On May 1st, or Labour Day, the French celebrate "Lily of the Valley Day," when people exchange sprigs of the flower with loved ones to wish them good fortune.
(Note: The tradition of giving lilies on May 1st in France dates back to 1561, when King Charles IX received a lily, symbolizing good luck. The custom has been popular in France ever since.)
A holiday was out of the question for soldiers in warti. During the Great War, holidays ant even more grueling and intense combat tasks. This was the consequence of the infamous "Christmas Truce." After that incident, high-ranking officers feared the n on both sides might take any excuse to relax their hatred toward each other, so holiday ceasefires were replaced by fierce shelling and attacks to keep soldiers in a state of relentless tension and enmity.
The 105th Infantry Regint, based in Paris, was spared from such hostilities. Though they didn't get a holiday, they were overwheld with countless lilies of the valley. In every color imaginable—white, purple, blue—the flowers hung from the barracks, filling the air with a delicate fragrance.
Charles received lilies on a grander scale than most. While others received bouquets and sprigs, Charles received truckloads. Couriers and aides quickly grew overwheld, so they enlisted Laurent and his truck, calling out to the crowd, "Ladies and gentlen, please place any lilies for the Brigadier in the truck, and we'll ensure he receives them." Even so, one truck wasn't enough—another truckload arrived, and then another.
Adrien initially tried to place the flowers in the lobby, but soon realized it would leave no room to walk. Ultimately, they were displayed along the walkway leading to the headquarters building. Charles surveyed the display with a sigh; there were too many notes attached to each bouquet, each carrying a different ssage of goodwill, and reading them all would likely take an entire day. Faced with this, Charles would have preferred to review telegrams or go over supply lists.
However, that morning, Charles wasn't in his office as usual. He was taking a leisurely stroll around the training grounds with his guards. Charles considered it a rare pleasure to walk under the warm sunlight in his clean uniform, chest held high, free from worries about enemy gunfire or artillery shells.
Suddenly, there was a loud bang.
The gunshot startled Charles, and he instinctively ducked, while his guard imdiately stepped forward, gun at the ready. The regint had been busy training frontline troops on gas mask use, so no live fire drills had been scheduled recently. Even if there had been, the firing wouldn't co as sporadic single shots.
"Bang! Bang!" Another shot, followed by cheers and applause from the soldiers.
Adrien hurriedly approached to investigate, then returned with a grin. "General, they're pigeon shooting! It's Sergeant Dominique against Billy!"
"Pigeon shooting?" Charles raised an eyebrow, puzzled, though he was intrigued by the opponents.
Adrien explained that the "instructor" was Sergeant Dominique, who could match Billy in marksmanship. Charles was equally curious to see who would co out on top.
Approaching the firing range, Charles found it crowded with soldiers. Dominique and Billy stood at either end, holding their rifles steady, aiming at the sky.
Suddenly, two pigeons were released, flapping wildly as they tried to soar to freedom.
"Bang! Bang!"
Two simultaneous shots, and both pigeons fell to the ground.
The soldiers burst into cheers again, so clenching their fists in excitent, while others waved them like gamblers making a bet.
Charles soon learned that this wasn't a re friendly match but part of a betting pool. At the ti, both rural and urban communities across Europe and the U.S. were fond of pigeon shooting, treating it much like horse racing, with money riding on their favorite shooters.
(Note: This was actually an Olympic shooting sport in the early Gas, using live pigeons until later replaced with clay targets.)
"Bang! Bang! Bang!"
After a series of shots, the final score saw Dominique hit eight pigeons, just shy of Billy's nine. Both n had perford outstandingly. From a distance of over two hundred ters, using rifles, to hit even eight or nine pigeons out of ten was sothing only sharpshooters could accomplish.
As the crowd dispersed, Dominique and Billy shook hands, then sat on the benches by the range, looking lost in thought.
"What's on your mind?" Charles asked, taking a seat beside Dominique.
Recognizing Charles, Dominique sighed, shaking his head. "I should've done better, but…"
"I know," Charles nodded.
"I don't understand it," Dominique replied, a hint of frustration in his eyes.
"I know," Charles repeated.
Dominique looked at him, puzzled. "You know?"
"It's ntal discipline, Dominique," Charles said. "Your marksmanship is every bit as good as Billy's, but Billy is a hunter—he trained his aim on live targets, shooting kangaroos in the wild, even facing enemies on the battlefield."
Dominique imdiately understood. "While I've spent most of my ti shooting at fixed, lifeless targets. I've rarely used live pigeons in training, so I haven't been desensitized to the blood or the killing."
Charles humd in agreent and nodded toward the soldiers. "And then, there's also the setting."
Dominique gave a slight nod in acknowledgnt.
The surroundings had also affected his performance. He was used to the indoor firing range, while here he was surrounded by rugged soldiers with fierce, battle-hardened eyes. This was Billy's territory.
Muttering to himself, Dominique said, "Sounds like I should train on the battlefield then."
"Is that what you think?" Charles asked.
This didn't surprise Charles. The last ti they spoke, in the Ritz Hotel restaurant, Charles had noticed Dominique's curiosity about the battlefield. Anyone obsessed with firearms would naturally be drawn to the idea of putting their skills to the test, no matter the risks involved.
"Yes!" Dominique answered, though his eyes held a hint of hesitation.
"You're not well-suited for the battlefield," Charles asserted.
"No, you can't be sure of that," Dominique protested.
But Charles repeated firmly, "I can be sure."
Dominique's weapon wasn't ant to kill. Even shooting pigeons, he looked pained and hesitant. Charles had seen him hesitate, biting his lip when putting a wounded pigeon out of its misery with a finishing shot.
A man like that—how would he react if he had to pull the trigger on another human being? Charles doubted he could.
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