Reincarnated: Vive La France
Chapter 96: "SAAR PLEBISCITE FINALIZED – 90.73% VOTE TO REJOIN GERMANY”

Chapter 96: "SAAR PLEBISCITE FINALIZED – 90.73% VOTE TO REJOIN GERMANY”

February 26, 1935.

Reims, France.

The newspaper came bundled in rough string, a copy of Paris-Soir, laid flat across the morning mess crate outside the command tent.

Moreau didn’t notice it at first.

He was hunched over a motor pool report, pencil behind his ear, red grease-pencil marks littering a chart of axle failures and ignition timing delays on the Renault ADRs.

It was shaping into a long day of repair requests and fuel rotation headaches.

Chauvet, boots mud-caked and gloves off, was the one who picked up the paper.

He glanced at the headline, blinked once, and stepped inside without ceremony.

"You’ll want to read this," he said, tossing it onto the desk.

"If it’s about Metz again, tell them to reroute through Troyes," Moreau muttered, not looking up.

"It’s not Metz. It’s Berlin."

That made him pause.

Moreau set his pencil down and pulled the string off slowly.

The front page was soaked at the corners but still legible.

And then he saw it:

"SAAR PLEBISCITE FINALIZED – 90.73% VOTE TO REJOIN GERMANY"

Formal handover scheduled for March 1st.

Celebrations in Berlin.

Hitler declares ’Germany is one again.’

He read it twice.

Then again.

It wasn’t unexpected but it still made his stomach twist.

Chauvet leaned on the edge of the desk, glancing down at the headline again.

"Ninety percent. That’s not just a vote, that’s a verdict."

Moreau finally looked up. "It’s a message."

He lifted the paper, flipping to the second page where the article continued.

The Saar Basin had been under League of Nations control since 1920, its coalfields operated by France as compensation for the Great War.

A compromise territory.

A symbol of Versailles.

Fifteen years of uneasy stewardship, tension, and bureaucracy.

And now, with a vote and a handshake, it would be gone.

"The coal mines were the prize," Moreau murmured. "France had full rights. Now it’s all German again."

Chauvet lit a cigarette and exhaled slowly. "The papers are calling it peaceful. Democratic."

"And Berlin is calling it destiny," Moreau replied, tapping the edge of the photo crowds waving swastika flags in Saarbrücken, arms raised in uniform rows.

He didn’t say the word Anschluss aloud.

Not yet.

But he thought it.

That afternoon, de Gaulle returned from Paris, stepping out of the courier vehicle with his coat over one shoulder and a satchel of paperwork in hand.

He looked annoyed before he even reached the tent.

"They’ve given us nothing," he said flatly. "Gamelin’s office told us to ’monitor the situation.’ No alerts. No reinforcement orders. Nothing about the border."

"What about London?" Moreau asked, folding the paper under his arm.

De Gaulle gave a humorless smile. "Eden called it ’a reaffirmation of popular will.’ The Times is already printing columns about ’stability through cooperation.’"

Moreau scoffed. "They think Hitler plays by the same rulebook."

"He just rewrote it," de Gaulle muttered.

They both sat in silence for a moment.

Then Moreau said quietly, "It’s not just about the Saar. This was a test. They let him take it because it looked civil. But if they don’t respond if we don’t, he’ll know the door’s open."

"To where?"

Moreau hesitated.

Then said only, "Further."

That night, the signal team stayed behind after their shift, playing with the longwave bands.

One of the junior corporals stumbled across a live German civilian broadcast likely picked up from the new Saar relay towers.

Through the static, a voice emerged.

Deeper than the announcer.

Slower.

Rising like a preacher before a crowd.

Adolf Hitler.

The men didn’t speak German.

But they didn’t need to understand the words.

The tone was unmistakable.

Rythmic.

Rehearsed.

Calculated.

Then came the chant roared in thousands, perfectly timed even through the broken signal:

"Ein Volk! Ein Reich! Ein Führer!"

The tent was quiet after it cut off.

No one said a word.

The next morning, Moreau found a translated summary in the London Times.

The Foreign Desk had published excerpts from the speech, citing diplomats in Berlin.

He read it aloud to de Gaulle:

"The Saar returns to the Reich not through war, but through unity. Not through conquest, but through will. And just as we reclaim our people today, we shall restore our honor tomorrow."

De Gaulle snorted. "And no one hears the warning in that?"

"They hear it," Moreau said. "They just pretend it’s something else."

By February 28th, French League observers began to leave their posts in the Saar.

Coal engineers packed up ledgers.

Staff cars crossed out of German territory without ceremony.

The tricolor came down in silence from every administrative building that had flown it since 1920.

There were no protests.

No defiant speeches.

Just bureaucratic closure.

And across the river, German officials began to prepare for a different kind of ceremony.

March 1st arrived like a silent drumbeat.

In Saarbrücken, thousands gathered along the roadsides as German units rolled in not in silence, but with spectacle.

Brass bands played marches composed just months before.

Uniforms gleamed.

Streets were scrubbed clean.

Loudspeakers broadcast a mix of Wagner and anthems from the early Reichstag days.

Flags with black crosses and red banners lined every window and balcony.

In Paris, the radio called it "orderly."

In London, "disciplined."

In Berlin, "historic."

But Moreau watched the footage through a flickering projector screen in a dusty room at the Reims command center.

Chauvet sat beside him.

De Gaulle stood in the back, arms folded.

"See that?" Chauvet pointed toward the screen. "Even their crowd control looks rehearsed."

"They practiced it," de Gaulle muttered. "Just like they’ll practice what comes next."

Moreau didn’t speak.

He watched the procession: two regiments of infantry, followed by tanks not in a show of strength, but just enough to remind the audience that the Reich moved with steel behind its smiles.

The final image was a close-up of Hitler, saluting from a podium ringed with flowers.

A banner above him read: "Wir danken dem Führer!" - "We thank the Führer!"

Moreau felt the words like a chill.

The projection sputtered out.

The room went dark.

Later that night, Moreau sat alone in his tent.

He had poured a small drinkcog nearly gone from a bottle Beauchamp had gifted him weeks ago.

The calendar on the wall hung quietly beside the oil lamp.

March 1st: a small red dot.

March 17th: circled.

He pulled out his journal.

"The Saar returns.

No resistance.

No protest.

Just celebration.

That is what makes it dangerous."

He paused.

"We prepare for enemies we can see. But we rarely prepare for the ones who walk in unopposed."

He closed the journal and set down his pencil.

From here on, every day mattered.

And March had only begun.