Reincarnated: Vive La France-Chapter 144: “This is no longer politics it is a holy war!”

The streets of Madrid were full of noise.

Boots on cobblestones.

Chanting.

Sirens.

Posters went up on stone walls faster than they could be torn down.

On May 10, Manuel Azaña was elected President of the Republic.

His face thin and intellectual now stared out from state bulletins like a man already condemned.

At the Ministry of the Interior, Prime Minister Santiago Casares Quiroga sat at his desk, forehead in his hand.

He stared at the latest report from Seville.

"Latifundia stormed in Badajoz. Peasant collectives claim land for UGT and CNT. Military governor requests permission to intervene."

Quiroga rubbed his temples.

"Permission denied," he muttered.

His aide hesitated. "Sir, the military is growing restless."

"Exactly why we don’t provoke them," Quiroga said, rising. "We are not rebels. We are the state."

Behind him, a window rattled with the noise of chants.

"¡La tierra es para quien la trabaja!"

The land belongs to those who work it!

In Andalusia, Extremadura, and Castile, the countryside was erupting.

Peasants with red armbands and makeshift tools stormed fields and estates.

Latifundia gates were pulled from their hinges.

The landless set up camp, staked plots, and began sowing.

In Córdoba, a landowner screamed at the Civil Guard, "Do something!"

The officer shrugged. "We’re not soldiers. We’re referees."

"Call Madrid!"

"I did. They told me to take a statement."

In Pamplona, General Emilio Mola rolled out the final pages of his coup plan.

The codename "Plan de Levantamiento"was written across the top in neat, cold ink.

"We take Zaragoza and Valladolid first," he said. "Navarra will act as the anvil."

"And Madrid?" asked a colonel.

"We surround it. Let it scream before we cut off its breath."

He passed out coded telegram instructions to loyal garrisons.

His voice dropped low:

"This is not politics. This is surgery. Spain must be cured."

In the Canary Islands, Franco read Mola’s letters with a heavy heart.

They came weekly now, urging him to join.

"The Republic is broken," one said. "Its hands tremble. We must strike before it raises them."

Franco wrote back with caution:

"You know my loyalty. But timing is the sword’s hilt. If we draw too soon, we bleed alone."

But as May went on even Franco began to shift.

He circled a phrase in Mola’s last letter.

’History belongs to those who act, not those who wait.’

Back in Madrid, tram workers clashed with police.

The government refused to deploy troops.

In Barcelona, a textile strike paralyzed entire districts. CNT flags flew from factory roofs.

In Seville, a Falangist gunman assassinated a Socialist councilor outside a café.

And in Granada, leftists responded two priests were found shot in the alley behind a printing press.

The Falange, banned in March, had not disappeared.

It had multiplied in shadows.

Arriba, their illegal newspaper, was printed in secret basements and distributed in church pews and university lockers.

Falangist cells received coded orders.

"Mark the unionists. Photograph their homes. Strike at night."

In Zaragoza, grenades exploded outside a socialist bookstore.

In Valencia, a Jesuit college burned.

The Catholic press thundered:

"Spain is under siege from the godless!"

From pulpits, priests cried:

"This is no longer politics it is a holy war!"

Inside a bar in Burgos, a group of colonels met quietly.

"Have the artillery battalions been contacted?" asked one.

"Yes."

"And the airmen?"

"They wait only for the word."

"And Franco?"

"He hesitates. But not for long."

They toasted with wine.

"To Spain. To the sword. To cleansing fire."

On May 24, President Azaña stood before a packed chamber in Madrid.

He was dressed plainly, his glasses fogged from heat.

"We are not here to destroy," he began. "We are here to build."

He paused.

"But let no one mistake our desire for democracy as weakness. We shall not be intimidated by threats of revolt."

A leftist deputy stood and shouted, "Then arrest the traitors!"

Others clapped.

But Casares Quiroga remained silent.

His face pale.

He read the names of generals on his intelligence list.

Mola. Goded. Franco. Yagüe.

He underlined each.

Then set the list aside.

He would arrest none of them.

Meanwhile, in Seville, a Falangist cell leader finished his speech to twenty young men holding pistols and truncheons.

"They think we’re scattered. That we’re afraid."

He held up a photograph of Azaña.

"This man wants to drown Spain in secularism and Russian gold. We say no."

He handed out maps.

Names.

Routes.

"Two days. Then action."

In a small home in Madrid’s working-class Lavapiés district, a schoolteacher named Ana Martinez packed a pistol into her coat.

Her husband, a tram worker, had not returned home.

"They’ll come for us," her neighbor whispered.

"I know."

"And what will you do?"

Ana snapped the pistol shut.

"Answer."

In Barcelona, at the CNT headquarters, union leaders debated over maps.

"Seville will fall first," one predicted.

"No," another replied. "Pamplona. That’s where the real generals sit."

A young anarchist grinned. "Let them rise. They’ll choke on Catalan steel."

By May 26, General Mola had finalized all major coordination.

His final telegram, sent that night to trusted officers across the north, read.

"You must act without hesitation. Madrid will not expect the knife until it is inside them."

That same evening, Casares Quiroga stood on his balcony watching the city below.

Behind him, aides begged.

"Take action."

"Declare martial law."

"Remove the generals."

He shook his head slowly.

"If we strike first, we prove them right."

He went inside.

Below, the street filled with red flags, shouts, marching feet.

And far to the north, trains full of rifles moved through Navarra under night cover.

In a quiet church in Salamanca, a priest said Mass before two dozen men in civilian clothes.

The priest placed a small wooden crucifix before them.

"When the order comes," he said, "you do not hesitate."

One young soldier asked, "Father, will God forgive what we do?"

The priest didn’t blink.

"God has already chosen His Spain."

By the end of May, the signs were too loud to ignore.

In Madrid, the people whispered.

"There will be war."