"They weren't Germans. They weren't Spanish. They were ours.

Far away from where torture was happening, the troops under general order took control of a small barrack and turned it into a office.

And outside of it were men waiting in the long line.

Each of them had bled, fought, lost friends in a battle they never should have fought.

They had survived, but survival wasn't victory.

They had been told this was a psychological evaluation, a way to check on their mental state after the horrors they had endured.

Most of them believed it.

Seated behind the desk in the dimly lit room was Captain Arnaud Lefèvre.

His uniform was crisp, his face unreadable, his pen tapping against the wooden surface as he flipped through the files stacked in front of him.

Each file contained a name, a rank, and a past.

But what mattered most was their future.

On the table beside him lay two stamps.