Reincarnated: Vive La France-Chapter 132: "Do not lie about us when we are gone. Do not say we were silent.”

Chapter 132: "Do not lie about us when we are gone. Do not say we were silent.”

On the docks, steam came out from great iron hulls as crates stamped with the tricolor flag were loaded one after another into the bellies of troopships.

On the pier, Colonel Sarti watched as the final convoy prepared to depart.

Six thousand men.

Eight hundred tons of munitions.

Fuel drums stacked three high.

Motorcycles lashed to the decks.

Anti-aircraft guns covered in canvas.

"Get the last horses loaded," he barked. "Cavalry mounts ride beneath, officers above."

A young ensign adjusted his clipboard. "Sir, the Duce has yet to issue the operational order."

Sarti didn’t look at him. "He will. He loves drama too much not to."

As the final trucks rolled up the ramp, a trumpet blared.

The soldiers cheered.

Blackshirts chanted songs from their barracks drills.

Crates of helmets and spare boots disappeared.

And then the ships pulled away, slowly, smoke curling up into a sky that hadn’t yet decided whether it belonged to peace or war.

In the southern frontier, Marshal Graziani stood in the shadow of a radio tower just outside Dolo.

He held a sealed message in one hand and a half-lit cigarette in the other.

The transmitter crackled.

The operator looked up. "Line is ready, Marshal."

Graziani stepped forward, clearing his throat.

"This is Graziani. Italian Africa is mobilized. We await the Duce’s command."

The operator glanced at him, hesitated. "Would you like that encoded?"

"No," Graziani replied, tossing the cigarette to the ground. "Let anyone listening understand we are ready."

Behind him, long lines of trucks rumbled past.

Camouflaged tents now lined every ridge, and the detention camps were complete barbed wire, watchtowers now manned.

An officer approached with a report.

"Our scouts confirm Ethiopian militias are active across the Ogaden. Lightly armed. Mobile."

"Fanatics and goats," Graziani muttered. "Our planes will cut through them like smoke."

He paused, then added coldly, "Begin reinforcing the airfield. I want it able to receive bombers by next week."

The officer saluted. "It will be done."

Graziani lit another cigarette and looked toward the horizon.

"One spark," he whispered. "That’s all we need."

In Addis Ababa, the national radio station had never seen such quiet.

The staff moved with reverence, as if assembling a prayer. novelbuddy.cσ๓

Haile Selassie stood in the central studio, dressed in full ceremonial uniform, though the gold trim of his cape had been dulled by dust.

His eyes were focused, not on the microphone, but on the moment.

Outside, across the country, men and women crowded around radios in cafes, army posts, village churches.

Some had walked miles.

Others sat on crates in mud courtyards, listening through static.

The technician gave a signal.

The red light glowed.

Selassie began.

"To the people of Ethiopia of our mountains, our deserts, our rivers I speak not only as Emperor, but as your son."

A pause.

"This land was not given to us by treaties. It was bought by blood. Bought by the sword. Bought by the breath of those who refused chains."

He let the words settle.

"And now they come again. Not with justice. But with ambition."

He stepped closer to the microphone.

"We will not kneel. We will not beg. If our churches must become trenches, they shall. If our plows must become rifles, so be it."

Somewhere in Gondar, an old veteran wept openly into his son’s shoulder.

Selassie’s voice rose.

"We ask no rescue. We ask no permission. Only this, do not lie about us when we are gone. Do not say we were silent."

The red light went dim.

No one in the booth moved.

Outside the station, people had begun to cheer.

Some sobbed.

One old woman shouted, "For Menelik!"

And across every garrison, the drums of preparation grew louder.

In Harlem, W.E.B. Du Bois sat at his desk, sleeves rolled, fountain pen scratching across paper.

He titled the piece simply for the last time.

"The Rape of Africa, Again."

He wrote.

"The world watches in indifference as a sovereign African nation stands surrounded by fire and silence."

"We once called civilization the measure of man’s conscience. Today, it is the measure of his cowardice."

He stopped, rubbed his eyes, and continued.

"We, the sons and daughters of the African diaspora, do not have tanks. We do not have fleets. But we have memory. And it will not forget who stood by while history was repeated."

He signed it.

Then he sat in silence.

He has done all he could.

Back in Addis Ababa, Selassie remained at the palace long after the speech ended.

The hallways were quiet.

A few staff lit incense in the chapel.

Captain Desta Zelleke entered the study, holding a handwritten list.

"These are the battalion volunteers from Shoa and Sidamo provinces," he said. "Two thousand men. Some with rifles, others with farming tools."

Selassie took the paper and nodded. "Every man who joins should be given a uniform, even if it is just a sash."

"Yes, Your Majesty."

Desta paused. "The people are afraid, but they are proud."

"As they should be."

"Do we still hope for intervention from the West?"

Selassie’s voice was low. "No. We prepare without hope. So when we win, it is ours alone."

He rose and walked to the balcony, staring into the black sky.

"Their ships are coming. Let them. We’ll meet them on the soil they think they can own."

In Washington, Secretary of State Cordell Hull walked into Roosevelt’s private study with a stack of cables.

"The British are quiet. The French, quieter. Reports from Rome say the last convoys have left Naples."

Roosevelt didn’t look up from his desk. "What’s Congress saying?"

"Isolationist as ever. They won’t back sanctions. Not even statements."

Roosevelt sighed, running a hand over his temple.

"Hull, we are the only power left untouched by the Great War. We can’t set fire to the globe to save a faraway kingdom."

Hull hesitated. "The voices calling for action. Du Bois. The churches. Unions have reached the peak."

Roosevelt finally looked up.

"Let them speak. We won’t silence them. But neither will we join them."

He returned to his papers.

"Hemisphere first. That’s the rule."

(Hypocrisy. This rule only applies to non whites and places which hold no strategic value.)

Hull folded the cable and stepped out.

In the hills of Wollo, word of the Emperor’s speech reached even the most remote plateau before the evening fog had settled.

At a monastery above Lake Hayq, monks struck the church bell three times an ancient signal of national peril.

Farmers paused in their fields.

Children gathered at the stone steps of the church.

Inside, an old priest stood before a gathering of village elders.

"The Emperor has spoken," he said. "The cross and the crown must now share burden."

A grizzled farmer stood. "We have ten rifles in this village. And no bullets."

"Then we sharpen spears. We learn the hills. Let the invaders follow roads we will walk ghosts around them."

A younger man called out, "Will we be given orders?"

Another answered, "We don’t need orders to defend our children."

That night, fires were lit on the mountaintops. Signal fires, one after another.

The countryside responded not with speeches, but with shovels, rope, and hidden caches dug from stone walls.

By dawn.

They were not ready.

But they were willing.

In Addis, Haile Selassie stood before a mirror, removing the last pin from his ceremonial cloak.

He looked not like an emperor, but like a man about to climb into a trench.

Captain Desta returned, breathless. "Your Majesty. Scouts report Italian aircraft flying low across the Eritrean border. No strikes yet. But they are watching."

Selassie looked into the mirror one last time, then said.

"Then let them look. They will soon find more than they hoped for."

He stepped out into the hallway as the cathedral bells began to ring.