Chapter 32 - 32:

Words : 1340 Updated : Sep 10th, 2025

The patrol moved and this time there was no hesitation anymore. No second-guessing. Colonel Perrin's direct order had sealed that. They weren't just on patrol anymore they were investigating something that someone in High Command wanted buried. As they approached the abandoned truck, the tension in the air thickened. This time, they weren't just glancing over the scene. They were going to tear it apart, piece by piece, until they knew exactly what had happened here. Moreau gestured for the men to spread out. "Bisset, take two men. You're on the truck. Check every inch of it if there's a loose bolt, I want to know about it." Bisset nodded, motioning for two privates to follow. They climbed onto the back of the truck with the efficiency of men who had done this before, their hands moving quickly, prying up floorboards, checking the axles, feeling along the seams of the metal for anything hidden. A Young Soilder voice cut through the quiet. "Sir, over here." Moreau and Renaud turned as a solider gestured toward a disturbed patch of dirt near the edge of the clearing. It was small, subtle not a hole, not a grave, but something deliberately placed. As Moreau knelt, brushing the dirt aside, his fingers closed around a small wooden stick. It had been pressed carefully into the soil, forming a distinct cross. For a moment, there was silence. Moreau turned it over in his fingers, his pulse slowing slightly as his mind began to process. This was deliberate. Not random. Someone had placed it here for a reason. Renaud crouched beside him, frowning. "You think it's a grave marker?" Moreau shook his head. "No body. No blood. No sign of burial. This isn't a grave." He turned the stick in his fingers. "This is a message." Renaud exhaled, shifting on his heels. "What kind of message?" Moreau looked at the shape again. The cross was not religious, not a standard military marking. And then he saw it the angle. The way it leaned slightly to one side. A swastika. Or rather, half of one. His stomach turned. Someone had placed this here to be noticed. "Whoever put this here wanted us to find it," Moreau muttered. "They wanted us to know who was responsible." Renaud's jaw tightened. "Germans." Moreau didn't answer immediately. It seemed obvious, but something felt too easy about it. Renaud leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. "You're thinking the same thing, aren't you?" Moreau exhaled. "If it's a message, it's deliberate. If it's deliberate, we have to ask why." He straightened, glancing back at the tracks leading deeper into the forest. "No German unit would just leave their mark behind like this. Either they wanted us to follow, or…" "…or someone wants us to think it was them," Renaud finished. A moment of silence hung between them. Before Moreau could respond, Bisset called out from the truck. "Sir! We found something!" Both Moreau and Renaud stood immediately, moving toward the vehicle. Bisset was crouched in the driver's seat, his hand reaching under the dashboard of the truck. Moreau stepped up. "What is it?" Bisset pulled out a folded sheet of paper, wrapped in canvas cloth. "This was wedged under the panel. Whoever put it there didn't want it found easily." Moreau took it, unrolling the cloth and revealing the paper underneath. The ink was smudged, some of the words blurred by dampness, but the language was unmistakably Spanish. Renaud peered over his shoulder. His eyes narrowed. "That's not German." Moreau didn't answer immediately, scanning the message carefully. The writing was hurried, but clear enough to make out. "The shipment is secured. Final orders await at the second site. No mistakes." The moment he finished reading, silence settled over the men gathered around the truck. Bisset exhaled slowly. "Spain? What the hell does Spain have to do with this?" Moreau rolled the paper in his hands, his mind racing. He had assumed this was about Germany. The tracks, the missing patrol, the deliberately placed symbol everything pointed to a German operation. But Spain? That changed everything. Renaud ran a hand through his hair. "What second site? What shipment?" He glanced back at the crates that had been emptied from the truck. "Whatever was here, it wasn't just routine supplies. If my life was a book I would have definitely fucked the author for making this patroling so fucking annoying." Moreau folded the paper and slipped it into his coat. "We keep moving." The men readjusted, tightening formation as they pushed deeper into the trees, following the tire tracks and footprints that led away from the clearing. Their advance was slow, deliberate.. They were beyond standard patrolling now. They were hunting. The Renault R35 followed at a crawling pace. The scouts took turns advancing ahead in small bursts, checking every clearing, every small dip in the terrain before signaling the rest of the unit forward. Fifteen minutes passed. Then twenty. The deeper they went, the more unnatural the forest became. The trees here were older, thicker. The ground more uneven. Then, finally, they saw it. Through the mist, beyond a small ridge, a camp emerged. Moreau raised his fist. Halt. Sёarᴄh the nôvelFire.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality. The men froze immediately, rifles shifting to ready positions. The camp was small, no more than ten or twelve tents, arranged neatly in a half-circle around a central supply area. Moreau brought up his binoculars. The fire pit in the middle still had faint wisps of smoke curling from the embers. Someone had been here recently. But they weren't here now. Renaud adjusted his rifle. "I don't like this." Moreau didn't respond. He scanned the edges of the camp, looking for any movement, any sign of life. There was nothing. He lowered the binoculars. "We move in. Careful. No mistakes." Bisset and his scouts took the lead, moving forward in staggered formation, rifles raised. They reached the outer perimeter of the camp within a minute, sweeping through the first row of tents. Moreau and Renaud followed, stepping into the abandoned site. The closer they got, the stranger it became. Everything was in place. The crates were stacked. The fire had been left smoldering. Even personal belongings were still inside the tents. But no one was here. Moreau stepped into the largest tent. A map was still pinned to a wooden table. He ran a hand over the paper. The markings were faint, hard to make out at a glance, but they were tracking something. Renaud moved beside him. "They left in a hurry," he muttered. "But not in a panic." Moreau nodded slowly. This wasn't a retreat under fire. It was a withdrawal. A planned one. Bisset moved along the perimeter, checking the discarded supplies. "No bodies," he called out. "No bullet casings. No signs of a fight." Moreau crouched near the fire pit, sifting through the burned remains of paper and cloth. His fingers closed around something metallic, buried in the ash. A small, metal insignia. He pulled it out, turning it over in his fingers. It was German. At least, it was supposed to be. Renaud crouched beside him. "Looks real." Moreau didn't take his eyes off it. "Looks placed." Renaud exhaled. "So either the Germans were here and wanted us to know it, or someone else was here and wanted us to think the Germans were here." Moreau stared at the silent trees beyond the camp. The answer wasn't here. But it was close. He slipped the insignia into his pocket and stood. "Sergeant Bisset," he called out. "Get the men ready. We're moving." Renaud gave him a sideways glance. "You know where to go next?" Moreau exhaled, looking at the footprints leading away from the camp, deeper into the woods. "Yeah," he muttered. "We follow them."

Chapter 32 - 32:

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