Fault Lines

The air inside the officers' mess was thick with the scent of pipe smoke, cheap wine, and the lingering musk of unwashed uniforms.

The room was filled with men of different ranks, drinking, arguing, and playing cards as the oil lamps cast flickering shadows on the wooden walls.

It was the heart of the army's social life, a place where alliances were made, grudges were held, and words cut deeper than bayonets.

Moreau sat at a corner table, Renaud across from him, shuffling a deck of cards.

A bottle of Bordeaux rested between them, already half-empty.

The mood around the room was loud, boisterous, but there was something different tonight, a tension beneath the laughter, a feeling that everyone was waiting for something to snap.

"You hear what happened to Captain Lefèvre?" Renaud asked, his voice casual, but his eyes sharp.

Moreau picked up his glass, swirling the wine slowly. "No."

"Transferred."

He raised an eyebrow. "For what?"

Renaud smirked. "Officially? 'Poor leadership.' Unofficially? He spoke a little too much about how this army is stuck in the last war."

Moreau exhaled slowly. It was starting.

The slow, methodical purge of officers who thought differently, who didn't fit the mold of the old-school command.

Clément wasn't just sabotaging training; he was working to make sure only the "right" men were left in positions of influence.

"Who replaced him?" Moreau asked.

"Some old-school bastard. A real 'maréchaliste' one of those officers who still worship Pétain like he's the second coming of Napoleon."

Moreau scoffed. "So another idiot who thinks trenches are the future?"

"Exactly," Renaud muttered, setting down his cards. "They're stacking the deck, Moreau. It's not just Clément. It's bigger than him. The old guard isn't just resisting change they're making sure it never comes."

Before Moreau could respond, a group of officers nearby started getting louder.

He recognized the men Lieutenant Girard, Captain Rousseau, and a few others who had always carried an air of smug superiority.

They were men who had spent more time in Parisian salons than on actual battlefields, officers who loved the uniform but not the responsibility.

Girard, already flushed from too much wine, slammed his glass down. "Merde! You know what the problem is? It's all these so-called modern thinkers who don't understand French war doctrine."

Rousseau leaned in, grinning. "Ah yes, our proud tradition of standing still and getting shot."

The men at the table laughed, but Girard waved a dismissive hand. "We won the last war, didn't we? And how? By holding the line! By letting the Boches bleed themselves dry!"

Another officer chimed in, nodding. "Exactly! This nonsense about 'maneuver warfare' what is it? Some Anglo-German fantasy? France doesn't need to maneuver. France is the wall. We don't move for anyone."

Moreau clenched his jaw.

This was the arrogance that would kill them.

The belief that because they had won in 1918, they would win again with the same tactics, the same mindset.

Girard wasn't finished. "You know what else is the problem? These new officers they think they can change the army. They think they're smarter than the men who won the war."

His eyes flickered toward Moreau. "That's the real danger. A bunch of young intellectuels who would rather play with theories than understand real war."

Moreau knew that was aimed at him.

He took a slow sip of wine before setting his glass down. "You call it 'playing with theories.' I call it learning from mistakes."

Girard raised an eyebrow, grinning. "Mistakes? The only mistake is questioning what already works. This army doesn't need some grand reinvention, Moreau. It needs men who understand that victory is about discipline, endurance, and sacrifice. Not speed."

Moreau leaned back, letting the silence linger for a second before replying.

"Sacrifice?" He let the word hang in the air. "Is that what you call the thousands of men who were slaughtered at Verdun because our officers couldn't think beyond throwing more bodies into the trenches?"

The laughter at Girard's table died instantly.

Rousseau coughed awkwardly, shifting in his seat.

A few officers looked away, suddenly very interested in their drinks.

But Girard's face darkened, his fingers tightening around his glass.

"You think you're clever, Moreau?" he said, voice quieter now. "You think you're better than the men who bled for this country?"

Moreau held his gaze. "No. I think they deserved better leaders."

A heavy silence fell over the room.

Everyone was watching now.

Girard pushed back his chair. "You little—"

Before he could stand, Renaud's voice cut in smoothly. "Easy there, Girard. No need to embarrass yourself in front of all these witnesses."

Girard's jaw twitched. He knew what that meant if he started something here, it would go in the reports.

Rousseau, ever the politician, put a hand on Girard's arm. "Come on, let's not ruin the night. We're all on the same side, aren't we?"

Girard hesitated before sitting back down, but his glare stayed locked on Moreau. "Watch yourself, Moreau. The army doesn't have patience for officers who think they know better than their superiors."

Moreau smirked slightly. "Then maybe the army should start listening more."

Renaud grabbed the bottle of wine and stood. "Alright, I think we've overstayed our welcome."

As they left the mess, stepping into the cool night air, Renaud shook his head. "You really love making friends, don't you?"

Moreau exhaled. "It's not about friends. It's about making sure they know they can't just talk like that unchallenged."

Renaud chuckled. "Well, mission accomplished. You've got Girard's attention. And probably Clément's too, by now."

Moreau looked up at the stars. "Let them watch. I'm not stopping."

Renaud sighed, lighting another cigarette. "Merde. You really are a stubborn bastard, you know that?"

Moreau just smiled.

Inside the mess, the drinking continued, the laughter resumed.

But the fault lines were showing.

The army wasn't just divided between old and new.

It was divided between those who believed France could change and those who clung desperately to the past.

And Moreau knew that when the time came, it wouldn't just be the enemy they had to fight.

It would be the men standing beside them.