Reincarnated: Vive La France

It was 02:47.

Lemaitre's patrol moved through the brush with rifles raised.

Delcourt was second in line, followed by Faure and Girard, spread in a tight diamond.

No one said a word.

They were too deep now deep in the woods, deep in the silence, deep in the part of soldiering where noise got you killed.

A low crunch barely audible reached Lemaitre's ears.

He froze, hand up.

They all stopped.

Shapes moved through the fog ahead.

Lemaitre spoke into the radio. "HQ, this is Patrol Four. Marker nine. We have movement. Multiple figures. No lights. Possibly civilians."

The shapes came closer.

Stumbling.

Small.

One limped.

A child clung to the hem of a long coat.

"French patrol!" Lemaitre shouted softly. "Identify!"

A voice cried out a man's, cracked and panicked. "We are the Weiss family! Please don't shoot! We have children!"

A man in spectacles, lenses cracked.

A woman clutching her side, blood soaking her coat.

Two children.

A third, a boy, maybe eight, trailing behind.

The man's hands were up, but he clutched a worn leather satchel to his chest like it was chained to his ribs.

"Reiner Weiss?" Lemaitre asked.

"Yes. That is me."

"Are you carrying what you were to bring."

Weiss nodded urgently. "Yes. But I show only to your commander. Not here. Never here."

Faure was already beside the woman, tearing open a field dressing. "She's in shock. Delcourt, morphine. Girard, pull the kid back and check for wounds."

Delcourt moved quickly, his face set. "You were followed?"

Weiss turned his head slowly toward the darkness behind him.

His mouth twitched. "Yes. Not just SS. Others. Mercenaries. Black uniforms. Foreign accents. Some Eastern European, some English, maybe. They're not official. They're killers."

"How many?"

"Three hundred. Maybe four hundred. Trucks, light arms, heavy weapons. They dismounted east of the river. They split. They're in the trees now. Hunting."

Girard muttered, "Fuck me…"

Lemaitre raised the radio again, voice clipped but strained.

"HQ, this is Patrol Four. We have contact with the family. Weiss confirmed. Package secured. Immediate issue enemy forces in pursuit. Estimate: 300-400, mix of SS and irregulars. Heavy arms confirmed."

Back at HQ, Renaud stopped mid-sentence. Marcelle stared at the signal table, then at Moreau.

Moreau stubbed out his cigarette on the steel desk.

"Sound full mobilization. We are in live war. No warnings. If it moves and isn't ours kill it."

Renaud blinked. "Even if it's German uniform?"

"I don't care if it's the Pope in a Luftwaffe cap. We shoot."

Within ten minutes, Simserhof exploded with motion.

"Tanks on standby," Renaud called. "Echo Team, reinforce Patrol Four. Foxtrot, shift to Sector 18. Mortar crew to fallback Ridge Bravo!"

In the forest, reinforcements began pouring toward 17-G.

Lemaitre and his squad, now reinforced, had formed a tight semicircle around the Weiss family.

Faure was applying pressure to the woman's wound with one hand and firing short bursts into the fog with the other.

Then the gunfire started.

Not a warning shot.

Not panic fire.

A disciplined, hammering volley of suppressed fire from the eastern.

A soldier beside Girard dropped without a sound, throat torn open.

"CONTACT! EAST RIDGE!"

Faure pulled the mother into a ditch.

"DELCOURT! MOVE THE FAMILY BACK! NOW!"

Delcourt grabbed the girl and the boy, shoving them behind cover.

Weiss tried to follow but wouldn't let go of the satchel.

More figures emerged from the mist black-clad, face-covered.

Rifles at the shoulder.

Controlled volleys.

Girard yelled, "They're flanking! Right side FOUR MOVING!"

"Rousseau!" Lemaitre barked into the radio. "WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU?!"

"We're cresting the northeast slope now!" Rousseau's voice cracked. "Setting up MG nest!"

Moreau climbed into the command jeep.

"Driver marker nine. Now."

The man didn't answer.

He just floored the pedal.

Back in the trees, Rousseau's squad laid down covering fire from a ridge 100 meters out.

The MG-34 team returned fire.

The French M36-R barked in reply, chewing through logs and dirt.

"FUCKERS ARE ADVANCING!" Delcourt shouted, dragging the girl by the coat.

A grenade exploded behind them, lifting a soldier into the air.

"We need to fall back!" Faure screamed. "We can't hold this line!"

Lemaitre growled into his handset. "Fall back to Ridge Bravo! Smoke out and move!"

Rousseau fired one last burst, grabbed Girard who was limping and yanked him downhill.

Back at HQ, Renaud.

"Paris, this is Fort Simserhof. Enemy contact confirmed. Three hundred-plus. Organized and professional. We are in full engagement. Requesting immediate reinforcement, artillery support, and aerial recon."

The reply from Paris was curt.

Stand by.

The retreat turned into a running gun battle.

Delcourt fired behind him as he ran, Weiss beside him, girl in his arms.

Faure tossed smoke grenades every twenty meters.

Lemaitre covered the right, turning every few seconds to fire at shadows flickering between trees.

A burst caught a man through the thigh he went down screaming.

"KEEP MOVING!" Lemaitre shouted. "WE DROP, WE DIE!"

The black-uniformed attackers moved with terrifying coordination fire-teams with overlapping arcs, coordinated reloads, hand signals.

These weren't just mercs.

This was a trained, equipped, paid military force with kill orders.

Another French soldier went down hit in the stomach.

Faure hesitated.

Delcourt turned. "Leave him!"

"I can't.."

"He's already gone! MOVE!"

Gunfire stitched through the smoke behind them.

Then, thunder.

The earth shook.

Moreau's scout car roared into the edge of the battle, headlights off, rifle out.

He jumped before it even stopped.

"WHERE'S WEISS?"

"With Delcourt!" Rousseau shouted.

Moreau raised his rifle and fired twice into the trees. "Hold the fallback line! No one passes this ridge!"

A fresh wave of attackers broke through the smoke.

Muzzle flashes lit up the ravine.

Machine guns opened up.

Screams echoed through the fog.

Delcourt dove into the trench at Ridge Bravo, Weiss and the children tumbling behind him.

Faure hit the dirt beside them, clothes ripped, eyes wild.

"They just keep coming!" he gasped.

Lemaitre slid into the trench, bloody. "Half my squad's gone. Reinforcements?"

"Fifteen minutes," Moreau said, panting. "We hold until then. Or we die with them."

Girard collapsed beside the M36 team, feeding a fresh belt.

Rousseau crouched beside Moreau. "Sir. If they hit this trench hard...."

"They will."

"....we can't hold."

"We can't fall either," Moreau said quietly.

"Positions!" Lemaitre shouted.

The trench erupted in more gunfire.

Rousseau was yelling, blind-firing over the trench edge. "THEY'RE INSIDE TWENTY METERS!"

Moreau emptied his pistol, picked up a fallen rifle, and kept firing.

Faure was on top of Weiss now, shielding him with his own body.

Delcourt threw a grenade. "INCOMING!"

Explosion.

Black smoke.

A scream that didn't end.

Moreau turned to the signal corpsman.

"Get me Paris again."

"Sir, lines are jammed!"

Moreau's voice didn't waver. "Try harder."

He stepped onto the trench edge as bullets zipped past.

"WE HOLD! NO MATTER WHAT!"

The enemy didn't stop.

And neither did they.