Far away from where torture was happening, the troops under general order took control of a small barrack and turned it into a office.
And outside of it were n waiting in the long line.
Each of them had bled, fought, lost friends in a battle they never should have fought.
They had survived, but survival wasn't victory.
They had been told this was a psychological evaluation, a way to check on their ntal state after the horrors they had endured.
Most of them believed it.
Seated behind the desk in the dimly lit room was Captain Arnaud Lefèvre.
His uniform was crisp, his face unreadable, his pen tapping against the wooden surface as he flipped through the files stacked in front of him.
Each file contained a na, a rank, and a past.
But what mattered most was their future.
On the table beside him lay two stamps.
One read TRANSFER – APPROVED with a discreet 'GOOD' written beneath it, signifying loyalty, though they would be placed elsewhere.
The other simply read UNDER INVESTIGATION.
Lefèvre adjusted his chair, cracked his knuckles, and took a slow drag of his cigarette before looking at the guard standing by the door.
"Send in the first one."
The door opened.
A soldier stepped inside.
And so it began.
Corporal Henri Toussaint walked in like a man who had lost a part of himself in the fight.
His hands trembled as he sat down, staring at the floor instead of Lefèvre.
His uniform was still stained with dried blood, though it was unclear if it was his or soone else's.
Lefèvre watched him for a mont before speaking.
"Corporal, how are you feeling?"
Henri exhaled, rubbing his face with both hands before answering.
"Like shit, sir."
Lefèvre nodded, jotting sothing down in the file. "Understandable. What happened out there wasn't sothing any soldier should have to go through."
Henri let out a bitter chuckle. "Is that what they're calling it now? 'Sothing no soldier should go through'?"
He shook his head, looking up for the first ti.
His eyes were hollow. "We fought our own, Captain. They weren't Germans. They weren't Spanish. They were ours. And we killed them. And they killed us. And for what?"
Lefèvre let the silence stretch.
Henri continued, voice cracking. "I saw my friend die right in front of . A man I trained with, drank with, covered for on duty. One second, he was there. The next, a bullet took his head clean off. And I....I was too slow. I couldn't even reach him in ti."
His hands curled into fists. "Tell , sir, is this normal? Are we supposed to just accept this and move on?"
Lefèvre took a slow breath before speaking. "No, Corporal. You're not. And no one will ask you to."
He picked up the first stamp and pressed it onto the file.
TRANSFER – APPROVED (GOOD).
"You'll be reassigned soon. Get so rest, Corporal."
Henri stared at the stamp for a mont before standing.
He saluted, though it was half-hearted, and walked out.
The door closed.
"Next."
Sergeant Alain Morel strode in like a storm barely contained.
His posture was rigid, his fists clenched at his sides, his jaw locked tight.
Lefèvre barely had ti to motion for him to sit before Morel slamd both hands on the desk.
"You want to know how I feel?" His voice was rough, burning with restrained rage. "I feel like finding the bastards who sent us into that hellhole and putting a fucking bullet between their eyes."
Lefèvre remained impassive. "And then what?"
Morel's nostrils flared. "Then maybe I'll sleep at night knowing I did what needed to be done."
"You think vengeance will help?"
Morel's lips curled into a humorless grin. "No. But it sure as hell will feel good."
Lefèvre leaned back, watching him carefully. "Would you still serve if given the choice?"
Morel hesitated for the first ti, as if the question had caught him off guard.
He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "I don't know. Maybe. Maybe not. But if I do, I want to be in the fight. I don't want to sit around taking fucking orders from cowards in Paris."
Another stamp.
TRANSFER – APPROVED (GOOD).
"You'll be given a new assignnt soon, Sergeant."
Morel scoffed but nodded. "If it gets out of here, I'll take it."
The door closed behind him.
"Next."
Private Antoine Dumas entered hesitantly, his movents stiff and uncertain.
He sat with his hands clasped together, gripping them so tightly his knuckles had turned white.
Lefèvre studied him for a mont before asking, "You survived. How do you feel?"
Dumas swallowed hard. "Lucky. And ashad."
Lefèvre raised an eyebrow. "Ashad?"
Dumas looked down at his hands. "I hesitated. When the shooting started, I froze. I watched my comrade get gunned down right in front of , and I....I just stood there."
His voice cracked, and he blinked rapidly, as if trying to push back tears. "I should've done sothing. Anything. But I just… I couldn't move."
Lefèvre exhaled through his nose. "And yet, you survived."
Dumas let out a bitter laugh. "Yeah. Real fucking victory, sir."
Lefèvre leaned forward slightly. "Do you want to keep serving?"
Dumas looked up sharply, as if the question surprised him.
His mouth opened, then closed.
Finally, he nodded. "Yes, sir. I don't want to be a coward again."
Lefèvre let out a small breath and stamped the paper.
TRANSFER – APPROVED (GOOD).
"Then you won't be. Dismissed."
Dumas hesitated, as if he wanted to say more, but simply saluted and left.
The next few soldiers ca and went, so speaking with quiet sorrow, others with barely restrained fury.
Most of them shared the sa look exhaustion, grief, and the deep-set rage of n who had been betrayed.
Then ca Sergeant Bernard Fauchet.
The mont he walked in, Lefèvre knew this one was different.
Fauchet sat down without being asked, adjusting his gloves.
"Captain," he greeted, his tone polite but devoid of warmth.
Lefèvre didn't bother with small talk. "Tell , Sergeant, how do you feel?"
Fauchet smiled faintly. "I feel like the world moves on, Captain. And we simply move with it."
Lefèvre's pen stopped for a fraction of a second before he continued writing. "And what do you think about what happened?"
Fauchet shrugged lightly. "Regrettable. But expected."
Lefèvre leaned back slightly. "Expected?"
"War is ssy. Soldiers die. It is neither new nor surprising."
Lefèvre's grip on his pen tightened slightly.
So n burned with grief.
So drowned in anger.
But n like Fauchet?
n who felt nothing?
They were the ones to watch.
Lefèvre stamped the file.
UNDER INVESTIGATION.
Fauchet glanced at the stamp but said nothing.
"Dismissed."
The door closed behind him.
Lefèvre let out a slow exhale, rubbing his temple.
He had seen rage, sorrow, guilt.
But the ones who felt nothing?
Those were the ones who were the most dangerous of all.
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