I Became a Tycoon During World War I: Saving France from the Start

Chapter 136: Why Not Use Tanks to Break Through?

Charles started to feel lightheaded after just two small glasses of absinthe. Later, he realized that the drink's innocent green color didn't match its strength, which ranged from 45% to as high as 89.9% alcohol by volume. The bottle Fernand had offered him was around 50%, explaining his generous offer to cover the bill.

Just as Charles felt his head growing heavier, a burst of loud laughter erupted in the club. He turned to see a slightly overweight officer being teased by a group of other officers. Whether it was the effect of the alcohol or the dim lighting, he couldn't quite make out the officer's rank. The group was passing a letter around while the rotund officer frantically tried to grab it, shouting in frustration.

Fernand chuckled to himself and took another sip of his drink, unfazed. In the military, such antics were common, with soldiers and officers alike often stealing and reading each other's letters for entertainment.

One officer, quicker than the others, grabbed the letter, leapt onto a sofa, and began to read aloud: "My dearest Lucia…"

The club erupted in laughter. It was a love letter addressed to the barmaid, and one of the officers shouted at her, "Hey, Lucia, how many love letters is that now?"

Lucia just smiled faintly, pouring a drink into a glass without any sign of embarrassment—she seemed accustomed to this sort of attention.

The officer with the letter was about to continue reading when Charles spoke up, "Enough. Give the letter back to him."

The officers stopped, then burst into laughter again, calling out in protest:

"Mind your own business, Lieutenant!"

"You've got no say here!"

One of them even shouted to Fernand, "Hey, Colonel, maybe you should keep your soldier in check!"

Fernand's expression darkened, and he responded sharply, "You all heard him. Hand back the letter!"

The officers, surprised, glanced at each other in confusion. Some knew Fernand personally, as they frequented the club together.

Fernand didn't back down. "If Lieutenant Charles isn't supposed to have a say here, then tell me, who does? I'd love to see him stand up."

Silence fell over the club, and all eyes shifted toward Charles. Lucia, too, looked on with a stunned expression; only now did she realize that Fernand's earlier comment about being Charles's aide wasn't a joke.

After a few whispered exchanges, the officers returned the letter to the embarrassed officer, some even giving Charles a mock salute as they apologized:

"My apologies, Lieutenant."

"We didn't know it was you—I apologize for my rudeness."

The flustered officer quickly snatched his letter, nodded in thanks to Charles, then darted out of the club, glancing at Lucia as he left.

Finding the atmosphere tiresome, and sensing he'd dampened the mood, Charles gestured to Fernand to settle the bill, and they left soon after. Charles nearly forgot about the incident, as he rarely returned to the club, finding it hard to unwind in such a place. Fernand had been right about one thing, though: Charles slept soundly after a few drinks, even if he did wake up with a mild headache.

By mid-October, the weather in Paris was showing signs of the rainy season. A fierce wind howled outside, and dark clouds gathered, soon releasing a downpour punctuated by thunder and lightning.

Inside the operations office, the work continued. Charles was tracking the positions along the front line based on reports from the field. When he'd finished marking the positions for the day, Gallieni sighed and shook his head. "Looks just like yesterday—not a single inch moved."

"Perhaps we should stop hoping for a breakthrough," Charles remarked.

"What do you mean?" Gallieni asked.

Charles pointed to the map. "Stalemate may be the new normal. We should be prepared for this to last a long time."

Historically, this front line would barely shift over the next four years, with both sides pushing back and forth without major gains. The only constant was the steadily rising number of casualties.

Unaware of this future, Gallieni still viewed the stalemate as temporary. After a moment's thought, he asked, "Why haven't we considered using tanks to break through?"

He leaned over the map, pinpointing a spot with his finger. "I think this area could work. What do you think?"

As the tank's inventor and the first officer to use it successfully in battle, Charles's opinion was crucial to Gallieni.

Charles examined the area Gallieni pointed out and nodded in agreement. "La Focqueux region—it's flat, has accessible supply routes, and is connected by roads suitable for tank movement. It's a good choice."

Tracing a small circle around a section of the front line with his finger, Gallieni continued, "Even if we can't break through, we must at least level this salient. This terrain is poorly suited for defense, and the German-held high ground is putting us at a disadvantage."

As Gallieni spoke, he seemed to recall something and turned to Charles. "By the way, I need the details on your tank project. I'll have it included in the wartime procurement schedule—the bidding is coming up in a few days."

Charles hesitated before responding, "I'm sorry, General, but I won't be participating in the bid."

Gallieni blinked, taken aback. "You're not participating? What's going on?"

Then, realizing something, Gallieni's face darkened. "Is someone pressuring you? Those scoundrels!"

"No, sir!" Charles quickly clarified. "No one's pressuring me—it's my own decision."

Gallieni gave Charles a skeptical look, as if waiting for the truth to come out.

With a sigh, Charles resigned himself to giving a half-truth. "I've realized we're still too far behind. Joining the bid would only end in embarrassment, so I'd rather focus my efforts on the next generation of tanks."

"The truth?" Gallieni pressed, his gaze steady on Charles.

Charles shook his head, realizing he couldn't deceive Gallieni. Soon enough, "Mark I" tanks would go into mass production, directly contradicting any claim that he'd "given up." Sooner or later, Gallieni would know the truth.

This wasn't a conversation for the operations office, so Charles glanced toward the break room. Gallieni understood and, with his coffee in hand, led the way there.

"I don't stand a chance against the competition," Charles admitted once they were alone. "On paper, my tank doesn't match up to theirs. But I believe that in actual combat, those tanks are likely to perform poorly. So…"

Gallieni interrupted, his tone laced with anger, "So you plan to wait for them to fail on the battlefield, and only then unveil your own tank? Ignoring the lives of the soldiers who'll perish while we use defective equipment?"

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