To his neighbors' pleas, Charles could only respond vaguely, saying he would do his best. Despite this, the neighbors were effusively grateful, as if Charles's promise alone was enough to defeat the Germans and bring their sons safely home from the front lines. Only Charles understood that in war, uncertainty reigned supreme; no one could guarantee victory, even with the best preparations.

The urgency of the situation meant Charles could only stay home for half an hour before he returned to the Defense Headquarters. Shortly after, the 105th Infantry Regiment, having quickly prepared, boarded a train bound for the front lines at Ypres. By now, only two hours had passed since the Germans initiated their gas attack.

Because the police training base was located in Paris's 12th arrondissement, far from the city center but still within Paris proper, the 105th Regiment's deployment was anything but a secret. People learned almost immediately that the 105th was heading to the front. However, Charles had devised a clever ruse—he did not travel with his troops. Instead, he continued to be seen entering and exiting the Defense Headquarters, even taking a few moments to address the public and offer words of reassurance.

Thus, everyone assumed Charles wouldn't be going to the front this time, believing he would, as usual, oversee operations from the Defense Headquarters in Paris.

The public's outlook on the situation was divided; some were optimistic, but more were doubtful:

"Look, Charles's troops are heading out. They're going to teach those Germans a lesson!"

"But what difference can even Charles's troops make? Can they somehow resist poison gas?"

"Exactly. Sending Charles's elite forces seems unwise when it comes to gas warfare. After all, against poison gas, any soldiers are vulnerable."

At the same time, people understood why Charles wouldn't personally go to the front this time. Poison gas was incredibly dangerous, and there was still no proven way to counter it.

Unbeknownst to them, Charles was indeed heading to the front. That very evening, he secretly boarded a plane bound for Ypres to rejoin the 105th Infantry Regiment. Even Gallieni had tried to dissuade him: "You don't have to go in person, Colonel. Everyone understands that, and the Parliament wouldn't dare suggest it."

It was true; if Parliament had dared to propose that Charles himself go to the front, it would have been tantamount to declaring an intent to use the enemy to eliminate him. Yet Charles felt he had no choice but to go.

Charles asked Gallieni, "General, if I don't go, what will the soldiers of the 105th think?"

"They'll look at their gas masks and say, 'Charles invented these, but even he doesn't trust them. Otherwise, why wouldn't he join us?'"

"They'll believe that the gas masks are nothing more than a psychological comfort, a trick to get them to face the enemy in the poisonous air."

Charles was right—it wasn't about whether he went to the front or not; it was about instilling confidence in the gas masks. If his troops doubted the masks, the 105th would behave like any other front-line unit, breaking and fleeing at the first sign of gas.

European soldiers had a long-standing belief: if their presence made no difference or if victory seemed unattainable, retreat was their only option, an accepted norm rather than a disgrace.

Gallieni understood this well. The mere presence of Charles on the front lines would boost morale, allowing his troops to hold the line against the Germans. Yet this was poison gas they were talking about.

After a moment of thought, Gallieni nodded. "This might actually be to your advantage. If the French people see that you stood with them during the most dangerous and trying moments, they won't forget it."

"Yes, General," Charles replied.

This was, indeed, one of Charles's motivations for going to the front. In times of great peril, true loyalty shines through. While the entire Allied front was gripped by fear, with French civilians fearing the worst and even considering surrender, if Charles could hold the line through sheer willpower, his status among the people would be unshakable. This would become Charles's most substantial military and political asset, even beyond Foch's influence.

Otherwise, Charles thought, "My life is my own, and I wouldn't risk it against poison gas, even with a gas mask."

At around ten o'clock that night, Ypres's airfield was in utter chaos. Dozens of severely injured soldiers and civilians were awaiting emergency evacuation to Paris for treatment. Since the German gas attack, the overwhelming number of casualties had utterly overwhelmed Ypres's medical infrastructure.

To make matters worse, nearly everyone, including the doctors, was helpless in the face of the symptoms. They could only try to get the wounded to Paris, hoping the city's hospitals could offer solutions. But the distance from Ypres to Paris—over 400 kilometers—meant that even by train, the journey could take more than ten hours, practically a death sentence for the most severely wounded. Consequently, those with resources or rank began hiring planes for emergency transport.

Just then, a twin-seat Avro plane made its descent, guided by the airfield's signal lights.

People looked on in curiosity. Wasn't the expected plane supposed to be a Benoist?

(The Benoist was the earliest civilian passenger plane, beginning service on January 1, 1914. It could carry just two people—a pilot and a passenger. Tickets were costly, with one flight costing $5, and the first ticket ever auctioned fetched a staggering $400.)

Before the plane had even come to a complete stop, several cars drove up to meet it. The vehicles were filled with heavily armed French soldiers, accompanied by police officers blowing whistles and pushing people back behind a security line.

Someone muttered, "They must be here to take some rich capitalist's family out of here."

Immediately, a restless murmur rippled through the crowd. People began shouting as they surged against the police and soldiers barring their path. But the crowd soon halted in its tracks.

The police and soldiers had drawn their pistols.

"Stay back!" one of the guards warned, holding a revolver at his side, his voice firm. "We will shoot, I assure you!"

The crowd hesitated, bewildered. Such measures had only been used during protests demanding an eight-hour workday when the government had deployed troops to quell unrest.

Then someone in the crowd murmured, "Maybe it's something classified, a military secret?"

Suddenly, people's anger gave way to understanding. If this was indeed classified military business, the soldiers' stance made sense. Perhaps, in their agitation, they had nearly threatened national security.

People's curiosity then turned toward the plane, wondering who or what it was here to transport.

Before long, they realized they had guessed wrong—it wasn't here to take someone away but rather to bring someone in.

In the dim light, a slender figure emerged from the cockpit and, surrounded by guards, stepped into one of the waiting cars.

A voice broke the silence, "Oh my God, that's Charles! It's Charles—I recognize him!"

The crowd was momentarily stunned. Charles? Could it really be him here at Ypres, now, of all times?

After a pause, someone spoke up, "No, that's not Charles. You must have made a mistake!"

Others caught on, responding in hushed tones:

"Yes, you must be mistaken. Charles would never come here."

"Charles is in Paris."

"We didn't see anything…nothing at all."

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