Chapter 6 - 6: The Resistance Within

Words : 1276 Updated : Sep 10th, 2025

The moment he turned to face Major Louis Clément, he knew he was in trouble. The older officer stood tall, his uniform meticulously pressed, the buttons polished to a shine. His narrow, sharp eyes studied the training field with thinly veiled disdain, arms crossed over his chest. Everything about the man radiated authority, discipline, and rigid adherence to tradition. He was the kind of officer who had spent a career ensuring that nothing changed, that doctrine was followed to the letter, and that the past dictated the future. Behind him, a pair of adjutants stood at attention, their expressions unreadable. There was no mistaking the reason for Clément's presence. He had not come here by chance he had come because of him. "Capitaine Moreau," Clément repeated, his voice clipped and cold. "Would you care to explain… this?" Moreau remained calm, meeting the Major's gaze without flinching. "A standard training exercise, sir. Approved by Colonel Perrin." His voice was measured, controlled. He already knew Clément wouldn't care about the approval. The real issue wasn't the paperwork it was what the exercise represented. Clément's nostrils flared slightly. His gaze flickered toward the still-smoking training targets, the dust cloud lingering from the Somua's rapid maneuver.. His expression hardened. "This is not how we conduct tank exercises," he said, his tone sharp with disapproval. There it was. The resistance. The old thinking. Moreau had read about men like Clément, had studied them in history books. Clément was not just an obstacle he was the embodiment of everything wrong with the French Army in 1934. A career officer, shaped by the horrors of World War I, he believed deeply in static defense, slow advances, and the primacy of infantry coordination. His entire philosophy was built on the lessons of the trenches, on the belief that caution and overwhelming firepower were the only ways to win a war. Men like Clément were not incompetent they were trapped in the past. They had seen thousands of men die in futile charges across No Man's Land, had lived through Verdun and the Somme, had learned the hard way that offense without overwhelming artillery support was suicide. To them, the only safe way to fight was through careful, methodical advances, where every unit was tightly controlled from the top down. And now, he was staring at a young captain who had just thrown all of that out the window. "I read your report, Moreau," Clément said, tapping the folder he held under one arm. "It reads like a child's fantasy." Moreau didn't react. "Sir?" Clément took a step forward, lowering his voice so only he, Lieutenant Renaud, and the officers nearby could hear. "This army is not some reckless band of cavalrymen, charging around like fools. We operate by discipline, by doctrine. We do not make up tactics on the spot." "With respect, sir," Moreau replied carefully, "we are not in 1918 anymore. If we fight the next war the same way we fought the last, we will lose." Clément's eyes flashed with irritation. "And now you're a strategist, Moreau? A captain who suddenly believes he knows more than his superiors?" Moreau held his ground. "I believe that we must evolve, sir. Or we will repeat the mistakes of the past." Clément exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "Arrogance. You and De Gaulle, think you can overturn a century of military wisdom overnight." So that was it. Clément despised De Gaulle. That explained a lot. Even now, Charles de Gaulle was already earning a reputation as an agitator, a man who challenged the army's deeply ingrained doctrines and pushed for independent armored divisions. His ideas were radical, and in the eyes of men like Clément, dangerous. Moreau had not even mentioned De Gaulle, yet his own advocacy for mechanized warfare was enough to brand him as part of the same problem. The real conflict here was bigger than Clément or even Perrin. It was about how the French Army itself was structured. Command flowed strictly from the top down. Officers were expected to obey orders, not innovate. Tanks were considered support weapons, never meant to act independently. The Maginot Line and well-positioned artillery were seen as the ultimate solution to another German invasion, and any talk of maneuver warfare was dismissed as reckless and unnecessary. Many high-ranking officers were deeply conservative, seeing change as a threat to their authority. De Gaulle was one of the few voices advocating for mechanized warfare, and he was already facing resistance from the High Command. Now, Clément saw Moreau as an extension of that ideology. Clément took another step closer, his voice dropping to a quiet but deadly tone. "Listen to me, Moreau," he said, "and listen well. This army does not belong to you. You are not a reformer, you are not a revolutionary, and you are certainly not a general." His tone hardened. "You will follow the doctrine laid down by your superiors. You will cease this reckless obsession with tank warfare, and you will remember that you are a soldier, not a theorist." Silence hung between them. Renaud shifted uneasily beside him. The other officers nearby were watching intently, waiting to see how Moreau would respond. Moreau kept his expression unreadable. He knew that one wrong word could give Clément exactly what he wanted an excuse to have him reassigned, transferred, or worse. "Of course, sir," he said finally, his voice calm. Clément studied him for a moment longer. Then, slowly, he straightened. "Good." He turned to leave but stopped just before stepping away. He glanced back over his shoulder. "Oh, and Moreau?" Moreau met his gaze. "Yes, sir?" Clément's expression remained neutral, but his voice was like ice. "I will be watching you." With that, he strode away, his adjutants falling into step behind him. The moment Clément was out of earshot, Renaud let out a long whistle. "Well," he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. "I'd say you made an enemy today." Moreau didn't reply immediately. He was still thinking, still processing the encounter. Clément had made his position clear he would not tolerate deviation. But the major was not a fool. He would not act in anger. He would wait, observe, and then strike when Moreau was most vulnerable. Renaud exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "I don't know if you're brave or just insane." "Probably both," Moreau said with a smirk, though there was little humor in it. Renaud chuckled, but his tone turned serious again. "Clément is dangerous. He's got pull in Paris. If he wants you gone, it won't take much. One bad report, one accusation of recklessness, and you'll be on the next transport to a dead-end post in Algeria." "I know," Moreau admitted. They walked in silence for a moment before Renaud sighed. "Merde. I guess we just have to be smart about this, don't we?" seaʀᴄh thё nôvelFire.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality. Moreau gave a small smile. "That's the plan." Renaud smirked. "Then I'd better make sure you don't get yourself killed before you even get to the war." They both turned back toward the tanks, the smell of oil and steel still thick in the air. The Somua sat motionless now, an instrument of war waiting for the right battlefield. This was just the beginning. Clément was the first enemy, but not the last. If they wanted to change the army, they had to fight for it. And fight they would.

Chapter 6 - 6: The Resistance Within

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