Reincarnated: Vive La France-Chapter 161: “You’re already burning. At least do it standing.”

The wind howled across the Sierra de Javalambre, carrying the faint smell of blood.

In a bunker outside Teruel, Moreau leaned over a map with trembling fingers, his shoulder still heavily bandaged.

His eyes, however, were sharp.

Unyielding.

Across from him stood Captain Renaud, with sweat on his forehead.

"They’ve gone dark in Sector 3," Renaud said. "No contact since midnight."

"Send another courier," Moreau murmured.

"We’ve sent three. None returned."

Moreau looked up. "Then they’re gone."

Renaud swallowed. "Guderian’s coming. And this time, it’s not a skirmish."

Moreau tapped the map. "Then we hold. The line’s drawn. This is where we stand."

Far to the north, Guderian stood under the glow of a light, examining aerial recon photographs.

"To Teruel in three days. Nothing fancy. Just thunder."

Colonel Ravalli of the Italian mechanized division shifted uncomfortably.

"And if they hold?"

"They won’t," Guderian said coldly. "North by panzers, east by your fire-breathers, south by Falange irregulars through the Calderona. We fracture the myth. Operation Hammer begins at dawn."

The first thunder of bombs fell before the sun even rose.

The ground shook before the sound reached them.

German Stukas howled through the morning sky, and the horizon erupted in flames.

Inside the Unified Column’s command bunker, plaster fell from the ceiling as lights shattered.

"Down!" Renaud shouted, dragging a young militiaman under the table.

They emerged into chaos.

Smoke curled through the trenches.

Anarchist positions on the eastern flank were already ablaze.

A courier galloped through the dust, his horse streaked with blood.

"La Puebla’s gone!" he gasped.

"Thirty tanks. Flamethrowers. They’re moving like thunder."

Moreau stepped into the courtyard, helmet in one hand, cane in the other.

"Get me Clara and Ortega," he said calmly. "Tell the militia no retreat unless I give it. Today, we burn ghosts into their memory."

In the southern hills, Ortega crouched behind a rock ledge, watching the first Falange vanguard creep through the pass.

His breath steamed in the morning chill.

"They’re earlier than expected," he muttered.

A sergeant beside him asked, "Do we hit them?"

"We do more than hit them," Ortega growled. "We bury them."

With a nod, the traps were triggered.

The first Falangist patrol stumbled into a wire snare.

A grenade exploded.

Then a barrel of oil was lit and rolled down the slope.

The pass turned into a firestorm.

Teruel’s trenches roared with gunfire.

Clara Valera limped through the medical tents, her face tight with pain and fury.

"Anyone who can lift a rifle, get to the barricades! Anyone who can lift a stretcher, stay here!"

A nurse grabbed her arm. "Fifty civilians from La Puebla, ma’am. They brought wounded children."

"Set up an overflow behind the chapel," Clara ordered. "And pray to God the shells miss it."

A sudden impact knocked her sideways.

A shell had landed just meters away.

She pulled herself up, coughing smoke, and dragged a bloodied stretcher-bearer into cover.

"We don’t leave them," she hissed. "We don’t leave anyone."

In the forward trenches, Renaud’s rifle fire as he ducked behind a crumbling wall. "Machine guns! Two o’clock!"

"Out of shells!" a CNT militiaman shouted.

"Then throw rocks! Just don’t let them through!"

A runner stumbled in, blood staining his tunic. "Italians. Flamethrowers. They’re burning the east."

Renaud glanced at the sky. "Then we bring ruin."

He ordered explosive charges placed under key trench points.

As the Italian tanks rolled closer, fire licking from their nozzles, he gave the signal.

The earth split open.

A column of fire erupted, hurling tank pieces into the air.

Men screamed.

Another tank turned only to run into a hastily planted mine.

Moreau arrived on horseback, dismounted, and took command.

"Form a V," he ordered. "Let them in, then snap it shut."

"Sir," a young anarchist stammered, "we’ll burn alive!"

"You’re already burning," Moreau barked. "At least do it standing."

They obeyed.

As the tanks entered the narrowing gorge, the wings of the formation collapsed inward.

Molotovs flew.

Grenades rang like hammers on iron.

Flames engulfed the machines.

Screams echoed.

Moreau ducked under a swinging tank gun and fired point-blank into a viewport.

Near Sierra Calderona, Renaud led a climb through the night with fifty exhausted fighters.

They carried picks, ropes, and dynamite.

"We bring the cliff down on them. No passage. No flank."

By moonlight, they planted the charges.

At dawn, a German APC turned the bend.

Renaud lit the fuse.

The ridge collapsed.

Screams drowned in falling stone.

One APC swerved and managed to return fire.

The blast shredded two militia.

Falangist troops surged forward. frёeωebɳovel.com

"Steel and knives!" Renaud roared.

Bayonets clashed.

Gun butts cracked skulls.

Blood soaked into the dust.

A CNT fighter was pinned Renaud tackled the assailant, plunging a trench knife into his throat.

"Fall back!" he yelled. "We’ve done enough!"

Of fifty men, thirty limped away.

Behind them, the road was gone.

In Valencia, shelling reached the suburbs.

"Where’s the convoy from Sagunto?" Clara shouted into a crackling radio.

"Gone! Rail lines hit. No survivors reported."

"Then move the injured south. Use carts, mules, shoulders...anything!"

In a corner of the shelter, a girl sobbed over a broken doll.

Clara knelt beside her. "What’s her name?"

"María," the girl whispered.

"She’s a survivor. Like you. Keep her close."

Renaud returned to Moreau’s command post, uniform scorched, hands shaking.

"We bought six hours. No more."

Moreau looked over the blackened hills.

"Burn the olive groves."

Renaud froze. "That’s our food. Our cover."

"And theirs. Burn it."

"You’ll be hated for this."

"Better hated alive than loved dead."

As the flames spread across the valley, the southern flank collapsed.

Falange troops breached the trench line.

"Sir!" a lieutenant yelled. "We need men...anyone!"

Moreau stood, sweat pouring down his face.

"Everything that walks. I’ll lead."

He limped to the breach, rifle slung across his back, blood seeping through his side.

Militia boys barely old enough to shave looked at him with wide eyes.

"Where’s your sergeant?"

"Dead, sir."

"Then I’m your sergeant now."

He pointed to the cratered field. "Hold it. Or die trying."

The battle became chaos.

Flamethrowers versus machetes.

Mortars versus shovels.

When Moreau’s rifle jammed, he pulled a pistol and kept firing.

When the pistol emptied, he picked up a bayonet.

The last defenders stood on a wall of corpses. And still they didn’t fall.

By midnight, the enemy began to pull back. Whispers of failure reached Guderian’s camp.

"They’re regrouping," Ravalli muttered.

"No," Guderian said. "They bled too hard. Pull back. We’ll strike again. But not today."

The fires in Teruel died slowly.

The smell of death lingered.

Moreau sat beneath a shattered tree, arm in a sling.

Renaud crouched beside him.

"They’ll be back."

"I know."

"But we’re still here."

"Then Spain still breathes."