Next day was same repeat of Military Life.
Troops awake to Sergeant Chalon's voice.
"WAKE UP, YOU SACKS OF TURNIPS! IF I SEE ONE MAN STILL IN HIS COT IN TEN SECONDS, I'LL PERSONALLY FLIP THIS BARRACKS!"
Inside, men flailed.
Blankets went flying.
Boots hit the floor like grenades.
Private Faure hit the floor literally again.
"Mon dieu, is he possessed?"
Rousseau, still pulling his trousers up, muttered, "If Satan had a sergeant, it'd be Chalon."
Faure coughed, scrambling to his locker. "You think he sleeps?"
"Sleep? That man probably drinks diesel and screams at clouds."
Outside, the freezing wind did nothing to hide the sharp stink of soldiers who hadn't bathed in three days.
Chalon paced before the lineup, arms crossed like a disappointed mother, mustache twitching with disdain.
