Chapter Three: The Two Negotiators

Of course, Corman could not allow these Maronite Christians from Syria to die in vain. To be fair, even if these Maronites truly believed they were descendants of the Knights Templar and were willing to fight for France, facing the Germans was like handing out easy victories.

But the Axis powers were not just Germany; there was also Italy.

Compared to Germany, Italy’s war resolve was not particularly strong; among the major combatants, it was undoubtedly at the bottom. Italy did send troops during the French campaign, but the results were obvious to all.

If they couldn’t defeat the Germans, could they really fail against the Italians? The facts proved that the Middle Eastern Christians integrated with the Free French forces could hold their own against the Italian army.

Although they were no longer under the command of regular French officers, leaving their true combat effectiveness uncertain—much like how the British Indian Corps faltered without British leadership—so far, such a collapse had not occurred.

After enduring years of psychological manipulation upon arriving in Syria, when De Gaulle came to Damascus and reaffirmed the promise to liberate France, the French forces swelled from 30,000 to 100,000 at a single command. By the time De Gaulle attended the Casablanca Conference, the number had risen to 200,000.

The division where Corman served was a product of exhaustive recruitment efforts, composed entirely of concentrated manpower aged between sixteen and eighteen—entirely minors.

Why did Corman resort to such extreme recruitment? Because he feared death. He wanted to participate in the world war, but he was wary of facing tough battles.

After much deep reflection, living as if in a second life, he decided to pull this entire unit out as a buffer. A division composed solely of minors—no matter how unreasonable the higher commanders might be—surely would not be sent to the toughest front lines.

Corman served in this unit, and General Fontane was well aware. The division was the result of repeated exhaustive recruitment in Syria; if recruitment continued, it would soon extend down to fourteen-year-olds.

During World War I, the French feminist leaders of the White Feather Movement had publicly called for lowering the conscription age to ten: “Ten-year-old boys can also kill for the country; even if an entire generation is wiped out, victory must be won.”

When the Battle of Verdun broke out, they further advocated: “Lower the conscription age even more—five-year-old boys can also contribute on the battlefield.”

General Fontane, who had experienced the White Feather Movement firsthand, understood these voices best. Thus, even when the Maronite recruits in Syria learned that Corman’s unit was about to depart, he still gave Corman one last chance to reconsider.

But now, after all has come to this, General Fontane could say no more. “Since you left, the Governor’s Mansion has become even quieter. In the past, people would still visit on weekends.”

Corman had lived there with his father, brother, and the lady who held a status equal to his mother. After a sudden outburst and rush forward, that was the situation. His father had already gone ahead to contribute to the liberation of France and was no longer in Syria.

This trip was actually a farewell, a chance for Corman to thank General Fontane for his care during the year since he was appointed commander of the French forces in French Syria.

“Young men your age always harbor fantasies about war,” General Fontane sighed, as if recalling past memories.

Men would do anything for women. At a similar age, he had been stirred by the women of the White Feather Movement and enlisted without hesitation. But the battlefield was a different matter.

Fighting for a bright future was not entirely an illusion, but the odds were slim. Having barely survived, Fontane was vividly reminded of the waves of war-weariness and mutinies that arose in the final moments.

At this point, General Fontane said no more. The Governor’s Mansion still held Corman’s room; though he later lived in the barracks, Fontane kept the room reserved. When Corman came to collect his belongings, he even tidied up the recruitment posters he had collected during idle times.

“The news from Naples is that departure will be in one week,” General Fontane said, glancing at a telegram from the Italian front. “What use is your unit going up there? It’s not a combat unit.”

Fontane was right. Corman’s unit was truly not a combat unit. By organizational standards, it would be considered more of a gendarmerie in mainland France. Going further, it touched on a sore spot for Fontane: the military police.

“Most of our troops will return home. After all, manpower is greater there, and under the spirit of vengeance, the army can quickly rebuild,” Corman knew this well. This time, he was not starting out as an orphan; he still had family.

“There are a few people coming to talk this afternoon. You’ll receive them,” General Fontane said, uninterested in war politics and unwilling to engage too much with local Syrian factions.

In fact, Corman’s father was also reluctant, so he usually handled such matters himself. Upholding the life motto that “if you’re willing to suffer, there’s no end to hardship,” General Fontane maintained this habit.

Since France’s withdrawal from Syria had become inevitable under De Gaulle’s promise, no amount of goodwill could prevent Syrian independence. Fontane simply didn’t bother.

“All right, I’ll listen to their demands,” Corman smiled and agreed. Although somewhat abrupt, he might have to adjust his plans for the day.

The meeting could not take place at the Governor’s Mansion. Calculating the time, Corman left the mansion and met with two comrades. After explaining the new mission, he stressed, “There’s still time—compile an inventory of Damascus Tobacco Company’s stock.”

There were two groups of visitors in the afternoon; time passed swiftly. Corman appeared at the meeting place, the Paul Church in Damascus. Martin brought the shipment volume from the Kurds for this time.

“After we depart, we must ensure the shipment volume remains stable. This is important,” Corman said, scanning the data and addressing Martin. “Demand will be great for the foreseeable future. Along with Damascus Tobacco Company, we must meet the need.”

Martin nodded. Though he did not understand all the details, he committed it to memory and considered it part of his duties. “I will have the Kurdish representatives come in person.”

“Good, right after our guests,” Corman was easy to talk to, then turned to Alain. “Our soldiers are young and eager but naturally nervous. Pay extra attention to this. We don’t want any embarrassing incidents right before departure.”

Shortly after, two men in their thirties arrived together. For leaders of a political party, they were relatively young.

They were Michel Aflaq and Salah al-Din Bitar, leaders of the Arab Revival Party. Both had studied in Paris, and at this moment, their relationship was inseparable.