February 26, 1935.
Reims, France.
The newspaper came bundled in rough string, a copy of Paris-Soir, laid flat across the morning mess crate outside the command tent.
Moreau didn't notice it at first.
He was hunched over a motor pool report, pencil behind his ear, red grease-pencil marks littering a chart of axle failures and ignition timing delays on the Renault ADRs.
It was shaping into a long day of repair requests and fuel rotation headaches.
Chauvet, boots mud-caked and gloves off, was the one who picked up the paper.
He glanced at the headline, blinked once, and stepped inside without ceremony.
"You'll want to read this," he said, tossing it onto the desk.
"If it's about Metz again, tell them to reroute through Troyes," Moreau muttered, not looking up.
"It's not Metz. It's Berlin."
That made him pause.
Moreau set his pencil down and pulled the string off slowly.
The front page was soaked at the corners but still legible.
And then he saw it:
