Chapter 743: The "Silicon Valley" of France
Thanks to the coordinated efforts of several generals, the Meuse River defense line was gradually stabilizing.
Pétain took charge of the southern sector near Bichancourt, while Foch's forces held the northern sector. The frontline was essentially divided down the middle, with each man responsible for one half.
The current primary task was receiving surrendered German troops.
Yet even this simple matter sparked disputes between the two camps.
Why?
Because the dividing line bisected several towns.
So when German soldiers from those towns surrendered, no one could agree on whom they were supposed to surrender to.
In some villages, German troops had already laid down their arms days earlier, but their official surrender was delayed by three or four days due to jurisdictional disagreements.
German officers couldn't help but comment:
"Defeating the French is easier than we imagined. All we have to do is surrender—then they start fighting each other."
This was a uniquely French dysfunction—government departments always counterbalancing and restraining one another in pursuit of "equilibrium."
Naturally, this habit had extended to the military as well.
The newspapers didn't report on any of this.
The military considered it a disgrace and strictly censored the press.
But among the soldiers, rumors spread freely:
"Foch is all about offense, Pétain about defense. They've never agreed."
"Parliament insists that the military needs diverse tactics. That's why Foch was ordered not to interfere with Pétain's command. So this sort of thing? Totally normal."
"We're lucky to have Charles. Otherwise, they might've gone to war over how to guard the Bières Bridge."
(Note: The Bières Bridge is a small bridge near Bichancourt. It marks the boundary between Foch's and Pétain's sectors. Their opposing military doctrines resulted in very different defensive setups on either side.)
…
Charles didn't get involved in any of these power struggles.
He stayed focused, methodically building roads and railways between Verdun and Mézières.
To him, logistics was everything.
If soldiers and munitions could be delivered efficiently to Mézières, and coal, steel, and other materials from the area could reach the armament factories—then half the battle was already won.
Add a few airfields and aviation squadrons just behind the Meuse defensive line, and Charles' forces would become the army's immovable cornerstone.
He didn't concern himself with whether Foch or Pétain had better defenses.
Because even if the Germans did breach their lines, Charles' air force and mechanized units could rapidly respond and wipe them out.
It would be a dimensional strike—not just against the Germans, but against Foch and Pétain as well.
And the future would only amplify this difference.
As armored, mechanized, and air units became more advanced, infantry would still be essential—but their role would shrink.
…
At the Brest shipyards, activity had reached a fever pitch.
Since the war began, naval demand had dropped—but army demand had soared.
Many workshops were now producing military trucks, gun carriages, and even rifle components.
Charles' order for ten destroyers had injected new life into the shipyard, reviving its industrial vitality.
Professor Fessenden remained aloof to all of it.
He didn't even care about the war.
His assistants often teased him:
"Professor, by the time the war ends, you might not even realize it started."
Fessenden would smile faintly and reply:
"I only need to read about Charles.
What else matters?"
The others had no comeback.
Indeed, across the sprawling 700-kilometer frontline, the daily routine was the same:
digging trenches, reinforcing positions, launching assaults, and counting the dead.
The only real change came from Charles' army.
So Fessenden was right: if you followed Charles, you understood the war.
He was now focused on the stability of the "echo locator" he'd invented.
The device used many vacuum tubes—which, being made of glass, were fragile and prone to failure on a wet, rocking ship.
A single faulty vacuum tube could cause the entire system to fail—an enormous weakness for the sonar device.
(Image: A WWI-era vacuum tube radio transmitter. Though invented in 1904, these tubes were large, costly, and extremely fragile—one reason why early aircraft could not carry radio equipment.)
Fessenden's proposed solution was to install multiple sonar units per destroyer.
But destroyers lacked the space for that, putting him in a bind.
While he wrestled with the problem, a staffer handed him a telegram.
"Professor, it's from Charles. He wants you to come to Paris. His private plane is on its way."
Fessenden blinked.
Paris?
At a time like this?
Didn't Charles know how busy the lab was?
Still, he nodded.
"All right. I'll go prepare."
He hoped Charles had a very good reason.
Because once Fessenden was deep in his research, being pulled away was disruptive—it could cost him a breakthrough, or the loss of a rare flash of insight.
To him, that was worse than being stabbed.
"Charles should've come to Brest," he muttered.
"Would've saved a lot of time."
…
Davault, a town near Paris.
Under Charles' management, this once quiet village had become France's Silicon Valley.
It attracted elite minds from every field: engine designers, artillery experts, tank engineers, aircraft builders, tractor and car manufacturers.
Once peaceful and sleepy, the town was now alive with noise and movement.
Workers crisscrossed its streets.
Factory buildings and dormitories sprang up across the area.
Smokestacks belched clouds skyward.
Roads and railways had multiplied to support growing transportation demands.
Charles had placed his research center here not only because it was where he grew up, but also due to its strategic location:
Close to Paris—allowing easy access to labor, talent, and resources.Far from the frontlines—making it safe enough to attract scientists.Isolated enough to enforce strict security.
With Lieutenant Colonel Laurent's security battalion stationed nearby, the flow of information could be tightly controlled, preventing any technological leaks.
"My God… is this the same town as last year?" Professor Fessenden exclaimed as he looked out the car window.
He had been away less than twelve months—and barely recognized the place.
Driving the car, Laurent replied:
"Our industrial zone has tripled in size, Professor.
My troops have tripled too—but we're still short-handed."
Fessenden suddenly had a hunch:
He might not be leaving this place for a while.
It was simple—Charles would never allow one of his scientists to work elsewhere, not even in Brest, which was technically on his side.
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