome of their silent struggle emerged.
A staff officer, stationed by the phone, loudly reported to Gamelin, “General, the Germans are attacking our front lines. They’ve ambushed the headquarters of the 72nd Infantry Division. General Donadi is severely injured, and two regimental commanders and seven staff officers have been killed.”
Gamelin turned pale, suddenly realizing that the French ceasing their attack didn’t mean the Germans wouldn’t launch one.
And when the Germans attacked, soldiers applying the “unwritten rules” would simply wipe out the officers hiding in their headquarters.
Of course, they could always claim it was the work of the “stormtroopers,” giving the German unit a perfect cover!
Gamelin turned to Charles, his face red with humiliation and anger, but there was nothing he could do.
Charles merely smiled, as if mocking Gamelin’s naivety and impracticality.
Once such “unwritten rules” began within the army, they were nearly impossible to stop.
It wasn’t just Christine’s First Special Artillery Division; the entire 6th Army Group would follow suit upon hearing rumors. They would not stop until their goal was achieved.
Their only desire was to survive and secure victory, something only Charles could deliver.
But the officers who had been planted in their ranks stood between them and Charles, leading the soldiers to their deaths.
If the soldiers wanted to live, their only option was to remove the “stumbling blocks” in their way.
...
In the 16th arrondissement of Paris, the 74-year-old Clemenceau was enjoying Christmas Eve with his family at his villa.
It was a large family. The rectangular dining table was surrounded by more than twenty people of all ages, their laughter echoing against the backdrop of the Christmas tree lights. The table was laden with exquisite dishes, and children darted between the adults.
Seated at the head of the table, Clemenceau had a few drinks, his face flushed. His slightly tipsy gaze swept over the scene with satisfaction.
Nothing was more gratifying than ensuring family gatherings during wartime.
Moreover, Clemenceau was confident that no matter how long this war lasted, he could keep his family safe.
At that moment, the butler approached with a silver tray and placed it in front of Clemenceau. On it was a telegram from Belgium.
It read: “Heavy casualties among officers in the 6th Army Group during combat.”
The butler leaned closer and whispered, “Sir, Brigadier General Xavier was recently killed at Jembloux.”
Clemenceau’s expression darkened as he glanced at his younger brother seated to his right. Xavier had been his youngest son.
As Clemenceau pondered how to break the news, another servant rushed in. “Sir, Prime Minister Briand has summoned you to the city hall!”
...
Briand remained at the city hall, unburdened by family ties. For him, it made little difference where he spent Christmas Eve. He intended to stay and monitor the evening’s “Christmas Offensive.”
(Note: Briand was a celibate who never married.)
Around 8 p.m., after dinner, Briand stood by the window with a glass of red wine, enjoying the view of Paris at night. He marveled at the greatness of the “City of Light.”
As the bells of Notre Dame tolled in the distance, Briand decided to reflect on his work.
After some thought, he concluded that his greatest achievement was recently stripping Charles of his authority over the 6th Army Group.
“This is clearly a good thing,” Briand murmured to himself, staring into the void. “Otherwise, France would once again groan under the control of a dictator. I must ensure her freedom!”
Just then, his secretary entered briskly. “Prime Minister, General Gamelin reports a large number of officer casualties in battle.”
Briand spun around as if pricked by a needle, instantly sensing that this was far more than just “casualties in battle.”
Taking the telegram, Briand read it carefully, then ordered, “Summon Clemenceau.”
“Yes, sir.”
Before Clemenceau arrived, Briand sent a telegram to Gamelin:
“Does this involve Charles?”
“I’m not sure, sir. He appears to have done nothing, and we have no evidence.”
“How could they do this?”
“Actually, it’s a tradition in the army.”
“A tradition?”
“Yes,” Gamelin explained.
“In peacetime, they use lynchings to punish soldiers who drag down the unit.”
“In wartime, such punishments grow more extreme, but they’re mostly directed at officers who jeopardize the unit’s survival. The goal is to ensure more people survive.”
The implication was clear: if officers left soldiers no path to survival, and neither the government nor the law could save them, the soldiers would take matters into their own hands.