Reincarnated: Vive La France-Chapter 157: "Then we’re in a war inside a war."

Madrid.

The Republican capital had become a city under siege not by Franco’s artillery, but by itself.

Graffiti in red and black sprawled across government buildings.

¡Viva la Revolución! stood beside crossed-out Communist hammers and sickles.

At Plaza del Callao, a makeshift barricade of sandbags and burned-out trams cut the city center in two.

Captain Alejandro Martínez of the Socialist Guard stormed into the Ministry of Interior, his boots making noise across the marble floor.

"We’ve got gunfire in Lavapiés," he barked, slamming a bloodied helmet onto the desk.

"CNT anarchists stormed the People’s Tribunal. They dragged Commissar Alonzo out and shot him in front of the courthouse."

Interior Minister Dolores Ibárruri, La Pasionaria, did not look up.

She took a long drag from her cigarette, exhaled slowly, then said, "Do they want Franco to walk through the door himself?"

"Madam Minister, at this rate, he won’t need to. We’re tearing ourselves apart."

She stood, smoothing the front of her jacket. "Then we put the knife down before it turns inward."

Martínez shook his head. "Colonel Mendoza is demanding permission to storm the district. He says we either retake Lavapiés or we lose Madrid street by street."

Ibárruri crossed to the window.

Outside, smoke billowed from the rooftops.

"Tell him to surround the sector. No one in or out. And tell the loudest among them we’re ready to talk."

"And if they resist?"

She turned, her face steel. "Then bury them with the rest of our ideals."

Barcelona, three days earlier.

Flames danced in the windows of the old city hall.

On the rooftop, CNT anarchists waved black and red flags, shouting slogans as the sound of a printing press pounded inside.

In a grand chamber lit by lanterns, Clara Valera of the CNT banged the butt of her rifle against a cracked marble table.

"We told Madrid this city belongs to its people not to Soviet pawns hiding behind red flags!"

Juan Rico of the POUM leaned forward, weary-eyed.

"Clara, this isn’t about control. Franco’s pushing from the Ebro. Our troops need ammunition, leadership, coordination."

"And what has Madrid offered us besides chains? Have they sent tanks? Radios? Or just more demands for obedience?"

"Our comrades are dying!" Rico snapped.

"This is a war, not a seminar!"

"Exactly. A war we will fight on our terms."

A young runner burst in, pale and gasping. "Italian bombers! From the sea dozens!"

Valera’s face froze. "From Mallorca?"

"Yes, comrade. We counted at least twenty. Bombs are falling across the port. The printing press is gone."

The council erupted into chaos.

Outside, air raid sirens wailed.

On the Balearic island of Mallorca, Colonel Giovanni Cappa stood atop a coastal tower, arms folded behind his back.

The sea breeze carried the scent of salt and gunpowder.

A radio operator handed him a message. "Direct order from Rome. Valencia is unguarded. Madrid is splintering."

Cappa nodded slowly. "Then let us correct history."

He turned to a junior officer. "Launch all wings. Begin the landings."

Moments later, Italian Fiat CR.32 fighters roared over the coastline.

Bombs struck the Sagunto-Valencia railway with thunderous force.

In a village nearby, an old man clutched a rosary as his house crumbled.

Italian marines landed at Cala Mesquida under cover of naval guns.

As the Tricolor was raised, Cappa’s voice came through the radio.

"Phase one complete. Franco’s path is clear."

South of Córdoba, Franco stood with binoculars, the Andalusian hills behind him. General Yagüe approached, boots crunching on dry grass.

"They’re fracturing, mi General," Yagüe said. "Barcelona defies Madrid. Valencia wavers. The French are busy bleeding Germans in the north."

Franco lowered the binoculars. "Then we strike while they are busy fucking each other."

"Our shock troops have broken through at Montoro. Granada’s flank is exposed."

"Push through. Don’t stop until the coast. If we take Malaga, we choke Valencia from the sea."

Yagüe hesitated. "And if Barcelona holds?"

Franco smirked. "Barcelona will collapse. They will burn each other’s banners before our first shell lands."

Valencia, train station HQ.

Grigoriy Petrov leaned over a map, his gloved fingers tapping Zaragoza, then Valencia.

Deputy Commander Solis shifted nervously. "Calamocha was... an error. A militia commander seized the depot. We’re working to bring them back under control."

"They no longer answer to Madrid?"

Solis stammered, "They’re still anti-fascist."

Petrov raised an eyebrow. "So was Trotsky. And he ended up with an icepick in his skull."

Solis swallowed. "They’re irregulars. We’re trying to..."

"Spare me. The Soviet Union has delivered arms, aircraft, and advisors. In return, we demand cohesion."

"So what do you want us to do?"

Petrov stared at him. "Begin identifying anarchist agitators. You can start with Calamocha. If Madrid moves, you do not blink."

Sierra de Alcubierre, Aragon Front.

Captain Renaud crouched beside a sandbag wall, radio crackling beside him.

"They’ve opened fire," his radio operator muttered.

"Looks like our signal got garbled. They think we’re Nationalists."

"Raise the flag," Renaud ordered. "White cloth. Anything."

He stood, waving a makeshift banner, shouting, "We’re comrades! Republican forces!"

Shots cracked.

A bullet tore past his ear.

A sergeant beside him screamed and fell.

"Damn it!" Renaud hit the ground, grabbing the bleeding man.

"Medic! Get over here now!"

A wounded anarchist stumbled toward him from the trees.

"They don’t know. There’s no command. Just pockets of militia... no radios, no orders."

Renaud’s face twisted. "Then we’re in a war inside a war. And nobody told the men why."

Barcelona.

A radio studio basement.

A young technician lit a candle, guiding the host to the mic.

Shells boomed in the distance.

The voice crackled into the airwaves: "Comrades... this is no longer a war for Spain. This is a war for meaning. Madrid is silent. Valencia whispers. The French are dying along with Germans and we?"

A blast shook the room.

Dust rained from the ceiling.

"We fight for the pieces. If a Spain is born tomorrow, it will not be clean. But it must be born."

A long pause.

Then.

"Goodnight, comrades."