Father of France

Chapter 36 Six Strikes in One Second

"God inspires all warriors to be courageous and, in the name of Christ, to uproot the enemy..."

The two battalions of 1,600 officers and soldiers responded in unison, which moved even Coman, a modernist Christian. Very good, very spirited.

The collective movement produced rhythmic sounds as one military vehicle after another drove out of the camp. Koman, sitting in the truck bed, sniffed a few times; these old cars really had a certain charm.

The soldiers on the vehicle rose and fell with the road conditions. It was also because the shock absorption of vehicles of that era was truly indescribable. The atmosphere in the carriage was somewhat heavy, after all, it was the first time, and Koeman could understand.

"Relax a bit. If this were Syria, they would have been shot dead." Martin lightened the mood. Koman's ever-smiling persona was just a facade; he was a true optimist.

The tense atmosphere eased at that sentence, and Koeman calmly concluded, "We are doing a good deed. If combat troops were to intervene directly, the consequences would be much more serious."

From the moment the plan to invade Italy was finalized, the French Communist Party in Marseille became a thorn in their side; there was no way to avoid this hurdle. The only question was which unit would carry out the attack.

For Marseille, a revolutionary old district, no amount of attention is too much. Police were deployed in various neighborhoods to divide the crowds participating in the march, ensuring that the protest was kept within a certain scale.

Such protests must be contained from the very beginning to prevent them from becoming too large and out of control; this is the only way to be responsible for the safety of people and their property.

The citizens of Marseille, joining hands and marching proudly to demand the release of those arrested, sang the Marseillaise, chanting, "Children of the Fatherland, awaken! The glorious day has come! The blood-red flag of tyranny is raised against us!"

"Look at these foreign invaders, ruling our country like kings, while our noble warriors are being beaten by mercenaries..."

The proud citizens of Marseille, unwittingly, found the lyrics of the Marseillaise to be more fitting than ever before.

A large number of military vehicles rushed to the streets where the demonstration took place, while nearby streets were already under soft blockade. Scattered groups of people who wanted to come from other neighborhoods were directly pulled over by soldiers under martial law and slapped a few times to clear their heads.

The group that had already been organized under the call of the Marseille General Confederation of Labor would not be disturbed. There always has to be a price to pay, otherwise people will not cherish their good life. Koeman should have decided that they are the ones who will pay the price.

Military vehicles appearing from various intersections were prevented from overflowing by the martial law soldiers. The marching crowd at the front of the main road saw a long line of military vehicles ahead, almost filling the entire main road. These military vehicles were as imposing as the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse.

Koeman stood on the roof of the car, looking at the densely packed crowd in the distance, numbering over ten thousand and seemingly endless. Martin, who had also climbed onto the roof, couldn't help but frown. "So many people, are you crazy? What if someone shoots us from the shadows?"

Although the French Volunteers were successfully disarmed, no one could guarantee that there would be no weapons left behind in just a few days.

"So what if there are more people? One person can take on ten." Koeman expressionlessly pulled out a megaphone, took a deep breath, and said, "Quiet! All protesters, return to your posts immediately..."

The expressions on the faces of the demonstrators in the first row were varied, including men, women, young and old; these faces instantly revealed the myriad aspects of human life.

Clearly, there's no such thing as a kingly aura in the real world. The excitement of singing Marseillaise hasn't worn off yet, so they won't care what the masked soldiers are saying. They'd rather be cursing these reactionary lackeys.

"Release Vincent, Christopher, Fidel, release all the innocent..."

"Lift military rule and return freedom to France! Shameful traitors, running dogs of the reactionaries..."

Koeman's final act of kindness not only failed to achieve its purpose but also drew curses from the revolutionaries. However, the figure who had just stood on the roof of the car immediately disappeared, perhaps due to a change of heart.

On the contrary, Koeman's fleeting, cheap conscience had expired. Jumping off the roof, Koeman grabbed a megaphone and ordered in Arabic, "Order: restore order in Marseille, save France..."

