Everything that Charles and Lucia deduced about the situation in Blute was purely speculation based on observed conditions.

“The White Lady” intelligence network, which originated in Belgium, operated in Ypres, a Belgian town. Lucia’s knowledge and analysis were perfectly plausible given her background. If suspicions ever arose about Charles because of this information, “The White Lady” and various witnesses from Blute could easily corroborate his story.

However, for now, Charles had no reason to preemptively defend himself. He immediately returned to headquarters and relayed his analysis and concerns to Gallieni.

Gallieni was aware that Charles had a network in Belgium. Though Charles kept this matter tightly guarded, many people knew that, because he had saved Belgium, some Belgians had organized a small, dedicated intelligence network loyal to him.

After listening to Charles’s analysis, Gallieni agreed with its validity. He immediately forwarded the intelligence report to Supreme Headquarters and, after some thought, also sent a copy to the Northern Army Group Headquarters to be extra cautious.

In the First World War, French forces were divided into four army groups: Northern, Central, Eastern, and the Reserve. The Northern Army Group was primarily responsible for operations along the northern front line, and it was commanded by the French Deputy Supreme Commander, General Foch, whose headquarters was stationed near Cambrai, in the quiet town of Warlencourt.

This low-profile location reflected Foch’s style; he disliked situating his command center in places exposed to the public eye, as he believed it hindered troop morale and readiness.

During the ongoing struggle between German and British forces at Gallipoli, an unspoken truce settled over the northern front. Both sides, seemingly in mutual agreement, refrained from launching any large-scale offensives. Germany was channeling scarce resources to the Ottoman Empire, while France was monitoring developments at Gallipoli, where a decisive victory could obviate the need for an all-out attack.

Despite this lull, Foch occasionally organized battalion-level assaults, convinced that they were vital to sustaining morale.

That day, Foch had chosen a sunlit window, settling into a rocking chair to read the newspaper as he basked in the rare warmth. Normally, he didn’t read the papers, relying instead on direct reports from his staff, as it was a more time-efficient way to stay informed. But this time was different; recent headlines featured Charles’ testimony in Parliament:

“I don’t believe Foch’s offensive theory is entirely correct, nor do I subscribe to Pétain’s defensive doctrine. The right approach should balance offense and defense, as dictated by conditions on the ground. War is too complex to rely on any single, overly simplistic theory and expect it to deliver victory.”

Finishing the article, Foch smirked as he folded the paper, tossing it onto the desk beside him. He gave a light push to his chair, causing it to rock back and forth as he murmured his own assessment:

“If the offensive theory is wrong, then what is the entire Gallipoli campaign about? Isn’t this ‘great military strategist’ Charles launching an offensive himself?”

This prevailing “offensive theory” was considered unassailable in France, with every victory attributed to its merits. Any success resulting from an attack could reinforce the idea, with defeat rarely attributed to flaws in the theory itself. Instead, it was seen as a failure in soldiers’ dedication to it.

Under the warmth of the sunlight, Foch began to drift off when his adjutant, Morini, approached to deliver a report: “General, an urgent cable from Headquarters. It concerns Colonel Charles.”

Foch’s eyes snapped open as Morini handed over the telegram with his only remaining hand, saying, “Gallieni reports that Charles suspects the Germans may soon use poison gas against us.”

“Poison gas?” Foch glanced at the telegram briefly before giving a curt order: “Top secret.”

“Yes, sir,” Morini replied, understanding immediately that this information was to be contained within headquarters.

Seeing Morini’s questioning look, Foch explained, “If word of this were to reach the troops, what do you think would happen?”

Morini quickly grasped his meaning. News of a mysterious, deadly gas could throw the soldiers into a panic, destabilizing morale and leading to rampant fear and rumors. Foch’s theory of offense relied heavily on keeping morale high and ensuring soldiers believed they were on the path to victory.

Foch yawned, handing the telegram back to Morini. “You know how to respond, don’t you?”

“Yes, sir!” Morini replied, heading to the telegraph room to draft the message.

“Message received. We are verifying. Please ensure strict confidentiality regarding this intelligence.”

This was the response from the Northern Army Group. Meanwhile, Joffre’s Supreme Headquarters offered no response whatsoever.

Charles was surprised by the lackluster response to such a serious warning. This was poison gas they were talking about—he had hoped for something more than a vague reassurance.

But, thinking it over, it wasn’t entirely surprising. At this point, poison gas was unheard of on the battlefield, and most people likely dismissed its existence entirely, much like they had dismissed tanks before they were invented. Additionally, if rumors of poison gas reached the ranks, it could seriously undermine morale, and Charles himself could face a court-martial for spreading what they might consider “misinformation.”

Gallieni sighed, shrugging as he spoke. “They don’t seem to believe you, Colonel. Let’s leave it there for now.”

It was clear that Gallieni also saw the potential drawbacks of this intelligence; if poison gas didn’t materialize, the rumor itself might prove more damaging to the Allies than helpful.

But Charles was certain it would happen—and soon.

The uniform incident erupted two days later.

After three days of deliberation, the Chamber of Deputies ultimately rejected the proposal to change the military uniform through a vote.

Many deputies were surprised by the outcome. They had expected the proposal to pass—it wasn’t a major issue and only affected a small portion of the textile industry, and even then, only part of it: the uniforms stockpiled in warehouses would become worthless.

But in the end, it was still rejected.

Since the vote was anonymous, no one knew who had voted against it, only that it felt strange.

