Chapter 739: The Saint-Cyr Military Academy
That afternoon, the École Spéciale Militaire de Saint-Cyr was a hive of activity.
Two lines of ceremonial guards, wearing white-feathered hats and sabers at their waists, stood on either side of the academy's main gate, forming a welcoming formation.
They flanked the concrete pathway leading past the academy's museum and officers' club, all the way to the training field behind the administrative building.
(Image: A corner of Saint-Cyr. During WWI, the academy was located on the outskirts of Paris. It was later razed during WWII when the Allies retook the city. The new campus was relocated to Rennes, about 300 km from Paris.)
On the parade field, cadets from various classes were hurriedly adjusting uniforms and standing in formation.
Some stragglers rushed in last minute, hastily straightening belts and smoothing jackets.
As trumpet blasts rang out, a line of vehicles appeared in the distance.
Drill instructors, who moments before had been shouting at the cadets, immediately called out commands.
The formations stiffened, every cadet standing straight and motionless.
The motorcade consisted of five cars. The lead and rear vehicles carried armed guards, each equipped with a revolver.
Lieutenant Colonel Laurent drove the lead car himself.
He inadvertently let something slip:
"I know, General. Many cadets here oppose you. Quite a few of them. They believe your victories were achieved through tricks—and that war shouldn't be conducted that way. That's why I had to be extra cautious."
What Laurent meant was to explain why he brought 20 armed guards.
But without realizing it, he had just exposed General Gallieni's lie.
Kobdo sat next to Charles, inside one of the cars.
He was responsible for spreading Charles' military theories at Saint-Cyr, and had to brief him on the challenges.
Kobdo looked unusually cheerful, occasionally smiling as he talked, almost as if he were delighted to be done with this grueling job.
He poured out his frustrations:
"The biggest obstacle, General, is the inability to validate your theories."
"To prove them, we'd need to send the cadets into actual combat—which they aren't allowed to do before completing training."
"So, it becomes a closed loop. As long as they don't believe in your ideas, they'll always find reasons to reject them—no matter how ridiculous. And we can't prove them wrong."
Charles understood.
People who hadn't experienced war always imagined it in idealistic terms—how they might effortlessly defeat the enemy.
It wasn't just cadets. When the war began, even French and British generals had believed the same nonsense.
"What are their main objections?" Charles asked.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean," Charles clarified, "what exactly are their arguments?"
"Oh, right," Kobdo said. "I've summarized the main one. They think your success is based purely on speed."
"Oh?" Charles raised an eyebrow.
That's a strength—how could it be twisted into a flaw?
Kobdo continued:
"They say if the enemy slows your troops down or manages to catch up, your army's low manpower would make it collapse immediately."
Charles hummed in acknowledgment.
Technically, they weren't wrong—but only theoretically.
Anyone can talk strategy. But in practice, few can actually deliver results.
Kobdo then handed Charles a folder:
"Here are the questions I compiled, and your prepared speech draft. Have a look…"
Charles flipped through the draft, scanning it quickly.
He skimmed the important parts in under two minutes, then closed it and handed it back.
Clearly, he had no intention of using it.
Kobdo's draft was filled with theory-based rebuttals—trying to counter the cadets' objections with more academic theory.
Charles knew it was pointless.
On paper, every argument had a counter. Everyone could "be right."
But no one could convince the other that way.
"I know what I'm going to say," Charles told him.
Kobdo looked worried.
"Remember, General—this is a military academy. These cadets have formal training and a system of military education. We need to know their logic to dismantle it."
But Charles shook his head firmly.
"What if their entire system of military education and theory… is wrong?"
Kobdo was dumbstruck, unable to answer.
"I don't have time to disprove every flaw in their thinking," Charles added. "I'll just give them the correct answer. Whether they follow it or not… is up to them."
Kobdo remained uneasy.
He thought Charles misunderstood the assignment. He was supposed to persuade these cadets.
That meant understanding their logic and winning them over—not bulldozing over them with confidence.
But Charles leaned back, closed his eyes, and began to rest.
Kobdo sighed and didn't push further.
He could only hope Charles would be as brilliant at the podium as he was on the battlefield.
Still, Kobdo wasn't optimistic.
Because leading and teaching were two completely different skills.
As the convoy neared the academy gates, it slowed.
When they reached the entrance, the vehicles came to a full stop.
A gesture of respect.
Charles would have to walk in.
Damn rituals, Charles muttered to himself as he stepped out.
He wondered, On the battlefield, would they dismount their tanks just for the sake of ceremony?
As he walked forward, the ceremonial guards unsheathed their sabers with a metallic clang, raising them to form a gleaming archway—a gate of swords.
Charles marched steadily through it, casually saluting the guards.
With each step, the "sword gate" parted for him.
The band struck up the Saint-Cyr March, its rhythm matching Charles' footsteps so perfectly that he found himself instinctively switching to a formal march.
He passed through the rows of sabers and reached the parade field, where hundreds of cadets in black-and-red uniforms stood at attention.
Charles looked around, confused.
"They haven't switched to the new uniforms?" he asked Kobdo.
Kobdo caught up, lowering his voice:
"They're still cadets, General. The academy superintendent doesn't think it's necessary yet."
He subtly motioned for Charles to keep it serious.
He didn't explain further.
Gallieni had tried promoting the new uniforms at the academy but met fierce resistance.
Staff and students alike thought the new style was hideous and unworthy of the French military's image and spirit.
Charles didn't respond.
He thought to himself:
These cadets are meant to be the army's future officers.
But they're trapped in superficial traditions.
Shouldn't practical combat experience matter more than appearance?
One day, when they reach the battlefield and have to switch to new uniforms, what then?
Would they suddenly lose all "spirit" and "military pride"?
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