Chapter 555: The Luxurious Command Post
On the southern bank of the Somme River, nestled well behind the front lines, stood the headquarters of Nivelle's Sixth Army Group.
It was located five full kilometers from the battlefield—a fortress constructed of reinforced concrete.
The interior was spacious, covering over 200 square meters. It had everything: a communications center, operations room, rest areas. More than twenty officers of colonel rank or higher worked there.
There was even a basement stocked to the ceiling with food and supplies—enough to sustain the entire headquarters staff, including guards, for months.
Charles, accompanied by Christine, strolled through the halls, glancing around in quiet disbelief.
Christine looked equally shocked. Compared to the rough conditions at his own forward command post, this place was practically paradise.
After a full circuit of the facility, Charles turned to Major General Raymond, deputy commander of the Army Group, and asked:
"You planning to turn this into a fallout shelter?"
"No, General," Raymond replied, slightly nervous. "It's just that the German 105mm howitzers have a range of over ten kilometers. Technically, we're within their firing zone…"
Charles cut him off. "Has a single shell ever hit this command post?"
Raymond hesitated, then admitted, "No, General. None."
"Of course not, General Raymond," Charles said flatly. "This bunker is tucked behind high ground, hidden in the enemy's artillery blind spot. And this location—five kilometers from the front, six from the German lines—if German artillery could reach here, they'd be within range of our own counter-battery fire."
Raymond didn't quite grasp the tone. He even smiled slightly with pride. "Exactly, General. That's why it's so safe. Perfect for you to command without distraction."
Charles was speechless.
Soldiers on the front lines were huddled in water-logged trenches, freezing and starving, dying in waves under enemy machine guns and shells.
And back here? Senior officers were living in luxury, wrapped in comfort and protection—much of it entirely unnecessary.
The same army. Two different worlds.
"General Raymond," Charles said, his voice cool, "Parliament has appointed me commander of the Sixth Army Group. You've received the telegram, I presume?"
"Yes, General." Raymond stood upright. "We've received it and will follow your orders."
"Good." Charles sat down in what had been Nivelle's chair and said calmly, "You're relieved of duty. Report to Paris for a formal inquiry."
Raymond froze. "Me?"
"Not just you," Charles corrected. "All of you. Every officer of major rank and above."
Raymond was stunned. When he regained his voice, it was tinged with panic and anger. "But why? On what grounds?"
"Supplies, General," Charles replied. "And negligence. Is that enough?"
Raymond went silent.
In wartime, with supplies critically short, strict rationing was enforced. Yet this headquarters was hoarding many times the allowed amount.
That alone was grounds for prosecution.
And Charles had no doubt that some of these officers had siphoned off goods for their families back home.
This was not just any food. It was military supply—rations meant for frontline soldiers who were risking their lives charging enemy lines.
Still, Raymond tried to defend himself. "That's not fair, General. These supplies were acquired through General Nivelle's contacts with the British. They have nothing to do with us—"
"You can explain that to the military tribunal," Charles interrupted, gesturing toward the guards.
The guards immediately moved in and disarmed Raymond and the other officers, escorting them out of the building.
As Raymond was taken away, Christine approached Charles with concern. "General, the entire Sixth Army Group—its structure, logistics, communications—everything was managed by those officers. If we send them all to Paris, won't our operations suffer?"
Charles shook his head.
"Do you know why the soldiers mutinied in the first place?"
Christine blinked. "Wasn't it because of the senseless offensives?"
Charles spread his arms and gestured at the fortress around them.
"That was part of it, yes. But more than that—it was because of this."
"Because commanders like these sat in comfort, eating fine meals and sipping wine, while sending freezing, starving men into no man's land to die with a wave of the hand."
"It's already incredible that the soldiers didn't storm this place and drag these officers out for execution."
Christine nodded solemnly. He understood now.
Charles wasn't simply punishing a handful of greedy men. He was sending a message—to the mutineers.
Things would change. Officers and soldiers would no longer be two different classes.
…
Sure enough, news of Charles removing the entire command staff spread quickly throughout the army.
"Not one or two—all of them. Every senior officer is being sent to a military tribunal."
"They found over ten tons of flour, more than a hundred bottles of wine—they even had their own personal chef."
"Charles isn't like the others. He's always with the men. That's why he keeps winning battles!"
…
And this was only the beginning.
Next, Charles used his personal fortune to purchase urgently needed supplies for the front: raincoats, boots, quilts—everything required for the rainy and winter seasons. He even arranged deliveries of fresh vegetables and beef to improve their meals.
This cost Charles a fortune.
The Sixth Army Group had thirteen divisions—roughly 210,000 men. Providing material support for a force that size was no small feat.
For anyone else, it might have been impossible. Even with money, sourcing that volume of supplies on short notice would've required help from the British.
But Charles had prepared in advance.
His advisor Deoka had followed his instructions: converting profits into U.S. dollars to avoid the collapse of the franc, and using FN's subsidiaries to purchase goods in bulk from the U.S., the Netherlands, and other neutral countries.
It had just barely been enough to meet the army's needs.
Charles believed it was worth every coin. Those high-up parliamentarians would never understand how vital it was to earn the trust of the common soldier.
Because that trust represented something much greater—the hearts of the people.
Behind every soldier stood a family, watching and worrying. Two hundred thousand men meant two hundred thousand families.
In this moment, every sack of flour, every warm blanket, every drop of clean water was everything. They would never forget that Charles was the one who pulled them back from the edge.
And yet… even now, the mutinous soldiers harbored a final lingering doubt:
The battle for the Somme wasn't over.
If they returned to duty and reorganized—wouldn't the officers just drive them into battle again, as before?
Wouldn't they still be sent to die?
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