The frontline troop "mutiny" occurred two days ago—on the third day of Nivelle's offensive.
Perhaps fueled by the initial day's success, Nivelle issued relentless orders for continuous assaults on enemy lines, even during the night.
In his mind, commanding a battle was not complicated—it simply ant transferring one unit after another from the rear and pushing them onto the field.
As for whether soldiers fell in droves under enemy fire? To him, that was simply what a battlefield was supposed to look like.
But things didn't go as planned.
The Germans had adapted Charles's reverse-slope fortification tactics at the Som. Every elevation—even minor hills—was utilized to the fullest.
They laid landmines between hills, even directional mines.
This rendered the Franco-British artillery advantage ineffective, neutralized tanks, and once again brought the front line to a stalemate.
(Note: In reverse-slope defenses, the crest line marks the intersection of the forward and rear slope. These are often rigged with tunnels where a squad could hide, ready to throw grenades. Scouts would observe and report enemy movent from this position.)
Even so, desperate to achieve further success and prove himself, Nivelle kept ordering wave after wave of attacks.
Then, sothing changed.
At so point, when officers blew the whistle to signal a charge, so soldiers stopped yelling or grabbing bayonets to rush forward. Instead, they began bleating like sheep—baa, baa—and slowly walked toward the enemy lines.
This was protest through mockery. They saw themselves as pitiful lambs being led to slaughter. So even slung their rifles over their backs and made horns with their hands above their heads.
If they were going to die anyway, what difference did it make whether they held a gun?
Officers couldn't punish them. After all, they were obeying orders and charging, and besides, many of them would never return. So be it.
But what the officers didn't expect was how fast this behavior spread.
Soon, every ti an assault was ordered, the trenches echoed with the sound of bleating sheep.
It was no longer a sad sound—it had beco a secret code, a form of communication, and a symbol of unity. Anyone who bleated and pretended to be a sheep was one of them—one of the soldiers resisting aningless slaughter. Anyone who didn't was an "enemy."
They hadn't realized before just how many of them shared the sa sentint. Now, they knew—nearly everyone opposed the assaults. Even many junior officers were on their side.
If any officer dared object, they would be imdiately isolated and ignored.
After one night of quiet buildup, by morning the next day, it had escalated: soldiers openly refused to follow orders to attack. They shouted at their officers:
"We refuse to die in aningless charges! Our lives aren't bullets for the Germans!"
"We want peace! Let this damned war end!"
"If you want us to charge, let the commander lead us himself!"
…
The army was in complete disarray. Many soldiers got themselves drunk and collapsed in corners, completely ignoring their officers' shouting and threats.
Worse yet, the movent was beginning to spread from the Som to the rest of the entire frontline.
Though Christine enjoyed high regard within the First Special Artillery Division for caring about his n, even he was affected and could no longer effectively command his troops.
Sensing disaster, he could only turn to Charles and telegraph for help.
…
Bourbon Palace, Paris.
Nivelle stood before Parliant, trying to maintain his composure as he faced a room full of angry stares.
He kept his face blank and replied, "It's not as bad as it sounds, Major General. I've already taken care of it. You handle your business—I know how to handle mine..."
"Is that so?" Charles cut him off coldly. "Your so-called 'solution'—does that involve executing a few of the 'mutiny ringleaders' and then forcing the rest back into the field?"
Nivelle had always behaved one way to his superiors and another to his subordinates.
"He who is obsequious upward must be arrogant downward."
The more servile he was to Parliant and the British, the more tyrannical he was toward frontline troops.
He showed no hesitation in using force to suppress the unrest.
But Nivelle misunderstood the situation—these soldiers already knew they were going to die. Why would they fear execution?
Such actions only made things worse.
Charles turned to the room, raising his voice.
"The commander-in-chief hasn't told you this—but at least ten divisions have already refused to fight. And the number is still growing."
"We're lucky the Germans have gained so much from defensive warfare that they prefer to hold their lines."
"Otherwise, do you know what would happen?"
The chamber erupted.
Parliantarians' faces turned pale as they whispered:
"A mass mutiny? Ten divisions refusing orders? If the Germans launch a counteroffensive now, the entire Western Front will collapse—they could march on Paris again!"
"No, André, forget Paris—France will have no choice but to surrender!"
"We'll lose every able-bodied man. We won't be able to form another army."
…
Gallieni, peeking from behind, spoke in a panicked voice: "Is this true? We haven't received any information!"
Nivelle opened his mouth to deny it.
But Charles looked him straight in the eyes, shaking his head slightly: "There's no point, Commander. They'll find out easily."
Nivelle was stunned, then sighed.
Charles was right. Gallieni was the Minister of War. The governnt and parliant had dozens of ways to uncover the truth. Covering this up was impossible.
"Yes," Nivelle finally admitted. "But it's not as bad as it seems…"
"Not as bad?!" Gallieni's eyes burned with fury. "Ten divisions! Even if you can regain control, this is still an unprecedented tragedy!"
The parliant roared with condemnation:
"Liar! Murderer! Making you Commander-in-Chief was a mistake!"
"We've had enough! You need to be held accountable!"
…
Nivelle tried to defend himself: "I had no choice! I couldn't let the news get out…"
But his excuse was pitiful.
Everyone knew—if he had truly taken the mutiny seriously, he would've stayed at the front to fix it, not lingered in Paris slandering Charles.
The room suddenly went quiet. No more yelling—just cold stares aid at Nivelle.
Their expressions were not angry anymore, but sarcastic, regretful, even pitying.
As if they were watching a man fall apart.
Nivelle's face went pale.
At that mont, he realized his political career was over.
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