While the Saxon Army Generals were sharpening their knives, preparing for a major offensive, the atmosphere in the joint command post of their adversaries, the Gallic and Britannian Allied Forces, was bleak and depressing.
General Lanrezac, Commander of the Gallic Fifth Army Group, had locked himself in his command tent for a full day. The reports of the disaster at Charleroi and the annihilation of the Third Cavalry Division felt like two slaps across his face. All he wanted now was solitude.
Inside the tent, everything was a mess. Documents were torn to shreds and scattered on the floor. The table had been overturned, and papers, ink bottles, and dishes lay smashed on the ground. Lanrezac paced back and forth in the confined space like a caged beast, cursing incessantly.
“Joffre! You damned butcher! You idiot!” His voice was hoarse, filled with boundless rage and despair. “Offensive! Offensive! What else is in your brain besides the offensive?!”
He kicked over a chair, which struck the tent’s support pole with a dull thud. “I told you before! The Saxons’ main thrust is in the North! In Flanders! Our left flank is empty! Empty! Can’t you understand?!”
“Yet you concentrate our most elite forces in Lorraine to crash into the Saxons’ strongest defense line! You are sending my soldiers to their deaths!”
“Now look! Charleroi is lost! My Ninth Division is crippled! The Third Cavalry Division is gone! The entire flank of the Fifth Army Group is exposed! Are you satisfied? You butcher sitting in your Paris office drinking coffee!”
His roar echoed through the tent. The guards and staff officers outside listened, no one daring to venture inside. They knew the General was on the verge of collapse. The defeat at Charleroi was a devastating blow to the Fifth Army Group. It was more than just the loss of one division and one cavalry division. More importantly, it was the collapse of morale.
When the shattered remnants of the troops who fled Charleroi described the airborne Steel Behemoth, like a divine punishment from the sky, and the streets paved with thousands of corpses to their comrades, an unprecedented terror spread throughout the entire Fifth Army Group. The Saxons were no longer the stiff, old-fashioned opponents they had imagined. They possessed unimaginably advanced weaponry and an iron will. This psychological impact was far worse than the physical casualties.
Lanrezac slumped onto the ground, leaning against the canvas tent wall, breathing heavily. After the rage came endless exhaustion and remorse. He regretted not having more strongly opposed Joffre’s plan… But contemplating that now was useless.
He knew he had to pull himself together and formulate the next operational plan. He recalled the joint command meeting he had attended yesterday, where he met the commander of the Britannian Expeditionary Force. Although there was a bit of a ‘minor disagreement’ during the meeting, the Britannian Expeditionary Force was still their only ally.
“Perhaps we can only hope the Britannians can hold out a little longer, enough time for us to reorganize our defense line in the rear…”
Field Marshal Sir John French, Commander-in-Chief of the Holy Britannian Empire Expeditionary Force, was in a foul mood. He felt like a professional firefighter sent to extinguish a raging inferno that was already burning out of control. And the victims of the fire were continuously pouring fuel onto it.
First, there was the landing operation at Dunkirk.
The original plan was for the main Expeditionary Force to land at Dunkirk, then quickly deploy eastward, piercing the flank of the Saxon First Army Group like a dagger. This was an excellent plan, but it relied on one premise—that the Saxons would not advance so quickly.
And the result? While his vanguard was still bobbing at sea, the Saxon Cavalry had already rushed to the outskirts of Dunkirk. This directly forced the subsequent landing operations to be halted. The division that had already landed was firmly pinned down in the small beachhead, unable to move. Although Royal Navy fire support ensured their temporary safety, they were utterly useless strategically, having become a discarded piece.
Worse still, news from the Royal Navy indicated that the main force of the Saxon High Seas Fleet had left port and was cruising in the North Sea. This meant the Royal Navy could no longer keep its precious battleships stationed off Dunkirk as stationary artillery platforms for long periods. John French had no doubt that the moment the Royal Navy withdrew, the surrounded division would be swallowed whole by the Saxons within three days. He was even seriously considering whether he should withdraw that division immediately while the Royal Navy was still available…
Having lost Dunkirk as a landing zone, he was forced to take the main force of the Expeditionary Force on a wide detour, landing at Le Havre and Rouen in western Gaul, and then rushing north by rail to plug the massive hole that had opened up.
Then came the joint command meeting that almost made him draw his sword on the spot. When he arrived at the temporary joint command post in Amiens, covered in dust, the first thing he did was get into a shouting match with Gallic Commander-in-Chief Joffre and Fifth Army Group Commander Lanrezac.
“Generals, I demand an explanation!” John French slammed his map onto the table, pointing unreservedly at the large, empty area between Arras and the coastline. “Why is this area empty? Where is your left flank? Do you intend to use air to protect the flank of Paris?”
His Gallic [French] was not fluent and was heavily accented by Britannian [English]. But he believed his meaning was clear enough.
However, he was met not with an explanation, but with mockery.
“Oh? Are our Britannian friends teaching us Gauls how to fight?” General Joffre leaned back in his chair, saying slowly, a trace of arrogant amusement on his face.
General Lanrezac was even worse. The commander, already in a foul mood from his recent defeat, even mimicked John French’s accent, saying sarcastically: “Yes, my dear Field Marshal, your Gallic is truly ‘standard.’”
A round of suppressed laughter rippled through the headquarters. John French’s face instantly flushed crimson. He felt his blood pressure soaring. Suppressing his anger, he spoke clearly, word by word:
“I am not joking! Gentlemen! The Saxon First Army Group consists of at least four hundred thousand men! They are advancing toward here at an alarming speed! If you do not immediately reinforce the defense of your left flank, Paris will be in danger!”
“Danger? I think the Saxons have scared the wits out of you, Field Marshal.” Joffre snorted coldly: “The main force of our Gallic Army is in the Lorraine region and is achieving continuous victories! Soon we will break through their defense line and drive straight into the Saxon heartland! At that point, their forces in the North will retreat without a fight!”
“Victory?” John French could hardly believe his ears. “You call those suicidal charges victory? Do you know how heavy your casualties are? You are using the lives of your soldiers to satisfy your ridiculous ‘Offensive Doctrine’ fantasy!”
“Enough!” Joffre slammed his hand on the table, stood up, and pointed his finger at John French’s nose. “Watch your language, Field Marshal! Are you questioning the military honor of the Gallic Republic? I tell you, our Gallic soldiers are the bravest in the world! They yearn for offense, they yearn for glory! Unlike you Britannians, who only know how to hide under the robes of Spellcasters!”
(End of this Chapter)