The day began, as always, with misery.
A bugle blared like a dying goose over the fog-drenched hills, followed immediately by Chalon's hoarse scream.
"ROLL OUT, YOU CABBAGE-BRAINED CRETINS! I WANT BOOTS ON STONE IN FIFTEEN SECONDS OR I'LL TURN YOUR BEDROLLS INTO BURIAL SHROUDS!"
Private Rousseau sat up, hair sticking out like a hedgehog. "Why do we even have a bugler if Chalon's lungs can reach the Maginot Line?"
Delcourt, half-asleep, muttered, "I dreamed I was back in Lyon... now I'm awake and still in hell."
The barracks erupted in chaos cursing, boot-lacing, gear-clattering madness.
Faure fell off his top bunk again, this time landing face-first on a rifle.
"Zut de merde!" he yelped, nose already red. "I think it cracked my âme!"
Corporal Lemaitre barked, "Shut up and gear up! You've got five minutes to look like soldiers and not drunk onion vendors!"
Faure sat up, nose bleeding. "I am an onion vendor!"
