Reincarnated: Vive La France
Chapter 267: You always planned this?

Chapter 267: You always planned this?

Moreau stood at the edge of a prefabricated rail outpost, hands behind his back.

Around him, soldiers and surveyors worked in synchrony moving crates, aligning steel segments, checking line tension on a new radio mast.

Behind him, Rivet approached with a dispatch folder.

"Report from the eastern corridor. Spanish units under German command attempted to sabotage the track near Pertusa. They failed, but two of our sappers are dead. Five more injured."

Moreau didn’t react.

His eyes were fixed on the horizon.

"Franco’s militias hit a convoy near Sesa. Italian explosives. Wiped out two fuel trucks. The third caught fire, but the driver managed to pull it clear."

Moreau took the folder but didn’t open it.

"And Guderian?"

"Coordinating fire missions from the Vicien hills. He’s pushing artillery now, not just eyes and cargo. We’re seeing actual patterns targeted hits, supply denial."

Moreau finally turned, flipping open the folder.

"Let them try."

He skimmed the pages. "Any new civilian displacements?"

"Minimal. Most stay. They trust us more than Franco."

Moreau nodded.

"Tell Logistics Command I want triple the fuel run to Casbas. And get the engineers working double shifts south of Laluenga. If Guderian wants to slow our tail, then we’ll run faster than his shell trajectory."

At noon, near Zuera, Franco visited a forward command trench.

He walked with a stiff posture, flanked by two Italian officers in plain brown coats and a German aide from Guderian’s detachment.

Across the valley, smoke rose from a shelled French outpost.

The Nationalist artillery crew was still adjusting for wind.

"They hold positions like a carpenter," Franco muttered. "They reinforce, repave, rewire. It’s as if they think they own the land."

"They act like an administration," said Colonel Amadei, the Italian observer. "Not an occupation."

Franco’s lip curled. "We are not building a bureaucracy. We are trying to stop a foreign tide."

Guderian’s aide handed over a report.

"New rail line traced through Almudévar. Ahead of schedule. Their tempo is not breaking."

Franco didn’t hide his frustration.

"Then we break it for them."

He turned toward the map board inside the trench.

His finger jabbed toward Sietamo and Casbas.

"We launch coordinated assaultsbnight strikes. One with Spanish cavalry, two with Italian mortars. Use local militias for frontlines, but reinforce with German motor crews."

The aide hesitated. "You’ll burn through what we have left."

Franco stepped closer. "Then send word to Berlin. And to Rome. Tell them if they want Spain to remain on the map, we need more than crates. We need boots. We need bombs."

He turned back to the smoking horizon.

"They think they’re running a train network. Let’s derail it."

The French held the lines at Casbas.

Barely.

Throughout the week, Franco’s forces struck with irregular fury.

Convoys were hit.

One communications tower was shelled.

A supply cache was ignited.

Casualties mounted not in the hundreds, but enough to sting.

A unit of engineers clearing wreckage outside Siétamo found three bodies buried under debris French radio crew, torn by mortar shards.

At a field hospital, a nurse reported two dozen wounded from the past forty-eight hours.

Most were not frontline infantry.

"These are sappers, drivers, signalmen," she told Rivet. "The people who keep this place breathing."

In a dimly lit command trailer outside Alquézar, Gamelin arrived unannounced.

Moreau sat alone at the operations desk, coat draped over a chair, sleeves rolled up.

The table was filled with hastily drawn maps, radio logs, and fragments of intercepted messages.

"They’re hitting harder," Gamelin said.

Moreau didn’t look up. "Yes."

Gamelin took a step closer. "You’ve lost fourteen field engineers, eight mechanics, and nearly thirty supply crew in five days. Our tempo is still holding, but only barely."

Moreau marked a red circle on the edge of a corridor line.

Gamelin pressed on. "Morale is dropping. Not among the civilians. Not even among the officers. It’s the backbone. The ones doing the work. They’re running on fatigue and caffeine. You keep asking them to move like they’re invincible."

"They are," Moreau said.

Gamelin exhaled sharply. "No. They’re human. And if this continues, even while winning, we will lose morale. And if we lose morale..."

"We lose the war."

Moreau finally looked up. "You think I don’t know that?"

Gamelin stared at him. "Then what are you waiting for?"

Moreau stood slowly.

"It’s time," he said.

"For what?"

"To surprise them."

Gamelin narrowed his eyes. "How?"

Moreau stepped over to the larger map mounted on the side wall.

His hand hovered over the midline stretching from Vicien to Zuera.

"We’ve taken ground, yes. We’ve built roots. But we’ve been polite about it. Efficient. Precise. Civilized."

He drew a sweeping line with a grease pencil.

"That ends now."

Gamelin tilted his head. "Explain."

"We run through them."

"With what?"

"Tanks."

Gamelin blinked. "You want to bring the armor forward, but didn’t we already have tanks moving at a faster speed than before. What is the difference?"

"I want to unleash it," Moreau said.

Gamelin moved closer. "I don’t understand, We already are moving at a rocket speed because of which they are targeting our reserves. But what more can we do?"

He tapped the rail line near Almudévar.

"My prior deployments even with tanks increased speed made them think we’re only capable of laying pipe and fixing bridges. They think this is a logistics war. That we want Spainish Territory, that this is a war of logistics."

He turned to face Gamelin directly.

"It’s time they learn it’s a war of annihilation."

Gamelin folded his arms. "So what’s the plan?"

"We increase our speed and direction along with intent. Pace without pause. We move armored columns in full tempo, not to hold, but to sweep. We target their commands."

Gamelin was quiet.

Moreau continued.

"They want to play tug-of-war over roads and ditches. Let them. We’ll drive straight through their command spines. Hit their coordination. Leave their field troops leaderless."

"And if Germany or Italy responds directly?"

Moreau smiled.

"Then they’ve already lost."

He reached for the phone on the wall.

"Order transmission," he told the operator. "Command designation Moreau-pattern deployment. All armored units initiate full advance protocol."

He paused.

"And wake up Colonel Leclerc. He’ll lead the spear."

The operator blinked. "Sir, Leclerc has been operating without sleep for..."

"Wake him."

Across the valley, Colonel Leclerc was roused from a cot.

His eyes were red.

His uniform half-buttoned.

But when the message was handed to him, he didn’t hesitate.

Within two hours, tanks began rolling south from holding positions near Siétamo.

The sun hadn’t risen yet when they crossed the edge of the old Zaragoza route.

There was no artillery preparation.

No announcements.

Just motion.

Within three hours, five Nationalist outposts had gone silent.

By noon, rail junctions at Vicien were under French control.

At 2:00 PM, Franco’s field command received a panic report.

"They’re not digging in," it read. "They’re moving through us."

In Rome, Ciano watched the intercepted transmission from Madrid.

The Italian supply lines were suddenly exposed.

He turned to Mussolini and said, "It’s begun."

Mussolini raised his glass. "Then let’s see how long they last when the train never stops."

Moreau stood at the map, tracking red lines as they extended hour by hour.

Beside him, Gamelin watched.

"You always planned this?" he asked.

Moreau didn’t answer.

The red arrows kept moving.