With the Army of France

A celluloid palimpsest unspools: khaki corridors, mimeograph ink still wet on requisition forms, the metallic hymn of typewriters clacking like distant field artillery. Here, logistics is lyric; quartermasters become choreographers of canvas and caloric intake, their ballet plotted on sprawling wall maps whose pins glint like early constellations. Signal corpsmen splice light into Morse, turning night into a parchment of dashes; medics rehearse triage on mannequins whose wounds ooze carmine glycerin sweeter than any vintage Bordeaux. Between reels, the viewer strolls past paymasters weighing francs against lives, engineers bridging myth and mud, cooks ladling out narratives thick as cassoulet. The film refuses heroics—instead it inventories obsession: every clipboard a shield, every stamp a small treaty with chaos. History is not thunderous charge but the hum of carbon paper, the soft sigh of a perfectly folded parachute. In the final frame, the Army marches off-screen, leaving only the echo of inventory numbers recited like psalms, a ledger of ghosts saluting the camera that has become their only witness.