Reincarnated: Vive La France

"First watch. Sector B-4 to E-2. Assignments are posted."

Chalon walked down the length of the temporary HQ, clipboard in hand, voice firm but quiet.

"Patrols are in pairs. You report anything tracks, lights, movement, even birds acting funny. No assumptions. No shortcuts."

He pointed to each man with a gloved finger.

"Delcourt with Faure. Rousseau with Girard. Lemaitre leading the E sector rotation."

Benoit raised a tentative hand. "Am I on watch or reserve?"

"You're on quiet, Private."

Benoit lowered his hand.

The men shuffled toward the ready line.

Gear was double-checked bayonets fastened, bolts oiled, straps secured, flares clipped, maps laminated and folded.

Sergeant Chalon gestured toward a small table covered in topographic maps and marked sectors.

"Each patrol covers a 3 km loop. Radio silence unless urgent contact. Challenge and response code is updated every shift. You encounter someone? Shout the challenge once. If they don't give the response or act weird fire. We don't gamble at the border."

Faure, adjusting his helmet, leaned toward Delcourt. "Which code did we get again?"

Delcourt checked the paper inside his chest pocket. "Tonight's challenge is "Verdun." Response is "Lyon.""

Faure blinked. "You know, given the history of Verdun, that doesn't exactly ease my nerves."

"Nothing eases your nerves."

"That's because everything is nerve-wracking!"

Rousseau passed behind them, clapping Faure's shoulder. "Just stay behind Delcourt. That way when things go south, you die second."

"Very comforting, thank you."

They stepped off into the misty dark just after 1900 hours.

Each patrol staggered their departure by five minutes.

Faure and Delcourt moved northeast, boots crunching lightly over frost-dusted underbrush.

They followed a narrow trail marked with intermittent red posts driven into the ground.

Each one bore a reflective tag small, nearly invisible by day, but gleaming like silver under torchlight.

Delcourt scanned left with his rifle, then right.

Every 10 steps.

Every 15 seconds.

Rhythmic.

Boring.

But necessary.

Faure whispered, "Ever feel like we're walking through a painting someone left unfinished?"

Delcourt didn't look over. "I feel like we're walking into someone else's plans."

They rounded a bend.

A stone well stood beside the path, half-collapsed.

Vines choked its base.

Delcourt raised a hand halt.

They crouched.

Waited.

Listened.

Nothing.

Faure sighed quietly. "That thing gives me the creeps."

Delcourt spoke low. "Everything gives you the creeps."

"No, I mean wells. Too quiet. Like... they're listening."

"I'm listening," Delcourt muttered. "And if you keep talking, I'm gonna drop a rock on you."

They moved on.

Three sectors over, Rousseau and Girard were halfway through their assigned arc.

Rousseau paused to mark their position on the map with a pencil stub. "Second checkpoint. Stone wall. Elevation 380. Time... 19:51."

Girard checked his compass. "Wind's picking up. Hearing's gonna get worse."

"Yeah," Rousseau said. "I already mistook a cow for a Panzer. Mooed at me like it was challenging our sovereignty."

Girard chuckled softly. "You return fire?"

"Nah, I saluted."

A low hoot sounded nearby.

Rousseau raised his rifle.

Girard tensed.

Then the second hoot shorter.

"Verdun," a voice hissed.

Rousseau responded, "Lyon."

Two figures stepped into view another patrol.

Lemaitre and Benoit.

"Crossing through your sector," Lemaitre said. "Movement reported near checkpoint five earlier. Nothing confirmed."

Rousseau nodded. "We'll double our watch interval."

Benoit added, "Don't worry, it was probably just a ghost."

Everyone paused.

Girard asked, "Why would you say that?"

"I dunno. Felt like the kind of night where ghosts would be patriotic."

Rousseau sighed. "You're not allowed to speak anymore, Benoit."

Back Marcelle and Lieutenant Serin monitored the rotating radio shifts and updated sector logs.

Red pins moved to green.

Yellow meant contact.