Even so, the deputies didn’t dwell on it. After all, it was just a matter of changing uniforms—it wouldn’t make much of a difference.

When the news first came out of Parliament, it barely caused a ripple in society. Many thought it was just a rumor and paid no attention.

But the next day, headlines in major newspapers screamed:

“The Chamber of Deputies Votes Down Charles’ Proposal — Deputies Maintain That Military Uniforms Represent the Dignity of France and Cannot Be Changed.”

“Does This Mean the ‘Offensive Doctrine’ Remains Unshakable?”

“Or Is Parliament Sending Charles a Message?”

…

Suddenly, what had been calm waters in France exploded into turmoil.

The loudest voices came from the soldiers on the front lines—after all, their lives were at stake. They protested loudly and repeatedly:

“What right do those who don’t fight have to decide what soldiers wear on the battlefield?”

“If one day they think we should fight with table knives or sticks, should we obey too?”

“Do those people even know what the dignity of France is? It’s winning battles, not wearing a particular uniform!”

…

The frontline soldiers’ complaints quickly influenced people at home—after all, those soldiers were their sons, brothers, or fathers.

That very afternoon, people took to the streets, waving flags and carrying banners in protest:

“We support Charles, the officer who understands war!”

“Change the uniform—Victory is Dignity!”

“Protecting soldiers’ lives is the key to victory!”

…

Charles was just leaving the city defense headquarters, heading toward the police training base.

His car had only been on the road for a few minutes when it unexpectedly ran into the marching crowd. The streets and alleys were packed with people—so much so that cars either had to reroute or stop at the side of the road, waiting for the procession to pass.

The demonstrators had intentionally blocked traffic, knowing it would cause a larger chain reaction—forcing the government and Parliament to recognize the seriousness of the matter.

Suddenly someone spotted Laurent’s car and then noticed Charles in the back seat. With a cry:

“That’s Charles! Charles is here…”

The crowd erupted in cheers. People shouted Charles’ name and surged forward to shake his hand:

“We support you, Colonel!”

“We believe you’re right—only you care about the lives of our frontline soldiers.”

“Lead us! We’re ready to stand with you against Parliament!”

…

Charles was nearly terrified by that last line—stand against Parliament? That would make him a target of all. Even the recently won-over Steed might turn against him!

Charles pretended not to hear it, keeping a warm smile as he waved to the crowd.

Laurent, ever perceptive, honked the horn and started moving the car, shouting,

“Make way, gentlemen! The Colonel is on official duty!”

The crowd obediently parted, waving and cheering as they let Charles’ car through. Other cars tried to follow, but the crowd quickly surged back and blocked the road again.

The procession stretched on—it must have been tens of thousands of people. It took over ten minutes of driving before the noise began to fade.

Laurent let out a breath and remarked,

“They’re all your supporters, Colonel.”

“They support the uniform change, Laurent,” Charles corrected him.

“That’s what it seems on the surface,” Laurent replied calmly.

“On the surface?” Charles looked at him, puzzled.

Laurent tilted his head slightly, catching Charles’ eyes in the rearview mirror.

“Think of it this way: if someone else had proposed the uniform change and not you, this kind of demonstration wouldn’t have happened—it might not have made a ripple.”

Charles had to admit Laurent had a point.

To organize such a massive march in so little time—it couldn’t have been just about uniforms. There had to be a central force, a spiritual leader.

And Charles… was likely that force, that spiritual leader—even though he hadn’t done or said anything except fight in Parliament.

…

The car slowly entered the police training base.

The scene that greeted Charles filled him with satisfaction. He saw that the officers and soldiers of the 105th Infantry Regiment were still training on the field in an orderly manner.

Professional soldiers should be like this—their mindset should not be shaken by outside noise.

But soon, Charles realized he was mistaken. He spotted a unit marching on the parade ground without wearing pants. Some wore underwear, others nothing at all. April in Paris was no longer that cold, so it was feasible.

The key was—they were marching in perfect step, following commands: “Forward, turn left, double time…”

All with stoic, serious expressions—as if facing the enemy on the battlefield.

Tijani stood at the front, watching the unit with a helpless expression, clearly unable to do anything.

Charles signaled Laurent to stop the car next to Tijani. Jumping out, he asked,

“What’s going on here?”

Tijani only then noticed Charles. His furrowed brow relaxed as he answered,

“It’s their way of showing support, Colonel.”

“Support for me?” Charles was confused.

Tijani replied with just one word:

“Red trousers!”

Charles instantly understood—they were expressing their rejection of the red trousers in action.

“I already gave them orders,” Tijani said. “But do you know how they responded?”

Charles shook his head slightly.

Tijani imitated the soldiers’ tone:

“General, we believe this situation may occur on the battlefield. To avoid exposing ourselves as targets, we might have to remove the conspicuous red trousers. We’re conducting targeted training and believe it’s meaningful!”

He spread his hands:

“Can you say they’re wrong? What would you have said in my place?”

It was a clever strategy. Charles silently praised them. They hadn’t disobeyed orders, yet they clearly made their position known.

Though, it wasn’t exactly dignified.

But if it meant staying alive on the battlefield—who cared about dignity?

Maybe that was the soldiers’ true message.

Before long, the method spread rapidly throughout the military. Other units followed suit, even soldiers at the frontlines.

For a time, France was full of bare-bottomed soldiers.

“So this is what they mean by ‘The Dignity of France,’ huh?” someone joked.

(End of Chapter)

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