Chapter 709 – This Is Charles's Style
Paris City Hall.
No one in the Prime Minister's office felt like eating breakfast.
They sipped coffee nervously, waiting for updates from the front lines.
Pétain's situation was just as they had expected: he had failed to break through the German defenses.
Ever since Charles had captured the heart of the Verdun fortress system—Fort Douaumont—the Germans had built a new defensive line combining forts and trenches, anchored on Ornes, Beaumont, and Maucourt.
Perhaps because they knew Pétain would never launch a bold offensive, the Germans didn't even bother to lay barbed wire or mines in front of the line.
But even so, Pétain—always obsessed with defensive fortifications—was embarrassingly weak when forced into an attack.
Of the one-hour offensive he launched, more than thirty minutes were spent in artillery preparation.
When the infantry finally advanced, they were beaten back three times by German artillery fire.
Even Colonel Dura was confused.
"Three retreats under enemy shelling in just over half an hour?" he frowned.
"Did they retreat as soon as the Germans opened fire? Just running back and forth would take half an hour!"
Clemenceau simply grunted, a sardonic grin forming at the corner of his lips.
That's always been Pétain's way.
Briand, however, tried to justify it.
"This isn't his specialty. We all know Pétain believes in defense. To him, attacking means irresponsibly throwing away soldiers' lives."
But inwardly, he sighed.
If Charles didn't exist, maybe Pétain's theory would be correct.
Because for a long time, it really did seem like attacking was just a waste of life—just feeding bullets and shells to the enemy.
But after Charles's brilliantly executed breakthroughs, everyone had learned one thing:
Offense doesn't have to be a blunt instrument.
It didn't have to be Foch-style human-wave assaults.
It could be surgical, like Charles's deep thrusts—cutting into the enemy like a scalpel, throwing them into chaos and forcing them to collapse from within.
By comparison, Pétain's so-called defensive tactics neither secured victory nor reduced casualties.
The result?
People across France began to believe Charles was the only one who truly understood modern warfare.
That's why Charles was increasingly able to command—not just the military—but influence across all of France.
His authority was unshakable.
People believed in Charles, trusted his theories, believed his words were correct.
Not just soldiers.
Workers, farmers, even housewives who had no access to news began to idolize him.
And that was what worried Briand the most.
France might be slipping into a new form of dictatorship—one not enforced by fear, but supported by the enthusiastic will of the people.
As the room grew quiet with these unspoken thoughts, the secretary pushed open the door with a slight smile on his face.
"Prime Minister," he said, "Charles's forces have stopped at Truc. Reports say they encountered a German tank ambush there."
Clemenceau leapt up from the sofa, triumphant.
"I knew it! The Germans aren't fools."
"Yes," he said proudly, "if we could see that Charles was aiming for Verdun, surely the Germans did too."
"If they didn't, they wouldn't deserve to be our enemies—let alone Charles's."
Colonel Dura rose and found Truc on the map.
"There's a forest near here," he said. "The Germans probably hid their tanks in the trees."
"And Truc lies right along the path to Verdun. Even if Charles knew there was an ambush, he had no choice."
"I mean—he either pushes through, or detours."
But realistically, there was only one option: push through.
Charles was advancing along the Meuse. On one side was the river—impassable.
To detour would mean adding 30 kilometers, giving the Germans time to encircle him.
Briand hesitated, then asked, "Would Charles initiate the attack? I mean… his armored corps has been nearly unstoppable."
Charles had clashed with German forces several times already—and each time, he'd won decisively.
This time might be no different.
But Colonel Dura was certain:
"No, Prime Minister. This time is different."
"Charles's armored corps has been operating non-stop since Mézières—his troops are exhausted."
"If he attacks head-on, he might lose this battle."
Clemenceau nodded in agreement.
"Yes, and it's not just one day of exhaustion."
"They were already fighting in Mézières. Before that, they spent days pushing through the Ardennes."
"Now that they've finally reached Truc… the German tanks appear."
Briand suddenly understood, and a flicker of joy crossed his face.
"You're right—Charles finally met his match."
"I've heard the German First Panzer Division is considered the only force capable of defeating Charles's corps."
"Correct," Dura confirmed. "It's commanded by Major General Erwin. He's faced Charles on multiple occasions, though always came up short."
Briand nodded in satisfaction.
He never imagined he'd one day be pinning his hopes on the Germans.
Feeling more relaxed, Briand's stomach began to grumble. He patted it and suggested, "Perhaps we should have some cake. We can enjoy it while we wait for the outcome."
"Absolutely," Clemenceau and Dura replied eagerly.
But before Briand could even call for the secretary, the door burst open.
"Prime Minister!" the secretary cried, panicked.
"Charles has crushed the enemy. A total victory!"
"What?" The three men stared at him in disbelief.
"How?" Dura demanded. "It's been barely half an hour—Charles destroyed them completely?"
"Yes…"
Clemenceau cut in, "What about losses? How badly was Charles's corps hit?"
If the First Armored Division had suffered heavy losses, Charles wouldn't be able to push on to Verdun.
"Almost no losses, sir," the secretary said, his tone mixed with awe and helplessness.
"No… that's impossible," Dura muttered. "That was the First Panzer Division. They can't be defeated that easily."
Two or three hundred tanks—even if they weren't as advanced as the Charles A1—they should've inflicted serious damage.
And now? Charles's forces were nearly untouched?
Briand latched onto the key point.
"How did he do it?" he asked.
"Incendiary bombs, Prime Minister," the secretary replied.
"He invented a new type of bomb—dropped by aircraft—that set the entire forest ablaze. Most of the German tanks never even made it out."
Briand's mouth fell open.
Can he really do that?
Clemenceau choked on his coffee and turned to look at Colonel Dura.
Dura hesitated.
He didn't want to believe it—but after a moment, he nodded slowly.
Yes.
This is Charles's style.
Always pulling out an unexpected invention at the most critical moment—
And changing the course of battle.
(End of Chapter 709)
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