The sun hadn't yet cleared the ridgeline when the first whistles pierced the cold air.
Private Delcourt wheezed as he ran, trying to keep pace in the column.
Around him, curses flew.
"Pick it up, Delcourt!" hissed Corporal Lemaitre beside him.
"If you fall out again, Chalon's going to skin you."
Delcourt grunted. "Tell Chalon he can...."
A shrill bellow cut across the field.
"YOU THINK THIS IS A MORNING STROLL, DELCOURT?! I'LL HAVE YOU MOPPING TANK TREADS WITH YOUR TONGUE IF YOU KEEP DRAGGING!"
Sergeant Bertrand Chalon stormed toward them, eyes sharp as bayonets.
Delcourt straightened instinctively.
Chalon paced alongside, matching them step for step. "Coordination, dammit! We fight as a unit or we die alone! You're not delivering mail you're advancing under fire!"
They passed Major Moreau, standing still amid the chaos, clipboard in hand, cigarette untouched.
His eyes missed nothing.
A Renault R35 grumbled nearby, turret swiveling as it popped blank shells at plywood.
