Chapter 558: Learning the Truth at the Lowest Cost
In the dead of night, Wilhelmstraße in Berlin was pitch black—except for one building, where lights still blazed: the German General Staff Headquarters.
Ever since the Somme offensive began, those lights had never gone out. Staff officers rotated in shifts, tirelessly monitoring and directing the front.
For Germany, the Battle of the Somme had been a clear-cut victory. They had traded a few square kilometers of defensive lines for the lives of hundreds of thousands of Allied troops. Their own casualties were less than half of their enemies'.
Even Kaiser Wilhelm II was astonished:
"We originally intended to bleed France dry at Verdun—yet it was at the Somme that we truly succeeded. And it wasn't just the French—even the British were included."
"Unbelievable. Why did they attack our strongest defensive position at the Somme instead of somewhere weaker?"
"Was it only because we attacked Verdun?"
Verdun had been France's strongest defensive stronghold. The Entente had responded with a "symmetric counterattack." But the difference was, Joffre had largely abandoned the fortifications at Verdun, leaving it more symbolic than real.
Meanwhile, the Germans had entrenched themselves deeply at the Somme.
If not for Charles's surprise assault on Namur—which had worsened Germany's position in Belgium—recent German performance would have been nearly flawless.
General Falkenhayn had barely slept for several days, directing operations non-stop. He had finally collapsed into a rest chair for some much-needed sleep.
But the moment he closed his eyes, a knock came at the door.
Falkenhayn jolted awake, confused and disoriented.
"General, urgent intel from the front—it concerns Charles," came the voice of Colonel Moritz from outside.
"Charles?" Falkenhayn stumbled out of bed, pulling on his boots and rushing to the door. "Has he launched another attack?"
Charles was the only person who made him uneasy.
"No, General," said Colonel Moritz. "Charles has been reassigned to the Somme. He's now commanding France's Sixth Army Group."
"What?" Falkenhayn froze. Then he hurried to the operations desk, eyes darting to the Somme on the map. "And Belgium? What about his troops there—have they been moved too?"
"Unclear," Moritz admitted, handing him a telegram. "But I believe this is the message you really need to see."
Falkenhayn scanned it. His face twisted from disbelief to elation.
"Is this real? A massive mutiny in the French Army? Including the Sixth Army Group at the Somme?"
"I believe it is," Moritz confirmed. "Nivelle has been dismissed. No replacement has been announced yet. French command is in chaos."
"Of course," Falkenhayn muttered, pacing with rising excitement. "That's why they put Charles there—he's the only one who might stabilize the front."
Then he cursed himself: "Damn it, we should've acted sooner. He's already been there several days!"
Intelligence always lagged behind reality. That was inevitable.
But then Falkenhayn paused, frowning at the map in thought.
Moritz noticed. "You're thinking this might be another trap, aren't you, General?"
Falkenhayn nodded slowly.
"It's too obvious, isn't it?"
"What if Charles wants us to attack?"
"The Anglo-French offensive at the Somme cost them dearly. And we've held firm with a defensive posture, giving them no opening."
Moritz agreed. "Charles is too clever. Everything we see—everything we think we know—could be fabricated."
Ever since Charles had tricked him over fuel logistics, Moritz had developed something of a trauma.
Falkenhayn clenched his brow. It was a difficult choice.
If the mutiny was real, then this was the perfect moment to launch a counteroffensive—possibly even a decisive one that could end the war on the Western Front.
But if it was a ruse… a full-scale attack could turn into a disaster, resulting in massive losses the Germans simply couldn't replace.
Germany was stretched thin. Another major defeat might collapse the entire line.
He sighed deeply, torn.
Which path to choose?
"General," said Moritz carefully, "why not make the Somme our test ground?"
"Our test ground?" Falkenhayn looked at him.
Then he understood.
"Launch a limited offensive at the Somme. Use the smallest price to learn the truth?"
"Exactly," Moritz said. "We can prepare for attacks elsewhere. Once we know for sure, we act accordingly."
Falkenhayn nodded slowly, thought for a moment, and issued the order:
"Send instructions to General von Below—prepare for a counterattack immediately!"
(Note: The German Second Army, tasked with defending the Somme, was commanded by General Fritz von Below.)
…
5 a.m. Somme Battlefield
An hour before dawn, the battlefield was oddly quiet.
Heavy winds and rain swept the trenches, as if nature itself was trying to wash away the blood and corpses.
French troops had not slept at all.
Unlike the well-prepared German trenches, the French ones were poorly engineered. The Germans had anticipated the rainy season and dug drainage ditches. Even their deep underground shelters rarely flooded.
But the Allied trenches—especially the French and British—were a mess. Waterlogging was common. Sometimes heavy rain would flood entire tunnels, drowning soldiers who didn't escape in time.
That night, French troops had spent hours bailing water.
Luckily, they now had metal helmets. Back when they only had red cloth caps, they didn't even have a decent scoop.
Captain Jérémy was among those bailing.
He coordinated his men while shaking his head and sighing. "Those lazy bastards… just because they didn't dig drainage properly, we lost another batch of precious supplies."
They were referring to Charles's latest shipment—resources bought at high prices from his own pocket.
Much of it had just arrived and been distributed—flour, blankets, bread, and winter clothes—now ruined by water.
Jérémy looked toward the German lines through the rain. Surely they wouldn't attack in weather like this.
But just then, several red signal flares arced into the sky.
Then, in a flash, the thunderous roar of German artillery shattered the silence.
"Prepare for battle!" Jérémy shouted, yanking his helmet into place.
This was pre-assault bombardment.
And Jérémy knew at once—something was very wrong.
The Germans knew something. They were launching their attack!
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