Chapter 657: Because France Has Charles
Brusilov repeatedly thanked Charles and left the command post fully satisfied.
As soon as they stepped outside, the interpreter and aide who had accompanied Brusilov throughout the visit asked curiously,
"General, do you really believe in Charles's tactics? It seems he hasn't given us anything concrete—only a few suggestions."
Originally, their mission had been to obtain a tank design along with its corresponding tactical doctrine. Clearly, that goal hadn't been achieved.
From the aide's perspective, the idea of using sleds or wagons with Maxim guns, while clever, didn't seem like a match for Germany's tanks. He couldn't help but feel disappointed.
But Brusilov smiled faintly. "This is more than enough."
He didn't elaborate.
To aides and most people, the ideal solution was always flashy equipment that looked powerful.
But Brusilov understood: the most lethal weapons were often simple, cheap, and easy to mass-produce.
The sled-Maxim combo—or the Tachanka—was exactly that.
Think about it—how many tanks could the Germans possibly deploy on the Eastern Front?
Meanwhile, the Russian army could field thousands—tens of thousands—of wagons armed with machine guns.
Once the offensive began, the Germans wouldn't know what hit them.
As their car drove from the airfield toward the port, Brusilov stared out the window, deep in thought.
Then he said to his aide:
"What I'm not completely sure about… is Charles's idea of using cavalry instead of armored units for deep breakthroughs."
"After all, we saw what happened at the Somme.
And horses are fragile creatures—they can't stand up to modern firepower."
"But maybe," he added thoughtfully,
"maybe Russia's climate and terrain really do make it worth trying."
The aide nodded in agreement.
The Eastern Front was already on the verge of collapse.
If they didn't try Charles's tactics—what else could they do?
Wait for death?
Trying, at least, offered a sliver of hope.
Brusilov turned and looked back through the car window in the direction of the airport.
He'd heard that Charles's relationship with the Royal Navy had soured.
Not long ago, he had thought Charles was simply arrogant and courting disaster.
But now, it seemed the one actually headed for disaster might be the Royal Navy—not Charles.
The car sped forward, its engine humming as the cold wind howled through the cracks around the windows.
Suddenly, Brusilov asked, seemingly out of nowhere,
"Do you know why we were so eager to join this war, Vladimirovich?"
His aide was startled, and shook his head slightly.
It was a valid question.
This world war hadn't directly involved Russia at first.
Yet Russia had been the first to mobilize nationwide.
Within just 48 hours of Austria-Hungary declaring war, Russia had increased its active-duty forces by 900,000 and called up 4 million reserves.
At the time, Britain and France were still hesitating.
It wasn't until nearly two weeks later that France raised an army of 1.4 million,
and Britain only organized a small expeditionary force of 70,000.
"Because we believed Britain would win," Brusilov said solemnly.
"Standing with her meant standing on the side of victory. Do you understand?"
The aide nodded.
It made sense.
Two centuries earlier, Peter the Great had traveled to the Netherlands and Britain to learn shipbuilding.
What he brought back wasn't just techniques—it was the awareness of Britain's strength.
Even Russian politics and philosophy had been shaped by British influence ever since.
But then Brusilov let out a long sigh.
"Now," he murmured, "I think we may need to change our way of thinking."
He didn't spell it out.
But his aide understood perfectly.
Given the current situation, Russia might be better off aligning with France rather than Britain.
Because France had Charles.
And Britain... was falling behind.
…
That afternoon, Charles took a short nap in the lounge.
The French didn't typically nap at midday, and as a commander, Charles usually didn't have time for it either.
But perhaps due to genetics, whenever things quieted down, this time of day always made him drowsy.
If he didn't rest, his productivity would plummet.
When he got up, he was surprised to see Tijani already sitting in his office.
"What are you doing here?" Charles asked.
Tijani had been stationed in Namur recently, commanding armored units and occasionally engaging in small skirmishes for training.
Charles found his arrival unexpected—at the very least, he should've sent a telegram.
Tijani nodded toward the desk. "I sent one this morning. Looks like you haven't checked it yet."
Charles remembered then—he had been busy all morning receiving Brusilov.
And that wasn't as simple as it looked.
It wasn't just about relieving pressure on the Western Front.
Charles was also thinking ahead—about confronting Britain.
The main Allied powers were Britain, France, and Russia.
If Charles could gain Russian support—or at least their neutrality—in his future confrontation with the Royal Navy,
that would be a massive advantage.
"Alright," Charles said, sitting behind his desk. "So what brings you to Antwerp? You're not here to 'observe' a naval battle, are you?"
He was joking.
Though Tijani was Wells's son and had a passion for studying the art of war,
he had always harbored strong resistance to naval affairs.
"The navy has no aesthetic appeal whatsoever," Tijani once said.
"It's all about who has thicker armor or bigger guns. And as for command... it's just 'fire!'"
Charles understood.
Tijani loved battlefield fluidity and creativity.
But during WWI, the navy offered little of either—especially since the Royal Navy had suppressed the French fleet for years.
To him, it all seemed dull and uninspiring.
Part of it, no doubt, stemmed from his father forcing him toward a naval career since childhood—
a source of deep-rooted rebellion.
"I was wrong," Tijani said, sitting across from Charles.
"Naval battles might not be as boring as I thought."
Charles looked at him in surprise.
"You mean… you're thinking of joining naval command?"
Tijani responded helplessly,
"I heard you're investing in ten new destroyers, General. Guess who the Brest Shipyard sent to discuss the construction plans?"
Charles stared. "Don't tell me it's you."
Tijani spread his arms and even stood to strike a proud pose.
"Who else would be better suited?"
Charles shook his head, unimpressed. "No generals in Shu, so Liao Hua takes the lead."
"What?" Tijani blinked. "Who's Liao Hua?"
"Never mind," Charles brushed it off.
But thinking deeper… there really wasn't anyone more suitable.
Tijani was the heir of Brest Shipyard—no one had more credibility.
He had also been with Charles through many battles.
No one understood him better.
Most importantly, he had absorbed Charles's advanced military thinking,
making collaboration smoother.
And Wells was grooming him as a successor.
Charles sighed inwardly.
Some people just had access to resources the average person could never dream of.
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