Chapter Content
Far from the choking jungles of the south, the land opened wide and unforgiving, the trees thinning until they vanished altogether, giving way to long, wind-swept plains where dry grass bent low beneath the sun and the breath of the desert crept ever closer, pale dunes shimmering in the far distance like the edge of another world. The air here did not suffocate—it pressed, dry and endless, and across that openness, war moved.
Columns of French colonial troops advanced in measured order, their lines stretched long across the plain, dark blue tunics and red trousers dulled by dust, red fezzes hanging heavy beneath the heat.
These were the Tirailleurs Sénégalais, black African soldiers in French service, rifles resting upon their shoulders, ammunition belts tight across their waists. They were paid, yes—but not well by European standards, only a handful of francs a month, the sort of coin that would vanish in a week in Paris; yet here, in Africa, where markets were smaller and needs were simpler, it was enough to seem fair, even tempting, and many among them did not know the measure of what they were given, only that it fed them, clothed them, and placed a rifle in their hands. So they marched, believing themselves soldiers of a great empire.
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