Chapter 566: Only Charles Could Do It
Charles didn't go to the British first. He went straight to the stationmaster, a Frenchman named Donadi.
Charles believed the British were "not of our own," always eager to claim whatever advantage they could—that was just nature's law. But what he hated more was the French who sold out their own nation's interests.
However, Donadi's answer made it hard for Charles to hold onto that anger.
Seeing the imposing guards and recognizing that the young general before him was none other than the famous Charles, Donadi trembled in place.
"General," he said, his voice shaking. "Please, I beg you, I didn't want to do this. But it's an order from above. If I disobey, I'll lose this job—and my family depends on it."
His eyes were full of pleading, as if saying: Why must the struggles between powerful men drag people like me into the mud? Just one misstep and we're left starving.
Charles had no words.
It was Nivelle's doing—Nivelle, the Anglophile, practically half a Brit himself. Though he had stepped down, Foch had yet to officially assume command, leaving a temporary power vacuum.
Just then, the British captain—perhaps having noticed the stir—stormed over with several soldiers, barking in that self-important British way:
"What's going on here? Why aren't you boarding yet?"
Charles didn't respond directly. He stared coldly at the man and asked:
"Since when did you have priority?"
The British officer flashed his torch, finally realizing he was speaking to a French general. His arrogance shrank slightly, though his tone remained insufferably "gentlemanly":
"I don't quite remember, General. Perhaps since the day the offensive began."
He then flipped the question with a challenge of his own:
"Isn't it only right? We're here helping you fight the war—without us, the Germans would've reached Paris by now!"
"We've made great sacrifices for France, General—tens of thousands of British soldiers are dying every day!"
"We're just trying to get our wounded treated as quickly as possible. I hardly see the problem with that…"
Charles hadn't expected such an audacious response. Britain helping France fight the war?
Britain hadn't joined for France. They declared war when Germany invaded Belgium, and even before that, they were already locked in a naval rivalry with Germany.
Just because the battles were fought on French soil didn't mean they were "helping France."
And what about Britain's attempt to infiltrate and control French military command—was that considered help, too?
"Captain," Charles interrupted, voice calm, every bit the aristocratic gentleman.
"If you really think you're helping France, why not withdraw your troops and leave this war?"
The British captain froze. He hadn't expected that.
"I want you to understand something." Charles spoke with a hint of sarcasm:
"If Britain is fighting to protect its own interests, then this isn't 'help'—it's self-preservation. And let's not forget: you set a world record—100,000 casualties in a single day."
"We're the ones who had to clean up that mess. In fact, you owe us thanks."
The guards chuckled. Everyone knew the scandal—the British tried to cover up that catastrophe, and it had become a stain on their command, especially for Haig.
The captain turned pale with rage. He could no longer maintain his gentlemanly facade. He stiffened his voice:
"I hope you understand, General, that many of the medical supplies—drugs, equipment—come from Britain. So…"
Charles cut in sharply:
"Are those supplies not paid for with French gold and French blood?"
The captain fell silent.
He knew Charles was right. Britain wasn't giving France aid out of charity. France bought those supplies—often with high-interest loans.
And as for the blood—well, it was right outside. The French wounded still waiting for evacuation were undeniable proof.
Charles didn't feel like wasting more words. He issued a clear order:
"You've had one month of priority transportation. From this moment until next month, wounded French soldiers will be given priority."
"No, you can't do that!" The captain took a step forward, hand instinctively going to his revolver.
But before he could act, the guards snapped into position with a swish—several rifles raised, pointed squarely at him.
"Captain…" Donadi whispered nervously from the side. "That's Charles. There's nothing he can't do."
If this fool so much as tried anything, the surrounding crowd would likely tear him limb from limb.
The British captain's eyes shot up in disbelief.
Charles? This was Charles?
The man they called the "Mars of France"? The one who had just pushed the Germans back five kilometers at the Somme?
He had assumed Charles was just another pampered aristocrat "touring" the front.
But now… word spread fast.
"Did you hear? Charles got into it with the British at the station—over evacuation rights for the wounded!"
"What? They pulled guns on Charles?"
"Are you serious? The British tried to intimidate Charles?!"
…
Soon, French soldiers began to gather—station staff, wounded men, even townspeople. Anyone who could still stand came rushing in.
Nurses and doctors joined as well. Some grabbed pistols from soldiers. They swarmed the train station and surrounded the British troops.
"You bastards—this is France!"
"Get away from Charles, or you'll regret it."
"Get out of here! France doesn't need mongrels like you!"
Crowds surged forward, armed and furious. Some even shoved the British troops, trying to provoke a response—to give them an excuse to retaliate.
The British soldiers turned white, retreating step by step. A few turned pleading eyes to their captain, hoping he would back down.
Charles raised his hand just in time, stopping the crowd from going further.
He cast a sidelong glance at the British officer, then turned and addressed the gathering:
"I've just reached an agreement with our British friends."
"Because French wounded have waited longer and are in greater need, they will be given priority transportation until next month."
"We both feel this is a fair and reasonable solution."
Then Charles looked directly at the captain, his voice full of meaning:
"Isn't that right, Captain?"
The British officer's face contorted, but after a pause, he nodded stiffly:
"Yes, General… I… fully agree."
The station erupted in cheers.
Wounded soldiers wept with joy. The news spread like wildfire.
Charles had done it.
He had fought for them, cared for them, and won—even against the haughty British. He had reclaimed not just time and life, but also dignity.
Only Charles could do that.
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