Reincarnated: Vive La France-Chapter 155: The Duel between Moreau and Guderian.

In Teruel, Moreau stepped down from his armored car.

Teruel’s outskirts were now a ghost town, held weakly by remnants of Republican militia, their eyes hollow with exhaustion and despair.

"Sir," said Captain Rousseau, saluting stiff.

"We’ve found nothing but corpses the Republicans are barely holding on."

Moreau surveyed the scene.

"Keep pushing. We need Teruel secure. Reinforce the perimeter. Establish fallback positions along the south ridge. And keep the medics moving we’re drowning in our own dead."

Meanwhile, the rail yards east of Zaragoza were equally chaotic.

Guderian sat rigidly atop his command tank, his eyes sharp.

"Damned Spaniards," muttered Major Braun beside him.

"They fight like rats, nibbling at us from every corner."

"Let them," Guderian replied sharply. "They bleed more than we do. Hold your nerve, Major. By dawn, Zaragoza will be silent."

Under the cloak of darkness, a squadron from Moreau’s elite PAP forces crawled forward toward a Nationalist rail cache outside Zaragoza.

Captain Duval, veteran of the original group formed under Moreau paused just beyond the treeline, checking his compass.

"Hold position," Duval whispered, raising a clenched fist.

His team of sixteen melted into the darkness.

"Three minutes. Get eyes on the depot."

Private Marceau, the youngest, whispered.

"Captain, something feels wrong. Too quiet."

Duval exhaled.

"War is always quiet before it screams."

The squad advanced with brutal efficiency, hugging the tall grass.

In the night they saw the outline of rows of fuel drums, covered crates, and railway cars.

No guards.

"No sentries," murmured Lieutenant Gaudin. "That’s not right."

"It’s bait," Duval muttered.

"But we can’t back off now. Set charges. Light timers. Ten minutes. Then we vanish."

They moved like shadows, setting explosive charges on fuel tanks, rail tracks, and munition crates.

But as Private Leclerc slipped behind a boxcar, his boot hit a tripwire.

Click.

He barely had time to shout. "TRAP...."

A thunderous blast ripped the rail yard.

Flames rose like pillars to the sky.

Floodlights flared on, cutting the darkness.

Then came the gunfire.

Rifles opened up from the buildings above.

German reflex teams poured suppressing fire down onto the exposed PAP forces.

"AMBUSH! FALL BACK!"

Duval bellowed, dragging Marceau behind cover. "Gaudin, smoke....NOW!"

White phosphorus hissed into the air.

Through the screams, Duval pulled wounded men, hurling them toward the treeline.

One by one, they fell.

Marceau was sobbing. "Captain, we’re not going to make it...."

Duval’s voice was iron. "You’ll live. You hear me? You’ll carry the future. Go....GO!"

Duval turned and laid down suppressing fire, emptying his clip.

A German bullet tore into his chest.

Another struck his neck.

Ae fell silently, a shadow among smoke.

Only three men made it back.

In his command tent, Guderian read the field report in silence.

Lieutenant Krause stood at attention.

"A dozen French commandos confirmed dead. Everything secured."

Guderian tapped his pen thoughtfully, then wrote on the margin.

He sent his best.

So I buried them.

Back at Teruel, Moreau stared at the casualty list, fingers trembling slightly.

"Duval..." he whispered, remembering the idealist who first tested the PAP.

"He was the future."

He crumpled the paper in his hand, teeth gritted.

"Now he’s a page in a report."

In Zaragoza, Nationalist troops began rounding up entire families suspected of aiding French commandos.

Executions became routine.

Fear was strategy.

In Teruel, militia units under Moreau’s banner began retaliations mass graves, torching suspected collaborators.

Renaud burst into the command tent, rage trembling in his voice.

"Moreau we’ve become them. We’re slaughtering the very people we said we’d liberate."

Moreau’s gaze was distant.

"We built a machine, Renaud. Now it runs on fire."

"You can stop it..."

"No," Moreau snapped. "Not anymore."

Preparations moved swiftly.

Guderian hunched over a map in a bunker lit by oil lamps.

"We take the corridor north of Teruel. We cut their spine. If we hold the pass, Teruel dies."

Major Braun pointed. "It’s narrow. Artillery will be useless."

"Then use steel. Use grenades. Use knives if you must. Just hold."

At the same hour, Moreau stabbed a finger at a crumbling map.

"We take the east pass. No one’s used it in years. That’s our edge. Surprise."

"But it’s not mapped fully," Rousseau warned. "We risk getting bogged."

"So be it. We move at dawn."

In the Zaragoza-Teruel corridor, Esteve grunted through pain as he strapped into the cockpit of his recon aircraft.

His ribs screamed with each breath. freёweɓnovel.com

"Don’t be a fool," the medic protested. "You’re still bleeding."

"They need a witness," Esteve hissed. "They need eyes."

As the aircraft soared, Esteve’s breath quickened.

He adjusted the scope.

His voice shook over the radio.

"Command, this is Recon 3. I see German armor pushing from the north repeat, heavy armor. And..."

He paused, adjusting the lens.

"We’ve got French units converging from the east. My God. They’re heading straight for each other."

The radio crackled. "Esteve, confirm....are they engaging?"

"Not yet," Esteve whispered.

"But they’re about to collide. They don’t even know."

The night of 21 August.

Two battalions, unaware of each other, moved toward the same pass.

French scouts whispered into radios.

Suddenly, illumination flares lit the narrow pass.

And then hell broke open.

Gunfire erupted in both directions.

French tank exploded.

German soldiers screamed as fragmentation tore through cover.

Rousseau ducked behind a burning truck. "It’s not militia it’s Germans! It’s a full column!"

Major Braun shouted across a crumbling ridge.

"They’re not Spanish! It’s the French Moreau himself must be here!"

Chaos.

A French tank turned its turret, firing blind.

A German Panzer retaliated, striking a squad of advancing French infantry.

Smoke blanketed the battlefield.

Men fought without knowing who they were killing.

In the center of the storm, Guderian’s forward unit advanced until his command car was struck by a grenade blast.

He emerged from the wreckage, bleeding from the brow.

Then, a figure emerged from the haze.

Moreau.

He was limping, rifle in hand, blood trickling down his side.

Their eyes locked.

"General Heinz Guderian," Moreau said coldly.

"Major Moreau. I wondered if this fire would bring you to me."

They raised weapons but neither fired.

Instead, they charged.

The fight was savage.

Guderian swung first with a bayonet.

Moreau parried with the butt of his rifle.

A punch to the face.

A kick to the gut.

Guderian went down only to slam a boot into Moreau’s wounded side.

The French Major groaned, collapsing to one knee.

Guderian raised his weapon but paused.

Sirens wailed in the distance.

Artillery was inbound.

Their duel was interrupted by explosions.

Debris rained.

Guderian vanished into the shadows.

Moreau, bleeding heavily, was dragged away by Renaud

"We have to go, Moreau!!!"

Moreau, half-conscious, whispered,

"He’s real. And he’s coming."

The valley was silent again but only for a moment

The true battle had only begun.