Chapter Content
Far from Europe, deep in the choking green of the African jungle, beneath the suffocating humidity and the relentless, warm rain of August, a column of dark skinned men forced its way forward as if the land itself were something to be beaten into submission.
They did not march in lines, because the jungle did not permit lines, but instead stretched out in a long, uneven file that twisted through mud, roots, and narrow trails carved more by stubborn repetition than by any deliberate design. Boots and bare feet alike sank into the red earth and pulled free again with wet, sucking sounds, every step a small battle against the ground.
They wore sand coloured uniforms that had long since lost they're color, the cloth darkened by rain and sweat until it clung to their bodies like a second skin, while red fez caps sat upon their heads, tassels limp and stained. Rifles rested across shoulders or hung at their sides, wood blackened by moisture, metal oiled yet never fully free of the creeping touch of rust. Ammunition pouches bulged at their belts, leather swollen and dark, while packs pressed against their backs, filled with whatever little they needed to keep moving and not die.
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