With each passing second the colonel’s crimson face grew darker.
Grew angrier.
Colonel Wingate sat behind his desk with the field phone up to his ear and a look of sullen rage slowly churning his insides into a fine fury. Jake sat across from the colonel, one leg lapping over the other, his chair tilted back and leaning against the wall. Behind the colonel was the only window in the room. As the colonel continued to hold the phone to his ear, Jake counted the number of lorries that went rolling slowly down the dusty road filled with the battle"s wounded. In the span of the twenty minutes the colonel had been talking, the gray-eyed American had counted thirty-seven lorries. Thirty-seven big vans filled with the dead or dying, while fighting around the Marne, were heading back toward Paris
