Reincarnated: Vive La France-Chapter 107: “It’s a trench weapon, not a parade piece.”

It was just past six when Moreau stepped off the train at Gare des Invalides, his coat still dusted from Reims.

Not very clean and worned out.

He carried no suitcase, only a brown leather folder under his arm, weathered but clean, sealed with a brass clasp.

Inside were nine pages, six sketches, two data sheets, and one short proposal that he’d rewritten four times before sending a wire to General Beauchamp the night before.

The general had responded with a single word.

Come.

Two hours later, Moreau stood inside Beauchamp’s office at the Ministry of War, watching the general flip slowly through the sketches.

The old man’s reading glasses sat low on his nose.

His thick eyebrows furrowed more with each page.

For five full minutes, he didn’t speak.

Then he looked up.

"What is this supposed to be?"

"A sub-caliber automatic weapon," Moreau said evenly. "For close-quarters. Squad-level support."

Beauchamp set the page down. "We already have the Chauchat for that."

"With respect, sir," Moreau said, "we don’t. The Chauchat is unreliable, too heavy, and chambered in 8mm Lebel. This is intended to be compact. Maneuverable. For engineers, tank crews, scouts, shock teams. All in all it will have a better outcome for our soilders."

Beauchamp squinted at the title.

Pistolet Automatique de Proximité, modèle expérimental.

"You didn’t call it a submachine gun," he noted.

"I thought it wise not to," Moreau replied. "But that’s what it is."

Beauchamp sat back in his chair. "France doesn’t issue this type of weapon."

"That’s the problem," Moreau said. "And the Germans will. You have already supported me with reforms, please continue that for this as well."

The silence that followed was colder than the stone underfoot.

Beauchamp tapped the folder again, voice deep now. "Have you built this before? Or are we just drawing dreams?"

"I’ve studied it," Moreau answered. "It’s been tested elsewhere. And eventually, it’ll be built everywhere. It’s just a matter of who sees it first."

Beauchamp exhaled, removed his glasses, and folded his hands.

"Do you have ammunition for this?"

"No. Not yet. But it can be built around 9mm Parabellum. Cheap. Available."

Beauchamp raised an eyebrow. "Parabellum? We don’t use that."

"We will," Moreau said. "If we want logistics to work under fire."

Beauchamp looked back at the sketch. "It’s inelegant."

"It’s a trench weapon, not a parade piece."

The general tapped the paper again. "This is not the first automatic pistol design to cross my desk. Most of them belong in a crime novel."

"And yet none of them were made for this army," Moreau said. "This one is."

There was a pause.

Then Beauchamp stood, walked to the side of the room, and picked up the telephone from the wall.

He spoke only two sentences.

"Tell Lebesgue to come. I need him now."

He hung up and turned back to Moreau. "You’ll explain it again. But this time, to a man who can make or break it. Everything depends on him willingness."

Twenty minutes later, an older man in a worn brown overcoat entered the room.

He looked more like a machinist than a military man thinning hair, soot under his nails, and a permanent oil smell clinging to him.

It’s like the ever existing smell belonging to certain profession.

"Lebesgue," Beauchamp said. "Chief armament designer, Saint-Étienne arsenal."

Lebesgue extended a firm hand. "You must be Moreau. I’ve read your name in reports. Not usually under ’weapons proposals.’"

Moreau smiled lightly. "I like to surprise people."

He handed him the folder.

Lebesgue flipped through the first pages.

His brow rose slightly.

"Compact. Side-fed magazine. Blowback action. Hmm."

He looked up. "You intend this for trench assault?"

"And urban," Moreau replied. "Anything close-range. Building to building. Room to room."

Lebesgue ran a finger along the receiver sketch. "Stamped parts?"

"As many as possible."

"That’s ambitious. And optimistic. We don’t have tooling for this."

"You have it for the Lebel?"

"Unfortunately," Lebesgue said dryly. "We also have bayonets meant for cavalry charges. Doesn’t mean we still need them."

Moreau smiled faintly. "I’m trying to make that sentence go away."

Lebesgue nodded slowly. "Gas system?"

"None. Simple blowback."

"You’ll get recoil. Rise."

"I’ll take rise over a reload in a doorway."

Lebesgue smirked. "You ever clear a trench?"

"Once," Moreau said, "in the dark. With a revolver and luck. I prefer neither."

Lebesgue flipped to the component sketch. "This trigger group it’s similar to the Suomi model from Finland."

"I wouldn’t know," Moreau lied.

The engineer chuckled. "That’s alright. It’s not an insult. That one works."

He tapped the barrel sketch. "Short. Efficient. It’ll need venting. You’ll burn your hand without a guard."

"Noted."

"And this" he flipped to the rear assembly, "you’ll need a better locking tab here. Under stress, this will snap."

"I’ll reinforce it."

Beauchamp interrupted. "Can it be built?"

Lebesgue didn’t answer right away.

He closed the folder and rubbed his thumb along the edge.

"Yes," he said finally. "Not quickly. Not in numbers. But I can make one. Two, if you give me quiet money."

"Can you test it?"

"I’ll need a forge space. And someone who knows their way around punch dies."

"You’ll have both."

Beauchamp nodded. "And you’ll oversee it personally?"

"If he lets me swear a lot when it fails," Lebesgue said, nodding toward Moreau.

Moreau held out a hand. "As long as you let me swear back."

The engineer grinned and shook it.

Beauchamp handed the folder back to Lebesgue. "Make a prototype. Quietly."

He picked up the phone again. "Make a line item. Call it ’pilot equipment evaluation, CQB pattern.’ Nothing more."

He hung up. "You’ll build it. Quietly. And if it fails, I never saw it."

"And if it works?" Moreau asked.

Beauchamp met his eyes. "Then maybe we start building the army we need."

As Moreau and Lebesgue left the room together, the old engineer muttered, "I’ve built rifles for twenty years. This is the first one that might save lives before the war even starts."

Moreau only nodded.

Words weren’t needed.

The design would speak for itself.