Chapter 564: Looks Like We Chose the Right Man
Paris, Government Building, third floor — Military Research Office.
A few aides milled around piles of documents, pretending to work. Marshal Foch sat at his desk, absently twirling a pencil in his hand. The notepad before him was completely blank.
He was racking his brain to come up with a way to undermine Charles—something that would convince everyone Foch was Charles's political rival.
But the truth was, Charles was nearly flawless.
No one could've predicted his daring flanking maneuver along the Somme, using the river to penetrate the German rear. With just over a thousand casualties, he had achieved what had cost the British and French hundreds of thousands of lives.
That left Foch with absolutely nothing to criticize.
Faulty tactics?
What tactics could be more perfect?
Failure to pursue victory?
Even that was understandable—the army had just recovered from a mass mutiny. The troops needed time to rest.
If Charles had any "flaw," it was that he'd ruined Britain's plan to infiltrate and control the French army.
Foch couldn't help but smile at that thought.
Just then, a knock came at the door.
Before he could respond, Clemenceau appeared in the doorway, gripping a cane in one hand and a leather briefcase in the other. Calm and composed, he asked:
"General, may we speak in private?"
"Of course." Foch stood up, gesturing for the aides to leave the room.
Once the others had filed out, Clemenceau closed the door, stepped forward, and shook Foch's hand.
"Congratulations, General. On behalf of Parliament, I'm here to inform you—"
He pulled a document from his briefcase and handed it to Foch:
"You are now officially Commander-in-Chief of the French Army… and Supreme Commander of the Allied Forces."
Foch's eyes lit up. Pure joy radiated from his face.
"Is that so?" he exclaimed, gripping the letter. "Thank you, sir! Truly… what a surprise!"
Of course, Foch wasn't surprised at all.
He had already met with the British—just as Charles had suggested, even though Foch hadn't liked the idea.
The delay in his appointment had stemmed from the British waiting for the outcome at the Somme.
Had Charles failed, the British would have had every excuse to demand "deepened cooperation" and further infiltrate France's military structure. They would've pushed for someone easier to control—like Pétain—even if they knew Pétain quietly supported Charles.
But Charles had won.
Not just a win—a decisive victory.
The front was stable, the army was intact, and France's political structure had been reinforced. The British could no longer find a foothold.
And so, as before, the only way to "contain" Charles was to appoint a rival inside the French system: Foch.
It was another battlefield where Charles had triumphed—this time, in politics.
Foch realized now: the British and Parliament had both been thoroughly played by Charles.
Clemenceau, however, remained composed. His true reason for visiting wasn't to deliver the appointment—he wouldn't have needed a private meeting for that.
Foch understood. He invited Clemenceau to sit on the couch and personally brewed him a cup of coffee.
Even as Commander-in-Chief, he didn't dare offend someone with Clemenceau's power in Parliament.
Clemenceau took the coffee, added a sugar cube, and stirred slowly. His tone was casual—but carried a probing undertone:
"You know, although Charles has performed admirably in battle, many believe he's too young to command an entire army group. What's your view?"
It sounded like a simple question. But beneath the surface, it was loaded.
The real message was:
Charles is too powerful. Parliament can't control him. Letting him command two divisions was one thing, but giving him 200,000 men? That makes everyone nervous. The mutiny is under control now—it's time to remove him.
Foch had been in politics long enough to read between the lines. He paused, as if considering, and finally replied:
"Sir, I believe the issue isn't Charles's age, but his reputation."
"He's just won a great victory—a brilliant victory."
"That matters for troop morale, especially right now. We must not act too hastily."
His real message was clear:
Don't burn the bridge so soon. The mutiny was only just resolved. If you cast Charles aside now, the soldiers may rebel again.
Clemenceau gave a slight nod. That was exactly what he was worried about.
He took a sip of coffee and wrinkled his brow, but kept his tone light:
"I've also heard that soldiers from other units voluntarily joined the Sixth Army at the Somme."
"Of course, we admire such courage and spirit."
"But we must also acknowledge a problem—soldiers must hold their positions. Otherwise, our defenses will develop gaps."
His concern wasn't about the Sixth Army—or about gaps in the line. What truly worried him was that more and more soldiers were gathering under Charles, swelling his power.
And that seemed inevitable.
If Charles remained at the Somme and continued to win battles with low casualties, men would continue "migrating" to his command.
"Naturally, sir," Foch replied with confidence. "I'll handle it."
Then he added, as if casually:
"Perhaps… relocating the Sixth Army to Belgium would be a good solution."
As he spoke, he closely watched Clemenceau's reaction.
Clemenceau nodded slowly. "Hmm… that's actually a good idea."
Belgium, compared to the rest of the front, was an "isolated" area—mostly manned by Belgian troops and the British. It felt separate from the main French command.
Clemenceau didn't think Belgium mattered much. He certainly didn't believe Charles could stir up anything significant there.
What he didn't realize was that Foch had just played him.
By relocating the Sixth Army to Belgium, Foch would essentially merge Charles's two armies—and consolidate his dominance in the region.
Even the British wouldn't be able to touch him.
Clemenceau hadn't thought it through. He even seemed pleased with Foch's suggestion. His expression showed approval:
"Looks like we chose the right man after all. You'll be a strong counterbalance to Charles."
Then his tone hardened slightly:
"One last matter. We expect you, as Commander-in-Chief, to bring a firm end to the mutiny. Parliament won't tolerate a repeat."
In other words, the mutiny wasn't just a military issue. It was a political one. Parliament feared the precedent of ordinary soldiers and citizens pressuring them into action.
They would not allow that to happen again.
"Understood, sir," Foch replied.
But in his heart, he sighed.
Parliament couldn't wait to begin its purge. And it would send shockwaves through the military.
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