Reincarnated: Vive La France

April 1934, Verdun, France

The truck rumbled over the dirt road, sending up small clouds of dust as it carried Moreau and Renaud back toward the barracks.

The sun hung low in the afternoon sky in Meuse region, where battlefields of the last war still bore the scars of trenches and artillery craters.

The ride was quiet, the trip of Paris made him question many things.

Moreau sat in the passenger seat, arms crossed, staring out at the endless countryside.

Verdun felt different after Paris.

The capital had been loud, restless, alive in a way that felt like it was about to tear itself apart.

Verdun, by contrast, was discipline, routine, order.

"You still thinking about what Lemoine said?" Renaud finally broke the silence, eyes on the road ahead as he drove.

Moreau exhaled slowly. "You don't just forget a conversation like that."

Renaud smirked. "Ah, the Napoléon talk. Bet that got in your head."

Moreau tilted his head slightly. "It wasn't about Napoléon. It was about me. About whether I can get men to follow me before I even have power."

Renaud chuckled. "So, what? Are you suddenly worried you're not charismatic enough?"

Moreau smirked. "No. I'm wondering if I've been going about this the wrong way."

Renaud lit a cigarette with one hand, his other still on the wheel. "You don't say. You mean insulting senior officer in front of an entire disciplinary panel isn't the best way to win people over?"

Moreau chuckled, shaking his head. "You have a way of simplifying things."

"That's because the world's simple, Moreau. You make it complicated."

Moreau glanced at him. "Is that so?"

Renaud exhaled a plume of smoke. "Look, you're right about the army being stuck in the past. Everyone with a brain knows it. The problem isn't your ideas, it's that you act like people should listen just because you're right."

He tapped the cigarette against the dashboard. "They won't."

Moreau leaned back in his seat. "I know."

"You sure? Because Lemoine just spelled it out for you."

Moreau sighed. "It's not about convincing men like Clément. It's about making sure when the time comes, people trust me enough to follow me without questioning."

Renaud smirked. "That's the first smart thing you've said all day."

The truck rolled past the outer gates of the barracks, the familiar sight of rows of tanks, training fields, and soldiers moving between buildings coming into view.

It was a world of order, where men followed orders because they had to, not because they wanted to.

And if Moreau was going to change anything, that had to change first.

For the next few days, life at the barracks resumed as normal at least on the surface.

Moreau returned to his duties, overseeing tank training, reviewing logistics, adjusting drills to keep up with the new restrictions Clément had put in place.

Fuel was still being rationed, supplies still arriving late, but Moreau had anticipated this. Adapting was part of the game.

The men noticed.

Even the sergeants who had once been skeptical of him had begun to recognize that Moreau wasn't just pushing theory.

He was making them better.

Sergeant Marchand, one of the most vocal skeptics, approached Moreau one afternoon as drills concluded.

"Sir," Marchand said, wiping sweat from his brow, his uniform still covered in dust from the latest exercise. "I don't know what you said in Paris, but something's changed."

Moreau raised an eyebrow. "Changed how?"

Marchand exhaled. "The men talk. They see you pushing back against Clément's bullshit. Some of them like it. Some of them don't. But either way, they're watching."

Moreau crossed his arms. "And you?"

Marchand hesitated for a moment, then nodded. "I was wrong about you, sir. That's all I'll say."

That was enough.

Moreau didn't need admiration. He needed trust.

Three days later, a explosion shattered the morning calm.

Moreau had been in his office, reviewing training schedules, when the sound ripped through the barracks a deep, heavy blast followed by the unmistakable roar of fire.

For a moment, everything was still.

Then came the shouting.

Moreau was already moving, grabbing his coat and racing toward the training fields before the smoke had even fully risen.

When he arrived, the scene was chaos.

One of the Renault tanks was on fire, thick black smoke billowing into the air as soldiers scrambled to contain the blaze.

Nearby, a man lay on the ground, his leg bloody and twisted, his face pale with shock.

"Get that fire out!" Moreau barked as he pushed through the gathered crowd. "Medic, now!"

The injured soldier a young private, barely more than a recruit was already being tended to by a field medic.

His face was contorted in pain, his uniform torn from the blast.

Moreau turned to Sergeant Marchand, who had been leading the exercise. "What happened?"

Marchand shook his head, his jaw tight. "We were running a standard maneuver, sir. Nothing unusual. Then the engine...it just went. No warning. One second it was running fine, the next.....boom."

Moreau narrowed his eyes.

Something wasn't right.

He turned to the wreckage, stepping closer as the flames were finally brought under control.

The Renault was completely gutted, its armor blackened and warped from the heat.

"Could it have been mechanical failure?" Renaud asked, appearing beside him.

Moreau exhaled slowly, running his fingers over the side of the wreckage.

His gut told him no.

A tank engine failing usually sputtered, struggled, groaned before dying.

This?

This was too sudden.

Too precise.

Then he saw it.

Near the engine block, just beneath the warped metal, a small twist of copper wire, partially melted but still recognizable.

Moreau's stomach tightened.

Renaud saw it too, his expression darkening. "Merde. You think—?"

Moreau clenched his jaw. "This wasn't an accident."

Renaud let out a low curse, glancing over his shoulder.

The men were still shaken, murmuring among themselves.

No one had noticed what Moreau had found.

Moreau straightened, keeping his voice low. "We don't say anything yet. Not until we know for sure."

Renaud exhaled through his nose. "And what if we already do?"

Moreau's gaze drifted back to the ruined tank, the smoke still curling into the sky.

"If this was sabotage," he said quietly, "then someone wanted to send a message."

He turned back toward the barracks, his mind already racing.

The question was: who?

And how many more messages would come before he found out?