Marshal Patrice MacMahon set down the telegram in his hand and let out a deep sigh. Looking up at the window, he spoke with his back to the others. "Restore normal supplies to the troops. No matter what, we cannot let the soldiers go hungry."
"Marshal, we do not have much food left, and supplies from home cannot keep up. If we do not restrict rations—"
Before the middle-aged officer could finish, MacMahon cut him off. "Do not worry. The supply problem has already been resolved at home. The government has confiscated the grain merchants' hoarded stocks, and there is no longer any shortage of food."
At this news, everyone revealed smiles they had not worn in a long time. It could not be helped; the French army had truly been having a hard time lately.
Not only had they been pinned down and beaten by the Allied forces on the battlefield, but logistical problems had arisen as well. As British support waned, the French Government could no longer raise sufficient strategic supplies.
This was now a war to defend the homeland. There was no room for anyone to retreat, and the French army had been holding on through sheer passion alone. They could endure shortages of anything else, but not a shortage of food.
The front had collapsed too quickly, leaving them no time to seize back the food stores they had stockpiled earlier. Domestic supplies had failed to arrive in time, and local support alone was clearly incapable of sustaining a great army in battle.
To reduce consumption, Marshal MacMahon had taken the lead in cutting rations half a month ago. Aside from frontline combat troops, who could barely fill their stomachs, everyone else could only eat until they were one-fifth full.
Naturally, everyone was delighted to hear