Reincarnated: Vive La France

Major Moreau stood on what had once been the leftmost trench line.

He stared at a body near his feet black fatigues, no insignia, no name tag.

Just a boy, maybe twenty, maybe less.

Gloved hands.

Pale neck.

A single, clean bullet wound through the chest.

Behind him, Rousseau's boots crunched through the frost, clipboard under one arm, a cigarette bent between his lips.

He paused, surveyed the body, then exhaled slow.

"That makes seventy-two confirmed enemy corpses," he muttered. "Plenty more in the brush. Some of 'em crawled off before dying."

Moreau didn't answer right away.

His gaze didn't leave the corpse.

"Uniforms?" he asked finally.

"Mixed," Rousseau said, flipping a sheet. "We've got some Waffen-SS gear, but half of them? Nothing. Just black fatigues, no markings, no dog tags. Found Polish belts on two. Czech grenades. Couple of Soviet rifles that don't belong in any German infantry unit. Tattoos, too. I saw an old Slovak mercenary emblem on one. This wasn't a battalion it was a fucking shopping list of soldiers for hire."

Moreau's jaw clenched. "Mercenaries."

"Oui," Rousseau said bitterly. "Dogs with paychecks. No flags."

Renaud approached, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

He handed Moreau a folded sheet of orders, hastily scribbled in pencil.

"We ID'd a few," Renaud said quietly. "Names match Balkan mercs. Guys who've been seen in Yugoslavia, some in Spain. One was on a French watchlist disavowed, of course."

Moreau scanned the sheet, then refolded it, stuffed it in his coat.

"They don't need IDs. Just targets."

A few meters away, Delcourt was crouched beside a body missing half its face.

His rifle was slung but his hands were shaking.

"Sir," he called. "There's movement at the border. German vehicles. Light tanks, trucks, recon bikes. I counted three spotter planes circling back east."

Moreau turned slowly. "How close?"

"Five klicks. Maybe less."

Renaud exhaled. "And Berlin just issued a statement. They're calling last night a 'violation of territorial integrity.' Claiming we fired first. That we crossed into neutral buffer zones. They're calling for 'clarification from Paris.'"

Rousseau laughed.

It wasn't a happy sound. "They mean surrender."

"They always mean surrender," Delcourt said, standing up, his face pale. "That's how they work. Send ghosts across the line, pretend they don't know them, then scream when one of them gets shot."

Moreau nodded slowly. "And what does Paris say?"

"We're to withdraw," Renaud said, jaw tight. "Back to Fort Simserhof. Restore pre-engagement positions. No retaliation unless fired upon. No public statement."

The silence that followed was heavy.

One by one, the men working the line slowed.

They turned to listen.

Some still bleeding, some still dragging bodies into rows, others just standing in the fog, waiting.

"Let me get this straight," Moreau said. "Thirty-two of our men died here. Sixty more injured. We held off a professional, foreign-led strike force trying to steal a Jewish scientist and his family from our soil. And Paris wants us to say nothing?"

Rousseau spat into the mud. "They want us to play dead."

"No," Delcourt said. "They want us to be grateful we're not at war."

"They want us quiet," Renaud added. "They want to keep the peace. The illusion of peace."

Moreau stepped forward.

He climbed onto the nearest crate, slick with frost and blood, and looked out at his men.

Dozens of eyes turned to him.

Some covered in soot.

Others rimmed with tears they refused to shed.

Many stood in silence, rifles resting like lead across their backs, their faces hollowed by fatigue and grief.

"They tell us to back down," he said loudly. "They tell us this wasn't war. That we should return to our posts and forget what happened."

He scanned them.

"But I remember. I remember every one of you standing your ground. I remember Rousseau dragging wounded men while bullets carved holes in the trees. I remember Faure shielding children with his own body. I remember Girard screaming while still firing. I remember Delcourt stabbing someone through the ribs because he ran out of bullets. I remember Lemaitre dying with his hand still on the trigger."

No one spoke.

Moreau's voice hardened. "They'll bury this. They'll erase it. But we don't forget. I will not forget."

His voice dropped, just slightly.

"And if they think thirty-two graves at the edge of our border mean nothing, then I'll remind them personally."

A few of the soldiers clapped, then more.

Not joyful.

Not celebratory.

But proud.

Tired.

Angry.

Committed.

Renaud stepped up beside him as the clapping faded. "You'll want to hear this next."

Moreau stepped down. "What now?"

"The family. The Weiss family."

"What about them?"

"They're gone. Taken by a team from Paris. Intelligence division. Arrived in black Citroëns this morning. Said they had direct orders from the War Ministry. No one stopped them. They took the wife, the kids, the satchel. Everything."

"They didn't wait for me?"

"They didn't even ask. I wasn't allowed within ten meters. They had papers. Big red stamps. Real or fake I couldn't say."

Moreau stared at him. "Where are they taking them?"

"They wouldn't say. But not Simserhof. Not anywhere nearby."

"Did Weiss say anything?"

Renaud hesitated. "He looked scared. Not just shaken scared. Like he recognized them."

Moreau's fists clenched at his sides.

"And the package?"

"They didn't open it. Not there. Just stuffed it into a steel case and loaded it into the car."

Moreau turned, his boots sinking into the mud.

He looked back at the ridge.

At the smoke.

At the fading outlines of the men they'd just buried in the shallow graves behind the line.

One small cross after another.

Names written in charcoal on scrap wood.

"This isn't about the family," he said.

"No," Renaud agreed quietly. "It never was."

They stood for a moment.

Just breathing the same filthy air.

"Are you going to report it?" Renaud asked.

Moreau looked toward the grey horizon. "I'm going to Paris."

Renaud smiled grimly. "Of course you are."

"I want you to hold the unit at Simserhof. No leave. No disarmament. Keep everyone on their toes."

"What do I tell them?"

"Tell them we're not done. That this isn't the end. That we're still soldiers."

Renaud clapped him on the shoulder. "You planning to walk into the Élysée with your boots muddy?"

"Only if I kick the door in first."

Moreau didn't wait for permission.

He walked straight to the lead jeep.

The engine was already running.

His rifle was across his back, his coat stained, one boot split at the heel.

The men parted as he passed.

Some saluted.

Others just nodded.

A few called his name.

He didn't wave.

Didn't respond.

He just climbed in, pulled the door shut, and signaled the driver.

He didn't look back.

He was heading to Paris.

To the halls where silence had become a weapon.

To the offices where secrets festered like rot.

To the men who thought truth could be buried with bodies.

Let them try.

Moreau was coming.

And he was not alone.