Chapter 582: The Unspoken Rule
Jambes, Belgium.
The church bells rang out gently across the snowy town, accompanied by faint hymns drifting through the air, signaling the arrival of Christmas Eve.
Yet despite the clarity and warmth of the sound, it brought no joy. The shadow of war still loomed heavy over the land.
Darkness blanketed the earth. The wind and snow paused for a moment—then the night was suddenly ripped open by the first distant screams of artillery.
No one knew who fired first. Perhaps it was a single shell, maybe two—but soon the whole front lit up. The shrieks of incoming fire multiplied, faster, louder, closer.
Within minutes, the entire Western Front was glowing with muzzle flashes and explosions. Light burst across the landscape in stuttering waves, like chaotic lightning in a long, unbroken thunderstorm.
Major General Christine crouched in the trench, waiting.
He wasn't anxious. Instead, he was listening to the rhythm of the barrage—he could feel the shudder of each shell, track how the fire crept forward, paused, and rolled deeper into enemy territory.
It was the usual pattern of a night artillery duel.
In the dark, neither side could aim precisely. Most batteries weren't targeting trenches directly. They were firing on enemy artillery. Muzzle flashes and smoke would give away positions. Whoever located and suppressed the other first would gain a critical advantage.
Christine waited. When the pounding grew muddled, chaotic—when both sides were fully engaged and no one had the upper hand—he gave a shout:
"Advance!"
A whistle blew sharply. Then another. Then another. The sound echoed down the trench line.
Char A1 tanks rumbled forward up the slope into no man's land.
They moved slowly—barely 3 km/h—feeling their way toward the enemy. Most of their hatches remained open; commanders had to stick their heads out to see and guide the drivers through the night.
These tanks weren't built for night battles. Their mission was simple: absorb bullets, cover the infantry, and return safely.
Behind them, squads of soldiers climbed out of the trenches, following closely.
…
Brigadier General Godefroy marched near the front of the formation, hugging tight to the rear of a tank.
Not out of bravery—far from it. Before the assault, he had done the math.
He figured the farther he was from the tanks, the higher the chance of being hit by bullets or shrapnel.
So he stuck right behind the armor, moving in its shadow, convinced it was the safest place.
And he was right.
Heavy machine guns from the enemy lines opened fire, mowing down the darkness. Mortars exploded around him. But no rounds landed where he was.
Bullets pinged off the tank's armor with harsh, metallic clangs. He flinched every time, but stayed glued to the vehicle like a barnacle.
Tense and breathless, he didn't even notice that the number of soldiers around him was thinning.
Then he glanced back—and realized he was alone.
Just him and the tank.
Before he could process what was happening, several grenades landed near his feet, fuses sparking.
He didn't even have time to curse before the smoke and heat swallowed him whole.
…
Xavier had felt something was wrong from the beginning.
As he crawled from the trench and began the charge, he noticed several soldiers always staying close to him.
Were they bodyguards?
They didn't look like it.
And in the chaos of battle, especially in the dark, tightly packed formations never stayed cohesive for long. His "guards" should have been scattered by now.
But these figures stuck to him like wolves shadowing a bleeding deer.
Suddenly, a realization struck him: he had interrogated several mutinous soldiers. Some were still in the brig. Others had been slated for harsh punishment.
He felt a spike of fear.
They're hunting me.
The battlefield, dark and deadly, suddenly felt like a jungle. And he was the prey.
"Raphaël! Bertram!" Xavier shouted into the chaos.
"To me! Now!"
Those were his two most trusted aides—men he had brought from Paris.
A voice replied faintly:
"General!"
Relieved, Xavier ducked into a shell crater and called back:
"Over here! Quickly—"
Before he could finish, a sharp pain bloomed in his chest.
He looked down.
A bayonet had pierced straight through his heart.
Blood surged over the blade, and in the flickering light of artillery, he saw the steel glinting in the night.
He gasped, choking.
"Those bastards... they used… German bayonets…"
(Note: German and French bayonets were distinctly different. The German version was short and flat-bladed; the French one long and needle-like. This made it easy to misattribute a death to enemy action.)
…
Elsewhere, several staff officers huddled together in a crater, convinced no one would notice if they stayed there until the retreat order came.
They congratulated themselves on being clever—until a cluster of mortar shells landed squarely on their position.
One regimental commander, waving his revolver to urge his men forward, was suddenly shot multiple times by unseen hands.
…
The entire assault lasted about twenty minutes.
Under Christine's command, the attack retreated on cue, melting back into the trenches.
It had been a light probing offensive, not a full-scale engagement.
Casualties were low: just over 200 dead and wounded.
But what shocked everyone was who had died.
Senior officers had suffered horrendous losses:
Both brigade commanders — killedFour regimental commanders — one dead, one seriously wounded18 staff officers — 10 dead
…
Upon returning to HQ, Christine immediately reported to Gamelin by telephone.
His voice was heavy, sorrowful.
"The officers fought bravely, General. They led from the front without hesitation. Perhaps… that's why the losses were so high."
"I also suspect the Germans sent in stormtrooper squads to launch counterattacks. Otherwise, I can't explain how things went so wrong."
(Note: German "Sturmtruppen" or stormtroopers were elite infiltration units that targeted enemy command posts.)
Gamelin received the casualty report and gave a noncommittal grunt.
With 22 years of service, he immediately understood what had happened.
There were unspoken rules in every army — especially in war.
Sometimes, the unit itself would deal with those who endangered morale, cohesion, or survival. Quietly. Efficiently.
But Gamelin didn't say that out loud.
He glanced at Charles, who was still calmly reading a newspaper at his desk, and turned away with a cold order to a nearby aide:
"Inspect the bodies. Quietly. No one else is to know."
But the aide whispered back:
"Already done, General. Nothing unusual."
He handed over a report.
Gamelin read it — and nearly lost it.
Every cause of death was a German weapon:
Grenade shrapnelMortar fireBayonets (German models)Even bullets pulled from corpses were Luger pistol rounds
It was flawless.
The soldiers had killed their targets with perfect deniability.
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