The first line of French landing boats cut through the shallows in disciplined intervals, oars rising and dipping in near-perfect rhythm. The hulls scraped sand almost together. Before the keels had fully settled, coxswains barked the disembark order.
Infantry stepped down into knee-deep surf.
Water splashed against dark field-gray trousers. Rifles were already in hand, muzzles angled upward to keep them dry. Men moved forward without bunching, boots sinking into wet sand before finding firmer ground higher up the beach.
"Forward. Dress the line."
The first wave advanced fifteen paces inland and halted on a slight rise above the tide mark. Companies extended outward, forming a broad, shallow arc facing the dunes. Machine gun detachments dropped to one knee and began assembling their pieces with practiced speed, tripods locking into place, feed trays aligned.
Behind them, more boats grounded.
