Aubagne, France
Natalie woke up at four, sweating feverishly. She rolled her aching shoulders and groaned. She slowly swung her legs out of the bunk bed and laboriously pulled on her pants. Her entire body throbbed; it felt like every sinew in her body was about to tear apart. She dressed with difficulty, tossed her meager belongings into her backpack, and then made her way to the men’s compound.
The lights were already on. She knocked on the door. “Is everybody decent?”
She was answered with a variety of grumbles and groans and a couple of suggestive remarks. Some men chuckled. She went inside and gazed around the sleeping quarters. Dirty uniforms and socks were tossed on the ground, and bloody bandages that had been ripped off and rolled into balls lay strewn across the floor.
“C’mon, we need to get this place tidied up. We have inspection in less than an hour, and I’m not willing to be drilled to the edge of my life because you men were living like a herd of pigs.”
“When did Laiveaux leave and appoint you the new supreme commander?” one of the men mumbled, his arm over his brow.
Natalie sauntered to him and stood beside his bed, her hands on her hips. “How are you feeling, Latorre?”
“Swell,” he mumbled.
She touched his brow. He was burning up. She removed a plastic tub containing her secret sauce. They weren’t allowed any pain medication, so she had manufactured a concoction containing camphor leaves, soap, vinegar, and cooking oil. “Sit up,” she ordered. He held out a hand and she pulled him up, then she slopped some of the mixture onto his shoulders and massaged it into his muscles.
“Thanks, Florence Nightingale,” he groaned as she worked the concoction into his muscles.
She slapped his shoulder. “Done, now clean this place up.” She glanced around the room, holding the container in the air. “Who wants some?” She had made an extra batch and had enough to go around.
There were some more below-the-belt remarks, but the men stood up slowly and waddled to her, lining up to receive some of her magic potion. When she had emptied the last bit of her ointment into the final man’s hand, she picked up the clothes and folded them up, placing them on their beds. She looked around, her heart going out to the sorry bunch.
The men sat there, massaging the ointment into painful shoulders and aching calf muscles. She had lost all sense of time; the day’s toils were fading into painful weeks and months, the monotonous daily grind never-ending. Of the original two-hundred recruits, eighty were left.
It felt like the pattern would continue for the rest of her life, the daily physical grind followed by cramp-filled, feverish nights.
“OK, inspection is at 0500, you better be ready,” she said.
The men groaned, but they made up their beds.
“Drink lots of water, the next meal will be at 1500.”
“You didn’t by any chance bring some of those tasty grubs along I saw you collect in the forest?” Reg Voelkner asked, rubbing his neck.
She fished another large container from her rucksack and tossed it to him. “There’s three for each one of you.” She turned to go.
“Bryden,” Latorre called.
“Yes?”
“Thanks.”
She smiled.
“Bryden.”
“Yes, Voelkner?”
“Your hair looks pretty like that.”
She smiled and self-consciously pushed her bangs behind her ears. “Thanks.”
He smiled then stood up slowly. He glanced around the room and clapped his hands. “All right, men. You heard the lady, let’s chow and then get this place tidied up.”
Natalie exited the dormitory and pulled the door closed behind her. She rolled her shoulders, trying to loosen her stiff joints. Physically, the exertion didn’t seem to take its toll on her as severely as it did with the bigger men. Many quit after collapsing during a strenuous day. Others were admitted to sick bay, never to return again.
She realized she had a higher pain barrier than the men when it came to prolonged exertion. She was thankful to her female body, her Y chromosome aiding her tremendously.
She cared deeply for these men. They had been through many trials and tribulations together, and she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that she would be willing to sacrifice her life for them. Well, most of them, anyway.
She sauntered to the mess hall; she needed some caffeine. There always had to be an exception, didn’t there? And his name was Benedict Pascoe.
It had been another excruciating session. Men were falling like targets on the shooting range. Natalie had been spraying herself clean with a garden hose, trying to get rid of the caked mud on her boots and uniform. She was three months into her training, another month to go before being accepted as a Legionnaire, and it felt like the physical torture was intensifying on a daily basis. As she turned to leave, she noticed Pascoe standing against the fence, leering at her, scratching his balls.
“Hey, mademoiselle, I love dirty women.”
He was a short, tattooed Italian with shifty eyes topped with a unibrow. People said he joined the Legion to get away from the cops. He had apparently murdered his fiancée.
“I don’t have time for this, Pascoe. It’s been a long day and I’m tired.” She turned around, planning to ignore the loathsome dick. “Leave me alone.”
Pascoe ambled closer and put his hand on her shoulder, pulling her around to face him. “I’m only saying, if you want a good time, you only need to ask.” He cupped his sack. “Pascoe has been known to cause many a lady to die of pleasure.”
Natalie turned her back on him again. “Only dictators and schizophrenics talk about themselves in third person.”
He grabbed her neck from behind. His other hand fondled her breasts. He was quick.
“Don’t get smart with me, mademoiselle. You might end up in a—what do you say?—a compromising situation.”
“Let . . . go . . . of me,” Natalie hissed through clenched teeth, trying to pry his arm loose. He stank of onions and sweat.
“Oh, but I can think of so many nice things to do with you, mademoiselle. No one will care.” He breathed into her ear, touching it with his lips. “You shouldn’t be here, you little whore. You’re out of your depth, bad for morale.” Pascoe slid his hand down her stomach and undid her belt. “Everyone will thank me for breaking your scrawny little neck, dispatching the little temptress to the choir in the sky.”
She gasped as he tightened his grip around her neck.
She swallowed hard, stomping her heel down in the general direction of his foot, connecting on her third try. His grip slackened as he yelled out in pain, which gave her enough leverage to smack her head back into his nose. He let her go and clutched his bleeding face as she spun around to face him.
She finished him off with a kick to the groin. He crumbled into a pitiful, moaning heap.
She left him convulsing in pain. She was a big girl and she had expected this to happen sooner or later.
“You watch your back, bitch,” Pascoe shouted as she marched away.