Chapter 10

On the train returning to Aras.

Reflecting on the past few days, which were essentially an extension of another task, despite being on leave.

Even though it was a short time, I gained a lot.

First and foremost, the veterans.

“Corporal William. Ah, he’s not a corporal anymore. Anyway, he looked happy.”

I heard he had a fiancée and eventually left the military to start a family.

‘Just like him to mock me and leave the military.’

The moment I saw him greeting me with a face that seemed to have everything, the memory of his smug farewell ceremony as a veteran came back.

“What did he say back then? Ah, he went on about how we’d meet again and all that.”

He must have known. When we meet again, he would be a civilian, and I, still a soldier, would be in a position where I couldn’t touch him.

“Just wait and see. No one else, but I will definitely call you when war breaks out.”

Enjoy it while you can, William Fer. You won’t be able to laugh for four years after a while.

That’s how I met William, Jasper, and Nicola. They all think I store wine in the Orléans warehouse, but it’s the opposite. I’m storing veterans in Orléans one by one.

The second thing was the weapons I would give to my subordinates.

Of course, just because I had some money, I couldn’t immediately produce weapons, so I only started with the concept and development.

At first, I thought of automatic rifles. I thought it would be easy to think of a future AK rifle, known for its simple structure, or machine guns already in use in various countries.

‘It was a pipe dream.’

When I first spent money and inquired with the largest French military supplier, Hotchkiss, the response was this:

‘It’s impossible to make a small machine gun that can withstand rifle bullets.’

Similar responses came from other companies as well.

To them, my request sounded like, ‘Please make a machine gun one-fifth the size. Oh, and keep the rate of fire the same!’

It took three months just to hear this response last year, and as the war drew closer, I had no choice but to give up on the rifle.

So, the remaining firepower weapon was one.

The submachine gun.

Range, forget it.

Accuracy, forget it.

Ammunition efficiency, forget it.

Everything else, including stability and bullet power, was also forgotten.

Instead, I chose one thing: the overwhelming firepower from the high rate of fire.

“It’s not a rifle bullet but a pistol bullet, so the weapon won’t be strained.”

So, that’s it.

In the original history, France developed submachine guns during World War I, though they didn’t make it to the front lines.

I asked them to produce prototypes and a small quantity.

It cost a fortune, but that was something I had fully expected.

What surprised me was how quiet everything remained even as such an innovative weapon was being developed.

I thought at the very least, news of a new weapon would spread, or someone would call me out. But no one seemed to care.

“Well, that’s good for me.”

I didn’t want to attract strange looks from people around me if rumors spread.

Pétain’s overconfidence is one thing, but a captain changing the main weapon of the unit? That’s grounds for a court-martial.

Even now, the looks I get are far from friendly. They probably all think, ‘As soon as the colonel retires, I’ll get you,’ but I’m sorry, the battalion commander can’t go home either.

Most importantly, what I gained from my leave, the most crucial last thing, is... the company I set up with Frederick’s help.

It’s a small investment company, essentially, for a comfortable post-war life.

“Why bother setting up a factory in this era? Strikes and management are just terrifying.”

These words don’t really fit with a comfortable life, do they?

Especially a few years later, when Mother Russia will undergo gender reassignment surgery after long deliberation to become Father Soviet.

As a capitalist with some money, I need to stay far from terms like production facilities and workers to retire peacefully.

I just need to do what my past self did.

“Bergé is an ant. Ant shareholders know nothing. I just want to hold stocks and receive dividends without any responsibility.”

That’s how I set up the Morel company (Morel compagnie) named after the Morel family. Of course, it’s just set up for now.

By the time I organized the past few days in my head, Paris was already close.

“Already?”

For some reason, returning from leave always seems to take no time.

Is it because Einstein’s theory of relativity, which will be announced soon, is correct?

Time definitely flows differently.

At least, based on my experience.

***

The 17th Plan, which I criticize so much, is being completed in real-time.

