Major Moreau stood on what had once been the leftmost trench line.
He stared at a body near his feet black fatigues, no insignia, no name tag.
Just a boy, maybe twenty, maybe less.
Gloved hands.
Pale neck.
A single, clean bullet wound through the chest.
Behind him, Rousseau's boots crunched through the frost, clipboard under one arm, a cigarette bent between his lips.
He paused, surveyed the body, then exhaled slow.
"That makes seventy-two confirmed enemy corpses," he muttered. "Plenty more in the brush. Some of 'em crawled off before dying."
Moreau didn't answer right away.
His gaze didn't leave the corpse.
"Uniforms?" he asked finally.
