Reincarnated: Vive La France-Chapter 122: "Bring me the sound of boots on the Horn of Africa.”

August 2, 1935.

Rome had never felt hotter.

The windows of Palazzo Venezia were flung open.

Maps covered the long central table, some pinned, others hastily unrolled.

Benito Mussolini stood at the head of the table, gloved hands resting on a coastal operations chart.

His face, flushed and tense.

Marshal Pietro Badoglio stood opposite him, jaw clenched, hat under his arm.

"Massawa reports another five thousand unloaded today," Badoglio said.

"Assab is slower terrain’s still too rough for motor traffic, but the convoys are pushing through."

Mussolini didn’t look up. "And the Blackshirts?"

"Three divisions ready by the 12th. But they’re eager. I’ve had to keep two companies from crossing the border prematurely."

Mussolini smirked. "Good. Let the Ethiopians sweat."

Badoglio hesitated. "Speaking of them Haile Selassie’s diplomats filed a formal protest in Geneva. Again. Border violations. Skirmishes."

"And?"

"They’re calling for League arbitration."

Mussolini finally looked up. "Let them. The League is a coffin full of indecision. And Ethiopia is the corpse it was built to ignore."

There was a silence.

"Marshal," Mussolini said, voice dropping, "we don’t need Geneva’s blessing. We need Djibouti’s port closed and the British to stay distracted."

Badoglio frowned. "The British ambassador has already requested clarification."

"I gave him clarity," Mussolini said. "I told him this is a domestic African dispute. Nothing more. The Ethiopians don’t even have artillery above 75mm."

Badoglio crossed his arms. "Still, Geneva will convene a committee. France may posture."

"France?" Mussolini laughed. "They can barely control Morocco. They won’t lift a finger unless Ethiopia sits on oil and we both know it doesn’t."

He stepped around the table.

"This is our time, Pietro. The world is rearranging its teeth. Germany re-arms. Britain smiles and signs. Russia whispers behind every curtain. And while they stare at each other, we plant our flag."

Badoglio glanced at the map of Ethiopia pinned to the western wall.

"Addis Ababa will fight. They’re arming irregulars. Training in the highlands."

"And we’ll give them three months," Mussolini said. "Then we take it all in six."

Badoglio said nothing.

Mussolini leaned closer.

"Do not bring me hesitation, Marshal. Bring me roads. Bring me men. Bring me the sound of boots on the Horn of Africa."

In the port of Massawa, Eritrea.

Crates marked "artiglieria pesante" were hoisted down by crane, stacked beside rolls of barbed wire and barrels of fuel.

A sergeant barked at two conscripts struggling with a wheeled gun carriage.

Behind them, a group of askari colonial troops in khaki stood watching with blank faces, rifles slung and bayonets sheathed.

Lieutenant Romano wiped the sweat from his collar and checked the manifest.

"Third shipment this week," he muttered. "We’ll be full before we’re ready."

Captain Lanza approached, his boots already red with dust.

"The Marshal’s orders are clear," he said. "We’re to move inland. Forward outposts along the Mareb River."

Romano frowned. "That’s close to Adowa."

"And?"

"That’s practically a line in the sand."

Lanza spat to the side. "Good. Let them know we’re coming."

They turned as another convoy rumbled into the depot.

Trucks.

More men.

And behind them, a low dust cloud that meant only one thing, heavy armor.

Romano shaded his eyes. "They brought tankettes?"

"One company. Fiat-Ansaldo CVs. Not much use in the mountains, but good for panic."

"Panic?"

Lanza smirked. "We’re not here to win battles. We’re here to write fear across a nation."

In Addis Ababa, the mood was different.

The court of Emperor Haile Selassie had met all morning.

Maps were unfurled.

Reports translated.

And at the center of it all stood the Lion of Judah himself serene, upright, but visibly aging under the betrayal.

"They have crossed into our territory," he said softly. "Again."

Ras Imru, his cousin, slammed his hand against the table.

"This is no longer skirmishing. It is invasion."

The foreign minister, Tekle Hawariat, nodded. "Our protest is filed. The League received it this morning."

"And what will they do?" Imru snapped. "Write another letter? Send another observer who dares not cross the border?"

Haile Selassie raised a hand.

"The League must be allowed to act. Not because we believe it will but because the world must see we asked."

A silence fell.

Then a court advisor spoke.

"And if the world does not care?"

"Then," Haile Selassie said quietly, "we will bleed alone. And make sure they hear it."

The emperor turned to the minister of war.

"Begin full mobilization. Recall all units from Harar. Move the Imperial Guard to Dessie. Fortify the roads. We must make the highlands impossible."

"Yes, Majesty."

He turned to Tekle.

"And prepare a personal address. If Geneva does not answer, I will."

By afternoon in Geneva, the League’s assembly hall was filled with muffled tension.

Ethiopia’s delegate stood at the podium, his voice steady.

"It is not war we ask for. It is justice," he said. "Eritrea was theirs by conquest. But now they move beyond it. Not one inch of our soil has been sold or surrendered. And yet they march."

The Italian ambassador, seated with studied calm, scribbled on a pad and smiled occasionally.

The French delegate whispered to his British counterpart, "He makes a compelling case."

The Brit nodded but didn’t reply.

The hall clapped politely.

Then waited.

No resolution came that day.

That evening, Mussolini returned to his study.

He poured a small glass of wine,

Badoglio entered again, this time with a thin smile.

"The Ethiopians filed another complaint."

Mussolini lifted his glass.

"To their consistency."

"And Haile Selassie has ordered full mobilization."

"Good," Mussolini said. "Let him exhaust his men before the first shot."

"Marshal Graziani reports readiness in the south. From Somalia."

"Perfect," Mussolini said. "We will squeeze them from both ends. And when we reach Addis, they’ll still be waiting for the League’s reply."

And in Reims, France, Major Étienne Moreau stepped off the drill yard just as the last report from the General Staff came in.

He passed by the dispatch room, paused, and scanned the summary.

ITALY PREPARES MILITARY ACTION IN EAST AFRICA.

ETHIOPIA FILES COMPLAINT TO LEAGUE.

NO RESPONSE AS OF YET.

He stood quietly for a moment, then folded the paper.

"Another chessboard," he murmured.

Behind him, Gaulle glanced over.

"Italy?"

"Yeah."

"What do they want?"

"Empire."

"You think the League will stop them?"

Moreau didn’t smile. "The League couldn’t stop a breeze with a brick wall."

He looked out toward the dusk-covered field.

"First China, now Africa."

He said nothing else.

Just tucked the dispatch under his arm, and walked back.

Knowing the world was accelerating, and no one had brakes big enough to stop what was coming.