Reincarnated: Vive La France-Chapter 102: "The pen is theirs. The rifle is ours.”

Snow clung to the edge of the runway as engines roared against the dawn.

At a newly repurposed airfield outside Berlin, white hangars stood in rows, barely completed.

Yet already, the Luftwaffe was flying.

Hermann Göring stepped out of a black Mercedes, his greatcoat trailing behind him, flanked by two officers and a military photographer snapping every step.

A squadron of young cadets stood in rigid formation.

All under twenty, most fresh from Hitler Youth flight programs.

"They look too young," one aide muttered. freēnovelkiss.com

"They’re just young enough," Göring said. "No fear yet. Only hunger."

The airfield commander, a thin officer with a limp from the last war, approached and saluted. "Training rotations doubled. Thirty-six sorties this week. New Dornier 11s arrive by Friday."

Göring nodded. "And the instructors?"

"Overextended. But committed."

Göring turned to the cadets. "Which of you will fly first today?"

One stepped forward, chest puffed. "I will, Herr Minister."

"What’s your name?"

"Schmidt, sir. From Leipzig."

"You’ll fly twice," Göring said. "We need the sky to belong to Germany again."

Later, he entered the field command post, where a fresh stack of orders awaited.

He signed them all without blinking.

Fuel requisitions.

Armament deliveries.

Uniform alterations for summer wear.

At OKH Headquarters, the atmosphere was almost clinical.

Dozens of officers leaned over sand tables, measuring distances and shuffling red unit markers.

A whiteboard listed the weekly production totals: rifles, helmets, field packs.

Stacks of documents were carried between rooms like conveyor belts.

General von Fritsch lit a cigarette and exhaled through his nose as he reviewed the latest draft from Wehrkreis IX.

"We’re short on boots."

"Local leather stocks are depleted."

"Then requisition from Czechoslovakia," he said. "Tell them it’s trade. Or don’t tell them at all."

One of his aides, barely out of cadet school, leaned in and whispered, "Sir, are we preparing for war?"

Von Fritsch didn’t answer immediately.

He tapped the boy’s shoulder and said only, "We are preparing to never lose again."

At the Ministry of Propaganda, Goebbels rehearsed a radio broadcast meant for the German people.

His voice, clipped and precise, rang through the sound booth.

"Citizens of the Reich. Your nation is awake. Your sons wear the uniform not of conquest, but of destiny. We are not bound by the lies of the past. Germany stands not in defiance, but in fulfillment of its rightful future."

He stepped out, adjusted his tie, and asked an assistant, "How did I sound?"

"Like thunder, Herr Minister."

"Good. Cut it, clean it, and send it for distribution."

As night fell over Berlin, conscription stations remained open under lamps that hummed with electricity.

Young men queued with paper documents, nervous and proud.

Some joked quietly.

Others simply stared ahead, silent.

At one post, a woman clutched her son’s coat as he stepped forward to sign.

"You’re only seventeen," she whispered.

"I’m German," he replied.

On Wilhelmstraße, a group of generals left a closed meeting at the Chancellery, speaking in low tones about dates, unit readiness, and the need for more engineers.

One turned to the others and said, "They will never accept this."

"They don’t need to. They need to hesitate. And while they do, we move."

In the hall behind them, Hitler stood before a full map of Germany, his shadow thrown high against the plaster wall.

A pencil in his hand traced a line across Bavaria, then to Saxony, then paused just shy of the Rhine.

But he did not point.

"Not yet," he muttered.

"Mein Führer," Brückner interrupted gently. "A final message from Geneva. The conference is approved. They want peace talks."

Hitler smiled faintly. "Then they have chosen to speak. Let them. While they write, we build. While they reason, we rise."

He turned to the window, where storm clouds were gathering over the rooftops.

Back in Bavaria, in the town of Augsburg, a classroom full of teenage boys sat in silence as the local Party instructor finished chalking a large sentence across the blackboard.

It read: "Every German Boy a Defender of the Reich."

The boys copied it into their notebooks without question.

After a moment, one student raised his hand. "Herr Bauer, my father says the French might protest this... conscription."

The instructor paused, then walked slowly to the front of the room. "Protest?" he said softly. "What did the French do when Germany bled in the Ruhr? When German workers were shot for striking? When we had no bread to feed our mothers? What did they do when we begged for dignity?"

No one answered.

"They wrote letters," Bauer said. "So if they protest again, let them. The pen is theirs. The rifle is ours."

In a dim office back in Berlin, General Wilhelm Keitel met with Colonel Jodl to review the classified army build-up schedule.

"This pace is madness," Jodl muttered. "New barracks by June? Seventeen new regiments? We don’t have the officers."

"Then promote fast," Keitel replied. "Find candidates from the Freikorps lists. Bring back men from Spain. Or the Eastern borders. Men who still remember how to kill."

Jodl was silent a moment. "And if France acts?"

Keitel looked up from the papers. "Then we smile at Geneva and move a division somewhere else."

Elsewhere in Berlin, a café bustled with young men in uniform and those about to join them.

The waitress served black coffee and newspaper clippings.

"I heard Munich got the new uniforms already," said one conscript.

"Yeah, olive grey, like in the movies," another replied. "And the helmets are being redesigned. Faster. Lighter. Modern."

"What about tanks?"

"They say Göring’s working on a flying tank," someone joked.

Everyone laughed.

At the next table, an older man whispered to his companion, "I remember 1914. They cheered then, too."

Back at the Chancellery, Hitler summoned von Blomberg to a final meeting before the weekend.

Rain tapped softly against the windows, and the air smelled of wax and ash.

"Rundstedt believes we could activate twelve divisions by year’s end," Blomberg said.

Hitler nodded, staring at the map again.

"We cannot take the Rhineland now," Hitler said quietly. "Not yet. But we can prepare the men who will."

Blomberg frowned. "The General Staff estimates three years for full readiness."

"Then we give them two," Hitler snapped.

There was silence.

Then Hitler turned, his voice low but firm.

"Eighty divisions. A mechanized core. An air force with steel in its belly. A general staff that can outthink the French before they can gather their wits."

Blomberg cleared his throat. "And if they challenge us before then?"

"We smile. We speak of peace. We march in step with the diplomats. And behind the curtain, we build. Train. Harden."

He tapped a folder on the desk marked KRIEGSPLANUNG - confidential.

"Order preliminary wargames in Wehrkreis III and IV. Quietly. No flags. No medals. Just drills."

Blomberg hesitated, then said, "And Geneva?"

Hitler smiled thinly.

"Let them invite us. We’ll shake hands. Pledge peace. And when they sleep, we’ll hammer while the forge is hot."