Reincarnated: Vive La France
Chapter 94: "Fail again, and you’ll both be back in Metz, polishing sabers

Chapter 94: "Fail again, and you’ll both be back in Metz, polishing sabers

The final week before the exercise was harsh.

Rain hammered the Reims plateau for four straight days.

The ground turned to a brown soup, and two of the light tanks refused to start after a storm flooded their cabins.

Canvas tents flapped violently all night.

One even tore loose and landed against the side of the fuel trailer, narrowly avoiding disaster.

Men were soaked, shivering, bruised but none of them quit.

The drills, now second nature, continued.

Morning maneuvers were run before sunrise, often in total silence.

De Gaulle called it "learning without thinking."

Moreau called it survival.

No new supplies had arrived.

The radios worked barely.

The trucks were barely holding together.

And then came the envelope.

A plain beige rectangle, slipped under Moreau’s tent flap before dawn.

No sender.

No signature

Just a single date, a time, a map coordinate and one word written in sharp black ink:

Observe.

Moreau handed it to de Gaulle over coffee.

Neither said anything for a long moment.

Then de Gaulle said simply, "They’re coming."

At sunrise, fog hung low over the trees.

The ridge south of the field had been cleared the night before no debris, no equipment in sight.

Only fresh sawdust and tire tracks marked where the observation platform had been quickly constructed.

De Gaulle stood with Chauvet, going through final orders.

"Signals team will post at the second rise. If they’re delayed, armor moves anyway."

"They’ll be delayed," Chauvet said, checking his watch.

"They’ve got two short-range sets and one with a dead channel."

"Then improvise. Use runners. Use smoke. I don’t care if you shout just keep the line moving."

De Gaulle turned as Moreau approached with his field map and binoculars.

"They’re expecting disaster," Chauvet muttered. "We give them confusion, and they’ll nod and walk away."

"No," Moreau said, checking his strap.

"We give them doubt. Doubt that the old way works. That’s enough."

Minutes later, the vehicles arrived.

Three standard staff cars.

One Citroën with blacked-out windows.

A pair of motorcyclists in front, another at the rear.

The convoy stopped in a single motion, engines cutting one by one.

Officers climbed out in full coats and polished boots, their faces hard to read in the morning light.

Among them, unmistakably, was General Maurice Gamelin.

He did not look around.

He did not acknowledge greetings.

He simply walked forward and stood at the edge of the ridge, his hands clasped behind his back.

Moreau’s stomach tightened.

A liaison officer stepped forward. "On the general’s command."

Gamelin raised one hand then dropped it without a word.

The test began.

The opening movements were textbook.

The armored company rolled out with practiced speed, turning in wide arcs across the terrain and dropping into simulated combat formations.

Their maneuver was sharp not elegant, but purposeful.

One FT-17 rattled unnervingly, but kept pace.

Recon scouts on motorcycles darted ahead to mark approach lines.

De Gaulle stood behind the forward observation post, binoculars up.

He didn’t speak.

He didn’t need to.

The infantry trucks moved next.

Chauvet’s lead vehicle weaved past a crater and repositioned his men under cover with remarkable precision.

Within thirty seconds, the forward half of the battalion was in position and holding marked by small red flags staked into the mud.

Atop the ridge, Gamelin’s aides murmured quietly.

One pointed to a clipboard.

The observers took notes.

So far, so good.

Then came the first breakdown.

The third logistics truck already creaking hit a hole hidden beneath runoff and jolted sideways.

Its rear axle snapped.

The truck tilted violently, causing the truck behind it to stall, then reverse to avoid collision.

"Damn it," Moreau hissed from his spot at the signal tent. "Flag the bypass! Go around!"

Chauvet’s men responded immediately.

With hand signals and shouted commands, they redirected the second column down a slope, bypassing the blockage.

The detour cost them twenty-five seconds.

The rear artillery crew, seeing the maneuver, misread the timing and launched simulated fire prematurely indicated by red smoke shells.

A wave of colored powder detonated twenty meters off target.

Gamelin’s expression didn’t change, but one of his staff scribbled rapidly.

De Gaulle said nothing.

He just waited.

What came next saved the exercise.

The recon unit stationed along the far west side picked up the misfire and reacted without orders.

They adjusted flank coverage and repositioned on their own.

Chauvet’s lead infantry corrected the formation and completed a bounding advance under cover of an improvised "smoke screen" generated by diesel exhaust from one of the tanks.

It wasn’t pretty.

But it worked.

Even as the rain began again, the second wave closed in on the mock target a half-constructed trench line marked with wooden figures.

They reached it, executed a sweep, and held position.

All of it chaotic, adaptive, fast.

When the final signal horn blew, the field fell into stillness.

Mud filled uniforms stood in disjointed lines.

One tank crew leaned against their machine, exhausted.

The downed truck was already being salvaged by engineers.

Moreau let out a long breath.

The observers didn’t clap.

This wasn’t theater.

Gamelin stepped forward alone.

He walked to the edge of the hill and stared down at the mess of machines, men, and smoke-stained flags.

"That," he said slowly, "was not doctrine."

De Gaulle stepped forward, stiff-backed.

"No, mon général. It wasn’t."

Gamelin turned to him. "You ignored pacing intervals. Your artillery markers were early. Your spacing violated every logistical principle."

De Gaulle said nothing.

Gamelin turned to Moreau next.

"Your trucks were improvised. Your communications primitive. One engine fire. One axle break. And still you reached the target with coverage."

Moreau replied, voice even. "We didn’t train to be clean. We trained to be fast."

"And if this had been live fire?"

"We’d have adapted faster," Moreau said.

Gamelin raised an eyebrow.

"You believe that?"

"I believe in the men," Moreau said. "I believe we’re closer to readiness with half a toolbox than most units are with a depot."

Gamelin stared for a moment longer.

Then he asked, "What would this unit look like with real equipment?"

Moreau paused.

"Sharper. More aggressive. Capable of striking where lines don’t exist yet."

Someone behind Gamelin laughed quietly.

The general did not.

He turned back to the field.

Then, unexpectedly, he gestured to one of his aides.

"Make a note," he said, not facing them. "Draw up orders. Three Char D1 tanks. Twelve all-weather trucks. Two full radio sets with trained operators."

He turned again, locking eyes with Moreau.

"Get this division combat-ready by July. Summer exercises are coming. You’ll be tested again."

Moreau blinked. "Yes, mon général."

"One more thing," Gamelin said.

"Yes?"

"Fail again, and you’ll both be back in Metz, polishing sabers."

Then he walked away.

No applause.

No praise.

But the observers followed him, murmuring, looking back over their shoulders.

De Gaulle exhaled.

"I thought he’d gut us," he said.

"He might still," Moreau replied. "But not today."