The sun rose through the clouds, casting a haunting red glow over the Ypres front line, highlighting the blood and bodies scattered across the battlefield.
At that mont, the soldiers of France's 43rd Division were having breakfast—mashed potatoes delivered late from the rear lines. Already cold as ice, it had arrived over an hour behind schedule.
The supply teams, terrified of the gas, were too frightened to approach the front, even though the soldiers repeatedly assured them that gas was visible and wouldn't sneak up on them without warning.
Spoonful by spoonful, the soldiers ate the frozen potato mash, grumbling among themselves:
"They're avoiding us like the plague." "Yeah, they dropped the food and ran back without looking back." "I just tapped Jamie on the shoulder, and he scread and ran off. He probably thinks gas is contagious!"
They all laughed, but the laughter held a tinge of bitterness. If even the support staff were this afraid, what could they, the ones waiting on the front lines, expect when the gas rolled in?
Suddenly, the battlefield fell eerily silent. Scattered gunfire ceased, leaving only the steady rush of the sea breeze and the crashing waves against distant rocks. Captain Raphael raised his hand to signal for silence, and the soldiers went quiet, terror dawning on their faces. They knew what this ant.
After a tense pause, the captain set down his ss tin, pulled out his binoculars, and carefully peeked over the trench edge.
Through his binoculars, he saw… nothing. Just empty land. He breathed a sigh of relief.
But just as he lowered the binoculars, he saw it—a faintly yellow-green fog rising slowly on the horizon, growing denser and expanding across the entire front line like a massive wall.
"Gas!" he shouted, turning back to his n.
Chaos erupted in the trench. Soldiers scrambled like ants on a hot pan. So darted into bunkers to grab their belongings; others propped their rifles along the trench walls. Food and equipnt scattered across the ground as the n looked desperately to their officers for orders. They expected the order to retreat, having already agreed that staying would an certain death.
The captain watched the advancing gas. Today's wind was stronger, which ant the gas would arrive faster—perhaps in just ten minutes. There was no ti to report and wait for orders.
"Retreat! Now!" he commanded, leading his n through the communication trench toward the rear.
But the trench was already packed with soldiers jostling to escape. Panic overtook them as they shoved and shouted, blocking the passage until no one could move.
"Climb out!" the captain gestured to the top of the trench.
The soldiers quickly cooperated, pushing each other up over the trench walls and pulling each other out. Without regard for the danger of exposing themselves to enemy fire, they scrambled and fled.
On the German side, Major General Jonas stood on high ground, observing the French line through his binoculars. Watching the flood of retreating soldiers, he finally felt reassured.
"There's no gas protection," he muttered to himself. "Otherwise, they wouldn't be running—and certainly not in such a panic."
He couldn't help but feel a slight disappointnt; perhaps he had overestimated Charles.
Little did he know, this was exactly what Charles wanted him to see.
Charles had ordered absolute secrecy regarding the gas masks, particularly from the 43rd Division.
"Every gas mask is to remain in your backpacks. No one is to take them out or try them on without direct orders," Charles commanded. "And no one is to ntion them to anyone."
Thus, the 43rd Division knew nothing about the gas masks. When they saw the gas coming, their panic and disorganized retreat were exactly as Charles had anticipated.
Even Captain Claude, who was working alongside the 105th Regint, only learned about the gas masks early that morning when he and his n were each issued one.
Staring at the odd contraption in his hands, Claude was stunned. "Does this really work? Have you tested it?" he asked, his voice tinged with doubt.
"Soone's got to try it, Captain," Tijani replied.
Claude chuckled, catching on quickly. "We're the 'test group,' aren't we?"
Tijani nodded with a grin. "Including the colonel," he added, gesturing to Charles.
Realizing the significance, Claude asked no more questions. Without hesitation, he took the gas masks back to his n.
His soldiers were equally skeptical, examining the masks with suspicion.
"Are you sure this will work, Captain?" "If it doesn't, we'll be sitting ducks here." "This isn't so money-making scam by the capitalists, is it?"
Their doubts were not surprising. The people had been deceived by French capitalists too many tis to count; they felt more contempt than trust toward them. And the notion that the French could produce gas masks so quickly, just a day after the first gas attack, seed too good to be true.
But Claude reassured them, his tone confident, "You're right not to trust the capitalists. But this is different—it was made by Charles."
Pausing, he added, "And you might not know, but Charles is here with us!"
A murmur of shock spread among the soldiers.
"Charles is here?" "That can't be! The papers said he's in Paris—today's paper!"
Claude simply smiled without further explanation.
And then, as if on cue, Charles erged from the bunker, waving at the soldiers. "Good morning, gentlen!"
The soldiers froze, astonished.
They rembered him clearly from that Christmas night. Though it had been dark, they would never forget the face of Charles. And now, here he was, facing the gas with them. What more reassurance did they need?
Around them, even the soldiers of the 105th, who had only just realized Charles was there, felt a surge of confidence.
"He's really here—I thought he was in Paris!" "Why did I even worry about the gas mask? If he's here, it must work." "Yes, Charles is with us. This thing has to be effective!"
And so, while the 43rd Division retreated in a chaotic wave, the 105th Infantry and Claude's n remained in their trenches, unmoving and composed.
They took advantage of the empty dugouts left behind by the 43rd Division, grouping in twos and threes to shelter inside. Carefully, they sealed the entrances with sandbags and damp cloths, preparing for what lay ahead.
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