From between the rows of military vehicles, countless masked soldiers poured out, wielding French batons and striking their palms, glaring menacingly at the approaching protesters. Outside the cordoned-off street, military and police whispered among themselves, "Where did this unit come from? Everyone's covering their faces? Does the country even have such an army?"

"I heard it's made up of young Christians from Middle Eastern colonies. I bet there will be a lot of casualties in this march. I heard the military hospital is ready to receive the wounded..."

Antioch soldiers formed a thick human wall, blocking the Marseille Workers' Association protesters. Their eyes, peeking out from behind masks, stared at the crowd opposite them. Arabic could be heard coming from behind the human wall: "Final warning, back off..."

The Antioch Regiment soldiers formed a human wall and advanced, the two groups almost colliding head-on, when another order came: "Scatter them."

As soon as the order reached their ears, the dark police batons were already raised high. The Marseille citizens in the first row at the front were hit by the French batons, screams and curses rising and falling.

In an instant, dozens of people collapsed to the ground, writhing in pain. Their miserable state did not stop the soldiers of the Youth Division. The advancing soldiers continued to wield their French batons, stepping on their bodies and beating the protesters in the second row to the ground.

"Back off, back off..." The unified Arabic chants, accompanied by French long sticks that were almost swung out of their shadows, actually drowned out the clamor of tens of thousands of people.

The situation was largely similar on the other side roads. The previously energetic protesters came to a standstill, and soldiers wearing masks poured out from all directions, mechanically and coldly showing them what a mob was.

"I was wrong, I was tricked into coming here." After being hit with six baguettes in one go, the middle-aged man on the ground immediately begged for mercy. That's how realistic the world of middle-aged people is. Faced with an assailant who only showed his eyes and spoke an unintelligible language, he immediately became aware of the danger.

"Who are you people? How can you be so barbaric?" A woman lying in the corner with several footprints on her clothes, like a madwoman, viciously cursed the perpetrators who didn't even dare to show their faces.

The woman was still taken care of; being kicked a few times wasn't like being hit with a French long stick. However, she was talkative, and a passing young soldier from the division still managed to slap her twice.

The soldiers in the Youth Division were all teenagers, and they had no intention of showing mercy to women. Their cheeks were swollen, and they fell silent…

“I heard you say before that there are always protests in some local cities, and I thought they would be difficult to deal with.” Martin withdrew his gaze from the car, jumped back into the carriage, and said with a sneer, “It seems like they are not that bad. They are no different from the cowards who protested in Damascus before.”

"You don't know the pain until it hits you." The meaningless clamor could still be heard in my ears, but it was getting farther and farther away.

Koeman said dismissively, "I've already shown them the utmost goodwill, but unfortunately they don't understand."

"You speak Arabic, of course the Maasai won't understand." Martin thought to himself, but only thought it; he didn't say it aloud.

An hour later, the main road, stretching for hundreds of meters, was deserted except for masked men with long sticks or long knuckles tucked into their belts. It is believed that from today onwards, their infamy will be known to everyone from Lorraine to Rennes, from Lille to Marseille.

The protesters organized by the Marseille Workers' Union have been dispersed, and many have been taken away. It is believed that the Marseille police station will be overcrowded today.

Coman and Martin walked along the main road, where there were bloodstains in some places, so they had to take a detour.

Nearby, some French soldiers with black faces were carrying wounded protesters onto stretchers. Koeman was not the kind of person who would kill and then leave the wounded; he said that maintaining the greatest goodwill was the greatest goodwill.

“There’s one who looks dead…” Two African soldiers in the corner pointed to the man lying on the saddle and asked for instructions on what to do.

Martin seemed not to hear him and instead asked Coman, "What if too many unlucky guys die from their injuries? Won't that have consequences?"

"That's the benefit of wearing masks. There are indeed consequences, but not now." Koeman shook his head slightly. The consequences would be apparent once a new election was held. It's estimated that Marseille will vote for the French Communist Party for the next few years.

(End of this chapter)