The mont Philippe Pétain began procuring weapons from across the Atlantic, the balance of power within fractured France began to shift in his favor. His soldiers were well-ard, adequately trained, and prepared to defend what remained under his control.
Though Pétain's regi acquired Arican small arms, France's military doctrine remained woefully outdated. Few armored cars or early tank models had survived the Great War, and even fewer were still operable in 1919—three years into the civil war.
Stagnant trench warfare had returned as the norm, with only the faintest signs of modern stormtrooper tactics beginning to develop in the labyrinthine battlefields. In the vacuum left by the Republic's collapse, various warlords had risen. Among them, two figures stood dominant in the east: Charles de Gaulle and Philippe Pétain.
Pétain had carved out early success in his stronghold, leveraging his influence to expand both industrial output and economic control. He had spent years training the next generation—boys too young to fight in the Great War but now reaching military age—arming them with the best weapons he could afford, mostly in bulk from the United States.
But now, war had reached his southern frontier. His young army, still green and unbloodied, found itself pitted against the hardened veterans of the Gallian Militia.
At first, they held. The newly acquired M2 .50 caliber Browning machine guns, primitive but devastating in their early form, tore through the thin armor of de Gaulle's dwindling vehicle corps. Yet their static deploynt made them easy targets for return fire and artillery. One by one, those nests were annihilated in coordinated strikes.
anwhile, the young infantryn—ard with Springfield 1903s, supported by M1918 BARs and water-cooled M1917 Brownings—were swiftly outmaneuvered. De Gaulle's troops, veterans of trench raids and urban warfare, slipped through the lines and into close quarters.
With pistols and trench clubs, they butchered Pétain's conscripts in the confusion. The line collapsed. The southern front broke. As panicked reinforcents rushed to contain the breach, Pétain stood in his capital, fuming at the latest report.
"Unbelievable! I invested everything in this army—and they routed in their first real battle? With every advantage in firepower?! Cowards! This is the kind of shit that makes wonder if France was ever worth saving!"
I could have embezzled taxpayer dollars and fled to Morrocco like the rest of the governnt that had any sense when things were getting bad in 1915. But no! I decided to stay and bleed for this ss like the rest of you, and where did that get ? Right fucking here!"
His general stood in silence, eyes lowered, unwilling to draw the full weight of his fury. Pétain wasn't a wicked or petty man. In fact, he was better than most of the warlords who had arisen from the ashes of the Republic. Hence why they followed him now.
But when he was filled with righteous indignation like this mont, it was better to let him rant and rave, as it was the only way he was going to calm himself back to a reasonable state.
Luckily, just then, a courier burst into the room, carrying an unmarked envelope.
"Sir! A ssage—addressed to you personally. I don't know the sender, but the man who handed it to said... it's what you need to put de Gaulle in his place."
Pétain almost cast the courier out for insolence, but sothing in his gut moved faster than his pride. He snatched the letter and tore it open. The handwriting was impeccable. The French, flawless. But there was no na. No seal. No trace of the sender.
"I saw how your forces collapsed beneath the enemy's mobility. Despite the firepower you gave them, they failed to hold a fortified line. It's not their fault. You gave them the wrong weapon.
It would be wise to every soldier with a BAR. Train them to fire at chest height, short bursts only. You'll thank later. Oh—and do sothing about the weight of that thing, will you?"*
No na. No signature. No return address.
Pétain stared at it for a long ti. Was it a joke? A warning? Or divine intervention? He couldn't tell. But it was in his hands now.
anwhile, in Tyrol, Bruno von Zehntner sat in his office, reviewing aerial photos from German intelligence and field reports smuggled out by agents embedded within France's fractured militias.
Of all the factions, Pétain's showed the most potential—but they were fighting a war that had already beco obsolete. Their doctrine belonged to a dead generation. Their soldiers were children. And their enemies—de Gaulle's hardened Gallian Militia—were wolves bred from three years of civil conflict and the Great War before it.
Bruno had seen this kind of story before. He saw the propaganda leaflets, and knew instantly by the way it depicted him what de Gaulle was doing: France needed a devil — a monster to unify against. And that just happened to be Bruno. It's not like he blad de Gaulle for this.
But, if this were allowed to continue, the next war would be inevitable. Another generation of boys dead for nothing. Bruno, now a man who had grown to enjoy the peace he'd purchased with blood, had no desire to march back into France. Not again. Not if it could be avoided.
But the treaty he had signed forbade any German intervention in French affairs. That was the price of victory: restraint. So he did what he could. Anonymous letters. Suggestions. Warnings. Doctrine.
He sipped his coffee and looked over the latest photographs. So of Pétain's battalions had been outfitted per his suggestion—BARs in every hand, training focused on fire discipline and suppression through precision. But only a few.
Not the whole army. Not yet. Bruno sighed.
"Let's see if he learns the easy way... or the hard way."
It would not be long before he learned the results of his covert support. The Gallian Militia was on the march now that it had slled the scent of blood, and such a force could only be repelled via intense violence.
All Bruno could do now was wait—either for doctrine to save the day, or for more boys to die before anyone listened.
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