Rocket after rocket exploded around Big Bertha. From a distance, it was impossible to tell if any had struck the target directly; all that could be seen was Big Bertha engulfed in flames and smoke. Several artillerymen had been killed or injured in the blast, and others, now ablaze, ran and flailed about wildly, screaming.
Looking through his binoculars, Charles could barely make out anything—the cannon was situated in a blind spot, obscured from his view. After a few moments with no further explosions, he sighed. It seemed that the rockets had failed. Perhaps they had only caused minor damage, some fixable issue that could be quickly repaired to bring the weapon back into action.
Eric, who was piloting the mission, felt similarly. Glancing back at Big Bertha, he smacked the cockpit and cursed, "Damn it! We need more rockets. Another run!"
But he knew it was impossible. The Germans would be prepared now, and a second attempt would mean facing not only the German pilots but also machine guns mounted by infantry on high ground, creating a wall of bullets he couldn't survive.
Suddenly, an enormous explosion echoed from behind. Eric turned to see a massive cloud of smoke where Big Bertha had been.
He quickly realized what had happened, breaking into laughter. "It was the shells! I set off their own artillery shells!"
"Heh, kid, we got lucky this time!"
"I really did it, and I'm still alive!"
Everyone nearby understood the significance of that explosion. They knew that sound too well—the deep, thunderous boom, with an echo like rolling thunder. For more than ten days, Antwerp had trembled under that noise, but no one had imagined that Big Bertha's end would come from its own ammunition.
General Besler's face turned pale. Moments earlier, he had clung to the hope of salvaging the situation, but in an instant, Big Bertha had been blown to pieces. Though the smoke hadn't yet cleared, the once-proud cannon was now lying lifelessly with its barrel slumped, broken beyond repair.
A cheer erupted throughout Antwerp as citizens raised their hands and waved at the planes overhead, their faces beaming with joy and admiration. Eric dipped his plane low, skimming just above the crowds, sparking cheers and applause as people shouted and even ran after him in jubilation.
On the lookout tower, Albert I cast a glance at General Ghys, saying, "General, it seems we won't need your attack plan after all, don't you agree?"
"Yes, Your Majesty, of course," General Ghys replied, bowing his head. This should have brought him some relief; after all, the primary target had been destroyed, and Antwerp was safe. Yet he couldn't shake the weight pressing down on him as he answered, sensing what the king was truly asking: Are you truly fit to command this fortress, or should someone else take your place?
Albert I said nothing more. He lowered his binoculars and began descending the tower. He intended to keep his composure, maintaining the dignified air expected of a king. Yet after only a few steps, he broke into a run, eager to find Charles, to shake his hand and tell him of their victory—that once again, he had saved the people of Belgium.
As Albert I rushed away, General Winter leaned over to Ghys and muttered, "Perhaps we won't be handing Charles over to the Germans after all."
"Indeed," Ghys replied, slightly embarrassed.
Eric's plane touched down gently on the runway, and as soon as he disembarked, a crowd lifted him high, tossing him up in celebration. Moments later, another twin-wing and a Taube landed, bringing Fisher and another pilot, who were greeted with similar enthusiasm.
But only three planes returned from the original eight. The fallen pilots had made a valiant sacrifice, yet the excitement of victory and the joy of those who returned soon overshadowed their loss.
When Charles approached, surrounded by his guards, Eric raised his chin and asked, "So, how'd I do, Commander?"
"Not bad," Charles replied, smiling. "How about a bottle of wine as a reward?"
Everyone laughed at that.
In the distance, the sound of hooves grew louder as the king's carriage approached, entering the airfield gates before slowing and stopping before the crowd. Soldiers quickly lined up to greet him. Albert I leaped from the carriage, momentarily taken aback by the assembled soldiers, before composing himself. He walked down the line, shaking hands with each soldier, his voice brimming with pride and admiration:
"You are heroes of Belgium!"
"Well done, I am proud of you all!"
"On behalf of Belgium, I thank you!"
When he reached Charles, Albert's expression softened, and he said, "May I speak with you, Lieutenant?"
"Of course," Charles replied.
They moved away from the crowd to a quieter spot by the airfield. With the soldiers holding back the onlookers, they could speak privately, with no chance of being overheard.
Albert began hesitantly, "I know this may be impossible, but… would you consider commanding the Belgian army? I'm certain the parliament would agree, and so would the people."
"Your Majesty…" Charles was taken aback.
"I know, Charles," Albert said, smiling faintly. "You're French, and I know that this would be difficult. But I would give you anything you desire."
Albert I believed that even the slightest chance was worth pursuing.
"Perhaps you might think of it this way," he continued. "France is already moving toward victory, but Belgium still stands in danger. France may not need you as much, but Belgium does, and so do her people. Belgium would be safe with you here."
"No, Your Majesty, I can't do that," Charles replied firmly.
If Belgium were a country Albert could truly control, perhaps Charles might have accepted—the offer of "anything you desire" was indeed tempting. But in reality, the true power lay with the parliament controlled by capitalists, not with the king.
This made staying in Belgium unsafe for him. There would always be a lingering threat: if Belgium handed Charles over to Germany, Germany might cease its attacks. This wasn't about morality or ethics; it was the cold calculus of international relations—a fundamental and insolvable conflict.
Capitalists were the same everywhere. If Charles remained in Belgium, the risk of betrayal would only increase with time.
A wise person knows when to take their leave, and Charles had no intention of living in constant fear. That kind of life held no meaning.
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