Chapter 565: The British Priority
Charles handed over command of the Sixth Army Group to Christine. He had planned to dry his uniform and then head to Paris to enjoy his granted leave.
But before he could leave, he received a telegram from Pétain:
"Unbelievable—Foch has become the Commander-in-Chief. Foch!"
"His offensive theory has already been proven disastrously wrong. The army suffered heavy losses under his unrealistic strategies, and yet they chose him for the highest command?"
"Compared to your victories, his contributions are negligible. Especially after what you achieved at the Somme… and still, they made this decision!"
Charles read the message carefully. Beneath the outrage, he could feel something more: provocation. Pétain wanted Charles to challenge Foch—to clash with him.
Charles, of course, wasn't going to fall for it.
He replied:
"I was surprised as well, General. I always thought you were the best candidate for Commander-in-Chief—and I still do."
"I may have some achievements, but as others have said, my age remains an issue. I still need more experience. And more importantly, I cannot fully sever ties with capitalist interests."
"To be honest, I'd rather give up being a soldier altogether and live as a simple businessman. Sometimes I don't even know why I'm here—why I keep doing all this. I could be resting at home, enjoying life, yet I'm knee-deep in mud and danger."
"I also feel that your contributions at Verdun haven't received the recognition they deserve. General, you could say you saved France!"
Charles's words, on the surface, sounded like humble complaints. But in truth, he was sending Pétain a clear message:
I'm not competing for the top. I know Parliament will never give me that position. But you—you saved Verdun. You're a national hero. Why would they choose Foch over you?
In the end, Pétain's attempt to drive a wedge between Charles and Foch backfired—Charles turned the wedge toward him.
When Pétain received the telegram, he furiously slammed his coffee cup onto the table. The porcelain cracked, and coffee splashed everywhere, soaking the paperwork.
His aides hurried forward to clean up the mess.
Pétain stood in silence by the window, staring out at the distant German lines. He muttered bitterly:
"While we fought the Germans, Foch sat in a warm office, smoking cigars. He did nothing but slander Charles—and now he's the Commander-in-Chief."
So enraged was he, he failed to realize the irony: it was precisely because Foch attacked Charles that he got the position.
Had Pétain recognized that, he might have started connecting the dots.
Instead, something ironic had formed: Pétain and Foch were now rivals, yet both were also, in some way, allies of Charles.
…
Dusk settled. Charles's convoy made its way through the rain-soaked countryside, bumping along uneven roads.
It consisted of his signals team and personal guard—three trucks and one staff car—heading for the railway station.
He could've taken a plane to Paris, but at this time of year, flying meant sitting exposed in an open cockpit in the freezing rain. Charles figured he'd be half-dead from cold before he even arrived.
What he didn't expect was that traveling by train—especially wartime train—would be just as complicated.
The station was located in the town of Saint-Saëns, 15 kilometers from the front line. This was far enough to be safe from German 105mm artillery, but close enough to serve as a vital logistics hub.
It was where reinforcements and supplies were brought in—and where wounded from the front were gathered to be sent back.
As Charles's convoy rolled into town, the streets were packed with wounded. Some were lightly injured, others severely so.
Most had nothing but a rain poncho over their heads. Many huddled under eaves, hugging their coats to stay warm, shaking from the cold. Others slumped in doorways, unmoving—either asleep or already dead.
Doctors, nurses, and volunteers trudged through the rain like the living dead, dragging their feet from exhaustion. But the sheer number of patients overwhelmed them.
The wounded stared longingly at the convoy heading for the station, eyes filled with unspoken pleas, as if hoping the vehicles might take them too.
Charles sighed. These must be the soldiers who had been wounded under Nivelle's command, back when casualties were unmanageable.
What Charles didn't yet know was that this was only part of the problem.
The closer they got to the station, the more wounded they saw.
Outside the station, crowds of injured soldiers packed the area shoulder to shoulder. Only heavily armed troops were able to maintain order, barely keeping a corridor open so Charles's convoy could pass through.
Then Charles noticed something odd.
"Why are all the guards and order enforcers British soldiers?" he asked.
The poor visibility made it hard to see clearly, but British soldiers were easy to identify by their distinctive dome-shaped helmets.
"I'm not sure, General," said his aide Adrian. "Perhaps it's because the British are in charge of logistics?"
Charles made a noncommittal "hmm." It was a reasonable explanation. At this point, the French army relied heavily on British logistics—especially under Nivelle, who had essentially been Britain's puppet.
But soon, Charles realized that the British had been given much more than some authority.
As the convoy reached the train, they were stopped by a British officer. He shined his flashlight over Adrian's pass, then lazily waved them forward.
"Car five. Move it!"
His tone was rude, his attitude dismissive—even toward Charles.
Adrian's brow furrowed. This man had no idea who he was talking to.
The guards were equally furious. Several had already gripped their rifles, ready to teach the officer a lesson. But Charles raised a hand to stop them.
Causing a commotion at the station would only slow things down. In war, delays meant lost lives.
But then, as Charles climbed onto car five, something else caught his eye.
He stopped with one foot inside the carriage, turned back, and scanned the area.
"General?" Adrian asked, stopping behind him.
Charles narrowed his eyes.
"Have you noticed… everyone around here is British wounded?"
Adrian looked around, puzzled. "Maybe this train is just for British evacuees?"
Charles shook his head, his gaze growing colder.
"Then why are all the wounded waiting outside French?"
In that moment, he understood.
The British were using their control over logistics—and over Nivelle's administrative system—to secure priority evacuation for their own men.
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