Chapter Twenty-Eight: Mitterrand

Along with the act, a conscription order was announced. The provisional government issued this decree to expand the French army, primarily in preparation for the next phase of operations within German territory.

One of the clauses in the conscription order prioritized liberal arts students. In the First World War, France’s mobilization speed and efficiency surpassed that of the more populous Germany, but this achievement came at a staggering cost. Indiscriminate mobilization effectively hollowed out a generation of French citizens. Many students who might have otherwise shone in their respective universities perished on the battlefield; a single campaign wiped out eighty percent of the taxi drivers then working in Paris. It must be remembered that in 1914, even in the capital, few people had the opportunity to drive, making it a high-paying profession. A single battle was enough to eliminate the city's entire pool of drivers. Entire academic departments at various universities were wiped out, leading to the collapse of Paris’s status as the mathematical center of Europe after the war.

This time, the provisional government had grown wiser. They would not be blinded by the spirit of revenge as they were in the First World War. With the British and American armies present, France could afford to beat a drowning dog without risking being bitten in return. Germany was at the end of its rope, and France needed to preserve its strength for the post-war era; valuable talent could not be wasted on the battlefield.

In a small café near the Sorbonne, literature teacher Pierre Durand was having breakfast with his fiancée, Claire Martin. Claire pushed the day’s newspaper toward Pierre, her finger pointing at the headline.

"Look at this," she said softly. "Perhaps this is our chance."

Pierre adjusted his glasses and carefully read the report on the Military Marriage Act. Sunlight streamed through the glass window, illuminating his blonde hair with a faint halo. After reading it, he looked up, his blue eyes flashing with complex emotions. "You mean... you want me to enlist?"

Claire took his hand. With her chestnut curls and gentle brown eyes, she worked as a music teacher at a nearby primary school.

"We’ve waited two years, Pierre. Your father still refuses to let us marry because my family isn’t wealthy, and you’ve only just started your career..." Her voice trembled slightly. "Now, the government promises housing and job security for military families. We could finally have a home of our own. The radio says Germany has already mobilized all adult males between sixteen and sixty. The papers say the war will end in six months at most. Everyone says this is an opportunity—I’ve seen the lines at the recruitment centers already."

Claire was not lying, though eyes can sometimes be deceived. After all, how hard is it to pay people to stand in line? Many of the people in those queues were merely youths from the "Youth Divisions" moonlighting, moving from one recruitment station to the next once they had finished waiting.

However, some information was accurate: Germany was indeed mobilizing every male from sixteen to sixty, which appeared to be a sign of a regime in its twilight. Even the armchair strategists on the streets of Paris had reached this conclusion.

Pierre did not answer immediately. He recalled the photograph his father kept in the living room—a young man in uniform standing beside a tank, smiling brilliantly. That was a pre-war photo; all his father brought back from the front later were a crippled leg and bottles of brandy.

But facing Claire’s expectant gaze, Pierre’s expression slowly hardened into resolve. "Fine! But we are getting our marriage license immediately."

A man will do anything for the woman he loves. Pierre had noted that the newly introduced special act guaranteed the security of the marriages of serving soldiers. If that was the case, he would take his chances on the battlefield.

The "White Feather" movement had always existed, though it manifested differently in different eras. Under the efforts of the provisional government, the French army began to rebuild. Although a considerable number of men remained in German prisoner-of-war camps, the first steps toward reconstruction had been taken. The armed forces under the French Communist Party were also shaken; after this act was promulgated, their status as a non-state-sanctioned armed group became deeply awkward.

At the Paris railway station, the 1st Armored Division of the French First Army arrived in the loyal city of Paris. General Dragoon, commander of the First Army, stepped off the train alongside his officers and men, instantly turning the station into a scene of chaotic congestion.

The headquarters guards surrounded General Dragoon’s family, primarily to protect his wife, Adela, who held a status equal to his own and was visibly pregnant, requiring extra caution.

As soon as they left the station, Como looked around and began running in a specific direction. A group of soldiers wearing masks bearing the Cross of Lorraine stood opposite them. The leader’s posture was not strictly formal—he stood with one foot extended as if at ease, and a large Damascus steel dagger was tucked into his belt. Como knew it was his brother without even seeing his face.

"Brother, you came to meet us!" Como ran to Koman, his face beaming with excitement.

"Have you been behaving yourself lately?" Koman reached out to ruffle his younger brother’s hair, then looked up as General Dragoon approached, tilting his head with unmistakable pride.

General Dragoon did not stop; he walked straight through the ranks of the Youth Division soldiers, remarking without looking back, "Koman, come with us."

At the Bastille, Alain was fiddling with a piece of wire. The interrogation room door opened, and two soldiers led in a prisoner. Upon seeing the wire, the prisoner immediately clamped his legs together, his expression one of pure terror.

"Seen it before? How boring." Alain could tell at a glance that someone had already used this trick. People were always innovating in the field of tormenting others. He threw the wire aside and said, "Do you want to avoid trial by turning state’s evidence? If you want to, we can talk. Of course, even if you turn witness, you must first confess. Whether your testimony is submitted depends on your performance."

Alain had intended to use a violin to intimidate the man, but seeing the prisoner’s cowering reaction, he realized a comrade had likely used that one, too.

The conversation went smoothly. Within half an hour, Alain left the room, only to run into Martin, who had been elusive lately. Alain froze, then his temper flared. "I thought you were KIA."

Martin, carrying a stack of files, was unfazed by Alain’s hostility. "Tobacco is important too, you know. I’m back now, and I’m busy compiling interrogation files on Vichy officials."

Judging by Martin’s mental state, he was doing just fine. Alain remained annoyed. "Does it really take that long to produce cigarettes?"

"It doesn't have to, but I also spent some time helping the commander find a place to stay," Martin replied calmly, clearly a man who knew how to balance work and rest. "Our unit doesn't seem to lack manpower, does it? You should arrange for rotating shifts every four hours so the prisoners can't sleep. Even an iron man will confess."

Martin felt his comrade’s way of working was flawed. Why insist on doing everything personally? If they were truly short-handed, they could have prisoners interrogate other prisoners; they might even get unexpected results.

"That Mitterrand fellow Koman mentioned? He confessed to bed-wetting as a child in less than nineteen hours."