A fine winter rain fell silently, threading like silk into the Som River.
Along the riverbank, over a dozen landing craft were docked. Soldiers braved the drizzle to unload supplies—the vessels, now emptied of tanks and troops, had been repurposed for logistics transport.
Nearby, trenches snaked like veins, stretching off into the rain and pale light of the horizon until vanishing in the mist.
Charles's command post had now been relocated into the German trenches.
These were no muddy ditches. Timber beams supported spacious underground bunkers. The floors were flat and dry, the bedding well-kept. A small fireplace had even been dug for warmth.
Charles glanced behind him at Christine, who had followed him in.
Christine looked visibly ashad.
After seeing the German positions, he had no desire to return to the French trenches—which suddenly seed more like dog kennels.
"Do you know why the Germans fight so well?" Charles murmured, looking around. "Because they treat war as life, and we treat life as war."
"Yes, General," Christine replied softly.
He understood the difference now.
The Germans could rest and recover properly in these conditions, and when combat ca, they could fight at full strength.
The French, on the other hand, had already spent half their energy just enduring the cold, wet, miserable living conditions. Supplies constantly spoiled from moisture. Morale bled out before the fighting even began.
A service soldier added a few logs to the fire. The flas, which had never fully died, roared back to life with a lively crackle, bringing both light and warmth into the bunker.
Charles took off his raincoat and uniform jacket, sitting down by the fire to dry off.
After fighting in the rain, even the best raincoats were nearly useless. The inner layers were always damp and stained.
That's why many soldiers didn't even wear them. More often than not, raincoats got in the way—slowing movents, snagging on debris. In combat, that mont of delay could an death.
Within the ti it takes to drink a cup of tea, the communications team had set up the radio station and begun receiving transmissions.
Before long, a telegram was handed to Charles:
"General, most of the Sixth Army Group has returned to duty. Over 200,000 are back in the ranks. Other sectors are stabilizing as well."
Charles nodded as he sipped his hot coffee.
This was one of the biggest benefits of the victory at the Som.
Before this, every soldier involved in the mutiny—including the entire Sixth Army—had been hesitant to believe Charles would truly "avoid aningless offensives."
That phrase, after all, was vague. What did it an?
What's the standard? Going from 100,000 dead a day to 90,000? 80,000?
Because of this ambiguity, many soldiers remained unwilling to fully commit. They wanted concrete answers. Real guarantees.
Charles had just delivered one.
He had taken 130,000 n—most of them disorganized and demoralized—and defeated Germany's Second Army of 200,000 troops. In doing so, he inflicted over 10,000 German casualties while losing just over 1,000 of his own.
And he advanced five kiloters.
That, to the soldiers, was a aningful attack.
That was the kind of battle they were willing to fight. One where they could live with honor, pride, and dignity—not rot like slaughtered sheep in no man's land.
As a result, morale on the Western Front rebounded sharply. Troops returned to their posts and resud taking orders from their officers.
Christine took the telegram and read it carefully—then frowned.
"Sothing's not right, General."
"What's not right?" Charles asked, setting his coffee down and spreading his wet uniform by the fire.
Christine handed over the ssage. Charles glanced at it under the flickering light.
It was a troop count: the division-by-division roster of the Sixth Army.
"The numbers don't include the First Special Artillery Division," Christine explained. "They say the division returned to full strength not long after you arrived, so it wasn't flagged as a concern."
That made sense. Christine's n were well-disciplined, and he was a combat hero who often led from the front. The soldiers admired him deeply.
But Charles still didn't see the problem.
"So?" he asked.
"General," Christine replied seriously, "The total strength of the Sixth Army Group is 213,000. The report says 205,000 have returned. But it doesn't include the 13,000 in my division."
Charles blinked.
"Are you saying… we have extra people?"
Christine nodded. "Yes, sir. Roughly 5,000 more than expected."
Then he corrected himself:
"Actually, it should be 6,000—we've lost about 1,000 n in battle. Those losses aren't accounted for in the return figures."
Charles was puzzled. Troop counts always went down in war, never up.
A clerical error?
Unlikely. These reports were compiled by headcount, from the bottom up.
Could militias have joined in?
Also unlikely. Maybe the Belgians had that kind of enthusiasm, but most Frenchn avoided conscription like the plague.
Then Christine chuckled.
"General, I think… they want to join the Sixth Army."
Charles snapped his fingers. Of course.
They were soldiers from other units who had slipped into his ranks—drawn by him.
Only Charles could deliver that kind of victory. Only he could lead a battle that felt worth fighting.
"What do we do?" Christine asked, then answered his own question:
"To maintain morale, I think we should pretend we didn't notice."
"No," Charles said firmly. "They need to go back."
"If we let this slide—even once—what's to stop every soldier along the front from sneaking over to join the Sixth Army?"
Christine's face hardened. He understood imdiately.
That wouldn't just disrupt operations—it would be indistinguishable from mutiny.
If the Germans realized that half the front was abandoned because soldiers had flocked to Charles, they'd punch straight through to Paris.
But Charles was thinking even further.
If they let this continue, it would lead to military dictatorship.
Soldiers would obey only him, not Parliant, not the General Staff.
And he'd be the man standing directly in opposition to the French political system.
Now was not the ti.
Just then, another telegram arrived.
"General, Parliant has appointed Foch as the new Commander-in-Chief."
Charles smiled slightly. That was exactly what he had hoped for.
Those sly old foxes in Parliant—and the British—had taken the bait.
"Also," the communications officer added, "as a reward for your contributions to France—and to give you ti to rest—Parliant has granted you one week of leave."
Charles was stunned.
Leave? Now?
Christine was equally baffled.
Shouldn't Charles be staying on the front to stabilize morale?
Then Charles understood.
They wanted to install Foch—not Charles—as the one truly in charge.
If Charles remained here, he would outshine the new Commander-in-Chief.
He was stealing the spotlight.
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