Chapter 552: Speaking the Truth
In late winter, rain is plentiful and the mind is free of burdens—so goes the saying. And it perfectly captured the surreal state of the French troops along the Somme River front.
Under a soft morning drizzle, the air reeked of decaying corpses, the ground was flooded with muddy water, and now and then a few howling shells flew overhead, exploding with a roar that sent muddy waves splashing everywhere.
And yet, the soldiers in the trenches found ways to amuse themselves.
Some were curled up in dugouts fast asleep. Others hid under their rain ponchos, carving wooden blocks with bayonets. A few had flipped their helmets upside down to collect rainwater while carefully shaving in front of a broken piece of mirror.
(Note: During WWI, French soldiers often carved "trench art" from hardwood or shell casings, like models of Whippet tanks. These little artworks were commonly traded among comrades for cigarettes.)
Captain Jérémy and a few subordinates were huddled under rain ponchos, playing cards.
They called this "the last bit of joy," since the cards would soon turn to mush in the damp air, and they had to squeeze in as many rounds as possible before that happened.
They were cautious—two ponchos covered their heads, and the table was laid with a moisture-proof cloth.
"At this rate, we might get to play all day," Captain Jérémy said with a grin.
But before he finished his sentence, the clumsy orderly Léo fumbled the deck during a shuffle and dropped two cards into the mud. They were instantly soaked and ruined.
The group groaned.
"You really should learn to bleat like a sheep, Léo."
"You're worse than the officers who drive us to the battlefield."
"Well, guess we're back to boredom again!"
…
Léo picked up the ruined cards and muttered, pointing toward the far end of the trench, "Look there—the 'sheep-herders' are coming."
The soldiers called themselves "sheep," and the high-ranking officers who ordered them to charge were the "sheep-herders."
The others turned to look. Sure enough, a few officers were approaching slowly, protected by bodyguards, stepping carefully through the puddles. The one leading them was small in stature, wearing a raincoat that concealed his appearance and rank—only a peaked cap was visible.
Captain Jérémy snorted, "Ignore them. If all the sheep stop listening, the shepherds have nothing to herd."
The others chuckled softly, proud of their passive defiance.
Léo carefully wiped the cards dry and tried to fan them out, saying, "Maybe if I dry them a bit, they'll still be usable."
They assumed the officers would walk past them. But to their surprise, the lead officer stopped right beside them and asked, "What are you playing? Count me in!"
Everyone froze.
This was not what they expected. They had braced for scolding or orders to take up arms. Instead, this officer was asking to join the game?
"We're playing Barbu, sir," Léo replied instinctively.
But Captain Jérémy immediately shot him a glare. Speaking casually with an officer wasn't appropriate.
Léo shrank back and said nothing more.
The officer chuckled, lifting the edge of his rain-draped cap.
"I see. Looks like I'm not welcome here," he said casually.
Captain Jérémy opened his mouth to retort—"That's right, sir…"—but stopped short.
He stared at the officer in disbelief.
"…Charles? You're Charles?"
Nearby soldiers paused whatever they were doing and turned their shocked eyes toward the group.
Charles nodded, calmly surveying the scene.
"Gentlemen," he said, "how are you holding up?"
Had it been any other officer, the soldiers would have assumed it was sarcasm.
What could possibly be "okay" here? The stench, the cold, the mud, the constant shelling? Most officers who asked that would've been beaten or thrown out, maybe even forced to spend a few days here to "experience" it for themselves.
But it was Charles. And to these soldiers, Charles was different—he was hope. He was victory. He was the reason some of them were still alive.
Charles's company regularly donated supplies to the front. He published tactical guides and survival tips in The Merit Gazette. He was someone who helped.
A few voices choked with emotion:
"You're finally here, General!"
"Are you here to lead us?"
"We're fine, General!"
…
But one voice interjected, "No, General—we're not fine. We need your help!"
Charles nodded and answered calmly, "I know. That's why I'm here."
Silence fell. Only the soft plinking of raindrops hitting the puddles could be heard.
Captain Jérémy, still in disbelief, stood and shook Charles's hand.
"General," he said, "consider me their representative."
Charles's eyes lit up slightly. "You're brave."
Because being a "representative" of a mutiny was equivalent to a death sentence—regardless of negotiations.
Jérémy smiled faintly. "No, General. It makes no difference."
Charles understood. If they were doomed anyway, being executed was just another way to die.
Jérémy quickly shifted to the real subject.
"I respect you, General. We all do."
"But I'm sorry. A few words from you won't be enough to get us to pick up our rifles again."
"That's not what we want."
Charles nodded. "Of course."
Then he asked, "Tell me—what are your conditions?"
Now was the time to speak plainly.
Jérémy responded:
"First, we refuse to attack."
"But don't mistake us for cowards or deserters."
"We're willing to hold the line—we just don't want to die pointlessly under enemy fire."
Charles raised his eyebrows, not surprised, but firm:
"That will be difficult, Captain."
"War requires offense. You can't win by just defending."
"But I promise—we'll avoid any attack that serves no purpose."
Jérémy was stunned. He hadn't expected Charles to reject their first demand so directly.
He looked around. More soldiers were gathering. Some were also representatives.
Jérémy gave a quick signal, and a few of them huddled at the other end of the trench.
"I think Charles is being honest. Not just because he's Charles."
"Right. Any other officer would have said yes to everything just to calm us down, only to betray us later."
"But he didn't. He accepted what he could and made his own stance clear—war can't be fought on defense alone."
…
This was the decision Charles had made before coming here: that only by speaking the truth could he earn the soldiers' trust.
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