Reincarnated: Vive La France-Chapter 149: "What are we? Cowards? Puppets?”

Chancellery office in Berlin.

A storm had passed through the German capital the night before.

General Heinz Guderian stood at attention before the Führer’s desk, a file of intelligence dispatches tucked under his arm.

"They’ve begun airlifts, but the Republic now has Soviet crates arriving through Marseille," Guderian stated plainly.

"Trucks, rifles, even old T-26 light tanks, likely Czech-built."

Hitler stood, lips tight. "The Bolsheviks move faster than the West. And France Blum plays both sides of the table."

He turned toward the map of Spain pinned on the back wall.

Red and black markers stretched from Madrid to Zaragoza to Valencia.

"A civil war, yes, but not theirs alone anymore. This is the dress rehearsal."

Guderian nodded. "We’ve tested tactics on paper. Let me test them in Spain."

Hitler’s eyes narrowed. "No flags. No uniforms."

"No acknowledgment either," Guderian confirmed.

Hitler turned to Wilhelm Keitel, who stood silently near the window.

"Summon Göring. We’ll increase the number of transports. I want a corps of advisors embedded with Franco’s northern command. And if Mussolini drags his feet, I want guarantees from Rome."

Two days later in the Palazzo Venezia, Benito Mussolini lit a cigar and stared down a report from the Italian Foreign Ministry.

His eyes paused on a handwritten line:

"Soviet arms reported in Valencia. French trucks confirmed in Catalonia. Republicans regaining ground."

Count Ciano entered, hat in hand. "Germany’s planning troop deployment clandestine, of course. Guderian himself is requesting passage."

Mussolini leaned forward. "So it begins."

He took a long draw and then stabbed his finger at the document. "Then we must match them. Five battalions infantry, artillery support, and tankettes. No flags. Volunteers only."

Ciano raised an eyebrow. "Volunteers?"

Mussolini smirked. "History loves fiction. Let’s give it a few pages more."

He stood and looked toward the vast marble balcony.

"If the Bolsheviks flood Spain with steel, we will answer with discipline."

Ciano saluted.

"And if Germany moves first?"

"We’ll beat them there."

In Paris, the War Ministry was no longer quiet.

Prime Minister Léon Blum stood before a long oak table surrounded by senior officials and military brass.

The room was tense.

One general slammed his fist down.

"You said you’d send arms, then you froze them at the border. What are we? Cowards? Puppets?"

Another rose.

"First you approve, then retract. First the tanks go to Marseille, now they rot in warehouses. You let Moscow outmaneuver us."

Blum held up his hand. "Enough."

The room fell silent.

But only for a moment.

General Beauchamp stood and gestured toward a map showing rising fascist territory across Spain.

"If Germany deploys real troops, we’ll have more than Spain to worry about."

Then a quieter voice cut through the static.

Major Moreau stood from his chair at the edge of the room.

His face was unreadable, but his voice was sharp and calm.

"Send troops now or regret it forever."

Blum met his eyes across the room.

"You’re certain this will lead to a wider war?"

"I am certain," Moreau replied, "that if Spain falls, we’ll meet German steel in the Ardennes before long. And by then, we’ll be alone."

Beauchamp exhaled.

"Then there’s only one choice," he said.

He turned to the room.

"We send Major Moreau."

Gasps, murmurs, protests.

"He’s not even..."

Beauchamp slammed his hand down. "We’ve given him resources, troops, experimental doctrine. It’s time we see it tested."

Blum nodded slowly. "Approved."

That same night at Camp Sainte-Marie, .

Moreau walked along the armored bay.

Mechanics worked in silence.

Above, a radio crackled with coded instructions from Paris.

Renaud approached, his boots crunching over gravel.

"We going?" he said.

Moreau nodded.

"They’re preparing the 2nd Mechanized, the Alpine Regiment, and Spectre’s heavy detachment."

Renaud paused. "We’re going to fight Germans."

Moreau looked at him. "That’s why we trained."

Renaud didn’t smile.

He simply reached into his coat and handed him a folded letter.

"Orders. And a sealed envelope. From De Gaulle."

Moreau opened the orders but not the letter.

"When do we leave?"

"Seventy-two hours. First wave hits Catalonia. Second wave supports Madrid."

"And the Republicans?"

"Still divided. CNT, UGT, anarchists, communists, moderates each with rifles pointed in different directions."

Moreau shook his head. "Then we’ll hold the line until they figure out where it is."

In Burgos, the National Defense Council was formed.

Inside a repurposed monastery now flying the Nationalist flag, Franco paced before a semicircle of generals.

"Madrid holds for now," he said. "But not for long. The Alcázar still stands in Toledo. Burgos, Zaragoza, Seville are ours. The north is ours. The soul of Spain is ours."

General Mola stepped forward.

"Word is the French are preparing something more."

Franco turned slowly. "Then they will see something more in return."

He pointed to a young aide in the corner.

"Prepare a radio address. The world must hear our resolve."

"And the Germans?" someone whispered.

"They are here already," Franco replied coldly.

In Valencia, Republican commanders gathered around maps stained with sweat and tobacco ash.

"The airlifts continue," said a radio officer. "They’ve landed over 10,000 in Seville and Granada."

Colonel Rojo pointed at a red circle over Zaragoza.

"They’ll push south and try to link through Madrid."

"And us?" asked Dolores Ibárruri.

"We hold until France moves."

"And if they don’t?"

"Then Madrid burns."

She turned to the others, her voice low but fiery.

"Then we burn with it."

Back in Paris, the base at Montreuil was alive with movement.

Dozens of trucks were being loaded under moonlight.

Soldiers in khaki field uniforms drilled silently.

In a nearby briefing hall, Moreau stood before his officers.

"Our orders are clear: we cross through the Pyrenees in three waves. Intelligence believes the Germans have already landed twelve Panzer I units near Burgos. We match them. Tank for tank. Line for line."

A captain raised his hand. "Rules of engagement?"

Moreau looked at him.

"There are none."

Three days later, from a radio post near Narbonne, a single encrypted line was transmitted into Spain.

"Opération Minuit. Spectre engaged."