The mud clung to everything.
It swallowed boots, choked engine treads, and turned every movement into a labor.
The so-called "training ground" south of Reims had once been a cavalry field now it was a graveyard for the dreams of bureaucrats and the suspension systems of obsolete tanks.
But to Moreau and de Gaulle, it was what they had, and it was where it had to begin.
A Renault FT made noise as it skidded down a shallow slope, veering off its intended line and into a ditch.
Its treads spun helplessly, flinging mud in every direction.
The driver killed the engine and kicked open the hatch with a loud clang.
Moreau stood on a low rise overlooking the drill zone, his coat speckled with dirt.
"Get the chains," he shouted down. "One more inch and that tank's part of the landscape."
Two soldiers ran forward, slipping in the muck, dragging a heavy tow chain behind them.
Beside him, de Gaulle stood with arms crossed, his expression unreadable as he watched the scene unfold.
