Chapter 581: The Laws of Nature
Jambes Frontline — One hour before the Christmas Eve offensive.
In the snow-filled trenches held by the First Special Artillery Division, Major General Christine sat on a shell crate covered in frost while a medic bandaged his bleeding head.
A bullet had grazed him just moments ago. Christine had raised his head to survey the terrain, and the enemy, spotting a glint from his binoculars in the setting sun, had sprayed the position with machine gun fire.
One round had torn across his forehead, leaving a gash deep enough to expose bone.
"General," the medic said, still rattled, "if it had been just half a degree to the side, it would've gone straight through your right eye."
Christine didn't flinch. On the battlefield, "what if" doesn't exist.
If you're alive, you keep going. That's all there is.
"Do you believe in natural laws?" Christine suddenly asked, out of nowhere.
The medic was startled, but continued working as he replied:
"I guess, sir. But I don't think this has anything to do with natural law."
Christine went on, ignoring the answer:
"You'd best believe in them. Like summer being hot and winter being cold—things we can't control."
"If you disrespect those laws, try to break or bend them to your will…"
"You'll be punished. Without exception."
The medic said nothing more, clearly not following. He finished the dressing in silence.
Christine gave no further explanation. His expression was grim, his eyes full of deadly intent.
He put on his officer's cap and stood, blood still running down his face like sweat. He didn't even notice.
He turned two corners in the trench and arrived at a more open dugout — a protected area behind a hill used to gather troops, safe from artillery fire.
There, all brigade and regimental officers of the First Special Artillery Division were assembled.
There were two brigade commanders, four regimental commanders, and a dozen staff officers — almost all of them newly assigned.
Christine had only learned their names a few days ago.
He had discreetly asked around. Most were relatives or loyalists of capitalists and parliamentarians — assigned here for oversight, not military competence.
Worse yet, they were proud of it. They'd casually name-drop their patrons, pretending to be modest while clearly showing off.
Christine stood before them.
"Gentlemen," he began. "You are aware of tonight's mission."
The officers answered lazily, indifferent:
"Yes, General."
"It's a simple assignment."
"We're not required to capture the enemy trench. That means we can order a retreat at any time."
Christine's gaze darkened.
"But there's a problem," he said, voice low and cold.
"You know that not long ago, the First Artillery Division, among others, experienced a mutiny."
"The soldiers have deep resentment toward offensives..."
One of the brigade commanders cut him off.
"What's your point, General? That's exactly why the high command assigned a 'simple' task tonight. Are you saying we can't even handle this?"
Christine recognized him — Xavier, Clemenceau's nephew. A watchdog, here to monitor and control the division.
"Exactly," another added.
"Besides, we're already dealing with the troublemakers. No big deal."
That was Godefroy, an in-law of the Geni Food Conglomerate — a man whose political connections had soared in value amidst wartime scarcity.
Christine nodded without expression.
"It's not that the task can't be done."
"But you should ask yourselves why the soldiers mutinied in the first place. Because officers stayed in the trench, blowing whistles to send them to die."
"That's why they compare themselves to sheep, and us to shepherds."
Some officers chuckled, seemingly proud of their "shepherd" role.
Christine's tone turned colder.
"If we keep doing things the same way, we'll never run out of 'undisciplined soldiers' to punish."
"You understand what I'm saying?"
A few moments of silence, then reluctant nods.
Christine went on:
"Since this is a simple task — no objective to capture, tanks to cover us — then why not show the soldiers that 'shepherds' can walk onto the battlefield too?"
"I, for one, will be doing exactly that."
He wiped blood from his brow, then motioned dismissively:
"I'm already out there. Do as you like."
With that, he smirked, turned on his heel, and walked toward the front line — leaving the others speechless.
After a long silence, Xavier stood to follow — but Godefroy stopped him.
"You're really going out there?" Godefroy asked, clearly terrified.
"He's right," Xavier replied.
"If we stay behind and push soldiers forward, how do you think they'll see us?"
They had all felt it since arriving: the contempt and hatred in the soldiers' eyes.
"This might be our chance," Xavier added.
"Think about it — this is a low-intensity skirmish. We just need to march forward, then retreat."
"Yeah," someone else said.
"This isn't the Somme."
"And it's not Verdun," another added.
"At Verdun, they shot you if you tried to retreat."
"Even General Christine is going." A voice, filled with guilt.
"If we don't go, what does that make us?"
That question struck home.
If both the men above and below them were on the field, and they — the Parliament's hand-picked officers — stayed in the trench, how could they command anyone?
"Let's go." Xavier patted Godefroy on the shoulder.
"We'll be fine. We have the Char A1."
Godefroy nodded weakly, his face pale with fear.
Together, the officers headed toward the front, where they reported to Christine:
"We'll advance with the troops, General."
"Good," Christine said with a satisfied nod.
"Then find your units. We move out soon."
The officers dispersed.
Christine turned his eyes back toward the enemy lines. He muttered under his breath:
"War is cruel, gentlemen."
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