Reincarnated: Vive La France-Chapter 193: "Never forget what you are making."

20 January 1937.

Hotchkiss Armament Factory.

Two months had passed.

Inside the Hotchkiss facility on the northern edge of Paris, there was no more room for theory.

The time for decisions had ended.

Now came the consequences.

On the suspended catwalk above Bay Line 2, Major Moreau surveyed the organized chaos

The Model 36-R rifle had evolved beyond sketches, schematics, and field tests.

Delorme approached.

"Status?" Moreau asked, not turning.

Delorme handed over a clipboard layered with paper and ink. "Twelve hundred rifles, sir. Fully assembled, inspected, and ready for distribution. We’re ramping up to 200 per day. The rest of the batch will be done in ten days barring any supply chain hiccups."

"Shells?"

"Behind by a day or two. Verdun’s reloading center is backlogged. But Lyon picked up overflow. We’re at 8,000 rounds in stock. Still climbing."

"Failures?"

"Less than 3 percent. Primarily chamber alignment. Celeste’s team corrected the bore angle on the last hundred units. That fixed the blowback surge."

Moreau nodded slowly.

He spoke quietly. "And logistics?"

Chevalier joined them mid-step.

"Five rail convoys begin tomorrow," Chevalier said. "Split across separate nodes Dijon, Rouen, Le Mans, Nîmes, and Metz. We’re avoiding major junctions and tunnels that Luftwaffe reconnaissance might target. Beauchamp signed off full military priority."

"Fuel stockpiles?"

"Secured," Delorme added. "The rail ministry gave clearance for coal draw from Pas-de-Calais. Enough for 20 days at full tilt."

Moreau exhaled. "And the men?"

"Training centers at Reims and Avignon began live-fire drills last week. They’ve already run through over 600 units. Feedback is coming in hourly."

"Recoil?" Moreau asked.

"Minimal," Delorme said with a faint grin. "They’re calling it ’the whisperer.’ Young conscripts are adjusting faster than expected."

"Good." Moreau’s eyes scanned the factory floor again. "They’ll need every advantage."

Just then, footsteps rang from the iron stairwell.

Celeste appeared at the landing, wiping grease from her gloves with a rag that looked like it had seen battle of its own.

"You’re early," she called to Moreau. "We just completed stress testing on Unit 1,304."

"And?"

She tossed the rag over her shoulder. "The rifle survived. The mountain didn’t."

Moreau allowed the briefest grin to twitch across his face. "Then we’re on the right path."

Later in the morning executive board had gathered.

The long oak table was covered in blueprints, production charts, rail maps, fatigue reports, and engineering schematics.

Berlot stood at the head of the table.

He clasped his hands behind his back as if addressing a military tribunal.

"Gentlemen, and Mademoiselle Proulx," he began, "as of today, we are in sustained wartime output. Two hundred rifles per day. We aim for 250 by February 15th."

A foreman from Line 3 raised his hand. "And alloy inputs? Chromium and nickel?"

"The Ministry secured fresh chromium shipments from Oran," Berlot replied. "North Africa remains stable for now. Transport arrives every 72 hours."

Another voice rose. "Our machines are burning faster than spec. We’ve already lost three lathes this week."

Celeste leaned forward. "You’ll get replacements. Toulouse has dedicated two workshops solely to machining spare components. I’ve requisitioned extra coolant systems. Use them don’t wait for breakdowns."

Moreau entered mid-discussion.

The room snapped straighter.

No announcement, no theatrics.

He simply stood at the end of the table, glancing briefly at the charts.

Then, looking up, he said.

"Everything you make here will be held by someone who has no luxury of error. These are not just tubes of metal. They are the breath of defense. The grip of the frightened. The pushback against darkness. Never forget what you are making."

Silence followed.

It was not discomfort, it was reverence.

Berlot stepped forward, offering a folder. "Field reports from the first three units."

Moreau opened it, leafing through dense paragraphs.

5th Infantry Division

Reims Sector

"Model 36-R deployed in mock trench clearance. Average reload time: 3.2 seconds. High accuracy. Penetration effective against reinforced concrete at 30 meters."

7th Alpine Regiment

Vosges Drills.l

"Operated at -15°C. No chamber malfunction. Bipod performed reliably under incline pressure. Maintained grouping at elevation."

2nd Armored Reconnaissance

Metz

"Simulated Panzer hull testing. Direct hit at 40 meters breached turret side armor. Effective against Type I and Type II mockups."

Moreau closed the folder.

"Not bad," he murmured.

After the meeting Moreau and Delorme walked slowly between the assembly stations.

Welders worked under thick visors.

Powder crew calibrated shell weights with glass scales.

Women inserted buffer sleeves into casings, hands fast and stable despite their youth.

"They’ve started calling it Le Fantôme," Delorme said casually.

Moreau arched a brow. "The ghost?"

He wondered if this word will ever leave from anything he does.

Delorme nodded. "No smoke. No flash. Just bang and the target’s gone. The name came from a drill sergeant at Avignon."

"Let them name it whatever helps them survive," Moreau said.

He watched a boy of perhaps seventeen fit a breech pin with surgical precision. "These hands shouldn’t have to know war. But here we are."

Delorme lowered his voice. "Do you ever wonder if we rushed it?"

Moreau stopped mid-stride.

"Every night," he said. "But war doesn’t wait for perfection. It arrives with its own."

They turned a corner and saw Chevalier jogging toward them, waving a rolled-up schematic.

"Improved shoulder mount," Chevalier panted, unrolling it. "Less sway in prone position. Also reduces fatigue by 14 percent under recoil repetition."

"Good." Moreau studied it. "Send it to Avignon. Let the instructors test it by Friday. Get live feedback."

Celeste passed by.

"They’re calling me ’Madame Ghost’ now," she said with a smirk.

"Because of the rifle?"

"No. Because I haven’t left the foundry in four days."

Moreau allowed a rare chuckle.

At evening executive team reconvened in the strategy room.

Berlot scanned the room. "We can hit the February target but not without a second shift. Our crews are stretched. Fatigue is rising."

Celeste added, "We also need a cold-weather variant. The Alpine deployment will punish our tolerances. No rifle survives frost swelling without attention."

A production manager added. "I’ve lost four men to fatigue this week. We can push through January, but come February, we’ll need medical oversight or risk collapse."

"And the Ministry?" someone asked.

"They want figures," Moreau said, voice low. "They want victory on a spreadsheet. But I showed them results and that, at least, they still understand."

He looked at each of them.

"You’re not just building a weapon. You’re building a wall. A line. A last stand. And if that wall holds, maybe our sons won’t be turned into ghosts themselves."

They nodded not with applause, but with the seriousness of people who had already buried too many what-ifs.

Finally the last shift bell rang, and a fresh wave of workers filed through the gates.

Some were teenagers. freeweɓnovel.cѳm

Others old enough to remember the trenches of Verdun.

Major Moreau stood outside.

He turned once to look back at the factory.