The morning drills had ended with dull silence, not applause.
One squad had failed to breach a mock farmhouse door, their boots slipping on wet stone as they tried to swing the butt ends of their Lebel rifles against a wooden frame reinforced with old sandbags.
Another squad had frozen in the trench-clearing exercise five men in a narrow earthen corridor.
Rifles too long for the angles, knocking into each other like mismatched puppets.
One stumbled.
One cursed.
No one fired.
Moreau had watched all of it from the ridge, hands behind his back, his expression unreadable.
The wind caught his coat at the edges, flaring it like the wing of some ancient officer's cloak.
Just tired.
Predictably tired.
Chauvet trudged up the slope toward him, boots caked in sludge, clipboard in hand.
He looked irritated.
Or disappointed.
Possibly both.
"They froze again," Chauvet said.
"I saw."
"They need something better than wood and bolt."
