Chapter 416: Charles's Luck
In Lagaden, the French High Command was as quiet as ever.
Since morning, Joffre had been feigning busyness in his office, trying his best to avoid thinking about the Bastille Day parade. As Commander-in-Chief of the French Army, he should have been at the parade, basking in the applause of the French people. But instead, he was in his office, surrounded by piles of documents and reports.
The government had invited Joffre to attend, but he had declined. He knew all too well what would happen if he went—the applause would be for Charles, while he, the commander-in-chief, would face jeers and pitiful glances. At the reception, someone might even have the nerve to ask, "Commander, would you care to list your victories for us?"
And then Joffre would have nothing to say. He couldn't exactly respond with,
"No, sir, I haven't won any victories."
"All the successes are Charles's doing. I'm only here to hold him back."
To avoid this embarrassment, Joffre had politely declined Clemenceau's invitation, gritting his teeth as he replied, "Apologies, sir, but I feel I should stay at my post."
"You know the Germans are aware that today is our national holiday. They might seize the opportunity to launch an attack while so many officers are away."
"Let me, as Commander-in-Chief, defend the front lines—it's my duty!"
Clemenceau knew perfectly well this was just an excuse. The front was stable, and the lower-ranking officers were more than capable of managing without Joffre's presence. In fact, many considered Joffre's presence superfluous and thought his absence might be an improvement. But Clemenceau, diplomatic as always, simply replied, "My respects, Commander. The front certainly needs capable leadership. I'll ensure the government understands this."
Yet even after securing his own relief, Joffre still felt bitter. This wasn't the kind of "duty" he wanted. What he truly desired was to be the one standing tall at the parade, receiving the adoration of thousands, delivering a speech while the entire French nation chanted his name. Instead, it was Charles who would enjoy all of this today. Charles!
As Joffre sat fuming, Carnes approached him cautiously with a telegram. "Commander, I thought you'd want to see this."
Joffre took the telegram and glanced at it. His eyes widened in shock. "Charles isn't attending the parade?"
"No, sir," Carnes replied. "He's leading the First Tank Brigade and the 105th Infantry Regiment in an attack on the German defenses at Cambrai."
Joffre's face darkened with a sense of betrayal. They had agreed that Charles would join the Eastern Army Group, and Joffre was waiting for the Italians to break through the Austro-Hungarian line. But Charles had gone north instead and launched his own offensive.
He felt humiliated—neither Charles nor Foch had informed him of the plan.
"They must have planned this together," Joffre muttered.
Carnes hesitated. Charles and Foch? How could their actions be considered a "conspiracy"? After all…
"This telegram was from General Foch himself," Carnes explained. "He claims he only just learned of it."
Joffre snorted in disbelief. Of course, that wasn't the case; anyone with half a mind knew that an operation of this scale would have required significant planning, support, and coordination from the Northern Army Group.
But there was little Joffre could do about it. Although Foch was technically his subordinate, he was also widely respected as the architect of France's military doctrine and enjoyed immense authority.
Another general with similar autonomy was Gallieni, whose reputation had been cemented by his defense of Paris. Although he held the relatively modest title of Commander of the Reserve Army Group, he, too, commanded great independence.
Joffre picked up the telegram again and looked at it, then turned his gaze to the map.
Carnes quickly approached and pointed to the location on the telegram. "Here, sir. Charles's troops are advancing rapidly. They began the assault at nine o'clock, and in just over two hours, they've pushed nearly fifty kilometers, now near Mons."
Joffre looked up at Carnes, his tone accusatory. "Fifty kilometers in just over two hours?"
His tone implied blame, as if Carnes must have made an amateur mistake.
Joffre's reaction was understandable. With no concept of an armored or mechanized division in mind, he found it impossible to conceive that any force could advance at a rate of twenty kilometers per hour. In his experience, five kilometers per hour was the most an army could manage under ideal conditions. And yet, here was Charles advancing at four times that speed. Impossible.
"Yes, sir," Carnes replied firmly. "Charles equipped his entire force with vehicles, which gives them remarkable mobility. And the German rear is incredibly vulnerable—there's no German presence all the way to Brussels. The local police are mostly Belgians, and they've already launched an uprising, seizing control of the police stations."
The Germans had set up local police forces by enlisting Belgians to maintain order under German oversight. This arrangement worked fine under normal conditions. But the moment French forces broke through, Belgian citizens—including police—were quick to rebel.
Not only did Charles's forces encounter minimal resistance, but they also received considerable support from locals. Supplies were readily available, and people eagerly offered food, transportation, and even gasoline. Many wanted to join the French troops.
Joffre stared at Carnes in disbelief before finally nodding slowly, absorbing the information.
After a pause, Joffre sighed. He still couldn't understand why Charles always seemed to march to victory with such ease, while other French commanders paid a steep price in blood for even the smallest advances.
After studying the map a moment, Joffre asked, "Do the Germans have a garrison in Brussels?"
"Yes," Carnes replied. "A reserve division, about 20,000 strong."
"Good," Joffre said, a trace of relief in his voice. "This is reckless and over-ambitious. If the Germans manage to hold him at Brussels, Charles's forces could easily find themselves surrounded."
Then Joffre's eyes brightened. "Is Charles with his troops?"
"Yes," Carnes confirmed. "He's advancing with the 105th Infantry Regiment."
Joffre's lips curled into a faint smile. This was the best news he'd heard all day.
But just then, a staff officer entered with another telegram and announced excitedly, "Commander! The Germans in Brussels are retreating!"
"Retreating?" Joffre blinked, stunned. "Why would they retreat?"
"Apparently, their ammunition depot exploded," the staff officer reported.
Joffre's jaw dropped in disbelief. Was this just luck? Coincidence?
Or had Charles planned this all along?
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