Reincarnated: Vive La France-Chapter 126: "I fear we have no friends in this room, only architects of silence.”

Chapter 126: "I fear we have no friends in this room, only architects of silence.”

The docks at Naples were full of activity before sunrise.

Troop columns moved in silence, their boots making noise against the wooden floor.

The Alpine divisions, fresh from training camps in Trentino, carried rucksacks nearly their size, ice axes strapped to their sides.

Their mountain-gray uniforms looked strange in the heat of southern Italy as if someone had painted snowmen into the sun.

Colonel Ricci walked the rows of men boarding the SS Sardegna, barking names from a clipboard.

"Keep them tight. No press."

Lieutenant Sirotti nodded. "They’ve cordoned off the pier. Ciano’s orders."

The soldiers said little.

Most were conscripts.

Some were veterans of Libya.

All were told the same story.

"This is not a war. It is a necessary operation."

A young private coughed under his pack’s weight.

Another muttered, "Ethiopia has no Alps. Why are we even going?"

Ricci overheard and snapped, "Because when Rome commands, you climb whatever mountain she tells you."

At the far edge of the dock, a small group of foreign journalists tried to glimpse the loading.

They weren’t allowed past the checkpoint.

Not today.

One of them, John Gunther of the Chicago Daily News, scribbled in his notebook behind a cigarette.

"That’s the third transport this week," he whispered.

Beside him, a British reporter from the Manchester Guardian muttered, "And still they say they’re hoping for peace."

A military policeman approached.

"You’ll have to leave. Orders from the Ministry."

Gunther nodded, not looking up. "Of course. Freedom of the press...within reason."

The guard didn’t smile.

That same afternoon, inside the Ministry of Press and Propaganda in Rome, new directives were handed down.

A young assistant entered Ciano’s office with a folder labeled.

RESTRIZIONE TEMPORANEA .

CORRISPONDENTI STRANIERI

Ciano read the summary.

"No interviews with soldiers or officers without written authorization. All stories involving troop movement, military supplies, or statements on Ethiopia must be approved before publication."

He looked up at the aide.

"And the Americans?"

"They’re annoyed but cooperative. The British less so. The French don’t care."

Ciano smirked. "Then we’re already winning the narrative."

In Geneva, the League of Nations building gathered once again.

Inside a long wood-paneled room, the Council met without formality.

No press, no transcripts.

Seated around the table were representatives from Britain, France, Ethiopia, and Italy though the Italian delegate was uncharacteristically silent.

Ethiopia’s delegate, Dr. Wolde Mariam, spoke firmly.

"There have now been four recorded incursions. One at Walqait. One south of the Tekezé River. Civilians have reported confrontations with Italian patrols near the border."

He paused.

"Our government has submitted formal protest. We await action."

The British delegate, Lord Cranborne, cleared his throat.

"The Foreign Office is reviewing the most recent maps. As you know, the precise delineation of the border remains... sensitive."

"Sensitive to whom?" Wolde Mariam asked. "The men losing their homes, or the nations losing their conscience?"

There was silence.

The French delegate, Léon Noël, finally spoke.

"Monsieur, we understand your grievance. The situation is regrettable. Truly."

"Regrettable?" Wolde Mariam repeated.

Noël pressed on, calmly.

"But France is not in a position to judge before all facts are established. And we must encourage a spirit of negotiation."

Cranborne nodded. "We hope to avoid escalation. We propose that a commission of inquiry be assembled... in September."

Wolde Mariam folded his arms.

"By then, your commission may be stepping over Italian corpses and calling it diplomacy."

The Italian delegate said nothing.

He adjusted his glasses and took notes.

When the meeting adjourned, the Ethiopian walked slowly past the French and British representatives.

"You delay. They deploy."

Neither man responded.

In Paris that same evening, Foreign Minister Laval stood beside a radio set in his office, the blinds half-closed.

A junior aide entered with a report from Geneva.

Laval scanned it.

"The Ethiopians expected more," the aide said.

"I’m sure they did."

"They’ll accuse us of indifference."

Laval took a sip from his teacup. "Let them."

"Sir?"

Laval sighed. "Let them accuse. What else can they do? They have no allies. No army to rival Rome. The League is a theater without actors. The script is written in oil and colonial treaties."

"But they are an independent state. We have a duty..."

"To protect French interests," Laval cut in. "Which include not antagonizing Mussolini before we finish with Morocco. Let the English play referee. We will stay quiet."

He handed back the telegram.

"This is not our war. Not yet."

Back in Rome, Mussolini met privately with Ciano in the Duce’s study.

The radio played opera faintly in the background.

On the desk sat a globe with small pins already stuck into Eritrea, Tigray, and Addis Ababa.

Ciano reported the League’s inaction.

"They’ve agreed to... nothing. Britain is cautious. France indifferent. Geneva might hold a vote next month."

Mussolini smiled faintly.

"The war has already begun," he said. "They just haven’t admitted it."

"And the papers?"

"Working well," Ciano said. "We’re running a five-part series in Il Popolo d’Italia on the ’civilizing mission.’ I had one article rewritten as a children’s story. The headline ’Little Giorgio Goes to Africa.’"

Mussolini chuckled. "Excellent. Make sure schoolteachers read it aloud."

He stood and walked to the window.

"History does not wait for diplomats. It moves with armies. And Rome is moving."

Meanwhile, on the SS Sardegna, now three days out from Naples, Private Enrico De Santis leaned over the railing and stared at the endless sea.

"You ever been to Africa?" he asked the man next to him.

"No," came the reply. "But they say it smells different."

Enrico nodded slowly.

"Smells like someone else’s land."

In Geneva, Wolde Mariam sat alone that night in his hotel room, writing a letter by hand.

"Your Majesty,

They have delayed again. The French will not move. The British only watch. I fear we have no friends in this room, only architects of silence."

He paused, then added.

"But I will continue. Let the world record that Ethiopia asked first for peace. And when peace was refused, we stood alone."

He folded the page.