EIGHT
When the bugle-cry rang out, commanding sleep, sleep would come as quickly as if it were the last sleep. A soldier began to obey the orders of the bugle even if he had been a sultan outside the walls. Then the dawn glowed on the horizon and the bugle-cry rose up once more, ordering wakefulness, and the day would start. The torture of training would begin, followed by the torture of punishments, until the bugle-cy sounded to order you back to sleep again. A daily repetitive routine without free time or relaxation. The only time you had to yourself was the brief period of quiet at the end of the day when you wandered through the parts of the forest that lay inside the base’s walls. Time you spent looking at the pine trees, enjoying their sweet scent, feeling a kind of joy at their smo
