Strategists of the Lost Republic

April 1934, Verdun, France

The first thing he felt was pain. A dull, insistent pressure in his skull, as if a vise were squeezing his head.

His body ached like he had been thrown into a trench and left for dead..

His breath came slow and ragged, his mind groggy and disoriented.

Then came the smell, a strange mix of cigarette smoke, damp wool, gun oil, and leather.

Where the hell am I?

His eyes fluttered open. This was not his apartment.

Not his bed.

The ceiling was old and wooden, the walls made of rough stone.

The window on the far side of the room had iron bars over it.

A military-style cot creaked as he tried to move.

A bolt of panic shot through his chest. This wasn't normal.

He forced himself up, ignoring the nausea rolling through him.

The room was small spartan and utilitarian. A wooden chair, a metal helmet resting on a desk cluttered with maps and documents, and a long rifle propped against the wall.

His eyes locked onto a uniform draped over the back of the chair.

Dark blue wool. Gold epaulettes. Military insignia.

His hands trembled as he reached for the papers stacked neatly on the desk.

His vision swam for a moment, then focused.

A military identification card.

His fingers tightened around the thick paper, his heart pounding.

The name at the top made his breath hitch.

"Capitaine Étienne Moreau, 2ème Division Blindée, Armée Française."

His own name. His own handwriting on the documents. But the date...

"Avril 1934."

His fingers went cold. April 1934.

That wasn't possible.

He had gone to sleep in 2025. His last memory was… what?

He tried to recall the details.

He wasn't a soldier anymore.

He had been a military historian, a professor at the École Militaire, a researcher specializing in World War II strategy.

He had spent his life studying wars, dissecting battle plans, writing books on the failures of the French High Command in 1940.

He remembered debating colleagues about how France could have prevented its collapse, about how its military doctrine was outdated, about how its leadership was blind to modern warfare.

Then he remembered the accident.

A dark street.

Rain-slick asphalt.

The sudden flash of headlights.

The force of impact.

And then—this.

His breath hitched.

He wasn't in a dream.

He wasn't hallucinating. Somehow, someway he had woken up in 1934.

His reflection in the small, cracked mirror above the desk made his blood run cold.

The face staring back at him was his, but not quite.

Younger. Less worn. No lines of age, no graying hair.

He reached up and ran a hand over his jaw clean-shaven.

His fingers brushed against the smooth fabric of a French officer's uniform.

This is real.

The room suddenly shook with the slam of a door.

"Moreau! Putain, are you still asleep?"

A rough voice, thick with a Parisian accent, snapped him from his daze.

He turned sharply, his instincts kicking in, his body moving before his mind could process it.

A man stepped into the room broad-shouldered, dark-haired, his uniform slightly disheveled.

A cigarette dangled from his lips, and he was holding a folder under one arm.

The sight of him triggered a memory that wasn't his own.

Pierre Renaud.

Lieutenant Pierre Renaud, his second-in-command.

His mind started working.

Memories that weren't his own flooded his brain drinking together, arguing about tactics, enduring brutal winter exercises.

Renaud frowned. "You look like shit," he muttered, stepping inside. "Late night at the officers' mess? Or are you finally realizing you shouldn't have joined the cavalry, mon ami?"

He forced himself to stay calm. "Just a headache," he said, keeping his voice steady.

Renaud snorted, tossing the folder onto the desk. "Merde, you're getting old."

He let out a slow breath, fingers tightening around the edge of the desk.

He needed to think, needed to understand his situation before he made a mistake.

"Where are we stationed right now?" he asked carefully.

Renaud raised an eyebrow. "Verdun," he said. "Unless you've been transferred to Paris overnight and forgot to tell me."

Verdun. The site of one of the deadliest battles of World War I.

A symbol of French resilience.

And in 1934, a strategic outpost near the Maginot Line.

His mind raced.

In six years, the German Army would bypass Verdun entirely, smashing through the Ardennes and cutting through France's defenses like a knife through butter.

"What's the briefing about?" he asked, flipping open the folder.

Renaud exhaled smoke, leaning against the doorframe. "Routine drill reports. Colonel Perrin wants an update on our tank exercises."

His pulse quickened. Tank exercises.

In 1934, France had tanks but they didn't know how to use them properly.

The 2nd Armored Division was one of the few experimenting with mechanized warfare, but the High Command still viewed tanks as infantry support weapons, not independent strike forces.

This was his chance.

"You seem interested all of a sudden," Renaud observed, crossing his arms.

He tapped a finger against the desk. "I've been thinking," he said slowly, testing the waters.

"We should start training our crews differently. Less like artillery units, more like maneuverable strike forces."

Renaud gave him a strange look. "Merde, you sound like De Gaulle."

His breath caught.

De Gaulle.

In 1934, Charles de Gaulle was a relatively unknown officer, but he was already advocating for modern armored warfare.

The French High Command ignored him.

If he could get people to listen earlier, maybe just maybe he could change things.

Renaud sighed. "Look, you know how Perrin is. He'll have our heads if we try to shake things up too much."

He met Renaud's gaze. "And what if Perrin's wrong?"

Renaud blinked. "What?"

He straightened his uniform, ignoring the pounding in his skull. "What if everything we know about modern warfare is wrong?"

Renaud stared at him for a long moment.

Then he shook his head with a chuckle.

"Merde. Maybe that headache knocked something loose in your brain."

He glanced at his watch. "Come on, Capitaine. If we're late, Perrin will make us clean the tank garages for a week."

He nodded and followed him out into the crisp morning air.

One step at a time. One battle at a time.

If he played this right, maybe France wouldn't have to fall in 1940.

Maybe he could rewrite history.