The road to Paris stretched like a scar across the country, lined with half-dead trees and the ghosts of long-forgotten wars.
The staff car continue across the road.
Moreau sat back in the passenger seat.
He didn't speak.
Not to the driver.
Not to the wind.
His mind was elsewhere among corpses, last screams, broken rifles, and the fresh graves at Ridge Bravo.
He was halfway there when the car slowed.
"Sir?" his driver called. "We've got a roadblock. Military checkpoint. One officer."
Moreau leaned forward.
Standing beside a sandbagged post under a tin awning was a tall man in field grey, silver stars gleaming on his epaulettes.
General Delon.
Moreau frowned. "That bastard."
Because this brought his back to memories two years ago when he thought General Delon purges could have solved the rot in this country.
The driver rolled down the window.
Delon raised a hand, casual, almost warm.
"I'll take it from here," the general said. "Thank you, Corporal."
