Chapter 531: We Don't Need to Follow Their Path
Antwerp Airport. Tijani was staring at the newspaper, yelling over and over:
"No, this isn't true!"
"How can they do this?!"
"Goddamn bastards!"
...
In the end, he threw the paper aside and turned to Charles with resentment in his eyes: "I was tricked. There was no victory at all—everything was a lie. The Germans were actually telling the truth!"
Then, his eyes shifted to confusion: "Did you know this the whole time? How did you know? You haven't left Antwerp since the fighting started."
"I didn't need to witness the Somme to know how it would end." Charles took a sip of water, his old habit resurfacing—too much coffee led to light sleep, that odd state of being half-awake and half-asleep.
Setting the glass down, Charles continued, "All I needed to know was Haig's military doctrine. A man who disdains machine guns and tanks—what kind of victory could you possibly expect from him on the battlefield?"
"Fair enough," Tijani nodded. "His victories and strategies are only suited for dealing with colonial guerrillas and native militias in Africa."
Tijani knew a bit about Haig's background. He had served in British India and also took part in the Boer War in South Africa.
Charles was right—trying to apply battlefield experience from low-intensity conflicts to a war against the Germans was just asking to be humiliated. It was bound to be a painful lesson.
Tijani sighed with a trace of schadenfreude in his tone. "I really want to see how they clean up this mess!"
Though Tijani was a rich playboy who didn't take life too seriously, somewhere deep down he had a sense of compassion. He loathed those who treated human life as expendable on the battlefield, who paved their path to promotion with corpses and medals soaked in blood.
"They'll find a way," Charles raised his eyebrows. "You don't need to worry about them."
Tijani gave a scornful snort. He wasn't about to feel sorry for those bastards and certainly didn't believe they'd find a way out of this.
But Charles knew better. In the actual history, they'd gotten off scot-free.
It was simple, really. As long as the battle was framed as a "victory," the casualties could be justified. After all, the fighting was that difficult. Anyone else would have done just as poorly, maybe even worse.
So not only would they avoid punishment—they'd be rewarded with promotions and medals.
Charles didn't want to see that happen.
After stepping onto the battlefield, Charles came to a stark realization: if you don't crush your enemies completely, they will destroy you.
Nivelle, Haig, and Kitchener—they were all on Charles's blacklist. They had all tried to use their power to eliminate him.
As long as they held power, Charles would never be safe.
"General," a communications officer came forward and handed over a telegram. "From Paris. Parliament requests your presence—they say there's a matter requiring your joint deliberation."
Charles chuckled softly, accepting the telegram and lifting it toward Tijani. "See? There's their 'solution.'"
Tijani froze, then suddenly understood—they wanted Charles to take command at the Somme.
If Charles could secure a victory, their mess would be swept under the rug by the glow of success.
"You're not actually going to do it, are you?" Tijani looked at Charles with a face full of protest, though he soon hesitated.
Only Charles could stop the needless slaughter. Though it meant being used by those shameless bastards, he might save tens of thousands of lives.
Charles didn't answer directly. He calmly instructed the communications officer, "Send a reply—I need three days to wrap up my current work."
Glancing at the calendar on the desk, he added, "I'll arrive promptly on the morning of the sixth."
"Yes, Major General."
Tijani kept his eyes fixed on Charles. He wanted to know what Charles would decide.
Charles responded with a sigh:
"We don't need to follow their path, General."
"For example, right now you should be secretly redeploying troops to Mons and preparing for combat."
Tijani gave an enlightened "Oh," and grinned. "Good idea, Major General."
...
Three days later, the Bourbon Palace—home of the National Assembly—was as lively as usual.
The chamber hadn't known a moment of quiet lately. The hot topic was Nivelle's cover-up of the battle reports:
"Nivelle should be held responsible. It's unthinkable that the Commander-in-Chief would falsify military victories."
"No, this concerns morale and public confidence. A lot of things can't be made public during wartime!"
"That's different—they were doing it for their own benefit. I mean, the British too."
"I disagree. Sacrifice is sometimes necessary in war. Besides, our army's doing better than the British, which means the Commander is doing something right."
"Or maybe it's because we have fewer troops, so the casualty numbers just look smaller. Five divisions—over 80,000 men—and more than 20,000 casualties. Does that really count as 'doing better'?"
...
Anything could be spun with the right words—especially in military theory, where there's no standard and no quantifiable metrics. No one could definitively say whether something was right or wrong.
Thus, Nivelle's supporters could still argue back and forth with the opposition, despite clear evidence that he had falsified battle reports.
At that moment, Charles pushed open the door and walked in. The room instantly fell silent, all eyes turning to him.
Charles was already quite used to this by now. He strode confidently to the front, politely removed his general's cap, rested it on his forearm, and gave a slight bow.
"My apologies, gentlemen! I'm late. I was swarmed by reporters the moment I got off the plane—they almost made me want to surrender!"
The room burst into laughter.
Charles, invincible on the battlefield, ready to surrender to French reporters? They must be spies hired by the Germans!
Gallieni, Minister of War, was seated behind the podium as a representative of the government.
He was quite pleased with Charles's calm demeanor. The man had clearly matured—he even felt a bit unfamiliar now. There was a sharpness in him that hadn't been there before.
Maybe it was the battlefield, business, or politics that had honed his edge.
"Major General," an MP stood up and got straight to the point.
"We've asked you to come from Antwerp today for a very important matter."
"You've probably heard about the situation at the Somme?"
"Though there have been... some irregularities and unsatisfactory outcomes, we believe now is not the time for assigning blame."
"What's important now is solving the problem—finding a way to turn the tide of the Somme offensive…"
Charles cut him off: "I know what you're about to ask. But I'm sorry—I may not be able to do it."
The chamber erupted in a flurry of murmurs—even Gallieni looked surprised.
Some had guessed Charles might refuse. After all, it would mean cleaning up someone else's mess. No one would do that willingly.
But they hadn't expected him to be so blunt, so decisive.
"No, you can't do that," a parliamentarian immediately tried to guilt-trip him. "This concerns the lives of many soldiers. You're ignoring their deaths!"
"I wasn't the one who ordered them to charge, gentlemen," Charles replied coldly. "That question should be directed at the generals who gave the orders."
The MP fell silent.
After all, if you didn't want losses, you could've just ordered your troops to hold their positions.
"Moreover," Charles added, "the reason I can't help is because my battle has already begun."
He stood tall, his voice firm though not loud: "My troops are currently attacking Namur. I must dedicate all my effort to commanding the battle in that direction!"
The entire chamber was shocked—someone even dropped their cane under the bench.
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