In military organization, there's a basic principle:
If communication is poor and command capabilities are limited, it's best to keep different branches separate. This reduces the risk of confusion and overload for commanders.
Conversely, if communication is advanced and command structures are robust, then branches can be merged for joint operations.
This is the concept behind a "combined battalion" in modern warfare, where infantry, artillery, armor, and air units work closely together to create formidable combat power. However, achieving this requires modern communication technology and skilled command. Without these, attempting to combine forces would only lead to chaos rather than unity.
For example, at the start of WWII, the Soviet Union had a bold but flawed approach. They integrated tanks, artillery, and aircraft within infantry divisions, hoping to create self-sufficient units. In theory, it was promising—each division would have everything it needed. In practice, however, they faced catastrophic disorganization when attacked by the Germans. Units became directionless, "like headless flies," scattered and ultimately defeated or encircled.
Charles' push to consolidate all army aviation assets under unified command was grounded in this logic. Communications during WWI were primitive; radios were not yet widespread, and even telephones were unreliable. Forcing infantry and air units to operate in close coordination would be a nightmare. Instead, the air units needed their own organization with a unified training program and command structure to execute tactics that were coherent and effective on the battlefield.
But this raised immediate challenges.
Gallieni, seated and somewhat resigned, replied, "Persuading me is one thing, Colonel, but convincing the Commander-in-Chief is another matter. I only command two armies and, beyond that, can only submit recommendations. I'll forward this as a suggestion, but you know as well as I do what the response will be."
"Yes, General," Charles agreed.
There was little hope that Joffre would willingly hand command of these units to Charles.
Seeing Gallieni's unconcerned expression, Charles couldn't help feeling a bit frustrated. "General, if we don't take prompt control of the army's aviation, the Germans could pick them off one by one."
Gallieni merely shrugged, replying, "You're the air squadron commander, Colonel, and this is your idea. As for me, I'm not sure which way is best."
A lie—just moments before, Gallieni had agreed with Charles.
Listening nearby, Lieutenant Colonel Fernand suggested, "If direct approval from the Commander-in-Chief is unlikely, could we appeal through Parliament…"
Gallieni shook his head. This wasn't a feasible route, especially given Schneider's influence and the power of the conservative faction in the legislature. Charles' achievements thus far, though impressive, were not enough to sway Parliament, which was gridlocked by the Right holding more than two hundred seats in the five-hundred-member body. Although they couldn't fully overpower the Left, they only needed to ally with one Leftist faction to form a majority.
Charles knew this well, so lobbying Parliament wasn't an option—at least not yet.
That left only one viable path: public pressure. Charles' gaze drifted toward Cobbod, who was busy scribbling at his desk.
Gallieni and Fernand also realized this and turned their eyes toward Cobbod.
At that moment, Cobbod was frustrated with the "Christmas Truce." While it was a sensational topic, perfect for captivating readers, the high command had issued a media blackout: all outlets were forbidden from covering the truce, citing "national security" concerns. ᴛhis chapter is ᴜpdated by NoᴠᴇFɪre.nᴇt
(Note: The media blackout on the Christmas Truce was not unique to France. Britain, the U.S., and other countries also imposed restrictions, with the U.S. publication The New York Times breaking the story six days later, followed by British papers.) *
What, then, should fill the gap?
Perhaps stories of Christmas joy and feasts?
Hardly. For soldiers on the front, far removed from any holiday cheer, such reports would only deepen their discontent.
No. At this point, many soldiers had grown weary of war, and tales of bravery seemed ill-timed.
Perhaps some light articles on the new 37mm cannons?
Sensing he was being watched, Cobbod looked up at Charles and the others, a puzzled expression on his face. "What's going on?"
"A new story angle, Cobbod!" Charles said with a hint of mystery. "This one should keep you busy."
Perfect, Cobbod thought; he needed a story!
The ground was blanketed in fresh snow, covering everything in white.
The French 9th Army's airfield, located seven kilometers from the front in the town of Morfey, was a shabby affair. It had one airstrip and seven aircraft, all old "Caudrons" and "Doves" scattered about the field. Makeshift canopies, cobbled together from planks and canvas, barely sheltered the planes from the snow.
With no fences around the airfield, only a few posts and barbed wire formed a perimeter, marked by a single sign: "Military Zone, No Unauthorized Entry."
Cobbod and his two photographers eagerly documented the scene, snapping photos of the sparse facilities. Turning to Major Langeff, the airfield commander, Cobbod remarked, "Is this the usual state of your airfield?"
At fifty-something, Major Langeff looked weathered. "No, no, sir. What you see here is the result of our hard work—this is the best condition it's been in."
"The best condition?" Cobbod said in disbelief.
"Of course. This place was a muddy swamp before, riddled with craters and even corpses that needed clearing."
"We dug that ourselves with shovels. We have to clear the snow off it every day, or we wouldn't be able to carry out any flights!"
Cobbod quickly directed his photographers to take some close-ups of the pitted runway. The obvious damage made it clear that this airfield posed a hazard for takeoffs.
Offering Langeff a sympathetic look, Cobbod asked, "Are other air units in similar conditions?"
"Definitely," Major Langeff replied. "Most of our men are stationed at the front, so there's a manpower shortage everywhere. Without enough people to help, this is the best we can do. Some other airfields are in even worse shape."
After a pause, Langeff added, "Except for Charles' Flying Club in Paris, of course."
"Oh?" Cobbod asked, seizing the opportunity. "Why is the Flying Club in Paris an exception?"
Langeff chuckled. "Isn't it obvious? That's Charles' unit, and he's different from the others! He's willing to spend on his pilots. His flyers receive at least 60 francs a month in allowances—that's three times what we get!"
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