Reincarnated: Vive La France-Chapter 111: "No, but ghosts run Paris.”

The corridors of the Ministry of War in Paris was full of noise.

On the morning of May 14th, the city was gray with rain.

But inside the Palais des Invalides, under the gold dome, the brass was polishing its knives.

The success of Moreau’s prototype at Reims had travelled fast.

Too fast.

By the time General Beauchamp’s preliminary report had reached the inner circle, a different kind of firing line had already formed.

Politicians, procurement officers, arms contractors, and jealous colonels who’d spent the last ten years protecting their slivers of budget like starving wolves around a carcass.

The Pistolet Automatique de Proximité "PAP," as it had come to be nicknamed by the troops was more than a weapon now.

It was a threat. ƒreewebɳovel.com

Not to the Germans.

But to them.

"Who the hell approved this in the first place?" hissed General Binet, head of the Ordnance Review Board, as he slapped a file down in front of War Minister Jean Fabry.

Fabry raised an eyebrow. "Are you accusing Beauchamp of acting independently?"

"I’m accusing someone of trying to sneak doctrine past doctrine."

Colonel Maurice Renoux, who oversaw light arms logistics, scoffed from his chair. "This is a prototype with no logistical pipeline. No ammunition contracts. No armorers trained in its maintenance. This is a fantasy. A vanity project."

"A vanity project that just outperformed the Lebel and Chauchat in a live sim drill," muttered Lieutenant Bresson from the Air-Land Integration Office.

Too junior to be respected, too correct to be liked.

"You think one test is enough to rewrite tables of organization?" snapped Renoux.

"It’s more than you’ve done this year," Bresson shot back.

Fabry sighed. "Gentlemen..."

Binet stood up abruptly. "This isn’t about tactics anymore. This is a question of control. And I won’t have field officers dictating the arsenal from muddy trenches."

Fabry frowned. "You sound frightened, Paul."

"I’m furious. We have factories in Tulle, Saint-Étienne, Châtellerault all locked into existing long gun contracts. You redirect that for a backdoor prototype and you collapse three arms deals and piss off four ministries."

"So we’re hostage to lobbyists?" Fabry asked.

Binet didn’t flinch. "We’re hostage to stability. Which this gun threatens."

"And if it saves lives?"

Binet scoffed. "We’ll count bodies later, like always."

That evening, at a smoky brasserie off Rue Saint-Dominique, a different meeting was happening smaller, quieter, more lethal in tone.

Jean from the arms lobbyist sat across from General Dumont, whose own regiment had recently lost funding to support Moreau’s division training project.

"He’s made too much noise," Dumont said, stirring a glass of red with his pinky finger.

"Then smother the sound," Jean muttered. "He’s useful, but not indispensable."

"Beauchamp still protects him."

"Beauchamp is old. Moreau is young. And Paris... Paris is petty."

Dumont smirked. "Then let’s remind everyone why we don’t let majors write doctrine."

At the same time, in the office of the Army’s Director of Procurement, a thick envelope slid across the table.

Inside were twelve separate assessments from "internal reviewers," each casting doubt on the PAP.

"No long-term feasibility."

"Unverified metallurgy."

"Uncontrolled climb rates."

"Magazine design untested."

Most damning of all: "Theoretical advantage outweighed by logistical upheaval."

The director nodded. "Send it to Fabry. And mark it as urgent review."

Two days later, Fabry summoned Beauchamp to his office.

The general arrived in full dress.

"You already read it, I assume," Fabry said, handing over the file.

Beauchamp leafed through it. "Bureaucrats writing about guns they’ve never held. What a tradition."

Fabry didn’t smile. "They’re calling for cancellation. Immediate recall of the prototypes. Re-integration of all experimental teams."

"On what grounds?"

"On grounds of political fragility. Budget risk. Manufacturing integrity. Take your pick."

Beauchamp lowered the file. "You asked me to prepare for tomorrow’s war."

"And now the politicians want to survive today’s lunch."

Beauchamp paced once. "It’s working, Fabry. The weapon works. The doctrine is sound. This is fear disguised as process."

"I know that."

"Then stand by it."

Fabry sighed. "I’ll stall them. But they’ll come for you next. And for him."

"Let them," Beauchamp said. "Moreau’s not afraid of ghosts in suits."

Fabry looked tired. "No, but ghosts run Paris."

In Reims, the mood was sharper.

Moreau read the letter Chauvet handed him three times.

It didn’t say "recall."

It didn’t say "shutdown."

It said, simply:

"Pending reassessment, further demonstration is discouraged. Reports suggest program lacks doctrinal support at central level."

"What the hell does that mean?" Chauvet muttered.

"It means we made too much noise," Moreau said.

"They want us to stop?"

"They want us to be quiet."

De Gaulle, who had read the same letter earlier, stepped into the room holding a fresh intelligence report.

"Berlin has ordered twenty thousand MP 34s," he said. "Production to ramp by summer."

"And we’re arguing about magazines," Moreau said bitterly.

De Gaulle folded the page. "Paris doesn’t fear enemies. It fears embarrassment."

That night, in the officers’ mess, the mood turned cynical.

Sergeant Malraux poured a glass of calvados with a sneer. "You’d think we built a bomb and handed it to a school."

"They liked it when it worked," said Corporal Rémy. "Now they’re scared it might work too well."

"Let them take our Chauchats back," another muttered. "At least they’ll know what failure tastes like."

Chauvet toasted sarcastically. "To regulation! May it never interrupt a war."

Moreau said little.

He sat near the edge of the room, folder open, a blank requisition form resting atop.

He didn’t need permission to believe in the weapon.

But without Paris, belief wouldn’t build factories.

He scratched one note into the margin:

"Prototype review compromised. Political insulation needed. Strategic end-run may be only option."

Chauvet sat beside him, poured two fingers of calvados into a chipped cup.

"So what now?"

"We keep training."

"They’ll come for the guns."

"Then we teach the hands how to live without them. Until we get them back."

Chauvet smirked. "That’s a very French answer."

"No," Moreau said, drinking. "That’s a soldier’s answer."

Outside, the lights of Reims glowed faint against the night sky.

And in Paris, twelve committees sharpened their knives not for Hitler, but for the man who dared think a better gun might save a life.