April 6, 1935.
Reims Sector.
Northern France
The wind howled across the flat open field, dragging waves of mud behind it.
Canvas tents flapped and snapped like warning flags.
The motor pool now has turned into pit of churned earth and broken rocks.
Three tanks sat motionless, half-covered in tarps.
The antenna for the new radio relay leaned to one side, frozen stiff in the dirt.
Moreau stood with a clipboard in hand, staring up at the sky.
"You're sure they're coming?" asked Chauvet, squinting through the morning haze.
"They're late," Moreau replied, checking his watch. "But they're coming."
Just then, a distant engine rang across the sky.
Not a roar.
A whine.
A whining cough, like an old man being dragged from his bed.
Imagine a 90 year old man, getting up from his bed after a deep sleep with a deep constant cough.
Something you know is broken but still working somehow.