So far, none tonight.

Chalon paced like a sentry hound, checking his wristwatch every ten minutes.

"Shift change in thirty," he called. "Reserve squads prep. Wake the second line."

Inside the dugout, Faure and Delcourt returned, shoulders dusted white with frost.

They deposited their report, removed their helmets, and poured themselves metal cups of thin soup.

Marcelle sniffed. "Any contact?"

Delcourt shook his head. "All quiet. Sector 7's trail is washed out, though. Recommend rerouting patrol."

Marcelle scribbled notes. "Noted."

Faure collapsed onto a crate. "My feet are icicles. I think my toes have formed a coalition and are trying to secede."

Chalon overheard. "They succeed, I shoot the rest of you for desertion."

Faure saluted weakly with his soup spoon. "Yes, mon sergent."

Rousseau and Girard staggered in next.

Rousseau dropped his pack. "Sector 5 complete. Encountered Lemaitre's team near checkpoint wall. No issues."

"Updates?"

"Smelled smoke briefly near the east ridge. Could be nothing, but worth a sweep."

Marcelle logged it.

"You okay?" Faure asked.

"Yeah," Rousseau said, "but Girard tried to chat up a barn owl."

"It hooted first!"

Delcourt, sipping soup, grinned. "Were you hoping for a date or reconnaissance?"

By midnight, patrols had cycled once.

The perimeter was secure.

All men were accounted for.

In war, routine can be as dangerous as violence.

Because it makes you lazy.

And laziness gets you dead.

But soldiers find a way to live in the pressure.

To laugh.

To breathe.

To be.

During the next patrol, Rousseau and Delcourt were paired up again mixed rotations to avoid patterns.

They moved through the southern perimeter cold, quiet, just outside an abandoned farmhouse.

Delcourt halted.

He pointed to a broken fence ahead.

Boot prints.

Not theirs.

Rousseau lowered into a crouch.

Finger to lips.

Slowly raised his rifle.

They waited.

Minutes passed.

Then rustling. Near the shed.

Rousseau whispered, "Challenge?"

Delcourt: "Verdun."

No response.

They tensed.

"Verdun," Delcourt repeated.

Silence.

Rousseau's hand moved to the safety.

Then.

A snort.

A figure bolted.

Rousseau didn't fire.

Delcourt shouted, "HOLD FIRE! Animal!"

The figure darted into the clearing wild boar.

Massive.

Ugly.

Vanished into the brush.

Rousseau exhaled. "I nearly shot a pig."

Delcourt. "Could've been dinner."

"I would've taken a medal for it."

They laughed but it was nervous.

Meanwhile, at the northern edge of the sector, Faure was teaching Benoit how to step on twigs silently.

"You glide, Benoit. You don't stomp. Pretend you're sneaking into your lover's kitchen without waking her parents."

"I've never had a lover," Benoit replied.

"Well, pretend harder."

He demonstrated.

Step, shift weight, step.

Benoit followed, immediately snapping a branch.

"Sacré bleu!"

Faure facepalmed. "You're not stepping on twigs, you're finding them!"

"It's a talent."

Faure sighed, "Your only talent is dying creatively."

They moved on.

At 03:00, all patrols were recalled.

Marcelle did final counts.

"All accounted for. No incidents."

Moreau stood at the entrance to the dugout, watching silently.

He nodded once. "Good."

Lemaitre handed in his map notes. "We covered 22 kilometers total. Visibility stayed low. No movement near river access. But signs of track marks on the west incline."

"Recent?"

"Couldn't say. Could be old. Could be someone watching us."

Moreau said nothing for a moment. Then.

"Double patrols at dawn. Rest in shifts."

He stepped outside.

Behind him, the camp finally fell silent.

Small laughter returned.

Soldiers removed boots, changed socks, compared bruises.

Faure lifted a can of preserved coffee from his coat.

"Stolen from supply?"

"No. Borrowed."

"You ever plan to return it?"

"In spirit."

They toasted silently.