The Sanglier Mk I had moved, had climbed, and had roared.
Now, it needed to fight.
The Birth of a Doctrine
The Leclerc Works buzzed with new energy. Word of Emil's presentation in Paris had spread faster than orders from the Ministry. By the time he returned, two telegrams awaited him:
One from Colonel Varin: "Approved for field demonstration. Combat scenario. Live fire."
And one from the Directorate of Armament Logistics: "Produce operational crew. Demonstrate mobility and coordination. Include doctrinal proposal."
Henriette read the second one aloud and narrowed her eyes. "They want you to invent a new branch of the army."
"Good," Emil said. "Because that's exactly what I'm doing."
Purpose Beyond Metal
The Sanglier was no longer just a prototype—it was a strategic philosophy. Emil knew what tanks would become: force multipliers, trench-breakers, the backbone of mobile warfare. But in 1914, generals still dreamed in cavalry charges and bayonet glories.
He needed soldiers who could think in steel and range, not sabers and grit.
"We're forming a crew for the Sanglier," he told Bruno and Vera. "Five men per machine. One commander. One gunner. One driver. One engineer. One loader."
Bruno scratched his head. "You sure five's enough?"
"The British use eight. We'll use five. Efficiency over bulk. Speed over comfort."
Vera looked up from her notes. "And what will this new unit be called?"
Emil smiled.
"The Sanglier Division."
The First Recruits
Recruitment began quietly. Posters were printed and sent to regional barracks with Varin's seal:
"Volunteers Wanted – For a New Weapon of War. Courage Required. Imagination Rewarded."
They arrived one by one.
Antoine Leclerc – A former artillery sergeant with a busted leg and sharp instincts. He limped but could sight a target at 600 meters.
Pascal Moreau – A mechanic's son who'd served with tractors in the Vosges. Quick hands, quicker temper.
Émile Renard – A former cavalryman who'd been demoted for disobeying a charge order. The irony amused him.
Louis Marchand – A quiet Alsatian engineer who spoke little but fixed everything.
And last, Camille Duret – A boy of barely 19 with coal smudges on his face and dreams too big for his boots.
They stood at attention in the yard as Emil addressed them.
"You're not infantry. You're not cavalry. You're something new. Something terrifying. You're the first tank crew in France. And you're going to show the world what that means."
The Sanglier Mk II
Work on the next iteration of the machine had already begun. The Sanglier Mk II addressed the first model's weaknesses: better turret traverse, reinforced engine mounts, sloped frontal armor, and a standardized weapons mount compatible with both 37mm cannons and Hotchkiss machine guns.
Bruno, once skeptical, now defended every bolt like a holy relic.
"This one's not just a mule," he said. "She's a goddamn bull."
Vera dubbed the new vehicle "Le Jugement"—Judgment.
Emil approved the name.
"Because when it rolls over that horizon, judgment follows."
Training the Iron Vanguard
The next challenge was training.
Every evening, the new recruits ran drills—turret rotations, drive simulations, emergency engine repairs, even mock trench scenarios constructed in the far yard. Emil personally oversaw each session.
One night, as Antoine fumbled with the crank inside the Mk II, Emil stepped in.
"You're not just pushing a button. You're managing weight transfer, torque memory, and elevation ratio. You don't aim the gun. You aim the tank."
Antoine grinned. "Never aimed a horse like this."
Pascal, crouched beside the engine, chuckled. "This horse breathes fire."
The Man from Schneider
But not all visitors brought encouragement.
A week into training, a black coach arrived at Leclerc Works bearing a government seal. Out stepped a tall, broad-shouldered man with immaculately polished boots and a cane that wasn't for walking.
"Engineer Dufort," he said. "I am Jacques Delmare, representing Schneider & Cie."
Henriette's expression darkened immediately. Schneider was one of the largest industrial giants in France—and a direct rival.
"We're aware of your... armored experiment," Delmare said with faint distaste. "And we're here to offer you a buyout."
Emil blinked. "You want to purchase the Sanglier?"
"No. We want to purchase you. Or at least your designs. France doesn't need a boutique forge reinventing warfare. It needs scalability. Political oversight. And experienced hands."
Emil stepped forward.
"You've had forty years of 'experienced hands.' And they've led us into trenches filled with blood. I'm not selling you a damn thing."
Delmare smiled, not offended. "Then you'd best pray it doesn't fail."
A Doctrine Written in Grease
Later that night, Emil drafted what would become one of the most important internal documents in modern military history:
"Operational Doctrine for Armored Engagements – Sanglier Unit"
It outlined:
Combined arms support coordination
Breakthrough tactics along fixed trench lines
Flanking maneuver principles using multiple tanks
Rapid redeployment based on modular repairs
Henriette reviewed it with a glass of brandy. "This reads like a prophecy."
"No," Emil said. "It's a warning. Because once we win a single battle, everyone will want their own Sanglier."
The Cost of Independence
Money remained a shadow over every success. Vera informed Emil quietly that the Directorate had begun negotiating alternate tank contracts—with Schneider.
"They want to hedge their bets," she said.
"Let them," Emil replied. "We'll win in the field, not the boardroom."
Still, Henriette warned him that payroll was stretched thin. "We need at least a short-term contract from Varin," she said.
Emil agreed—and sent a formal request for combat deployment.
Letters from the Line
Meanwhile, soldiers at the Marne sent word through unofficial channels:
"We've seen Germans with mobile guns. They move behind wire faster than our cannons can turn. Something has to change."
One letter, unsigned, ended simply:
"If you truly have a machine that walks over war—bring it soon."