Reincarnated: Vive La France-Chapter 129: "From the sky, even a kingdom looks small."

The Massawa airstrip located in the dust and rock of the Eritrean coast.

Italian mechanics in khaki overalls hauled fuel drums across the tarmac while officers barked orders above the noise.

From the east, silver dots appeared slow at first, then growing into unmistakable shapes.

Savoia-Marchetti SM.81 bombers, their triple engines making noise like monstrous insects, wheeled into line one after another.

Painted in desert camouflage, they looked predatory, almost eager.

Colonel Vittorio Mecozzi, commander of the East African air units, stood hands on hips, watching the first bomber taxi to a halt.

"Beautiful, aren’t they?" Major Rinaldi shouted over the din.

Mecozzi grinned. "Beautiful and late. We needed them two months ago."

A lieutenant approached with a clipboard.

"First wave complete. Seventeen SM.81 bombers, twelve IMAM Ro.1 reconnaissance planes. Crates of incendiaries and fragmentation bombs already offloaded."

"And the pilots?"

"Resting at the barracks. Most are Libya veterans. Good men. No illusions."

Mecozzi nodded. "Good. They’ll need steel nerves for what’s coming."

He turned toward the mountains beyond the base.

"From the sky, even a kingdom looks small."

Meanwhile, farther south in Mogadishu, the capital of Italian Somaliland, a darker figure took command of the southern front.

Marshal Rodolfo Graziani, freshly appointed, surveyed the dusty parade ground before him.

His uniform was immaculate, every button gleaming, every crease knife-sharp.

His reputation had preceded him ruthless, efficient, feared by friends and enemies alike.

Major Caruso approached at a brisk pace.

"Marshal, the colonial brigades are assembled. Native auxiliaries are reinforcing sector five."

Graziani lit a cigarette with slow deliberation.

"How many rifles among the auxiliaries?"

"Enough," Caruso said carefully. "By local standards."

Graziani exhaled smoke through his nose.

"Standards are for parades. We are preparing for war."

He flicked the cigarette onto the dirt.

"Double their ammunition allotment. Send armored cars to patrol along the Webi Shebelle river. If Ethiopian raiders cross, I want them crushed before they reach twenty meters."

Caruso hesitated.

"And if Addis protests?"

Graziani smiled thinly.

"Tell them we’re gardening."

In London, inside the meeting rooms of Whitehall, the mood was anything but triumphant.

The Foreign Affairs Subcommittee met behind closed doors, a gathering of Cabinet ministers, diplomats, and Members of Parliament.

Lord Samuel Hoare presided while Anthony Eden sat nearby, arms folded, face tight.

Sir Austen Chamberlain, now in his twilight years but still sharp, spoke first.

"We are witnessing a direct violation of every principle we claim to uphold."

Hoare shifted uncomfortably. "We have encouraged restraint."

Chamberlain leaned forward. "Restraint buys time. But time buys Mussolini roads, bombs, and divisions."

Eden added quietly, "The Italians now have strategic bombers in Massawa. Reports confirm it."

Several MPs murmured.

Chamberlain rapped the table.

"Sanctions must be considered. If not, we render the League impotent."

Another voice Harold Macmillan, younger but already sharp cut in.

"And if we delay, gentlemen, we shall be remembered as the architects of appeasement, not guardians of peace."

Hoare rubbed his temples.

"Sanctions mean risking war. Risking the Mediterranean. Risking Egypt."

Eden spoke calmly.

"And what is the risk of inaction?"

Silence.

But they would soon know.

Across in Moscow, inside the imposing offices of Pravda, the editors worked feverishly.

The morning edition was already laid out.

The headline screamed in Cyrillic.

"SMASH FASCIST AGGRESSION. SOLIDARITY WITH ETHIOPIA!"

Inside, a editorial penned by a Comintern spokesman was being finalized.

"Today Mussolini parades his bombers in Africa," it read, "but tomorrow he will turn his bombers northward. He is not merely an enemy of Ethiopia; he is an enemy of all workers, all freedom."

Editor Alexei Barinov sat back and looked at the chief proofreader.

"Include a call for solidarity campaigns. Meetings. Rallies. Anti-fascist leagues must be formed in every European city."

"And America?" the proofreader asked.

Barinov nodded.

"Especially America."

He tapped the article.

"If we wait for Washington to wake up, Rome will already be burning another nation."

But in Washington D.C., urgency was met with a different kind of silence.

Inside a small rented hall in the capital, the National Negro Congress held an emergency assembly.

Rufus Clement of Atlanta University stood at the front, reading from a prepared draft.

"We, the Negro citizens of America, resolve to demand that President Roosevelt denounce Mussolini’s aggression against the sovereign state of Ethiopia..."

Applause.

"We further call upon the League of Nations and all peoples of conscience to impose sanctions, embargoes, and resistance against Italian fascism!"

More applause.

Hubert Delany, a prominent lawyer, rose next.

"We know what Italy’s attack means. It is an attack on the very idea of Black sovereignty. On our history. Our pride. Our dignity."

A young woman, barely out of Howard University, called out from the crowd.

"Will Roosevelt listen?"

Delany hesitated.

"He hears everything. Whether he acts depends on pressure."

"Then we must shout louder," another voice said.

A motion passed the resolution would be sent to the White House, to newspapers, to labor unions, to churches.

"Let them know," Clement said, "that silence is betrayal."

Back in Rome, Mussolini sat at a private dinner with senior generals and ministers.

The radio played low marches in the background.

Wine was poured freely.

But the he was not drunk.

Not even close.

He toyed with a piece of bread, staring across the long table.

"Graziani is in place," he said.

"Mecozzi has his bombers. Badoglio digs the roads. The world... debates."

He tapped his glass once with a fork.

"And history rewards the bold."

Meanwhile, in Addis Ababa, a battered reconnaissance biplane landed at the small military airstrip, kicking up brown dust.

General Balcha Safo met the pilot an Ethiopian major who had been observing Italian positions across the Mareb River.

"They have brought bombers," the major said, voice tight. "And more roads. Troop columns march by day and hide by night."

Balcha nodded.

"And the south?"

"Graziani builds armored camps along the Webi Shebelle. They are moving fast, sir."

Balcha turned to his adjutant.

"Send word to the Emperor. We must assume air raids within a month."

"And ground invasion?"

"Before the rains end."

And in Geneva, Joseph Avenol sighed as another draft resolution crossed his desk.

It was weak.

Full of suggestions.

Hopes.

Condolences.

No consequences.

No teeth.

He scribbled a note in the margin.

"If we delay, we invite defeat."

But even he knew the League’s invitations were written in ink, not iron.

And Mussolini was writing in blood.