Chapter One: Good Morning, Syria

August in Syria, Damascus—the air was thick with dust and the scent of gunpowder.

Beep, beep... The rhythmic sound of a military whistle echoed outside the window. The boy lying in bed opened his eyes and rose. In one swift motion, he got up and dressed, then washed up before the mirror. Coman Laine Sova Dragon let the whistle pass through his left ear and out his right, paying it little mind. It was Saturday, after all, but more than that, he had lived a second life. He saw things as they were, his mindset mature.

Coman held no particular attachment to his past life. No one had lifted him to great heights, nor could he climb on his own. If only he had some ability, he wouldn’t have ended up so powerless.

His name, Coman, carried a Germanic ring, but he was indeed French, living in French Syria alongside his father, who served in the Foreign Legion. Though his father was an officer, his rank was modest—a major by the end of the French campaign, later promoted to lieutenant colonel by Vichy France.

Coman left his room with droplets still clinging to his face. The wall beside his bed bore the handprint from last night, where a mosquito had met its end. Several others buzzed about the open window, survivors of the nightly hunt.

“Have you heard? The Mosquito Emperor has fallen.” (in a hushed tone) “What? Who did it?” (in surprise) “A hand reached out from the clouds above, striking him down. The face was hidden.”

“Good morning, Syria.” Coman stepped out into the morning breeze, clad in his uniform, his gait relaxed. Two peers followed close behind, both in military dress, their expressions still bearing the innocence and foolish clarity of students.

They threaded through the narrow alleys of Old Damascus. The sunlight behind them was sliced into fragments by towering stone walls, casting mottled patterns on the ground. His boots struck the ancient flagstones, echoing with a dull thud.

Living a second life, Coman’s eyes were not as naive as his companions’, yet he knew better than to stand apart.

Reality was no film—there was no room for lone heroes. The world war was not yet over, though... it soon would be.

“It’s been a month since the Normandy landings. I wonder when Paris will be liberated,” Martin, on Coman’s left, spoke softly. “I’ve been preparing myself mentally, but the thought of actually going to the front still makes me uneasy.”

No sooner had Martin finished than Alain, walking beside them, chimed in, “Didn’t they say yesterday the troops are advancing inland? Paris should be liberated soon, but I suspect we’ll be sent out regardless.”

He glanced at Coman, who walked half a step ahead, and asked, “Coman, what do you think?”

“Germany’s defeat is inevitable. If we don’t make it to the battlefield now, we’ll be too late.” Coman kept walking, not turning. “Now is the time to reap the rewards. If we shy away from risk, we’ll miss the chance for rapid promotion once the war ends.”

“True enough, but what about the Damascus Agreement?” Martin barely finished before Alain shook his hand, signaling him to stop.

“It’s already decided,” Coman said, eyes still fixed ahead. “Even before General de Gaulle arrived in Damascus, the locals knew. It’s not all bad, though. Otherwise, we couldn’t have mobilized so many recruits.”

The tale was long, but not overly so. In short, France was swiftly defeated by Germany in the French campaign. De Gaulle fled to London to continue resistance, but he lacked manpower.

Early Free France was truly beleaguered. Many French soldiers who retreated to Britain deserted after the Vichy government surrendered.

When Germany swept through Europe, de Gaulle had only a few thousand French soldiers supporting his resistance—little more than Coman’s father, the lieutenant colonel commanding the Foreign Legion.

At that time, de Gaulle lacked followers. Most Frenchmen had conceded defeat, viewing him as a British puppet. Worse still, there was more than one puppet—General Giraud in Central Africa, favored by the Americans, held a higher rank and enjoyed strong US support.

De Gaulle, desperate for allies, promised anything—such as publicly declaring Syria’s independence after the war. The Damascus Agreement was born in 1942, when de Gaulle came to Damascus.

His quest for support brought him to Syria, a French colony smaller than French Africa, less blessed than Indochina.

Africa, especially Algeria, was the Foreign Legion’s main base; Syria had only a two-thousand-strong detachment, still commanded by French officers. Coman’s father led this unit.

During the 1941 Syria-Lebanon campaign, the Vichy-aligned French commander Henri Fernand Dentz ordered resistance against the British-French combined forces.

At that time, Coman’s father built defensive lines in the Golan Heights, but since the British did not attack from Palestine, he returned to Damascus.

As the Allied forces drew near, Coman’s father, emboldened by countless rumors, shouted at a military meeting for Commander Henri to step aside.

Soon after, before the Casablanca Conference, with American-backed Giraud holding the advantage, de Gaulle traveled from London to Damascus. The thirty thousand French soldiers in Syria became his main support.

Coman, able to multitask, pondered how he might change the world. Suddenly, the sound of prayers reached his ears. He recognized the direction—it was coming from a church holding mass.

“In the name of Thy Son, Jesus Christ, before all angels and saints, hear Thy servants’ vows. Grant us strength to vanquish the unrighteous...”

Listening to the liturgy, Coman pressed on, the Governor’s Palace now in sight. The three stopped before the guards. Coman turned and instructed, “Wait here.”

For a nation like France, occupied in its homeland, the world war was also a chance for internal reshuffling. Remember, Pompidou, later President of France, was just a trade negotiator stranded in Britain, and Marshal Leclerc, whose name would grace France’s main battle tank, was merely a captain before the war.

With a word, Coman entered the Governor’s Palace. A young woman of exotic beauty, about twenty-eight, appeared. Coman greeted her politely, “Madame Famati, is General Fontaine here?”

“Coman, you’ve worked hard at the camp.” Famati, his peer, welcomed him warmly, leading him inside. “I knew you’d visit on the weekend. Let me take you.”

“Madame, it seems your relationship with General Fontaine has progressed quite a bit.” Coman followed, making small talk about the May-December romance.