Chapter 113 - Rushing to the Sea

Chapter 113 - Rushing to the Sea

The progress with the airplane factory and flying club was going well. Eric was in charge of the factory, which could produce 50 "Avro" planes and 30 "Caudron G.3" planes each month. The latter, designed by France's Caudron brothers, was available for any manufacturer to produce freely, making it an affordable choice for reconnaissance and training planes.

(Note: The cost of a "Caudron" was around 4,000 francs, less than half the cost of an "Avro.")

Carter was managing the flying club's pilot teams, training and dividing them into support, instructor, and reconnaissance groups, with the best pilots earmarked for combat duty. Since they were already experienced in these areas, Charles only needed to give them a general direction, and they followed through effectively.

The only issues were that Eric needed a steady supply of alcohol, while Carter needed an accountant.

That day, Charles, in his role as an advisor, was once again assisting Colonel Fernand in sorting intelligence reports. One of an advisor's tasks was to piece together fragmented frontline reports, helping commanders get a clear, accurate view of the battlefield in as little time as possible.

However, Charles noticed something unusual in the reports.

Approaching Gallieni, he said, "General, I think there's a problem at the front."

"What problem?" Gallieni asked casually. He was holding a cup of coffee and flipping through Le Petit Journal. Recent successes on the battlefield had afforded him some rare downtime.

Charles reported, "General Joffre's reports claim 'the war is progressing well,' 'the enemy is in full retreat,' and 'our victories are increasingly grand and glorious'—and yet, our forces on the Aisne line haven't made any progress these past few days."

Gallieni's expression changed as he set his coffee and newspaper aside, pulling out a map. "Where was the line a few days ago?"

Charles, holding up the previous days' reports, circled a few spots on the map with a pencil. "Here, here, and here."

Gallieni studied the reports carefully, then muttered through gritted teeth, "Damn it, he's falsifying reports!"

No one needed to ask who "he" was. The French commander-in-chief was lying about the situation—a surprise to all. The motive was clear: Parliament was debating whether to hold Joffre accountable for the failure of "Plan XVII," with the possibility of removing him from his post. He couldn't afford to let the victories stop.

So, on one hand, he was inflating reports of triumphs to the home front. On the other, he was ordering his troops into relentless and meaningless assaults against entrenched enemy lines, despite the fact that the Germans had stabilized and built a solid defense.

Gallieni paced, then made a quick decision, ordering Major General Maunoury: "Send a corps to reinforce the front immediately. We'll outflank the enemy's right side!"

"Yes, sir!" General Maunoury replied, issuing the order.

But Charles, hearing this, knew that this "flanking" attempt was unlikely to succeed. The French had already wasted too much time on false victories. By the time French reinforcements reached the enemy's flank, German reinforcements would likely arrive at the same spot.

The two sides would counter each other repeatedly, pulling each other further toward the coast until they both ran out of space. This was the beginning of what historians would call "the Race to the Sea."

Charles's eyes traced the line northward, finally stopping at Ypres, in western Belgium. He knew that here, the Germans would launch a counterattack that would cost the British and French armies dearly. Among the attacking German forces would be a failed art student—his first taste of battle.

The reason the Germans chose to attack at Ypres was that the flat, low terrain was unsuitable for trench warfare. Dig a shovel's depth, and water would fill the hole. Combined with the arrival of the French rainy season, Ypres would become a brutal battleground, a hellish quagmire where both sides would suffer hundreds of thousands of casualties.

Charles thought of tractors—the thousand or so unsold ones gathering dust in Francis's warehouse. In terrain like that, tractors capable of pulling artillery and transporting supplies could make a decisive difference.

Charles realized he needed to act fast; otherwise, Francis might end up with a significant advantage.

...

That afternoon, a fine drizzle fell over Dawaise, a damp wind blowing through as Francis, puffing on a pipe by the window, felt a deepening frustration. He was thinking about the future of his tractor factory.

The war was far from ending. In fact, it seemed to stretch further into the distance, with no sign of victory in sight. Francis had hoped that after the war, the demand for tractors would return to normal, but this now seemed like an unrealistic dream.

Worse yet, Charles's tractor factory had begun mass-producing the "Holt 75," a model far superior to his own "Holt 60" and yet similarly priced. Even if the war ended, why would anyone buy the outdated "Holt 60" over the newer model?

At that moment, a grand four-horse carriage slowly approached through the rain. As it emerged from the mist and grew clearer, Francis, admiring its elegance, saw it stop in front of his villa.

Francis's eyes lit up. His instincts told him that this might be a buyer for his tractors—and a major one at that.

Farm tractors were usually sold to small farmers, but large clients were often landowners with sprawling estates. As more and more small farmers turned to other trades, these landowners increasingly relied on tractors to boost their farming efficiency.

The impressive carriage suggested that this was just such a wealthy landowner. At that time, the large estate owners preferred horse-drawn carriages over cars, seeing them as a status symbol.

"Simon! Simon!" Francis called, heading to the door and hastily swapping his nightwear for more appropriate attire.

Simon entered, and Francis, fumbling with his clothing, gave instructions, "Quick, prepare to greet our guest. Get the coffee and cigars ready!"

"Yes, sir!" Simon replied, recognizing the significance. He hurried downstairs to make preparations.

When Francis descended, he was greeted by a well-dressed elderly gentleman with a noble air, comfortably seated on the couch.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Francis," the man said, his expression calm as he looked up toward Francis. "I just came from Charles's tractor factory. I hope you won't disappoint me."

Francis was taken aback—Charles's tractors hadn't met his needs? If so, there could only be one reason…quantity.

Francis's eyes sparkled as a gleeful, ingratiating smile spread across his face.

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