Chapter 438: All Within Charles's Calculations?
Marshal Foch was at his wit's end.
Not only had he deployed the 9th Army, but he'd also reinforced it with two additional divisions. Yet Mons had become a meat grinder, devouring his forces, only for them to be withdrawn days later, decimated. After several days of fighting, not only had they failed to break the German line, but they were also gradually being pushed out of Mons.
Meanwhile, the Germans had rebuilt a new defensive line around the 9th Army, encircling it dangerously.
Foch stared blankly at the map, lost in thought for a long time, until a phrase slipped out: "Perhaps Charles was right."
"What was that, sir?" Weygand asked, unsure what Foch meant, though he quickly thought of the disagreement over Charles's earlier advice to deploy the 9th Army by car and rail.
"No, General," Weygand replied. "That's not the issue; we've discussed this before…"
"I know," Foch interrupted. "Moving by car or train would be risky, easily falling into an ambush."
He pulled out a report and slapped it onto the table. "But tell me this: would any ambush have turned out worse than this?"
Weygand paused, looking at the report. It was a record of the 9th Army's casualties over these past few days. Over 20,000 soldiers lost, and the 9th Army had made no progress, on the brink of being surrounded.
Before Weygand could respond, Foch added, "And the worst part is, after losing so many men, we've gained nothing. We're still stuck at Mons, unable to budge. Had we moved by rail, we might have taken it in an hour."
Guilt gnawed at Foch; he felt as though he'd ruined Charles's entire plan. Now, while the Germans slipped through Mons to escape, Charles's forces were running low on fuel and infantry, unable to pursue.
A bitter smile crossed Foch's face as he thought of himself as nothing more than a burden within Charles's grand plan.
Just then, a messenger approached, announcing, "Marshal, a telegram from Charles."
Foch made a sound of acknowledgment, but didn't reach for the message.
Probably another inquiry about our advance, he thought with a sigh. Whether from embarrassment or guilt, Foch was reluctant to read any more of Charles's reports.
But the aide clarified, "Charles reports that he has taken Preuilly and is requesting you to send reinforcements."
"Preuilly?" Foch blinked in surprise.
Soon enough, he found it on the map, and gasped, "Charles took Preuilly? The Germans had fortified that area!"
Weygand could hardly believe it. "Are you sure?"
"Yes, sir," the messenger confirmed. "Over 20,000 German troops stationed there have surrendered. Charles also says his armored units will punch through to make an entry corridor for our forces."
Foch and Weygand stood in stunned silence, astonished that over 20,000 Germans had surrendered so easily. They knew it would take at least as many French soldiers to grind through Mons.
But then the surprise turned into an awkward realization.
They were the Northern Army Group, the main French force with hundreds of thousands of soldiers. And yet, it was Charles who was offering them a secure passage, making them feel almost like children being "escorted."
…
In the morning, people milled through the streets of Paris, enjoying their day off. The aroma of coffee and fresh croissants wafted through the air. Yet, as they waited in line at the bakeries, it was the ongoing battles in Belgium they were discussing, and more specifically, the legendary accomplishments of Charles.
"I heard Charles is in trouble—the Germans have sent submarines to block the oil route," one person said.
"Don't worry. Nothing's too difficult for Charles. He's already organized the guerrillas to gather fuel," said another.
"But civilian fuel is limited, and it's not a sustainable plan. This could become a problem for the campaign."
The analysis had some truth to it. The Germans hadn't fully plundered Belgian resources, precisely because they wanted the Belgians to keep breaking the British blockade.
Now, however, things were different. Oil had become the key to victory in this campaign, and the Germans would have no hesitation in draining the Belgians dry.
"Charles has done it!" shouted someone suddenly. "He's taken Preuilly and captured over 20,000 Germans!"
"Is that true?" people asked, skeptical.
"It's true! The news came straight from the city's command post—they're already printing extra papers about it!"
A wave of joy spread through the crowd. Smiles and laughter replaced the earlier uncertainty, and faces shone with admiration and relief.
"How did he do it? Did he counterattack?"
"I heard his force is only around 20,000 strong, and he still managed to capture a force larger than his own!"
"No, the actual attack on Preuilly was done by only 6,000 of his men, and they captured several times their number in Germans."
…
While Parisians celebrated, in Berlin, Marshal Falkenhayn knew exactly what Preuilly's fall meant.
"Reinforcements—I need reinforcements," Falkenhayn insisted. "I need at least two divisions. No, an entire corps."
"Sir, we have no more reserves," said Colonel Moritz.
"Then pull from the front lines," Falkenhayn barked. "Or recruit new forces on the spot! No matter what it takes, we cannot lose Preuilly!"
Moritz stood silently, watching his superior with a pained expression.
After a few moments, Falkenhayn sank back into his chair, exhausted. Preuilly was already lost, and any attempt to retake it was futile. Charles's main armored force was there, and Preuilly was an ideal battleground for tanks. No matter how many men they sent, they would be annihilated.
It would be like sending infantry in a direct assault on entrenched machine guns. Charles's tanks were like mobile "trenches," and wherever they rolled, they became an impenetrable front line.
After a long silence, Falkenhayn turned to Moritz with a look of dawning horror. "We've been deceived."
"What?" Moritz asked, not understanding.
"Charles is low on fuel," Falkenhayn said, gesturing toward the map where Preuilly was marked. "Think about it—if Charles had received the fuel we assumed from the British, he would've had no need to secure Preuilly."
A cold realization washed over Moritz, draining the color from his face. "So… everything we've done has played right into Charles's calculations?"
Falkenhayn nodded, defeated.
How ironic that they'd thought themselves clever for seeing through Charles's schemes—only to realize they'd been his pawns all along.
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