Reincarnated: Vive La France-Chapter 200: “To cuisine militaire keeping morale low since Napoleon.”

Chapter 200: “To cuisine militaire keeping morale low since Napoleon.”

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!"

Outside thirty-five half-dressed, half-awake soldiers shivered under the eye of Chalon.

"You smell like piss and fear!" he shouted, pacing in front of them. "I want you sweating out wine by breakfast! Rousseau wipe that smile or I’ll paint it off with my boot!"

Rousseau grinned wider.

Chalon turned to Lemaitre. "Drill."

Lemaitre stepped forward. "Form up! We’re starting with the assault course, then trench bounding, then suppressive fire drills. If you don’t throw up by lunch, you’re doing it wrong!"

Groans all around.

Faure whispered to Delcourt, "We’re being trained by lunatics."

"Lunatics with tanks."

"That’s worse."

The obstacle course was already a swamp.

Mud swallowed boots like hungry mouths.

Delcourt got halfway up the timber wall before a misjudged push from behind sent him flying into the muck.

A cheer went up.

"Delcourt’s invented flight!"

"He soared like a wounded goose!"

Delcourt, caked in mud, sat up and shouted, "Allez tous vous faire foutre!"

Faure landed beside him seconds later. "At least it’s warm!"

Across the field, Lemaitre shouted, "Less playing in shit! Get moving!"

Private Girard reached the monkey bars, swinging with grim determination until his belt snagged on a bolt and yanked his trousers halfway down.

"Mon Dieu!" he squealed, flailing mid-air like a fish on a hook.

Rousseau howled with laughter. "Hide the sausage, Girard!"

Girard dropped, face purple. "That bar assaulted me!"

"Report it to the Geneva Convention!"

Chalon didn’t flinch. "Pull your pants up and your head out of your ass. NEXT!"

Later, during trench bounding drills, Rousseau was picked to demonstrate.

"Cover to cover!" shouted Lemaitre.

Rousseau took off like a rabbit, dashing low across the simulated battlefield... and tripped directly into a water-filled shell hole.

Splash.

From the trench, Faure called, "That’s advanced infiltration technique!"

"Water infiltration!"

"Noyade tactique!"

Rousseau stood up, soaked and sputtering. "This army is a fever dream."

Lemaitre sighed. "You’ll drown before the Germans even see you."

Lunch was stewed lentils and gray meat of unknown origin.

The men sat in mud-caked uniforms, steaming bowls in lap, clustered like wolves in a fog.

Faure poked his meat with a spoon. "Is this... animal?"

Delcourt sniffed it. "Smells like shoe leather had a baby with despair."

Girard took a defiant bite. "Still better than my wife’s cooking."

Rousseau raised his spoon in mock salute. "To cuisine militaire keeping morale low since Napoleon."

Someone yelled across the mess: "Did anyone else find a button in their soup?!"

"Better than a finger!"

In the afternoon, they moved to the live-fire range.

Marcelle was already there, lecturing an unfortunate gunner.

"Look at this barrel. FILTHY. You don’t clean your PAP, it’ll jam mid-sprint and you’ll be using it as a club!"

Rousseau elbowed Faure. "You hear the one about the guy who tried to fire a jammed PAP and blew out his eardrums?"

"That’s not a story, that was you, two weeks ago."

"Oh yeah."

The drill began.

"FIRE!"

PAPs shot.

M36-Rs thundered.

Delcourt’s weapon jammed.

Again.

Marcelle groaned. "You’re cursed."

Delcourt looked up. "Do we have a priest? I need an exorcism."

Faure shouted from three lanes down, "Dunk it in wine! It works for everything else in France!"

Behind the lines, two recruits Benoit and Jules were cleaning a jammed R35.

Jules tapped the side of the turret.

"Think this thing could take on a Panzer III?"

Benoit snorted. "This thing can barely take a hill."

"I heard Major Moreau once parked one on a German staff car. Just drove right over it."

"He probably yelled it into submission first."

"He ever talk to you?"

"No. I think if he looks directly at you, your lifespan shortens."

In the evening, after weapons checks, showers (for the lucky), and another meal of gray stew, the men sat on crates, passing around a harmonica and illicit wine hidden in canteens.

Lemaitre scowled but let it slide.

"Alright," said Rousseau, warming to the buzz, "best Moreau story. Go."

Delcourt raised a hand. "Okay Barcelona. 1936. He walks alone into a fascist checkpoint with nothing but a trench knife and a bottle of absinthe."

"Wrong," said Faure. "It was Toledo. And it was a sabre. He challenged their commander to single combat and then made him dig his own grave."

"Are we sure Moreau’s even real?" asked Jules. "He might just be a government psyop."

"Whatever he is," muttered Delcourt, "he scares the piss out of me."

"Ssshhh!" whispered Girard. "He walks at night, you know. In the fog. Cigarette lit. Judging."

A heavy silence fell.

Then Rousseau belched loudly. "I’d still rather share a foxhole with him than Chalon."

Chalon, who had just walked up, growled, "That can be arranged, Rousseau."

The crate circle exploded into laughter as Rousseau scrambled to attention.

In the barracks, lights dimmed. Men snored, talked in half-sleep, and someone farted thunderously.

"Who the hell.....!?"

"Rations fighting back."

"Chemical warfare!"

Delcourt rolled over. "One more day down."

Faure whispered from his bunk, "Only nine hundred more ’til retirement."

Someone threw a boot.

"Shut up!"

"Goodnight, assholes."

"Bonne nuit, connards."

Silence.

Then, faintly, outside in the cold.

"MOVE YOUR ASSES! SLEEP FASTER!"

Groans echoed.

"Mon Dieu..."