Reincarnated: Vive La France-Chapter 147: “I said yes the moment Madrid mocked our warnings.”

Dawn came not with peace, but with the rifles and armored cars.

In Seville, the sound of boots filled the narrow streets as General Gonzalo Queipo de Llano’s men marched on the city’s military barracks.

Captain Antonio Castejón Espinosa of the Spanish Foreign Legion stood atop the steps of the General Captaincy building shouting.

"Secure the broadcast station! Control the airport! All entrances into the Plaza de España must be under armed guard by 08:00!"

Rebel troops fanned out, accompanied by local Carlist volunteers and off-duty police officers who had quietly pledged support.

Gunfire began by midmorning as Republican loyalists attempted to regroup around the railway junction.

It lasted thirty minutes.

By 7:15 a.m., the Republican governor had been arrested in his office, dragged out by guards who’d sworn loyalty to him just the day before.

Smoke drifted from a telephone exchange across the plaza.

A young radio operator named Luis barely escaped through the back gate, his uniform soaked in blood not his own.

"They took the building," he gasped to a local constable. "They killed everyone inside."

By 10:00 a.m., Seville was lost to the Republic.

In Zaragoza, the uprising came cleaner.

General Miguel Cabanellas had been preparing for days.

The local civil governor a devout Republican was arrested within the hour.

Anti-fascist militias gathered, but they were unarmed, disorganized.

At 10:43 AM, Cabanellas announced over the local radio.

"This is a military movement to save Spain. The government has failed. Order will be restored by force."

In Valladolid, a different fear took shape.

The mayor had barricaded himself inside city hall, refusing to yield.

Republican students tried to rally on the Plaza Mayor.

They chanted slogans.

Waved red flags.

Then came the first grenade.

By 11:20 AM, the square flowed with blood.

A nurse sobbed as she pressed gauze to a boy’s stomach.

"He was seventeen," she whispered.

Someone replied: "So is war."

In the capital, Madrid, the Republic was full of chaos.

Prime Minister Santiago Casares Quiroga sat behind his desk in silence.

His hands were folded, his face pale.

The reports were all around him telegrams scrawled in red ink, half-finished sentences on crumpled notepaper.

"They’ve moved in Zaragoza... Valladolid in flames... Seville completely in rebel hands..."

His aide stood uncertainly at the door. "Sir, what do we do?"

Quiroga looked up, his voice hollow. "We warned. We prepared. But I hesitated when I should have acted. I have failed the Republic."

And with that, he signed his resignation letter.

By noon, Diego Martínez Barrio attempted to form a new government.

He summoned generals, begged for unity, phoned commanders in Barcelona, Valencia, and Bilbao.

No one answered.

"What do I call this government?" he asked aloud to no one.

"An obituary," said one aide.

Barrio resigned within hours.

The streets of Madrid were swarming now.

Militia groups, mostly made up of anarchists and socialist youth, formed barricades from overturned trams.

Civilians lined up for rifles at hastily organized arsenals.

"Don’t you know how to shoot?" one woman asked a teenage boy.

He nodded. "My father taught me. In the last war."

"Then you’re already better than most."

That same morning in the Canary Islands, Franco stood alone on the airstrip at Gando airfield.

Colonel Beigbeder approached.

"You still have time to say no."

Franco adjusted his gloves without looking at him. "I said yes the moment Madrid mocked our warnings."

"You’ll be remembered as a traitor or a savior."

Franco met his gaze.

"History is written by the ones who hold Madrid."

In the city of Tetuán, across the Strait, Franco’s boots hit the tarmac just after 2:30 p.m.

Franco disembarked in full uniform pressed, clean, cold.

He was greeted by Colonel Seguí and a cadre of rebel officers.

"Welcome, General," Seguí said with a salute.

Franco returned it.

"Is everything ready?"

"Spain is already on fire, sir. We only need to pour oil."

Franco nodded. "Then let us deliver her from corruption."

In Melilla, rebel officers gathered at the Church of the Sacred Heart, where they lit candles not for mercy, but for victory.

One priest, conscripted into service, handed a crucifix to a rebel gunman.

"May God guide your shot."

The man took it with a grin.

"He’s guided worse."

In Barcelona, resistance was fierce.

Anarchist CNT members and loyal civil guards fought block by block, with shotguns and Molotovs.

The sky above the city was black with smoke.

A tram full of women was stopped at an intersection, where militia fighters used the chassis as cover.

Inside, one whispered to another.

"This is not a war. This is hell disguised as flags."

In northern France, Camp Sainte-Marie stood unusually still.

In his office, Major Moreau sat alone, a telegraph dispatch unopened beside him.

He had already read it in a dozen ways.

Spain was burning.

And this time this time France would not wait.

He stared at a map of the Pyrenees.

Pins had already been moved forward.

Logistics tables shifted.

Protocols drafted.

In the original timeline, France watched.

It debated.

It hesitated.

And Franco won.

The Fascists dug deep.

Germany sharpened its sword.

And we woke too late.

Now, the stars were shifting.

The Popular Front was in power.

Blum had a mandate.

The army was no longer silent.

And Moreau had units ready.

The door opened.

Renaud entered, soaked in sweat and with dust on his boots.

"It’s confirmed. Franco’s landed in Morocco. They’re calling it a crusade."

Moreau nodded once.

De Gaulle followed behind, his coat unbuttoned, jaw clenched.

"The Council meets tomorrow. They’ll decide on formal intervention policy."

"They’ll stall," Renaud said.

De Gaulle smirked. "Not this time. Blum already signaled conditional support. The vote may go our way."

Moreau stood.

"If they send troops, it must be under fire-tested leadership. We can’t afford a slow war, not against men like Franco."

De Gaulle raised an eyebrow. "You want to go?"

Moreau walked to the window.

Outside, PAP-trained units were drilling in silence.

"No," he said. "I want to lead."

Renaud stepped forward.

"Then it begins."

Moreau turned, face hard.

"We’re not just supporting a Republic. We’re confronting Fascism at its genesis."

De Gaulle’s voice was low. "And if Germany joins?"

Moreau didn’t hesitate.

"Then history will remember how two modern army fought."

In Paris, Blum sat in his private study.

A telegram from Madrid lay at the center:

"We are not yet defeated. But we are alone. Send anything. Send anyone."

He poured a small glass of brandy.

Tomorrow would bring chaos in the cabinet.

But tonight, he whispered.

"We will not stand by."

And in Spain, on that blooded day, a mother in Zaragoza covered her son’s ears as the sound of gunfire echoed across the rooftops.

In Seville, a priest buried three teenagers by torchlight.

In Barcelona, anarchists swore oaths beside burning tires.

In Melilla, rebel officers drafted their first execution lists.

And in Tetuán, Francisco Franco wrote his first war bulletin:

"Spain is reborn through sacrifice."