General Joseph Joffre, the current core of the army, is leading the completion of the 17th Plan, but many still have doubts.

Ferdinand Foch, a colonel who has the full support of Joffre, is already predicting the invasion of Belgium.

Charles Lanrezac, a colonel, openly protested against the necessity of the 17th Plan multiple times, but to no avail.

The decision-maker for the plan being set by the current French army is Joseph Joffre, the Chief of the General Staff.

His will is as firm as the French nose, and no one can twist it from above.

It’s as if ‘Alsace-Lorraine’ is written on Joffre’s forehead, and he’s excluding all other possibilities from the start.

All I can do is chew on it and digest it.

“Do we have to wait until the plan is fully set to know? If the goal was wrong from the beginning, there’s nothing to see.”

“Haha, this guy came back from leave and is talking nonsense.”

“I’m not blindly supporting the previous 14th and 16th Plans. I just don’t like the attack-first mentality that has no strategic meaning.”

“Right. I also prioritize firepower, but that doesn’t mean it always leads to infantry attacks.”

I’m shaking invisible rattles in both hands, doing a custom peek-a-boo for Pétain.

Sometimes I wonder if I should do this, but surprisingly, it works well with the battalion commander, who is close to his sixties.

So, what’s the situation here?

I’ve been acting freely within the limits of not crossing the line. Whether it was training, unit command, or education, I’ve been doing it my way.

Fortunately, French regulations allow battalion commanders to wield significant power over their subordinates, making it easier for me to do as I please.

Then, why does Pétain help me? The reason is simple: it’s because of the current situation.

“So, you’ve read General Foch’s Principles of War (1903)?”

“I know the content.”

“While reading that book, I thought it diverged from General Foch’s 17th Plan, which states that offense is the only way.”

“You’re right. Even if it’s not pure offensive-first, the result is the same. It doesn’t matter where a soldier is hit; what matters is whether they are alive or dead. That’s how we distinguish between wounded and dead.”

“Is that so? Hmm…”

The interest the battalion commander showed in a mere lieutenant, regardless of his intentions, was fundamentally due to my military insight.

From interest to goodwill, from goodwill to affection, I’m gradually weaving a bond between us. But openly, I can’t bring any benefit to Pétain.

At least, not unless I offer a bribe.

So, all I can do is this.

“Wow, you’re unique. How do you think like this?”

Using all the knowledge I have, I gently scratch the itchy spots for him.

“If I ask any major about offense, they all say the same thing. They all say attack is the best, offense is the solution, and show off their courage as if bravery, patriotism, and ability are tied together.”

“Is that so.”

“No, let me be blunt. Who else in the current French army would dare to say that attacking is not right?”

“There’s the battalion commander.”

“Haha, not even I can do that.”

Yes, I’m being honest.

The reason I’m laughing and chatting with Pétain, despite the uncomfortable situation, is not for any other reason.

I know it doesn’t look good, but to survive, I’ll do anything.

“Ahem, Colonel, I have a request for that unit…”

“Ah, Lieutenant Ertur already told me. You want to bring in some items to the unit.”

“Yes.”

“Are they for the soldiers?”

“No! Just a few soldiers will use them.”

“Tsk, why do you do that? Just do it moderately.”

“Thank you.”

Thus, I successfully made another advance. It’s one step at a time.

‘I can’t keep doing this forever, though.’

I’ve gained a few things, but I’m starting to worry about running out of resources.

Pétain always demands evidence-based explanations from me, but the ideas and events of this era are not always logical.

As Pétain and I were in the middle of our conversation, it was interrupted by the arrival of a new person.

Knock. Knock.

“May I come in?”

“Come in.”

Lieutenant Ertur opened the door politely, making way for the person beside him.

The person who entered had a gentle appearance and a neat beard. He looked like a well-behaved golden retriever if it were a person.

“Oh, you’re here. Come in.”

“I’m a bit late. I’m sorry.”

