The Will of the People
"W-We march for Kehl immediately...! All forces, charge!"
"Commander, please calm down!"
"We truly don't know when the German mobilization will be complete now."
"To be fooled once is a mistake, twice is incompetence. If I am fooled a third time, it means I am a German spy! Long live the French spirit of the offensive!"
"Stop the Commander!"
"Aaaargh!"
It wasn't even a fair fight. He had been utterly humiliated by a cheap explosion show and a pathetic stunt involving coal briquette ashes smeared on uniforms. How could he not lose his mind?
Now, the German army was truly about to arrive. The general staff barely managed to restrain Auguste Dubail by resorting to the extreme measure of locking Erwin Rommel in solitary confinement, restricting his rations, and beating him.
Of course, as Auguste Dubail said, if the German mobilization was further delayed, they could easily sweep away the mere militia in Kehl. But... did they have to engage in urban warfare again? Could they really finish everything before the German army arrived?
Ultimately, Auguste Dubail did not attack Kehl. It took four days from then for the German army to arrive.
What if Auguste Dubail had been a truly brilliant commander? He could have seized Kehl, choking off Germany's transport on the Rhine River. He could have crushed the remaining forces of the Armed Cooperative Alliance, saving some face. He could have 'protected' the four hundred thousand citizens of Strasbourg, who were bound to cause political headaches. And with a bit of luck, he might have even exacted a petty revenge on Shtal, Ludendorff, and Trotsky.
"...General Dubail. Commander Joffre has summoned you to Paris."
"Haha. Hahahaha! Right. And who is my successor?"
"It is General Philippe Pétain, who was recently promoted to major general. As for the 1st Army... it will be disbanded and reorganized into the Alsace-Lorraine Army."
"That bastard still hasn't retired yet? Tell him I wish him luck."
Since they had already spent four days doing nothing but digging trenches, the opportunity had long sailed. Auguste Dubail returned to Paris in solitude. He was now sixty-two years old.
Looking back on the recent Battle of Alsace-Lorraine and the subsequent Battle of the Rhine River, General Auguste Dubail had rarely made a wrong decision. Every choice he made had been the absolute best option available to him at the time.
I... was not wrong. Was I? Did I make a mistake? Have I fallen behind the times?
In a time when urban warfare doctrine was virtually nonexistent, his decision to rapidly advance into Alsace-Lorraine had been strategically sound.
Even in the midst of urban combat, he had succeeded in breaking through the hellish stalemate by reducing the city to ashes.
His assumption that the civilians—who possessed zero combat capability and only served to hinder their retreat—were a decoy force was also a reasonable deduction.
Even his belated decision to pursue the main force, which he had mistaken for a decoy, was acceptable, even if it was born of a misunderstanding.
The trenches he had quickly dug would serve to hinder any future German advance toward Alsace-Lorraine for a long time to come.
But.
Back home, I will be remembered as nothing more than a pathetic general who was utterly humiliated by a ragtag militia. I only hope they don't mistake me for a German spy.
Ultimately, the responsibility for being thoroughly beaten by a militia and ruining the French army's grandest plan for victory lay entirely on Auguste Dubail's shoulders.
For the rest of his days, Auguste Dubail would spend his time writing memoirs, desperately trying to justify his actions.
"I am Baron Max von Hausen, Commander of the German 3rd Army of Saxony. You may leave the Western Front to us from now on."
"I am Marx Stahl. We are just about... finished with our preparations to withdraw."
At long last, the German military operations had returned to normal. The 1st through 3rd Armies were successfully deployed to the Western Front, tasked with digging trenches to defend against France, while the remaining forces were ordered to march toward Warsaw.
Baron Max von Hausen, Commander of the 3rd Army, gasped in astonishment as he looked at the French forces across the Rhine River.
"You say you have absolutely no ammunition or weapons left?"
"Yes, that is correct."
"Then how... how on earth did you hold them off?"
Max von Hausen had genuinely believed they might have to pull their defensive line all the way back east to Frankfurt. At the very least, the French crossing the Rhine and marching eastward had seemed a foregone conclusion. Yet, the Armed Cooperative Alliance had held. And they hadn't just held; they had executed a miraculous retreat alongside hundreds of thousands of Strasbourg civilians, showcasing a masterclass in tactical leadership.
"This is truly... unbelievable."
"It was fate."
Yes, it truly was fate. What if it hadn't snowed on the day of their escape? They would never have breached the encirclement. Conversely, if the snow had lasted any longer, it would have been just as disastrous. They needed to break through and flee, but a prolonged blizzard would have stranded both the army and the refugees.
What if Rommel hadn't been there? What if Rommel's deception had been seen through even an hour earlier? The hastily retreating forces would have been overtaken before they could ever reach Kehl.
Regardless, Shtal and the German Armed Cooperative Alliance had achieved a victory grander than anyone could have anticipated. Rumors quickly spread that the French army was a pathetic force incapable of defeating even a militia, only fit for bullying unarmed civilians.
"As expected of the miraculous chemist. My congratulations on your victory."
"Thank you, Commander. However, I do not believe it is time to celebrate just yet."
"Why is that?"
"Because there are four hundred thousand citizens of Strasbourg who followed me here out of sheer trust."
Shtal had brought the citizens along on a whim, but nothing had been decided regarding where they would live or what they would eat. They had followed him solely on the strength of his name.
Standing before the refugee camp erected in the massive square, Shtal bowed his head to the displaced crowd.
"First, I would like to offer you all my deepest apologies."
The refugees of Strasbourg, who had expected Shtal to deliver a triumphant speech like a returning Napoleon, were taken aback by his sudden display of humility.
