The Calm Before the Storm

The train ride back to the barracks was uneventful, but the memory of the past day lingered in his mind.

The smell of the café's fresh bread and wine still clung to his senses, mixing with the memory of heated political debates in the streets.

The woman at the café he still didn't know her name had left an impression, though he couldn't quite explain why.

She wasn't just another face in the crowd; she understood things, saw through people.

And in a time where everyone was picking sides, that made her dangerous or valuable.

As Verdun's military district came into view, the transition from civilian life to military rigidity was stark.

The stone barracks stood tall and lifeless, rows of trucks and tanks parked with mechanical precision.

The chaos of politics faded, replaced by the structured monotony of army life.

Here, everything was meant to be predictable.

But Moreau knew his life here was anything but predictable now.

Stepping into the officers' quarters, Moreau dropped his bag onto his cot, stretching his shoulders.

The room was sparse a wooden desk, a small cabinet, a few personal items tucked away neatly.

It lacked the warmth of the café, the hum of the city, the unpredictability of civilian life.

But it was home, at least for now.

He had barely settled when the door swung open.

Renaud stepped inside, a cigarette already half-burned between his fingers.

His uniform jacket was unbuttoned, his sleeves rolled up a sign that he had been working, or drinking, or both.

"Well, well, look who's back," Renaud said, flicking ash onto the floor. "Have a good time in the real world, or did you get tired of listening to civilians argue about the end of France?"

Moreau smirked. "You sound jealous."

Renaud scoffed, dropping onto the edge of Moreau's desk. "Jealous? Please. I prefer my chaos organized. Civilians? No rules, no ranks just pure madness. At least here, we know who's in charge."

Moreau leaned against the wall, watching him. "That's the problem, though, isn't it? We know who's in charge."

Renaud exhaled through his nose, rubbing his temple. "Merde. Don't start with that again. I just got back from a wonderful meeting with logistics. And you'll be thrilled to know that Clément has been very busy in your absence."

Moreau straightened. "What happened?"

"Supplies have been… reallocated," Renaud said, his voice laced with mock politeness. "Your training exercises? Fuel rations cut by twenty percent. Blank rounds? Not enough available at the moment. Oh, and get this the Somua? Scheduled for maintenance next week. Too unsafe to use, they say."

Moreau's jaw clenched. Clément wasn't wasting any time.

"How much did Perrin approve?" he asked.

"Hard to say," Renaud shrugged. "But my guess? He's looking the other way. Clément is testing how far he can push before you start making noise."

Moreau exhaled slowly. He had expected this, but the speed at which Clément was moving suggested something else this wasn't just about shutting down his training. Clément wanted him out.

"Alright," Moreau said, thinking quickly. "Then we adapt. Less fuel? We run shorter drills with more precision. No blank rounds? We focus on movement drills instead. And the Somua?"

He smirked. "Well, if it's too unsafe to use, we'll just have to train without it. See how well the Renaults can handle coordinated maneuvers."

Renaud grinned. "So we act like good little soldiers while making Clément look like an idiot."

"Something like that."

Renaud nodded approvingly, taking another drag from his cigarette. "I like it. Quiet resistance. Subtle. You sure you're not a politician?"

Moreau chuckled. "No. Just someone who knows how to fight a war on more than one front."

By morning, the changes were already in effect.

The usual roar of tank engines was quieter, the movements more controlled.

Instead of running long, fuel-draining maneuvers, Moreau had the crews practicing precise formations, quick directional changes, and rapid deployment.

The blank ammunition shortage meant they worked with dry-fire drills, focusing on coordination and turret speed.

If Clément wanted to cripple them through bureaucracy, Moreau would turn his obstacles into advantages.

Halfway through the day, Sergeant Marchand approached him, his expression cautious.

The man had been skeptical of Moreau's methods at first, but he had come to respect them.

"Sir," Marchand said, adjusting his helmet. "The men are starting to ask questions."

"What kind of questions?" Moreau asked.

Marchand hesitated. "They notice the fuel cuts. The ammunition delays. Some are saying the High Command doesn't want us training too hard."

Moreau crossed his arms. "And what do you think?"

Marchand glanced at the tanks, the crews working harder despite the restrictions. "I think… someone doesn't want us prepared. And that makes me nervous."

Moreau studied him for a moment before nodding. "Tell the men this our job is to train, no matter the circumstances. Obstacles come and go. We work with what we have."

Marchand nodded, but his face remained troubled. "Sir… if war comes, and we're not ready because of politics—"

Moreau interrupted. "Then we find a way. We always find a way."

Marchand exhaled, nodding before stepping back to the training field.

Renaud watched the exchange from a distance, shaking his head. "They're starting to see the cracks," he muttered. "Won't be long before the whole army does."

Moreau kept his eyes on the men. "That's what Clément is afraid of."

That night, as Moreau sat at his desk reviewing training schedules, a folded note was recieved by him.

He opened it up cautiously, recognizing the handwriting immediately.

The woman from the café.

He unfolded it carefully.

"You left in a hurry, Capitaine. I was hoping for a better conversation next time. If you find yourself in town again, I'll be waiting."

No signature. No name. Just an invitation.

He smirked slightly, setting the note down.

The world outside the barracks was still there, still waiting.

A world beyond tanks, beyond training, beyond the looming war.

For now, though, his battlefield remained here.

And the war with Clément had only just begun