Chapter 485: Please Continue, I'm Listening!
Major Jules initially thought this was a "suicide mission," but the reality was quite different.
They had donned German uniforms and helmets—items readily obtainable, as the area in front of their defensive line was littered with wounded German soldiers felled by the directional mines. The only drawback was that many uniforms had bullet holes or bayonet slashes. But in the darkness, who would notice these details? The only real discomfort was the sticky bloodstains clinging to their bodies.
They split into small groups, each carrying "wounded soldiers" on stretchers, moving steadily towards Fort Douaumont.
The entire journey was surprisingly smooth; nobody stopped them, and nobody checked their identities. All German forces were preoccupied, frantically dealing with the sudden influx of casualties.
The Germans were in chaos—or perhaps it was better described as fear. Many feared that the next orders would send them charging towards the French positions, turning them into just another wounded soldier among many.
Major Jules, fluent in German, even overheard anxious whispers among enemy soldiers as they passed by:
"They say Shire has arrived. He's over there—can you believe it?"
"Who else could invent something like that weapon?"
"Incredible! I've never seen anything like it. It wipes out dozens of soldiers instantly—far worse than a machine gun!"
Hearing this, Major Jules felt a sudden pride swell within him, an urge to smile—but he suppressed it immediately. Revealing a smile at this moment would be disastrous if detected.
The "wounded" made it smoothly into Fort Douaumont, some severely "injured" even taken directly into the fort's interior. And then, suddenly, gunfire erupted.
Most of the Germans nearby were medical personnel or injured soldiers. Those infantrymen and artillerymen present were unarmed, either having set their weapons aside or carrying them casually on their backs.
Thus, the battle swiftly turned into a massacre.
German soldiers barely had time to reach for their weapons before being shot down. Doctors and medics frantically raised their hands, trying to surrender, realizing they stood no chance against these ruthless French attackers. However, in the confusion and darkness, raising one's hands didn't guarantee safety. Bullets were flying everywhere, indiscriminately taking lives.
Panicking soldiers trampled wounded comrades underfoot as they fled. Those carrying stretchers dropped their charges without hesitation, choosing survival over duty. The injured, unable to move swiftly, desperately crawled along the ground, attempting to hide—until a French bayonet plunged mercilessly into their backs.
Within mere minutes, Fort Douaumont transformed from a makeshift hospital into a hellscape. The ground was blanketed with bodies, offering scarcely any place to step. Blood pooled on the floor, flowing slowly down into the trenches, the sound clearly audible in the eerie silence that followed.
Though fighting continued sporadically within the fort, these were isolated pockets of resistance.
German reinforcements arriving quickly became pinned down by waves of steel ball bearings, terrified into immobility.
Then, suddenly, the artillery inside Fort Douaumont roared to life once again.
150mm shells detonated among the German trenches, violently throwing their own soldiers into the air. The 77mm guns began firing into the backs of retreating German forces, who died bewildered, unable to comprehend why their own artillery had turned against them.
At the same moment, the French forces, who had previously maintained a defensive posture, finally surged forward in a determined counterattack.
As dawn broke, at General Headquarters in Lagny-sur-Marne, aides were still bustling about. General Joffre lay sprawled across his desk, snoring softly, a thin trickle of saliva leaking from his mouth.
He had fallen asleep after a long struggle against exhaustion and uncertainty, frustrated by the lack of concrete news from the frontline. Since Shire had assumed command at Verdun, he'd severed communications between headquarters and the frontline troops, citing "the need to prevent leaks of sensitive military intelligence."
"That bastard," Joffre had muttered bitterly. "He's treating us like the enemy!"
The aides around him found this ironic. Wasn't it General Joffre who had always treated Shire as his greatest rival?
The little news that Joffre had received was fragmented, vague messages from informants he'd hurriedly dispatched to Verdun:
"The Germans are attacking fiercely. Artillery fire is relentless."
"Our lines seem to be holding. The Germans have made little progress."
"Our artillery has opened fire; fighting is very intense."
At first, Joffre had been anxious, fearing Shire might genuinely turn the battle around in only one day, as promised. But soon, he convinced himself otherwise:
Even if Shire managed to hold the line and kill thousands of Germans, what difference did it really make? Could that truly be called "changing the situation"?
Under Joffre's command, French troops had still advanced—even if unsuccessfully. Under Shire, they were now forced into passive defense, unable even to launch attacks. Sure, it was a "change" in the battle situation—but only towards something worse.
Thinking this, Joffre had relaxed, soon drifting into uneasy sleep.
"General? General!" an aide cautiously shook Joffre awake.
Joffre jolted upright, momentarily confused by his surroundings. "How is the situation at Verdun?" he demanded, immediately alert.
"We don't have exact details, General," replied the aide carefully. "But we do know Shire has boarded a plane back to Paris."
Joffre glanced down at his pocket watch, relief and satisfaction flooding his face. "He must have given up!" he exclaimed gleefully. "That arrogant young fool!"
It was still six hours short of their one-day agreement. Shire returning early could only mean he had failed utterly. Joffre's spirits lifted immensely.
He straightened his uniform, smiling triumphantly. "Inform General Canis immediately. He'll know what to say at the assembly."
"Yes, General!"
At the Ritz Hotel in Paris, General Canis answered the phone from headquarters and smiled broadly. Turning to his aides, he commanded, "Prepare the car immediately! I must deliver this 'good news' to Parliament personally—and to all the citizens of France!"
By nine o'clock, members of Parliament had gathered at the Palais Bourbon. Canis stood before them in his immaculate uniform, grinning smugly.
As the members took their seats, they glanced at one another uncertainly. They'd heard Shire had arrived at Verdun yesterday—but now Canis seemed confident. Had Shire failed?
Gallieni sat with a neutral expression, shaking his head slightly. Shire was too impatient—one day was simply not enough time. Only Stead appeared calm and confident, fully aware of what Shire had brought with him to Verdun.
"Gentlemen!" Canis began eagerly, barely waiting for silence. "As I've said before, Shire couldn't possibly alter the situation. This was always an impossible battle—outmatched in numbers, weapons, and supplies. Shire mistakenly believed he could succeed, but now he's seen reality clearly. He's already on his way back—"
Suddenly, the door swung open, and Shire strode in, followed by Major Jules. Both were caked in dirt and exhausted, but Jules' eyes sparkled with excitement and pride.
Gallieni leaned forward, instantly alert. As a veteran, he knew exactly what those eyes meant.
Could it be…had Shire actually done it?
Impossible—less than a single day had passed!
Shire calmly took a front-row seat opposite General Canis. Relaxed, he looked up at the flustered general and said mildly, "Please continue, General Canis. I'm listening."
Thank you for the support, friends. If you want to read more chapters in advance, go to my Patreon.
Read 30 Chapters In Advance: patreon.com/Franklin1