Reincarnated: Vive La France
Chapter 92: "Welcome to Paris.”

Chapter 92: "Welcome to Paris.”

The envelope was plain, cream-colored, sealed with red wax, and lacking any insignia that might make it stand out in the Ministry’s corridors.

It looked like a requisition memo, or maybe a retirement notice.

Moreau slit it open with his penknife and read it carefully.

Authorization confirmed.

Pilot Armored-Motorized Division – sanctioned under General Beauchamp’s authority.

Discretion advised.

Budget: modest.

Public disclosure: none.

Personnel and equipment requests to be routed through the Ministry.

He placed the letter on his desk and leaned back.

"This is the easy part," he muttered.

That Afternoon in de Gaulle’s Apartment. De Gaulle answered the door with his sleeves rolled and ink on his cuffs.

His desk was littered with books and diagrams.

A pot of black coffee steamed on the windowsill.

"You got it?" he asked without preamble.

Moreau held up the folded document. "We’re official. Well, barely."

De Gaulle gestured him in. "Then let’s begin."

They sat side by side at the dining table.

Between them were annotated copies of Vers l’Armée de Métier, marked-up maps of central France, and Moreau’s sketches rough but detailed command structures, convoy formations, a training schedule no one had approved yet.

"We’re allowed three battalions," de Gaulle said. "One armored, one motorized infantry, one artillery. They’ve left recon to our discretion."

"No air element," Moreau added.

De Gaulle grunted. "So we fly blind?"

"I’ve already sent an informal request to the Air Ministry. For liaison aircraft. They haven’t laughed me out of the building yet."

"You’ll need better than ’not laughed.’"

"I’ll take what I can get."

De Gaulle sipped the coffee. "We’ll need engineers. Drivers. Radiomen. And someone who can make field kitchens from nothing."

"Don’t forget mechanics. These machines will break before we name them."

Next day in the Ministry Annex, Resource Allocation Office. Captain Leclerc smoked without looking up.

His office smelled like paper and petrol.

His desk held ashtrays, requisition forms, and a crumpled box of Gauloises.

"You want how many trucks?" he asked flatly.

"Forty," Moreau said. "Reinforced suspension, radio mounts if possible."

Leclerc whistled, unimpressed. "For what? You forming a circus?"

"For an armored division. Prototype."

Leclerc raised an eyebrow but didn’t look up. "And you want them... operational? This quarter?"

"Six weeks," Moreau said. "Minimum twenty to start."

"You’ll be lucky to get ten. Maybe twelve if the 5th Logistics Battalion in Toulouse finishes refits early. The rest unlikely."

Moreau clenched his jaw. "I need at least twenty to begin field movement."

"You need miracles," Leclerc said, deadpan. "Welcome to Paris."

After going through all hurdles of beacuracry he finally was able to get some resources.

Then he finally called the officers in waiting.

Ten officers filled the room.

None had volunteered.

All had been summoned.

De Gaulle stood before them with no ceremony.

"This is not a re-assignment," he began. "This is a rethinking. Of combat. Of structure. Of purpose."

The room was silent.

"We’re building a division that doesn’t rely on trenches. On waiting. It strikes. Moves. Breaks contact. Re-forms."

He tapped a map behind him.

"You’ll have no safety net. No familiar doctrine. And no guarantees this won’t collapse beneath you."

Moreau stood near the side, arms folded. "If you want safety and predictability, the 1st Infantry needs parade officers. They even give out medals."

A few smiled, thinly.

A young artillery captain raised his hand. "What’s the path forward if it works?"

"You’ll change the Army," de Gaulle said flatly. "If it fails, you’ll likely be transferred or ignored."

"And if it succeeds?"

Moreau replied, "Then they’ll say they supported us all along."

No one left.

De Gaulle nodded once. "Then let’s begin."

Few days later they reached an Abandoned field south of Reims.

Mud up to their ankles.

Rusted fencing.

A half-collapsed hangar.

This was their training ground.

De Gaulle surveyed the field. "Did we win it in a poker game?"

"Almost," Moreau said. "It was marked for demolition. We intercepted the order."

"We’ll need barracks. Latrines. Garages. And a command post."

"I’m working on tents. Timber requisitions too."

"Luxury."

"It’s all timing."

"No," de Gaulle said, stepping over a puddle. "It’s all nerve."

-------

February 6th. General Staff Cafeteria.

Moreau sat alone with a bowl of cold soup and training schedules in his lap.

Colonel Duval, an old cavalryman, passed by and paused.

"You’re the one building that new toy?"

"I am."

"Better enjoy the attention. They’ll forget you when it breaks."

Moreau smiled without warmth. "Only if it does."

Duval snorted. "You know what they say. Mobility is for cowards who don’t like trenches."

"I’ll remember that the next time a trench outruns an enemy column."

Duval narrowed his eyes. "You’re clever, Major. Clever gets you demoted."

Moreau returned to his soup. "So I’ve heard."

-----

Rusting Renault FTs lined the yard like tombstones.

The depot officer, Captain Ribot, was apologetic but firm.

"This is what we’ve got."

"These are twenty years old," Moreau said, voice flat. "The shells would fall off if we hit a pothole."

"You want something better, you’ll need politics."

Moreau produced a signed authorization from Beauchamp.

"This is politics."

Back at the field, de Gaulle crouched beside Moreau, drawing circles in the mud with a stick.

"If we split the company across this incline, we can train both open field flanking and retreat drills."

"Assuming the trucks show up."

De Gaulle looked up. "They will."

"You’re an optimist."

"No," he said. "But I’ve seen what happens when we aren’t."

------

Dusty files.

Forgotten names.

De Gaulle turned the pages slowly in the war college.

"Captain Aubry. Infantry. Penalized for insubordination during maneuvers."

Moreau nodded. "Too stubborn?"

"Or too smart."

Moreau jotted the name down.

They kept reading.

"Captian Chauvet," de Gaulle said. "Dismissed from a wargame simulation after deviating from assigned orders."

"Why?"

"He circled the enemy and hit the supply line. Twice."

"Perfect," Moreau said. "Get him."

Tents finally rose over half-frozen ground. Engineers arrived first.

Then drivers.

Then artillery teams in hand-me-down coats.

"Everyone’s cold," de Gaulle muttered, stepping out from the command tent.

"They’re also awake. That’s a start," Moreau said.

They watched a convoy of five trucks bounce down the dirt path.

"Twelve total so far. Four more en route."

"Progress."

"Barely," Moreau said. "But enough."

The wind was cruel.

Men stood in mismatched uniforms some with cavalry insignia sewn hastily over infantry tunics.

Thirty-three in all.

Officers.

Mechanics.

Radiomen.

One overqualified cook.

Two Renault tanks sat nearby, their engines sputtering like old men coughing.

De Gaulle stepped forward.

"This is not yet a division. This is a laboratory. It will break. So will we. That’s how it begins."

Moreau followed.

"You were not chosen because you matched a form. You were chosen because you didn’t."

He looked out at the line.

"This is what comes next."

They stood quietly, not saluting, just listening.

De Gaulle nodded once.

"Form ranks."

And so they did.

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