"Though the primary cause of this war lies with the insidious national-revolutionary forces of Serbia, Russia, and France, the bitter truth remains that you have lost your homes and your land. ...All of this is due to my own incompetence. It pains me constantly to think that I may have merely used the citizens of Strasbourg for political gain. I am truly, deeply sorry."
A heavy, solemn silence fell over the crowd. Perhaps this was Shtal's genuine feelings. After all, the French army was still the army of a republic. It wasn't as if they would commit indiscriminate massacres like the Nazis. He had always felt a pang of guilt that he might have dragged these people along solely to frame the French as butchers and the Germans as protectors of the citizenry.
"...He used us?"
"What on earth is he talking about?"
"Am I hearing this right?"
Except on election days, they had never once heard a politician apologize. No, in truth, they hadn't even heard it on election days. This wasn't because the twentieth century was uncivilized or because democracy was underdeveloped. It was simply because politicians were a stiff-necked breed who would rather die than bow their heads.
Every politician suffered from a sort of anxiety disorder, believing that offering an apology was akin to handing out a free pass for public execution. And indeed, their political rivals were always more than happy to cash in on that pass.
"Citizens of Strasbourg! I am sorry. And I must ask you: did you truly come here of your own free will?"
As the citizens of Strasbourg stood dazed and bewildered, Charles—who had followed Shtal alongside his physically disabled mother—shouted out.
"Do not apologize!"
"..."
"What nonsense! Representative Shtal, you are just like any other politician!"
The crowd began to murmur at Charles's provocative words. Having witnessed all manner of misery in his life, Charles possessed a cynical, twisted temperament. Regardless of what the crowd thought, he yelled toward Shtal.
"Used us politically? Do not flatter yourself! Many of us cannot even read, but we still have the right to choose our own future. Only dirty politicians view us as mindless tools to be swayed by propaganda. We made a choice!"
At Charles's words, the crowd began to shout one by one.
"He's right! If the French army took over, the cooperatives would have been dismantled anyway!"
"The cooperative promised to teach us how to read! What would have happened to that promise?"
"Our working hours were reduced only because the members of the Coal Grenadier Cooperative stormed the president's office together!"
"Exactly! If the French took over, we'd be back to working twelve hours a day!"
They cried out in unison, their voices merging into a single, thunderous roar.
"We followed you of our own free will!"
Only then did Shtal raise his head and continue his address to the crowd.
"Thank you, everyone. Thank you from the bottom of my heart! This war will end in victory for the cooperatives. We will defeat the French invaders and reclaim your homeland!"
"Waaaaah!"
"Long live Shtal!"
"Long live the Armed Cooperative Alliance!"
A deafening cheer erupted. Only after stepping down from the podium did Shtal allow a triumphant smile to grace his lips. Waiting for him at the bottom of the steps was Trotsky.
"Well? Did you hear what you wanted to hear?"
"..."
"No matter what, refugees who have lost their homes are bound to suffer. Right now, they are simply overjoyed to be alive, but as time passes, they will surely yearn for their homeland."
Trotsky continued to sneer without pause.
"They might even come to think they would have been better off siding with France. That is why you secured their pledge beforehand—forcing them to declare they followed Shtal of their own free will. Am I wrong?"
"...I appreciate your personal insight, Comrade Trotsky. You are correct, but not entirely. If they lacked the will to choose, even a performance like this would have been impossible."
"In any case, revolution is never the choice of the masses; it is forged by a handful of professional revolutionaries—by heroes. And you are undoubtedly a hero. Even now, do you have no intention of refining your 'Stahlism'?"
"None."
"A pity."
With those final words, Trotsky resigned from his position as Chief of the General Staff. Ignoring the summons of Wilhelm II, he hastily prepared to depart for Warsaw alongside Rosa Luxemburg.
I hear the Russians are slaughtering Poles indiscriminately in Warsaw. I doubt there is much Trotsky can do even if he goes.
Meanwhile, the majority of the Strasbourg citizens boarded trains alongside the eastward-moving German forces, bound for the Austro-Hungarian Empire. Their next destination was Vienna.
They would most likely end up serving as mercenaries. Aside from the Bosnian Agricultural Cooperative Revolutionary Guard, they were now the most battle-hardened force available. No matter how sick of war they might be, the battlefield remained the quickest path to advancement.
Of course, having achieved the monumental feat of halting the Schlieffen Plan and leaving France in a groggy state, staying in Austria would have been preferable. However, Shtal had been away from his home country for far too long in the midst of this war.
"The Austro-Hungarian Imperial Army still hasn't captured Belgrade?"
"Yes, Representative Shtal."
It was a bolt from the blue, delivered by Max von Hausen. Something was going terribly wrong on the Eastern Front.
"Why on earth not?"
"It seems Italy has begun to launch an offensive."
Due to the altered timeline, Italy had entered the war early. And unlike the original history where they merely played both sides, they were now aggressively attacking the territory of the Austro-Hungarian Empire to rescue Serbia, their fellow member of the National-Revolutionary International.
Shtal had assumed that a country like Serbia, which had started the war several years earlier than in his past life and was already on the brink of ruin, would surrender within a month. But there was no helping it. Surrounded by Italy, Serbia, and Russia, the Austro-Hungarian Empire was now facing a war on three fronts. While a minor nation like Serbia would surely capitulate soon, it was still a cause for concern.
Still, I must meet with Wilhelm II. There are things I need to squeeze out of him.
With that thought, Shtal set off for Berlin alongside Ludendorff. Shtal had risked his life. Now, it was Wilhelm II's turn to pay a price equal to the value of Shtal's life.