Reincarnated: Vive La France-Chapter 104: "If that was the future, I want to go back to the past."

Chapter 104: "If that was the future, I want to go back to the past."

April 6, 1935.

Reims Sector.

Northern France

The wind howled across the flat open field, dragging waves of mud behind it.

Canvas tents flapped and snapped like warning flags.

The motor pool now has turned into pit of churned earth and broken rocks.

Three tanks sat motionless, half-covered in tarps.

The antenna for the new radio relay leaned to one side, frozen stiff in the dirt.

Moreau stood with a clipboard in hand, staring up at the sky.

"You’re sure they’re coming?" asked Chauvet, squinting through the morning haze.

"They’re late," Moreau replied, checking his watch. "But they’re coming."

Just then, a distant engine rang across the sky.

Not a roar.

A whine.

A whining cough, like an old man being dragged from his bed.

Imagine a 90 year old man, getting up from his bed after a deep sleep with a deep constant cough.

Something you know is broken but still working somehow.

The plane emerged from the clouds wings shaking, fuselage vibrating as if stitched together with rope and hope.

A Potez 25.

Old.

Ugly.

Reliable in theory.

Used mostly for observation and courier work.

A two-seat biplane, canvas-and-wood construction, engine straining against the breeze.

"She looks like she lost a fight with a barn," Chauvet muttered.

"She’ll do," Moreau rolled his eyes.

It is already good enough that France has allowed so much modernization due to his intervention.

He didn’t have that much hope.

And when you don’t have too much hope, you don’t get disappointed.

The aircraft skidded once on landing, corrected, and rolled to a stop near the edge of the recently build road that resembled runway.

A mechanic scrambled out with chocks.

A second figure hopped from the rear cockpit and saluted as he jogged over.

"Lieutenant Veyrac, Air Liaison," he said. "Attached to the 2nd Air Reconnaissance Group. I was told you requested air support, not a museum piece."

"You’re the support," Moreau said, shaking his hand. "Welcome to the future."

Veyrac raised an eyebrow. "It smells like diesel and defeat."

Moreau smirked. "We call it the French vision. Broken and battered but somehow still alive."

They walked together toward the command tent, boots sinking in wet soil.

Inside, De Gaulle and two captains waited around a crude planning table with maps pinned beneath metal weights.

De Gaulle motioned to Veyrac. "You’re not artillery?"

"No, sir. Air liaison."

"Excellent. That means you think in kilometers instead of millimeters."

Veyrac blinked. "I think in survival, sir."

"Good. That means we’ll get along."

Moreau laid out the plan: one armored platoon would advance across a mock line, simulating a break in enemy infantry.

Veyrac would fly overhead, relay simulated artillery coordinates via radio, then correct ground position based on response speed.

"The Air Ministry has only approved a ten-minute window," Veyrac said.

"Then we do it in nine," Moreau replied.

Chauvet sighed. "What happens when the radio jams?"

"Then we improvise."

The first test, as expected, went poorly.

The tanks started late.

The Potez misidentified the lead vehicle.

The radio relay triggered at the wrong frequency.

Ground units moved too far east.

One truck nearly collided with a support jeep.

The radio operator forgot to switch channels.

De Gaulle swore audibly from the ridge.

After twenty minutes, the flare went up.

Abort.

Back at the tent, silence.

Moreau sipped cold coffee. "Notes?"

"Fire the operator," De Gaulle said.

"He’s seventeen," Chauvet replied. "You want him court-martialed or reassigned to bakery duty?"

"Either gets him off my line."

Moreau rubbed his temple. "We don’t fire him. We teach him. Then we test again."

Veyrac leaned against the wall, wiping sweat from his neck. "If that was the future, I want to go back to the past."

"It’s not the future yet," Moreau said. "Right now, it’s chaos. We shape it."

He turned to the map. "Tomorrow, we change formation. Tank columns hold position until confirmed signal. Plane flies two loops, not one. Radios get pre-set channels. Veyrac, you’ll drop a marker if you lose signal, a visual cue."

Veyrac raised an eyebrow. "And if I’m shot down?"

"Then we start again with someone else."

Everyone looked at him.

He didn’t blink.

The second test, the next morning, ran better.

The tanks rolled early.

The radio held.

Veyrac circled low, dropping a chalked signal board with the number "27" matching the assigned target point.

The artillery team, still faking their rounds with painted shells and loudspeakers, registered the shot.

The infantry advanced in coordination.

The timing was off by 19 seconds, but that was within acceptable margin.

De Gaulle raised a pair of binoculars. "They’re moving like a single creature now."

Moreau nodded. "Still a fragile one."

"That worked," Veyrac said.

"For now," Moreau replied. "Next week, we add variable weather and scattered targets."

"You’re relentless."

"I’m afraid of what happens if I’m not."

That evening, Moreau sat in the mess tent writing a preliminary report for Beauchamp.

"Progress modest. Coordination improving. Confidence among crews rising. Recommend extension of air liaison test for additional month. Practical field value exceeds expectations. Suggest quiet consideration for dedicated radio unit capable of handling mobile ground-air operations."

De Gaulle entered, pulled off his gloves, and read over his shoulder.

"You know," he said, "if this works, if this continues it’ll be the most dangerous thing the French army has done in two decades."

"Why?"

"Because it changes everything. And the generals hate change."

Moreau didn’t look up. "They’ll hate failure more."

De Gaulle leaned down, voice low. "And if it doesn’t work?"

"Then at least we’ll fail in motion," Moreau replied. "Not in concrete."

That night, the tent lights flickered.

Rain tapped like coins against the glass

The wind howled again, colder this time.

Moreau stepped outside, jacket over his shoulders, and looked up at the stars.

Tomorrow, they’d run a night test.

Risky.

Improvised.

Beyond authorization.

Which has now become his modus operandi.

But that was the only way they’d find what worked.

Even though like other he still doubts what they can achieve in this country.

It is still better then waiting for nazi flag to takeover the republic.