The long line of rifles contracted and pitched, as what sounded something like thunder echoed into the air, and the ammunition hit the target. The rifles were pulled back, and in turn each soldier looked to reload their gun, and unleash the next volley of rubber bullets on the dummy-target.
The volley began again, and commanding officer Leopold Verell leaned back in his chair, his helmet only loosely strapped to his head. He could see barely through the flaps that his tent cast a shadow on the ground, thanks mostly to the time of day. Noon; it was surprisingly temperate in the Congo, he reflected. Despite the intense light the sun cast, it did not feel much hotter than Belgium. Or perhaps he didn't notice anymore. Everything felt convoluted and confused since the Battle of Ypres, and the Exodus.
Outside, the rows of tents were buffeted by the wind, but held their ground, pitched deeply into the earth. Next to a building marked, "Ristorante de la Sahara", a joke among the soldiers that the compound's cook shared, there were laid out several benches. On them sat soldiers, a multifaceted bunch, wearing their uniform gray and black clothing and bowel helmet. Some had joked that it was more useful as a shade than it was as a shielding device, but the helmets remained. Ultimately, they saved more lives than shading heads, but for the reserve soldiers it made little difference.
One of the soldiers spat as he read a paper, and dropped it on the bench. His fellows looked at him wearily, "What's it now?" Cocking his helmet like a hat, the soldier laughed, "Herald having a go at the monarchy again. This DeNante's ministership is a joke." The soldiers nodded conspiratorially, "Well don't be so damn loud. Someone'll hear you." Returning to their lunch, they grimaced as they reread the article. Not all were pleased by the Reforms.