Chapter 589: The Phantom Front
The room smelled of cigars, sweat, and tension.
Charles de Gaulle stood beside the long oak table, arms crossed, chin slightly raised, listening to his general staff speak in measured tones about failure.
The kind of failure that came not from incompetence; but from something they couldn’t yet define.
Something that was happening just beyond the French border, in the high passes of the Pyrenees, and deeper still in the scorched dust of Aragón.
"...losses in material are now exceeding projections by nearly 40%, mon general," said Colonel Beraud, his voice tight. "We’ve had another supply column hit near Puigcerdà. No survivors. Same signatures as the last two attacks; small caliber, coordinated ambush, then thermite on the remains."
De Gaulle said nothing.
Another general cleared his throat. "We’ve recovered German shell casings. Old ones. Marked with stamps from two decades ago. It’s deliberate misdirection."
"No." De Gaulle’s voice finally emerged. Cool. Sharp. "It’s their calling card."
He turned slowly, finally facing the gathered men in the room.
"We’re not fighting Spanish militias. Not anymore. What we face now is a ghost. The Germans have sent more than volunteers. They’ve unleashed doctrine; discipline. A generation of soldiers bred in secret, forged in colonial war, trained for proxy fights that never made the newspapers. Now they emerge like phantoms. Truly deserving of the name Werewolf...."
Silence.
General Lemoine finally spoke. "Some reports coming out of the Aragon front suggest there’s an entire mechanized division operating under ’humanitarian’ cover. Bearing the insignia of the so-called International Legion. A mix of Hungarians, Greeks, Bulgarians, Germans, Italians, Russians... and even a few Frenchmen."