Reincarnated: Vive La France

Inside Barracks 3, Rousseau was balancing a tin cup on Girard's snoring mouth, while Faure was attempting to light a cigarette with a broken match.

"I swear, these are sabotage matches," he muttered.

"Maybe the Germans sent 'em," Delcourt said from his bunk, eyes still half-closed. "Economic warfare."

Benoit, meanwhile, was trying to write "The Great Rations Theft" on a potato with a penknife.

Chalon had yet to appear.

The mood was light, almost festive.

Just another day of training, mud, shouting, and harmless suffering.

Then the horn sounded.

Not the usual bugle.

Not Chalon's shriek.

It was a flat, urgent tone.

A sustained alarm.

One long note.

Cold.

Mechanical.

Faure blinked. "That's not the breakfast horn."

Everyone in the room froze.

Lemaitre stepped in from the hallway, face pale, helmet strapped under his chin. "Orders just came down. Real ones. Mobilization."

"Shut up," Rousseau said. "It's just another drill. They do this every few weeks."

"This isn't a drill."

The barracks seemed to shift around them.

In an instant, laughter disappeared.

Men stood up.

Faure dropped the cigarette.

Girard sat up without being kicked.

Lemaitre's voice was hard. "Get your gear. Everything. Now."

In the motor pool, mechanics were already tearing off tarps from trucks and half-tracks.

Sergeants barked orders over the roar of idling engines.

A column of R35s clanked into position, turrets manned, engines still coughing diesel as they warmed.

Marcelle appeared, clipboard clutched like a rifle, shouting, "Armory's open! Squad leaders, issue full ammo kits, grenades, and spares! No blanks. All live!"

Delcourt strapped on his chest rig, tightening the webbing with shaking fingers. "Is this really happening?"

Rousseau, already buckling his pack, replied grimly, "Either that or Moreau's throwing the world's most elaborate surprise party."

Chalon materialized with his coat half-buttoned and a pipe clenched in his teeth.

"THIS ISN'T PRACTICE, YOU DOGS! I WANT FULL KIT, STRAPPED, TESTED, CLEAN! VEHICLES PACKED IN FIFTEEN MINUTES! MOVE!"

No one dared talk back now.

Packs were thrown open, gear scattered.

Mess kits, extra boots, ammunition pouches, waterproof sheets, entrenching tools, rations everything was being jammed into place.

"Where's my damn canteen?!"

"WHO TOOK MY BELT?"

"Faure, is this your underwear in my rucksack?!"

"It's tactical. You'll thank me when morale drops."

"MOVE!" Chalon bellowed.

Rousseau was triple-checking his rifle, sweat running down his neck despite the chill. "Faure, my firing pin's stiff...."

"Lube it. Fast."

"Lube it with what?"

Faure didn't even look. "Your tears."

The trucks began loading in platoons.

Sandbags, crates, jerry cans, spare tires, field radios all stacked and tied down.

The motor sergeant ran up and down the line with a wrench in one hand and a fuel manifest in the other.

Meanwhile, a courier from HQ handed a sealed envelope to Major Moreau, who stood in the center of it all, unmoving.

He read the dispatch silently, eyes flicking line to line, then folded it once and tucked it into his coat.

Renaud approached, rifle slung, coat collar raised against the wind. "We moving east?"

Moreau nodded. "Immediate staging near Wissembourg. Just under the Vosges. Orders say be in position before nightfall."

"No reason given?"

"Just that 'situation is evolving.'"

Renaud blew into his gloves. "That's military code for we don't know anything but it's bad."

Moreau turned. "Get the recon elements forward. I want all roads logged, watch for rail lines, bridges, and fuel points."

He stepped up onto the lead truck and shouted over the rising wind, "Final check! Mount up! Radios tuned to central net. If you're not on a vehicle in two minutes, I leave you behind!"

No one doubted him.

The convoy began to move at 09:37.

Trucks rolled out in staggered order, each with squads packed inside, rifles between knees, helmets jostling.

Tanks moved behind them, belching black smoke into the wind, while supply lorries brought up the rear, rattling with jerry cans and crates of rations, spare boots, and enough ammunition to start a border war.

