2 August 1914, somewhere on the northern frontiers...

Earlier in the middle of July, I have been suddenly summoned from my family's humble cottage in Remoiville by the Ministry of War to join the fray— the Great War, I mean— and I have also suddenly departed despite the protests of my dear parents. It wasn't something a country boy like I could will, really. I still keep the calendar page of the day I left in my pocket-watch, the thirteenth of July. After a brief week of training and a brief show-off of my typical country boy's riding skills, I was given a cavalry uniform— coat, kepi and all— and a position as a general's adjutant.

I had to check it once more or twice to be sure I didn't just hear things and I didn't just write nonsenses above. It all seemed like a dream, or a joke, really; a country boy got assigned to be adjutant for a general on his first day! It would be more believable if my higher-up was a major or someone around that rank, but a general? Why would anyone even choose a fresh chevalier to be the adjutant of a general, who had that mental idea? Yet, it all made sense later, when I finally met my assignment.

On a beautiful morning at the end of July, we the fresh batch of chevalier went on our first march to the battlefield. Because we were told that our commander had some business to finish at the moment, as his adjutant, I got to ride at the lead. To be frank, I haven't even known who was the person at the command, just the name and rank, and I reckoned I heard both wrong myself; I believed our commander was some general of the cavalry named Antoine de Beaudelaire, who was later confirmed to... not exist, but still, I was close. It turned out that everyone around mistook our commander for that fictional general, because it was, oddly enough, sounded more sensible than the actual person our commander was.

Somewhere between Le Cateau and the Belgian borders, we were stopping for a little break, letting the horses graze and brewing some coffee; I took a few moments here to jot a few words down this journal. As inexperienced as we are, somehow we managed to get close to one of the frontiers in Mons. Our commander, as we've heard, was not someone who should be active on the battlefield; he was more like a military advisor rather than a military commander, but still, there's the brigadier of the cavalry in the name. Amidst the brief silence of the northern countryside, hurried gallops from afar stirs our peaceful morning break. Whoever that is stops right at the lead of our resting formation, rests their steed and sits down amongst us for coffee. They wear the cavalry uniform like all of us, but replaced the blue kepi for a black fedora and also don a trench-coat to mitigate the chilly weather of Northern France's autumn.

"One more coffee for the newcomer please, Monsieur Adjutant."

At the moment I have no idea if my ears were hallucinating or not, because this person's voice sounds distinctly feminine, albeit it has gone a little raspy with age. Somehow, a middle-aged woman was able to join this cavalry brigade and no one has anything to say yet. I just can't imagine what our commander will scream into our ears if he learns of this. I hear chatters around, plotting to remove this unfitting chevalier from our ranks in order to avoid rumours and additional suspicions. Personally, I care not; the commander can see into this once he catches up with us.

"Apologies for arriving a little bit late, gentlemen, I had some business to finish in Reims. Not a military business, I would say, it was more like a personal affair. Well, please tolerate my eccentricity because I reckon you gentlemen would hear more confessions from me as we follow each other throughout the Western Front till the end of the war..."

The beldame then takes her fedora off to dust the dirt and gunpowder collecting on the fabric from whatever her last journey was. She did not cut her hair short when she joined the cavalry, but tied it into a loose bun which she tucks under her hat, and it falls gracefully down to rest against the nape of her neck as she takes down the dusty fedora. Almost all men around are aghast because a woman is sitting amongst us, wearing our uniform no less! However, few dare to vocally express it for we've just noticed her rank insignia on her coat.

This beldame is a brigadier general.

I gingerly put the pen and the journal down and pour her some coffee as requested, innerly worrying if I did anything wrong. The others are probably sweating themselves dry as a cactus, because we most certainly have just done something wrong. To be frank, we've been getting everything wrong since the beginning, or, since I received the assignment.

And thus, the beldame goes with us to Mons, Belgium and stays with us for the night. It means literally what I describe, she doesn't come to the general's quarters, but dozes off on one of the couches we have in our barracks. Next morning, we see her again; this time with proper greetings.

The beldame greets us just before we depart to the frontline, carrying our cavalry brigade's standard and commander's sabre. She personally walks to the lead of the formation once all men have mounted, looks at each and everyone of them in the eyes and offers them a good morning. At the first encounter, we've known this is the commander we will come to love and be allegiant to. How often does anyone see a cavalryman regards his general like his own mum, let alone a whole brigade feeling the same thing!

"Brigadière Annatoire de Beaudelaire of the cavalry here, and I shall be your commander on the battlefield. Our duties prioritise reconnaissance, thus I request you to not initiate skirmishes, unless the Germans attack first, and remember to put the civilians' life before your own should we get involved in combat."

If there is something I must ingrain deeply within my mind thenceforth, it should be these words. A general amidst a war ordering her men to not offend, but defend, what a jewel! And before I realised it, we have become notorious as cavalrymen who would willingly sacrifice our lives not to the good of France, but for the sake of our commander. I believe it is the least we could do as chevaliers in this brigade, and as repayment to fate for having bestowed upon us such an one-of-a-kind brigadière.