"Imbéciles"

The radio operator sat crouched by the side of the abandoned truck, adjusting the dials on his portable set with quick, practiced hands.

The antenna jutted up from the ground, catching the low murmur of static as he tried to tune into the command frequency.

Moreau stood nearby, arms crossed, his face unreadable as he watched the operator work.

The entire patrol had spread out into defensive positions around the clearing, eyes constantly scanning the thick tree line.

They were deep in the woods now, far enough that if something went wrong, help would not arrive in time.

"Transmission established, Capitaine," the radio operator finally said, pressing the headset against his ear. "Channel secured."

Moreau took the handset from him, keeping his voice level. "Verdun Command, this is Capitaine Moreau, reconnaissance detachment assigned to Bouzonville border patrol. Do you read me?"

A pause.

Then a crackle of static.

"This is Verdun Command. Reading you, Capitaine."

Moreau exhaled slightly. "We've identified multiple signs of foreign military presence in our patrol sector. Vehicle tracks, probable armored movements, and evidence of missing personnel at the last checkpoint. Additionally, we have located an abandoned French military transport with signs of a possible skirmish. Blood on-site. No bodies recovered."

Silence.

The radio remained open.

Moreau exchanged a glance with Renaud, who stood nearby, arms resting on his rifle.

Something was wrong.

After nearly thirty minutes of waiting, of repeating their findings, of hearing vague reassurances from the other end, the radio finally crackled back to life.

"Capitaine Moreau, orders from High Command. You are to return to Bouzonville outpost immediately. Do not engage. Do not investigate further. Abort patrol and report back."

Moreau blinked.

He wasn't sure he'd heard that correctly. "Verdun Command, confirm last transmission," he said slowly.

"You are ordering us to abandon an active investigation into missing French personnel and evidence of enemy presence?"

A shorter pause this time.

"Confirmed, Capitaine. Return immediately."

The line went dead.

The patrol stood in stunned silence, the only sound being the distant rustling of the wind through the trees.

The men turned to look at Moreau, confusion and disbelief etched into their faces.

"Ils sont fous?" one of the younger soldiers finally muttered. "We have missing men, blood on the ground, and they're telling us to just walk away?"

"Merde!" another soldier spat, kicking a rock into the underbrush. "They want us to pretend we didn't see anything!"

The murmuring grew louder, frustration simmering into anger.

A sergeant cursed under his breath.

Another soldier, one of the more hot-headed ones, slammed a fist into the side of the truck. "Do those bastards in Paris think we're idiots?" he growled.

"This is treason! We have to keep searching!"

Before Moreau could react, Renaud was already moving.

He grabbed the soldier by the collar and slammed him back against the truck with a bone-jarring force.

"You mind your tongue," Renaud growled, his face inches from the younger man's.

The usual smirk was gone his expression was cold, dangerous. "You're a soldier, not some café revolutionary. You don't question orders."

His grip tightened. "And you don't speak of treason. Not here. Not in front of these men. Not unless you want to end up court-martialed or worse."

The younger soldier swallowed, his initial rage giving way to the sudden realization that Renaud wasn't playing around.

He nodded stiffly, and Renaud let go, stepping back.

Renaud turned to the rest of the patrol, his voice sharp and commanding. "You all have something to say? You want to defy orders? Fine. But I promise you this if anyone disobeys the chain of command, I'll shoot you myself before Command has the chance to."

He scanned their faces, letting the words sink in. "Am I clear?"

The patrol remained silent.

The men weren't happy, but they understood.

Moreau watched the exchange unfold, keeping his face impassive.

He knew Renaud was doing what needed to be done.

Letting soldiers vent was one thing.

Letting them start talking about ignoring orders?

That was how men disappeared.

After a long pause, Renaud turned back to Moreau, his expression unreadable.

Moreau gave a small nod. "Good work."

Renaud huffed, rubbing a hand over his jaw. "Someone had to do it. You know how this works. If this talk spreads, Command will make sure it's the men not themselves who pay the price."

"They're already paying the price," Moreau muttered.

Renaud smirked bitterly. "Yeah. But they're still alive."

Moreau exhaled, rubbing his temple.

He turned away from the patrol for a moment, stepping slightly deeper into the woods where no one else could hear them.

Renaud followed without a word, walking beside him as they stared at the quiet tree line.

"Ils nous prennent pour des imbéciles," Renaud muttered under his breath.

"Because they think we are," Moreau replied. His jaw tightened. "But they're not even trying to hide it. That's what worries me."

Renaud nodded slowly, his eyes flicking back toward the abandoned truck. "This is political. Not military."

"They'd rather pretend this didn't happen than deal with it," Moreau said, voice low and bitter. "Someone doesn't want this getting out. Someone in High Command already knows what's going on here."

Renaud shook his head. "And they don't want us involved."

Silence hung between them.

For a moment, neither man spoke.

Moreau could hear the distant chatter of the men behind them, still muttering amongst themselves, still frustrated.

He took a slow breath, knowing they had no choice but to obey.

They had found something they shouldn't have, and now they were being pulled out before they could learn more.

"Let's move," Moreau finally said, straightening his shoulders.

Renaud sighed, giving the truck one last look before spitting into the dirt. "Fucking bureaucrats."

Moreau turned back to the patrol, his voice steady. "Pack up. We're heading back."

The men didn't move immediately.

Their faces said everything the frustration, the distrust, the anger bubbling beneath the surface.

But no one spoke out this time.

They were soldiers.

They followed orders.

The formation reassembled.

The Renault R35 tank turned slowly, reversing course.

The half-tracks kicked up dirt as they began their slow retreat.

Moreau took one last look at the clearing, at the trees, at the bloodstains on the truck that would never have answers.

Then he turned away.

Renaud walked beside him as they moved, his voice barely above a whisper. "You're not going to let this go, are you?"

Moreau gave a small smirk.

"No."