"Henri? Are you in there?"
A rustle sounds inside the tent, and the tent flap is hastily pulled
aside. A tired young man stands aside and salutes. Behind him a makeshift
field desk is covered with forms and papers and a long quill stuck in an
ink bottle. Chretien surveys the scene with some amusement.
"Henri, lad, you're doing a bang-up job already as our new Regimental
Adjutant! Oh and by the way," he pauses, smiling, "did I tell you that
you've officially got the job?" The young man smiles wearily but with some
satisfaction.
"Now, Henri, it's foolish of us to keep writing these damned letters when
we could just as easily get off our arses and speak in person! And that
excitable camp dog has swallowed some of your letters before I could get
them away from him. Here's the thing: it's usual to hold memorial
services for our fallen men in September, when we get back to Paris. Let's
plan on the third week of September, shall we? We'll hold the formal
services at the church on Sunday, and later in the week I'll be hosting a
more spirited soiree at my club to honor their memories and our survival -
supposing, of course, that we do survive." Seeing the young man blanch
slightly, he continues, "Which, of course, we will! Can you take care of
all the arrangements?"
"Of course, sir."
"Very well, then. And one last thing. I'm ordering you to stop this work
for the night and come for a drink of that tomato wine, chez moi,
immediately. No ifs ands or buts about it! Out you go!"
And seizing the young man by the shoulder, Chretien shepherds him out into
the night and towards the lit-up tent where a number of the regiment's
officers are already laughing louder and tilting their glasses back with
pleasure.
(OOC: CdP plans to host a party at his club in the third week of
September. All the men of Paris are cordially invited.)
