Reincarnated: Vive La France

Somewhere Between Verdun and Paris

The train rattled along the tracks, its rhythmic clatter filling the dimly lit compartment.

Outside, the French countryside rolled by under the pale moonlight, fields stretching into the horizon, broken only by the occasional distant glow of village lanterns.

Moreau sat by the window, arms crossed, staring into the darkness.

He wasn't looking at the scenery.

He was thinking.

Across from him, Renaud exhaled loudly, rubbing his face before reaching into his coat for a cigarette.

He lit it with practiced ease, inhaling deeply before glancing at Moreau. "You haven't said a word since we left Verdun."

Moreau barely moved. "I've been thinking."

Renaud let out a tired chuckle. "That's dangerous."

Moreau smirked faintly, but his mind was elsewhere.

The committee.

The accusation.

Clément.

It was all playing out exactly as he'd expected, just faster than he thought it would.

Renaud leaned back, resting his boots on the empty seat beside him. "Alright, let's hear it. What's going on in that overly complicated brain of yours?"

Moreau took a slow breath, his voice calm but firm. "This isn't just about me, Renaud. This is bigger."

Renaud raised an eyebrow. "Of course it's bigger. Clément wants you gone. The old guard wants men like you silenced before you start infecting others with ideas."

Moreau shook his head. "It's not just Clément. It's the entire structure of this army."

He exhaled, rubbing his temple. "We're being set up to fail. And they don't even realize it."

Renaud took another drag, watching him. "Go on."

Moreau tapped his fingers against his knee, his mind drifting back to another life, another time.

He had studied all this before the mistakes of the French military, the political infighting, the arrogance that would lead to disaster.

"The last war broke them," Moreau said quietly. "Not just physically, but mentally. The men in charge now they were junior officers back then, watching their friends get slaughtered by the thousands in the trenches. And the lesson they took from that war wasn't 'we must adapt.' It was 'never again.'"

Renaud nodded slowly. "Which is why they're obsessed with defense. The Maginot Line. The idea that if we just sit tight, the Boches will break themselves against us again."

Moreau glanced at him. "Exactly. They think they're being pragmatic, but they're really being reactionary. They're so afraid of repeating the past that they're blind to the future."

Renaud tapped ash onto the floor, his expression darkening. "So, what? You think the Germans are actually coming? Everyone in Paris keeps saying Hitler is just posturing."

Moreau scoffed. "Of course they do. They said the same about Napoleon before he marched across Europe. They said the same about the Germans before 1914. People always think they have more time than they do."

He stared out the window, his voice quieter now. "I read the reports, Renaud. The Germans are rearming fast. They're running military exercises under the guise of 'police training.' Their industries are shifting back into war production, and no one is stopping them. Meanwhile, we're still debating whether tanks should move faster than infantry."

Renaud sighed, shaking his head. "Merde."

Moreau smirked faintly. "Exactly."

For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

The train rumbled on, the dim glow of the overhead lamps casting long shadows in the compartment.

Finally, Renaud broke the silence. "Alright. So where does this lead?"

Moreau exhaled. "To disaster."

Renaud gave a bitter chuckle. "Great. That's reassuring."

Moreau leaned forward slightly, his expression serious. "We're heading toward another war, Renaud. Maybe not tomorrow. Maybe not next year. But it's coming. And when it does, we won't be ready."

Renaud frowned, watching him carefully. "And you think this committee hearing is part of that?"

Moreau nodded. "I think it's a symptom of the disease. Clément and men like him aren't acting out of malice. They're acting out of fear. They want to control the army, keep it rigid, because they think control equals stability. But what they're really doing is weakening it. They're silencing officers who think differently. They're shutting down discussions that challenge doctrine. They're rewarding obedience over competence."

He leaned back, shaking his head. "When the war comes, they won't just lose. They won't even understand why they're losing."

Renaud took another long drag, exhaling smoke toward the ceiling. "You know, Moreau, sometimes I forget you're not just some stubborn ass with a talent for pissing off senior officers."

Moreau smirked. "And what am I, then?"

"A fucking historian," Renaud muttered, shaking his head. "You talk about this army like you already read the book on how it collapses."

Moreau didn't answer.

Because in a way, he had.

He could still remember reading about it the fall of France, the Blitzkrieg, the collapse in just six weeks.

The sheer disbelief on the faces of French generals when they realized their army, the one they thought was invincible, had been outmaneuvered and shattered.

It was like watching a train hurtling toward a broken bridge, screaming at the passengers to jump before it was too late but no one listening.

Renaud studied him for a moment, then leaned forward. "Alright, historian. So what do we do about it?"

Moreau was silent for a moment. "We survive."

Renaud snorted. "That's it? That's your brilliant strategy?"

"It's the only strategy," Moreau said. "We survive long enough to be in the right place at the right time. The army isn't ready to change, but it will be once it starts losing. And when that moment comes, I want to be in a position where I can actually do something about it."

Renaud sighed, rubbing his face. "Merde. I liked it better when I just had to worry about Clément."

Moreau chuckled. "Clément is just a footnote in a much bigger story."

"Try telling that to the disciplinary committee," Renaud muttered.

The train began to slow, the distant lights of Paris coming into view through the window.

Moreau glanced outside.

The city looked the same as ever grand, timeless, full of life..

But beneath it, he knew, things were shifting.

The politicians were too busy fighting each other to see it.

The generals were too comfortable in their positions to prepare for it.

And the people the ordinary men and women had no idea what was coming.

Moreau took a deep breath.