Reincarnated: Vive La France-Chapter 199: "Heard he took out a Panzer I with a crowbar in Spain"

Chapter 199: "Heard he took out a Panzer I with a crowbar in Spain"

The sun hadn’t yet cleared the ridgeline when the first whistles pierced the cold air.

Private Delcourt wheezed as he ran, trying to keep pace in the column.

Around him, curses flew.

"Pick it up, Delcourt!" hissed Corporal Lemaitre beside him.

"If you fall out again, Chalon’s going to skin you."

Delcourt grunted. "Tell Chalon he can...."

A shrill bellow cut across the field.

"YOU THINK THIS IS A MORNING STROLL, DELCOURT?! I’LL HAVE YOU MOPPING TANK TREADS WITH YOUR TONGUE IF YOU KEEP DRAGGING!"

Sergeant Bertrand Chalon stormed toward them, eyes sharp as bayonets.

Delcourt straightened instinctively.

Chalon paced alongside, matching them step for step. "Coordination, dammit! We fight as a unit or we die alone! You’re not delivering mail you’re advancing under fire!"

They passed Major Moreau, standing still amid the chaos, clipboard in hand, cigarette untouched.

His eyes missed nothing.

A Renault R35 grumbled nearby, turret swiveling as it popped blank shells at plywood.

The infantry squad darted from cover to cover, trying to stay within the tank’s shadow, trying not to get ahead.

Lemaitre murmured under his breath, "Think Moreau ever smiles?"

Delcourt smirked. "He smiles when he kills. Heard he took out a Panzer I with a crowbar in Spain."

"That’s not even the best story," said a voice behind them Private Faure. He was small and always listening. "You hear about Guderian?"

"What about him?"

"Word is, Moreau fought him. One-on-one. Somewhere outside Guadalajara. Knocked his jaw out of place with a shovel. They say that’s why Guderian always looks like he’s biting lemons."

"Bullshit."

"I’m just saying what I heard."

Behind them, Chalon shouted again. "STOP GOSSIPING LIKE MARKET WOMEN AND RUN LIKE YOU WANT TO LIVE!"

The squad picked up the pace.

Captain Renaud emerged from the fuel depot, coat slung over one shoulder, half a baguette in hand.

He chewed slowly. "They’re running faster today."

Moreau didn’t look up. "They hesitate before the last sprint. The tank’s too far behind."

"Maybe they trust the R35 as much as the rest of us."

"They need to move with armor, not ahead. Infantry-tank integration. Speed. Coordination. Drill it until it’s reflex."

Moreau waved to Lieutenant Serin. "Run it again. Delay advance until the tank is twenty meters behind."

The men groaned audibly. fɾeeweɓnѳveɭ.com

Farther down the field, another platoon practiced with PAP submachine guns.

They fired, ducked, reloaded, dashed, repeated.

Wooden barriers mimicked rubble and alley corners.

Private Rousseau crouched behind one, panting.

"Hey," he muttered to the soldier beside him, "you know what they call Moreau?"

"What?"

"Lion of Spain. Swear to God."

"Isn’t that because he roared so loud during the siege of Teruel they thought he was an artillery battery?"

Rousseau shrugged. "Probably. Bastard’s terrifying."

Their moment was interrupted as Marcelle, the logistics officer, bustled over, fogging his glasses.

"Suppressive fire at 20-meter spread! Keep it tight! Five rounds max per burst!"

The men raised their PAPs.

Rousseau fired a short burst.

"Low!" Marcelle called out. "You’re firing over cover! Imagine each bullet is a ration waste none!"

"Maybe if they gave us coffee, we’d imagine something warm!" shouted someone from the line.

Laughter rippled through the squad.

Back by the tank course, another R35 moved forward.

The turret adjusted barely.

The shot rang out, missing the plywood target by a clean five degrees.

Moreau’s face hardened.

"STOP THE DRILL!"

He stormed forward, climbed the hull in seconds, and wrenched the hatch open.

The young gunner was yanked up by the collar like a misbehaving child.

"Did you even sight the target?!"

"I—I thought I compensated for terrain—"

"’Thought’ doesn’t stop a bullet! Sight. Confirm. Fire. Never guess. NEVER."

The gunner nodded rapidly.

Moreau released him and climbed down.

Renaud joined him, still munching. "You want better results, you could always design a tank that shoots straight and brews espresso."

"If I could, I would."

Back in the barracks that evening, the soldiers were cleaning weapons, recounting bruises, tending blisters.

Delcourt leaned back on his bunk, unbuckling his boots.

"Hey Faure, what else did you hear about the Major?"

Faure grinned. "He never carries a sidearm. Says he doesn’t need one."

"That’s stupid."

"No, it’s badass. Supposedly, during the Ebro crossing, he swam under a bridge with grenades strapped to his chest, came out on the other side and cleared three trenches with a trench knife and a shovel."

"Why’s it always a shovel?"

"He likes shovels, I guess."

Corporal Lemaitre chuckled. "Or maybe they just gave him one and he made it deadly."

"Guy’s half myth."

"Other half’s rage."

In the obstacle field, next morning, Chalon stalked the lines as men crawled through barbed wire and scrambled over walls.

"You’re not climbing into bed, Lemaitre! Get over that wall or I’ll bury you under it!"

Lemaitre grunted, hauling himself up, mud caked on his coat.

Rousseau stumbled over a log and groaned.

"You want a nap? You think Jerry’s gonna wait while you stretch? MOVE!"

They carried simulated casualties, crawled with weighted gear, executed dive-rolls.

At one point, Delcourt scraped his palm on a broken post.

Chalon was beside him in seconds.

"You’re not dying. It’s a scratch. If you want to bleed, do it on the Rhine. MOVE!"

Up on the ridge, Moreau and Renaud observed, silent.

"You know," Renaud said, "if I didn’t like you, I’d report you."

"For what?"

"Excessive discipline."

"Only excessive if it doesn’t work."

Later, at the firing range, squads rotated between the PAPs and the heavier M36-Rs.

Targets were shredded, then jammed. Marcelle arrived before anyone shouted.

"Bad magazine spring," he said. "We’ll swap it."

Moreau nodded. "Get a team from the motor pool. Full-time armorers. And have squads carry sandbags during dry-fire. Improve recoil control."

Marcelle jotted the order.

By late afternoon, the men moved but exhausted

Yet even in their fatigue, there was form.

There was cohesion.

As dusk settled, the soldiers assembled in the gravel yard.

Moreau stood before them, coat buttoned, gloves in his hand.

"You hate me today. Good. That means you gave something. Tomorrow, you will give more. Until we become something no enemy wants to face."

His voice cut through the silence.

"I’m not here to coddle you. I’m here to make you into a wall of steel. The Germans aren’t dreaming of peace. They are drilling just like us. But we will drill harder. Smarter. We will move with our tanks. We will fire to kill, not to intimidate."

He scanned the crowd.

"And when the time comes, we will show them that France did not forget how to fight."

Chalon passed by, arms crossed.

"They’re good boys," he said. "Not soldiers yet. But they will be."