The sky over Reims was rcilessly clear.
A hard blue with no clouds whuch hardens the sun ray and make it very humid.
The grass around the training ground was already packed with everything.
Word had spread like fire in dry grass.
Once again a general from the High Staff was coming.
Not a clerk, not an attaché.
A general.
Real brass.
Real weight.
Like last ti.
And not just any general Lieutenant General Dupré.
Veteran of the Eastern War, staff strategist at Strasbourg, rumored to have the ear of Galin himself.
So nas strike more harder in the ears of soilders than others.
Moreau stood at the edge of the parade ground, arms crossed, eyes on the road.
He didn't speak.
He just watched the gate like it was a loaded pistol.
"You look like a man waiting for a hurricane," de Gaulle muttered beside him.
"I'm hoping for a thunderstorm," Moreau replied. "That we can work with."
The staff car arrived five minutes early, gliding through the gate without fanfare.
No flags, no outriders.
Just a single Citroën painted matte grey, dust on the tires and two n inside.
Dupré stepped out first.
Lean.
Sharp-featured.
Impeccably pressed.
He did not look around but he scanned.
Like a hawk.
He was followed by a younger officer carrying a leather case and a folded notepad.
Moreau and de Gaulle saluted.
Dupré returned it curtly, then extended a hand.
"Major Moreau. I've read enough about you to fill a trench."
"I hope so of it was accurate," Moreau said evenly.
"We'll see," Dupré said. "And Commandant de Gaulle your reputation preceded you."
De Gaulle gave a stiff nod. "And yours ensures we won't waste your ti."
Dupré let the comnt sit, then gestured forward. "Let's see your invention that is supposed to do a revolution in French Army."
They began with the basics.
The general was shown the field layout trench systems, mock buildings, communication lines.
Soldiers moved fastly through formations as the first wave of drills began.
Dupré said nothing at first.
He simply watched.
Scrutinized each and everything with his eyes.
Moreau gave clipped comntary. "Three fireteams. Standard pattern. One equipped with Lebels. One with Chauchats. One with our new close-quarters weapon."
Dupré cut in. "The PAP."
"You've read my file."
"I read every file. That's what I'm paid for."
The first maneuver started.
Room-clearing simulation.
The rifle squad advanced with difficulty reloading behind crates, calling for cover with loud, delayed signals.
The Chauchat team moved slower its awkward weight and frequent jamming visible even from the observation perch.
Then ca the PAP squad.
They slipped through the narrow lanes like ink through paper low, tight, surgical.
Two corners, three hostiles, thirty seconds.
Short bursts, coordinated rolls, and a magazine swap smoother than a card trick.
Dupré raised an eyebrow but said nothing.
Moreau stepped closer. "That's three days of practice. No doctrine. No staff orders. Just instinct."
Dupré watched the second run without blinking. "Instinct isn't scalable."
"It is if we train it."
They moved down to the field.
Dupré wanted close inspection, no excuses, no ideal distance.
The PAP units were pulled from the crate and handed to the general and his aide.
Dupré examined the gun like a surgeon.
He checked the welds, the fit, the stock alignnt, the weight.
He chambered a dummy round and dry-fired.
"Recoil?"
"Manageable under 5-round burst. Clean reset. We're refining it," Moreau said.
Dupré's aide flipped open a notepad. "What's the production ti?"
"Two weeks for a prototype. Four months to scale if approved."
"Ammo?"
"Designed for 9mm. Easily compatible with supply," Moreau said.
"And doctrine?"
"That's still being written. By us. Every day."
Dupré said nothing, only scribbled a note.
Then ca the deeper test.
"You've shown drills," Dupré said. "Now show failure."
Moreau looked at de Gaulle.
Dupré continued, "Run them again. But this ti, no warning. Random conditions. Pressure."
Within minutes, fog barrels were ignited.
Sirens blared.
Command was sent down the line for a snap assault simulation.
The squads scrambled.
This ti, the PAP team went second.
The fog was thicker.
The line commands broke once.
But the PAPs still moved with clarity no flagging, no hesitation.
Even though there were small mishap happening with the sudden pressure and irregular pattern.
Still everything went as per plan.
One soldier dropped a magazine in the mud.
His partner covered, reloaded, and cleared two targets alone before the other rejoined him.
From the stands, Dupré murmured to his aide, "That movent was improvisation."
"Yes, sir."
"Too fluid for standard training."
"That's the point," de Gaulle said.
Dupré's eyes flicked to him. "So you want this army to think?"
"I want it to fight," de Gaulle replied.
They returned to the field tent after the drill.
Dupré stood at the map table, one hand on the corner, fingers tapping.
"This unit is unique," he said. "Unorthodox. Almost dangerous."
Moreau waited.
Dupré looked up. "But effective. And dangerous things win wars."
He turned to the aide. "Write this. Preliminary field results support extended evaluation. Recomnd controlled expansion to two platoons. Imdiate testing in live maneuver courses."
The aide scribbled.
"And this weapon," Dupré added, holding the PAP again. "It's not elegant. But it has teeth."
He handed it back.
"I'll write my report. Don't waste ti waiting."
Then he saluted.
"Gentlen. Keep building."
And with that, Dupré left.
The Citroën vanished into the dusk.
That night, Moreau sat in the ss with de Gaulle and Chauvet.
The stove burned low.
A bottle of scotch saved for a day that mattered was already half-empty.
Chauvet drank straight from the tin cup.
"Think he liked it?"
"He didn't shoot us," de Gaulle offered.
"That's promising."
Moreau poured another drink. "He didn't say yes."
"He didn't say no," Chauvet said.
"He said we have teeth," Moreau murmured.
De Gaulle raised his cup. "Then let's keep biting."
The fire crackled.
And sowhere, a general wrote a report that might change the shape of war.
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