“Ah, we were just getting into the conversation.”

What’s this? I was about to get up since I had enough for today.

Regardless, the two of them seemed to be catching up.

“How was the inspection of the 58th Infantry Battalion?”

“The Belgian border is quiet, as expected.”

“It’s a peaceful place, even though it’s a border.”

Pétain’s words were tinged with bitterness. The new middle-aged man didn’t say anything more, but it was clear he agreed.

After a moment of a similar atmosphere between the two, Pétain introduced me with renewed energy.

“This is the person you wanted to meet.”

“Oh, I see.”

Who is this? He looks over forty and is from another unit. If he’s looking for me, it’s unlikely to be good news.

‘If it’s a rumor about me… let’s see.’

Military discipline issues.

Violation of reporting procedures.

Subversive thoughts.

Defeatist thinking.

And a sycophant.

Hmm, let’s stop there.

“Come on, we don’t have much time, so let’s get to the point. You’re on your way back, right?”

“Yes.”

I was about to assess the situation, but Pétain said there wasn’t time.

“I read the report you wrote, Lieutenant Bergé.”

“Really?”

“Oh, I didn’t tell you. I summarized what you wrote and sent it to the École Militaire.”

What is this nonsense? I said I wasn’t going to the École Polytechnique. And the École Militaire?

“The École Militaire… isn’t that the command and staff school in Paris?”

“My classmate is the head of the school. It’s both an educational and research institution.”

So, in simpler terms, it’s like Pétain recorded my courtship dance for him and posted it online.

So, this person is here because he saw it on his way back.

“Haha.”

“Hmm? Is there a problem, Lieutenant Bergé?”

“Haha, no! There can’t be.”

“Right? I was just wondering. Haha.”

Two people laughing, but only one is sincere. Yes, but in front of rank, you have to laugh.

Pétain isn’t that clueless. The fact that he used my full rank shows he has no doubt.

The short conversation can be summarized in two lines:

‘Lieutenant, smile in front of the guest.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Damn, it’s so frustrating. Even if rank is a bully, does it mean there’s no respect?

But seeing the faint smile on Pétain’s lips, I knew it was a lost cause.

This is the man who even generals with multiple stars avoid. The most backless man in the military. Respect for subordinates? It probably went down the drain with this morning’s breakfast.

“Is this meeting uncomfortable for you?”

The guest, who had been listening, quietly expressed his opinion.

“No, but Lieutenant Bergé, do you remember what you said about the cavalry a few months ago?”

“Yes, I said they were a dying sun.”

“That’s right. You said a cavalryman’s value is less than a machine gun belt.”

“Not to that extent…”

“Full of formalities, eating up the budget and formations, and useless.”

“Did I really say that?”

Did I? I just said they were unsuitable for the battlefield, right?

“Colonel, may I introduce this person?”

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

I quickly turned my attention to the guest, fearing I would be swept away by Pétain.

“Let me introduce you. This is Colonel Maxim Weygand from the General Staff.”

“Pleased to meet you again. I came here hoping to have a free conversation beyond rank.”

What?

Who is this?

Before I could recall his background, I jumped up at the mention of colonel.

“Hello! I’m Lieutenant Bergé Morel!”

“Haha, please sit down.”

Maxim? Maxim? The pronunciation is almost the same.

Maxim machine gun.

Maxim coffee.

‘That’ magazine.

What else…

‘Ah-’

I remembered.

As soon as I thought of it, I looked at Pétain with a serious expression.

But Pétain’s face was not the usual faint smile; it was filled with uncontrollable laughter.

It looked like he would burst into laughter if touched.

Only then did I understand the strange atmosphere from a few minutes ago.

Colonel Maxim Weygand.

A fundamental cavalryman, built from the bones up.

He, edited and abridged by Pétain, came here thinking my opinion was his own, with a strong sense of insult.

This is not a conversation. It’s not even a debate.

This is a duel arena hosted by Pétain.