Jambes Headquarters – Christmas Eve, past 11 p.m.
Charles, though with nothing to do, had not gone to rest.
He was casually flipping through a novel, The Legend of Uhlanspig, a story about a hero who fights bravely for national liberation and freedom of belief.
But in truth, Charles was only using the book to pass the ti, while waiting for the inevitable developnts that he anticipated would co tonight.
A few ters away, Galin took a telegram from an adjutant, skimd it briefly, and smiled faintly before striding toward Charles's desk. His military boots stomped heavily with each step, as if issuing a challenge.
He arrived in front of Charles, gave a ceremonial salute, and offered the report:
"Commander, telegram from Paris. They've decided to send two divisions from the British Expeditionary Force and another from the Northern Army Group to assist us in suppressing the unrest."
As he said the words "suppressing the unrest," his tone slowed and deepened, as though worried Charles might not hear it clearly.
Charles didn't move. He remained seated, legs crossed, casually flipping a page in his book.
Galin placed the telegram gently on the desk and leaned forward slightly, his voice tinged with mockery:
"Rest assured, Commander. Jambes is very secure."
Charles responded evenly:
"Is that so? Once these units arrive, what do you plan to do? Have the British take over our battlefield, or take command of our troops?"
Galin blinked. He hadn't thought that far. But he forced a reply:
"I'll coordinate with General Avis to work out a plan. Everything will return to normal."
Charles gave a soft, mocking laugh, not even glancing up:
"They say you're the smartest general in France. I find that hard to believe."
Galin's smile faltered but quickly returned:
"That doesn't matter. What does matter is whether you are smart enough, Commander."
He locked eyes with Charles.
Charles finally looked up.
"If I were smart enough," he asked, "should I abandon everything I'm doing and surrender to you?"
"More or less," Galin nodded.
"While there's still ti."
Then he added:
"We don't need to waste our efforts, General. No need for the army to keep shifting back and forth in dangerous conditions. If failure is inevitable, why persist?"
"You're a clever man. I'm sure you'll make the wise choice."
Charles sighed and shook his head gently.
"Poor Monsieur Galin… you still haven't figured out what's going on."
"What?" Galin looked genuinely surprised.
Charles had just called him "Monsieur Galin" — not "General." The ssage was clear: he wasn't worthy of the rank.
Galin's face darkened. His eyes filled with fury.
"They say you're a conscientious capitalist. But I see now—that was a lie. You'll regret your stubbornness."
Charles calmly closed the book and placed it on the desk, then slid the telegram back toward Galin:
"Do you really think Parliant sent in the British to suppress an 'uprising'?"
"Think again. Why would they bring in British troops? Do they want a confrontation between the French and the British?"
Galin hesitated.
It was true. Using foreign troops to deal with internal army discipline seed like a bad idea. It would complicate things, potentially spark misunderstandings—or worse.
"That's not your concern," Galin said, holding firm.
"You've got enough trouble staying afloat."
"I agree," Charles replied with a smile.
"But that's exactly what you should be worrying about."
"What do you an?" Galin asked.
Charles leaned back in his chair, relaxed.
"When Parliant runs into a problem they can't fix, their favorite trick is to divert attention—shift the bla elsewhere."
Galin laughed.
"You're saying Parliant brought in the British just to redirect the soldiers' anger?"
He didn't believe it at all.
Charles turned serious:
"Not the soldiers — the public."
"Right now, Parliant is riding a tiger. They've brought in British troops so they can later say it was all under foreign pressure. It gives them an excuse — an exit strategy."
"Put simply, Parliant is already preparing to concede. And you still think I'm the one losing this 'battle'?"
Galin stared blankly at him, then burst into laughter:
"Maybe I'm not as clever as people say, but I'm not stupid, General. You can't scare …"
Charles cut him off, voice firm and filled with certainty:
"Let tell you exactly what's going to happen next."
"The troops being sent will probably have a few minor scuffles with the Sixth Army. Sothing that can be spun as 'quelling disorder.' But in truth, they'll do nothing."
"Not long after, Parliant will step in as a 'diator,' pretending to be a neutral party — not the cause of all this."
"And in the end, they'll throw a few rewards to appease and the Sixth Army troops. They'll remove you and hand back full command — to stabilize the army."
Galin's smile faded.
It sounded exactly like sothing Parliant would do. Let the British take the heat, preserve their own image, and try to buy peace.
"You… you're really that confident?" Galin asked. But he was already wavering inside.
Charles raised an eyebrow.
"Let's wait and see."
The answer was obvious.
These so-called "riots" couldn't be quelled by brute force. No one even knew who the enemy was, or where. There was nothing for the incoming units to fight. Nothing to suppress.
Galin slumped back into his chair. He was starting to suspect Charles might be right. Parliant might have to fold.
What stung the most was how Charles had orchestrated all of this—every step moving precisely in his favor—while Galin had completely failed to read the ga.
He had even co swaggering in, trying to make Charles surrender—just before Charles won.
Galin felt his cheeks burning.
Over and over in his mind, Charles's words echoed:
"The smartest general in France?"
"Monsieur Galin."
"Let's wait and see."
No. This won't be how it ends.
Parliant won't let Charles walk away from this.
He's committed a terrible cri — he must pay.
But no matter what Galin wished, events continued turning in Charles's favor.
As Galin sat there, lost in grim thoughts, an adjutant approached cautiously, holding a docunt:
"General… this docunt requires General Charles's signature."
"What?" Galin snapped, glaring.
Who dared to ignore the order to sideline Charles?
The adjutant hesitated, then explained:
"The brigade and regintal commanders on the front lines… said if they don't acknowledge Charles's command, they might not survive tomorrow…"
Galin had no words.
The "unspoken rule" had beco a deterrent.
Brigade and regintal commanders—and even staff officers—were now begging for Charles's leadership.
The truth was clear:
Charles had already won.
Because real command was returning to him.
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