2 Invasion Route

Paris, Republic of Gallica, August 1919

"Monsieur Perrier… I am interested in hearing more about this idea of yours."

General Robert Perrier grimaced as the Marshal took another puff of his cigar. Mr. Perrier was not a smoker himself, and he quietly prided himself in the fact. Not only did the smell remind him and his sensitive nose of scenes he'd rather forget, but he was also convinced that the act was extremely unhealthy for both body and soul.

"Well, Marshal Dumont…"

The marshal held up a hand, motioning for Perrier to wait. With a grunt, he leaned forward in his seat and stubbed out his cigar in the ashtray on the table between them. He looked up and grinned.

"I see that look on your face, monsieur Perrier. My apologies for forgetting. Please, don't hesitate to remind me next time we meet."

"I… my apologies as well, Marshal. I will be as forward as possible in the future."

The two men exchanged a mildly awkward laugh and the marshal returned to his usual position, slouching into the back of his thick, leather armchair. Not for the first time, Perrier noticed how round Dumont had gotten since their campaigns together in Africa. The marshal's growing waist told a story all on its own, of large plates of food and numerous bottles of wine.

"Don't be too forward, now. I know what you're thinking, and some things are best left unsaid."

Startled, Perrier snapped to attention, his cheeks flaring with heat.

Dumont laughed, and the tips of his handlebar mustache quivered with his jowls.

"Worry not. It takes willful ignorance to be as rotund as I am and not be aware of it. Ignorant I may be, but willfully ignorant I am not."

He clasped his hands together.

"But perfect timing, is it not? There's no better way to get a man up and about than a big and bloody war. And here we are. Likely on the brink of a big and bloody war."

"Yes indeed, Marshal. Though with the right preparations, this coming war could very well be neither big nor bloody..."

"Oh?"

Appearing deep in thought, Dumont stuck his hand into his pocket and produced a brass lighter. He was halfway through the process of reaching for the cigar he had put out earlier when he sighed and stopped himself.

"Forgive me. It's… habit, you know."

"I understand, Marshal."

"Anyways…"

Dumont stuffed his lighter back into his pocket before sinking into his seat once again. He clasped his hands together.

"You wanted to discuss something with me."

"Ah, yes. If you could just give me a moment."

Perrier brought his hand to his chin as he gathered his thoughts. When he was satisfied, he cleared his throat.

"So to begin… As both you and I very well know, a war is all but inevitable. It may happen a year, two years, or even a decade from now, but when it does, it will involve the entirety of this continent. Given our current political ties, this war will likely pit us and the Russenians against the empires of Alamannia and Tyrol-Avaria."

Perrier formed a mental map of the countries as he spoke. Russenia was the giant Slavic empire to the far east of Europa, and it shared its western border with Tyrol-Avaria and Alamannia. As one travelled further west, the empire of Tyrol-Avaria came to an end, while Alamannia stretched on until it finally gave way to the Republic of Gallica.

Perrier continued.

"If that indeed turns out to be the case, the first enemies we encounter will be of… the Alamannian variety."

"Mmm."

"The question now, then, is how we should approach this coming conflict. Both we and the Alamannians have built up significant fortifications along our shared border. The opening battles of this theater will undoubtedly favor the defenders, offsetting any advantage gained from launching the first strike."

"A head-on attack would be too costly for either side."

"Exactly. But like us, the Alamannians will want to end this war as soon as possible, over the course of a few decisive battles. With all these fortifications in the way, however, that simply won't be possible. Not unless..."

Dumont raised an eyebrow.

"Unless?"

"Unless they find a way to avoid our defenses entirely, marshal. And that way is painfully obvious. I believe they will try to attack us through our northeastern neighbor, the Kingdom of Belgia. Belgia is a neutral party, and neither we nor the Alamannians have set up notable defenses against them."

The marshal grimaced.

"I don't mean this in an accusing manner, monsieur Perrier… But this is not a new theory. Is this the only reason you wanted to meet? To tell me something I already knew?"

"No, marshal."

Perrier sat a bit straighter in his seat.

"This Belgian invasion route… Why can't we use it as well?"

***

Belgia, June 1922

"Will this really be as easy as they say?"

"Don't worry yourself, Henri. Belgia is a small country, and there's no way they'll be a match for us. Hell, I'd wager there's a good chance they'll surrender before we even get there."

"You think so?"

"I've been to Charleroi before. Almost everyone in the city is of Gallican descent. They speak the same language as us and practice the same customs. If they were to put up a fight, it'd be like brothers shooting brothers!"

Henri thought about his platoon leader's answer and found that he didn't like it much. If the Belgians would be committing fratricide if they shot back, wouldn't attacking them in the first place be the very same thing?

"But wouldn't we..."

"You see that golden sun up there? That clear, blue sky? The Lord himself is smiling down upon us. So lighten up, Henri. At this rate, the war will be over before you're done moping around."

"Ah… right."

"Don't lose sight of the real enemy. It's unfortunate that the Belgians are caught in the way, but our time here should be short. And after that… Alamannia."

Unsure of what else to say, Henri simply nodded his head and fell back into silence. As they continued their march, the air was again filled with the crunching of boots against gravel and the jangling of metal as provisions banged against each other in their bags.

Three divisions of men, each about 15,000 strong, had been tasked with taking the city of Charleroi, clearing the way for the rest of the Gallican army to attack Lucilinburg and Alamannia to the east. After Charleroi, the first three divisions would be reinforced before moving on to Brussels, the capital of Belgia.

Henri turned his head and took in the sight around him. Rows upon rows of men and cavalry, marching on a small unpaved road through the middle of the Belgian countryside. It had been over fifty years since Europa had seen such a large Gallican army, back during Gallica's war with what was then called "Prussia."

Though Henri was unable to shake off his uneasiness, he couldn't help but feel awed at the might of his country. Thousands of rifles were pointing defiantly at the sky. Thousands of young men and boys in their slick blue coats and bright red trousers were all marching steadily forward for the glory and honor of their great Republic.

Henri raised his head and took a deep breath.

Yes… he could harbor his doubts, but he had known what he was doing when he volunteered to fight. He remembered the way his heart had swelled when he'd signed his papers, and how it nearly skipped a beat when he had donned his uniform for the very first time.

In his head, he could still see his mother and his older sister beaming proudly at him.

"Who in the world is this dashing young man before me?", his mother had exclaimed.

And then…

A shiver ran down Henri's spine as he recalled his father's parting words, words that had set his heart alight.

"Make me proud, son."

Henri smiled.

"I will."