Author's Note: Hello, and welcome to the next installment of The Poppy Field. I hope that you are enjoying it so far. I just wanted to apologise for not updating sooner, as I have been quite busy. I also wanted to let you know that my updates will be quite irregular, but I will try and update every three weeks at the very least, so I hope that you stick around for more chapters.

This time, Germany is mobilising and troops are coming towards Paris, so Francis has to find an unusual way of getting to the front in time...

Also, there is historical smoking in this chapter, just to let you know.

I hope that you enjoy this chapter, despite how short it is.

~Anonymous Lily

Chapter Four: A Matter of Convenience

Paris, France, 1914

The German Army was close, Francis felt it in his bones. Even as he sat in a cafe, a freshly baked croissant on a plate in front of him as the early morning sun peeped over the elegant cityscape. He could feel the ground shaking from German boots marching over the countryside like an oncoming thundercloud.
His own troops had been sent three days earlier. It made him feel vulnerable, even more so than any other time recently; it made him realise that he could be overtaken, if he did not fight back. For such a proud nation as France, it was humiliating to be reduced to such a weak state of waiting for the enemy, being safe while his citizens were possibly dying. It angered him how he let himself go rusty, when before he was literally the ruler of Europe.

It was not that he did not want to go to the Front to fight with his citizens. He had been eager to fight back ever since the Germans had unapologetically violated the neutrality of Belgium. From the scrambled messages and rumours, quite a few people were injured or killed during the invasion. The reports from the survivors were not promising, only adding more evidence that the German Army was a truly unstoppable force that had all but abandoned the tactics and etiquettes of older wars. Their war was a child of the Industrial Revolution, a war of savagery of the most impersonal form.

The only reason that he was still in Paris was due to orders from the government to stay with the younger soldiers, in order to boost their morale. Just this morning, he had been told to wait at the meat markets outside of Paris with the soldiers, although they never explained exactly why.

This is not good at all, I need to do something, He thought to himself, I need to be with my people when they fight against the Germans. Why am I here?

Francis picked up the croissant and nibbled it, noticing a group of soldiers standing awkwardly on the other side of the road. He waved at them, smiling casually before crossing the road carefully, croissant in hand, to greet them.

"Bonjour, I see that you are the new recuits, oui?" he asked. The soldiers glanced to one another before nodding.

"Oui, Seventh Division. We are going to the frontline soon," one of them replied, smiling excitedly, "Let's hope that it will be a quick victory over the Germans." The speaker was young and perky, his brown eyes sparkling with life. From under his hat, an unruly black mop of hair hung out carelessly.

Francis grinned. "I like your spirit."

"Thank you." the soldier replied, getting out a cigarette and fishing in his pockets for a lighter. None of the other soldiers standing near him moved to offer their comrade any assistance, perhaps because they had left their lighters at home.

"Do you need a lighter, monsieur...?" Francis asked.

"Alphonse Fortier." the soldier said, before nodding, "If you don't mind."

"Nice to meet you, Alphonse. My name is Francis. Where are you from?" Francis said, handing his lighter to Alphonse and taking another bite of his croissant.

"Nice, and you?" Alphonse answered, puffing out small grey clouds as he spoke.

"Ah... I am but a native of Paris." Francis smiled, falling back on a well-used lie. He did not want the young soldier to think of him as a madman so early after meeting him, after all.

Alphonse looked from side to side, occasionally taking a puff of his cigarette. It was then that Francis noticed a faint rumbling sound, like thunder from a faraway storm.

"What the..." he wondered, squinting into the distance, noticing a clump of dark shapes getting closer as the rumbling grew louder.

He gestured to an older soldier, "What is that? Do you know?"

"They're taxis, sir." he answered.

At this, Francis stared incredulously at him. "...Taxis? They are all taxis?" To him, it sounded ridiculous, like something from a science-fiction novel. Joffre would never do something as strange as that.

"Yes, sir." the soldier replied, "I remember the general mentioning taxis yesterday, how they were going to transport the troops to the battlefield."

Then, as if summoned by them being mentioned, what looked like hundreds of wine red taxis arrived in front of the puzzled soldiers. The eldest of them simply smiled, snickering at their gobsmacked faces. The taxi driver nearest to them waved, beckoning them forward.

"Come on, quickly now!" the driver called, "You have a battle to go to!"

Francis shrugged before running into the taxi. Soon, the others followed, piling into the vehicles or hanging onto the sides as they set off towards the Marne.

As they set off, soldiers chatted amongst themselves, some marvelling at their vehicle and others sleeping. Francis sighed, looking out onto the countryside with a mixture of hope and dread as the Marne drew closer by the second.

Author's Note: Alphonse Fortier is a fictional character- as far as I am aware- that was a part of the very real Seventh Division, which numbered at 5,000 men. According to the Sunday Express, 250 taxis were used for this purpose, although the soldiers may have been more organised than in this story. I did not find many witness accounts. (You can tell me if there are any if you want to!)

Joffre was one of the commanders of the French Army during the First World War, but the taxi plan was mainly executed by the French Military-Governor Joseph Pallieni.

Thank you for reading!

~Anonymous Lily