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... n the Renault R35's open hatch, his uniform soaked in dried blood some his own, most not.

His rifle rested across his lap, his hands gripping it so tightly his knuckles had turned white.

Behind him, his men marched like ghosts.

Thirty kilometers of death, thirty kilometers of memories they wished they could erase.

The prisoners, bound and beaten, were forced to march between their ranks, constantly under watch.

More than once, Moreau saw his men spit at th ...

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