Inside the lead truck, Delcourt sat between Faure and Rousseau.

"I can't believe we didn't get a briefing," Faure said.

"We never get a briefing," Rousseau replied. "Briefings are for officers and Americans."

Delcourt looked out. "We're heading north-east. Toward the German border."

Faure nodded. "Yeah. I know."

The three of them went quiet.

Across the truck, Benoit suddenly remembered something. "I left my toothbrush."

"You're gonna have bigger problems than bad breath if we hit contact," Lemaitre muttered.

"Still, that was my lucky toothbrush."

"Benoit, I swear to God..."

"Guys," Rousseau interrupted, "let him have this. He's going to die minty fresh."

On the road, the landscape changed.

Forests thinned.

The ground became hillier, colder.

Every village they passed seemed quieter than the last.

Old men stared from benches.

Children watched with wide eyes as the French armored column moved past.

In the command truck, Renaud was hunched over a map with Marcelle and a radio operator.

"Bridge crossing in six klicks. Still intact?"

"Yes, sir. Civilian traffic stopped this morning. Locals say no German activity nearby, but…"

"But rumors travel faster than messengers."

Marcelle glanced at the fuel manifest. "We've got enough for eighty kilometers. After that, we need to refuel."

Renaud turned to the driver. "Flag the column to halt just past the bridge. Defensive perimeter. I want every man out, rifles ready. This isn't a parade."

The halt came at 11:23.

Troops disembarked with professional speed.

R35s positioned near the edge of a stone bridge, turret guns swaying to cover the tree line.

Infantry squads fanned out in a 360° perimeter.

Moreau stepped off his vehicle.

A courier on a motorcycle arrived at the same time, splattered with mud.

He handed over a folded map. "Update from Corps Command. Final position is two kilometers northeast of here, on Route 61. Overlooking the Rhine valley."

Moreau read it, nodded, and passed it to Renaud.

"We move in twenty. I want recon riders ahead. Tell Chalon to double-check every man's magazine. Full load. Live rounds."

He looked around, calm, unblinking.

"If this is just a show of strength, good. But if it's more... we won't be caught flat-footed."

Faure sat on a stone fence, sipping tepid coffee from a canteen cup.

"Feels weird, doesn't it?" he said. "Being out here like this."

Rousseau leaned against a tree, rifle across his lap. "Yeah. Like someone forgot to tell us the script changed."

Delcourt was checking his ammo pouches. "Still not a single bullet fired, but it feels like we're already in a war."

Benoit was digging around in his pack. "Anyone seen my toothbrush?"

Everyone groaned.

By late afternoon, the column had reached its designated holding position.

A field overlooking the narrow roads below, the Rhine just barely visible through fog and bare tree limbs.

Defensive trenches were already being marked.

Lieutenant Serin directed squads with maps and shouted coordinates.

"First squad, northeast slope! Second squad, back to the tree line! Tanks dig in behind that rise cover from above."

Marcelle had the radio up again, monitoring static and snippets of code from HQ. "Still no contact," he said, "but other regiments are moving too. Word is the border sectors are tightening."

Inside one of the dugouts, Rousseau lit a cigarette.

Faure glanced over.

"You're gonna make Chalon hunt you again."

"I'll take my chances."

Delcourt sighed, shouldering his rifle. "So what now?"

Rousseau exhaled, eyes fixed on the empty horizon. "Now... we wait. We watch."

"And we don't sleep."

Not this close to Germany.

Major Moreau stood just outside the main dugout, binoculars raised.

The sun had begun to dip behind the ridge.

Behind him, Renaud approached, mug of black coffee in hand.

"No shots. No movement."

Moreau lowered the glasses. "No mistakes."

"They've sent scouts across the river before. Maybe they're waiting to see if we react."

"We are reacting," Moreau said. "We're here. That's the message."

"And if it's not enough?"

Moreau took the mug, sipped once. "Then we respond in kind."

Renaud looked out toward the east. "You think they're watching us already?"

"Of course," Moreau said. "If they're smart, they're watching everything."

He turned.

"But so are we."