Reincarnated: Vive La France

Gamelin stepped into the command tent and didn't speak for a long time.

Moreau stood at the table, sleeves rolled, staring at the large pinned maps.

Dozens of pins, tags, small colored flags, and circles sketched in pencil.

Most commanders would update territory weekly.

Moreau updated it by the hour.

Gamelin cleared his throat. "You've seen the latest field reports?"

"I wrote them."

"The 12th Division just passed the Gállego. We now hold all of Huesca province. Albalate, Sabiñánigo, and Monzón are under control. We're pressing on Jaca again."

Moreau nodded once.

Gamelin stepped closer to the table, eyeing the grid.

"You're ordering fortified grids at every secured town. Not just checkpoints. Bunkers, trenches, logistics caches, localized radio nodes. The engineer corps sent a message up half their men haven't rotated off the line in nine days."

"They'll rotate once the lines are drawn clean," Moreau said, without turning.

"Your definition of clean is beginning to terrify staff."

"This is war not a playground." Moreau replied.

"That's not what I'm asking." Gamelin stepped forward now, closer to the maps. "You're treating every patch of land like it's a capital."

"Because every patch can become one."

Gamelin frowned. "You're laying more concrete than artillery."

"And it's working."

"We're holding more land than anyone expected us to at this point. That's not in question." Gamelin tapped the edge of the board.

"But the way you're doing it... this strategy, Sir it's not fast, and it's not cheap."

Moreau turned now, slowly. "No. It's not."

"Then I want to hear it from you." Gamelin's voice dropped slightly. "Why?"

Moreau didn't answer at first.

He reached to one corner of the table and flipped open a folder of figures supplies, rail tonnage, field casualty reports, medical deployments.

He closed it again, looked at Gamelin.

"What do you think happens if I defeat Franco and take over Spain in days?"

Gamelin opened his mouth, then paused. "Then we win."

"No," Moreau said. "Try again."

Gamelin looked confused. "Isn't that what we're here to do?"

"Victory," Moreau said quietly, "isn't always the end."

Silence.

Moreau leaned forward on the table, hands flat on the wood.

"Let's say we break Franco in a week. His army collapses, Madrid opens the gates, Zaragoza salutes our flag. What then?"

Gamelin said nothing.

"Who fills the void? The Republicans? They're fractured, bitter, scattered. Anarchists with vendettas, idealists with empty pockets, and local strongmen waiting for someone to blink. The Basques will want autonomy, the Catalans their own parliament. The communists will declare a transitional council within two days."

"We could mediate," Gamelin offered weakly.

Moreau's mouth twitched not quite a smile.

"You think mediation stops a knife fight?"

Gamelin looked down.

Moreau straightened.

"Worse still," he continued, "we don't even get the time to try. The world won't tolerate us staying. You know this. The British will cry imperialism. The Germans will demand our withdrawal. The Americans will clutch their neutrality clauses and whisper about spheres of influence."

Gamelin shook his head. "We're not occupying Spain."

"No," Moreau said. "But we're not leaving it behind, either."

Gamelin looked up at him. "Then what are we doing?"

Moreau stepped back from the table and crossed his arms.

"We're building it behind us."

He gestured to the map those tiny lines, triangles, and boxes, meticulously inked.

"We take a town, we hold it. We hold it, we dig into it. Trenches, communications, water, food. We give the civilians a registry. We restore their markets. We don't just pass through. We rewrite the ground."

"And bleed ourselves doing it," Gamelin muttered.

"Yes," Moreau said

"For what?"

"For permanence."

Gamelin took a step toward him now. "You're saying it plainly. You don't want a victory. You want ownership."

Moreau's voice lowered.

"I want foundation."

Gamelin's hands flexed at his side.

"People thought you returned because of a promise."

"I did."

"To Spain."

"To the memory of it," Moreau said.

"Then what is this?" Gamelin's voice rose. "What the hell are we doing here?"

Moreau exhaled once, as though the answer had already been spoken many times in his mind.

"You want the truth?"

"I'm standing here."

"I came back because France has no backbone."

Gamelin stared at him.

"We build brilliant ideas and let others use them. We draw borders and then act shocked when someone else redraws them. Our doctrine, our arms, our symbols they're borrowed by those with more hunger. I'm tired of watching us starve in our own house."

Moreau walked back to the edge of the table.

"Spain was never just Spain. It was the wound where we stopped believing in ourselves. It was the lesson we left unfinished."

"And now?"

"Now," Moreau said, "I finish it."

Gamelin swallowed, voice quieter now. "Finish it how?"

"I'm not just going to beat Franco. I'm going to erase the idea of him. Erase the Spain that let him happen. When this war ends, there will be nothing left of the old structure."

"And who replaces it?"

Moreau said nothing for a beat.

Then.

"We do."

Gamelin took a slow breath.

"So this is conquest."

"No," Moreau said. "This is inoculation."

Gamelin almost laughed, but there was no humor in it. "What happens when everyone finds out?"

"They already know," Moreau replied. "They just haven't admitted it to themselves."

"You're burning decades of policy. Allies. Neutrality."

"I'm winning something that lasts."

Gamelin looked at him now.

"You would do anything, wouldn't you?" he asked.

Moreau didn't blink.

"For France," he said, "yes."

Gamelin's mouth moved, but no sound came.

Moreau stepped around the table, quietly, stopping by a window flap in the tent.

Outside, the sound of trucks came low.

Orders called.

Engineers carried crates past a line of soldiers resting beside their weapons.

"This army," Moreau said softly, "won't stay forever. But what we build in its path might."

Gamelin was quiet.

"So now you understand."

Moreau turned his head slightly. "I'm not just here to liberate Spain."

Gamelin's voice trembled. "You want to take it."

"I want to make sure no one else does."

The tent was silent.

Gamelin walked slowly to the maps again, scanning the shapes not as markers of a campaign but the early architecture of something larger.

He didn't speak.

Moreau didn't either.

There was nothing left to explain.