And we are still barely here.
Surprised the old spy at his crossword. The guard didn't bother that my laissez-passer had been torn in two. I saw no one in the stairway. Someone had taken down the old WW2 carbine that adorned the wall of the wardroom. I'm not sure if I was imagining things but even the heat had been turned down. Need I say it rained? The colors were up so somewhere there was a section which would take it down. I wonder where they hid. How well the enlisted hide and confer over cigarettes. The old colonel clumped down to my office for coffee. He brought the pot over from the wardroom. Nobody else would want it. I do not know how to say "dregs" in French. Des restes, then? What did he want to go over with me? Le chien est en train de crever. The colonel was truly sad. He put his boots on a chair. The intelligence section sergeant's phone began to ring though the sergeant had been gone for at least three months. Il n'a que six ans, he said, Il ne mérite pas ça. Drank my coffee. The cup still says SHIT HAPPENS. Ha, ha. I'm the only one here who truly doesn't appreciate this sentiment, never mind the expresion of it in demotic American. I went down to see the old spy. He told me about how grand it was back when he worked at SHAPE when the Soviets were leaning so hard against the rest of Europe. "Twice we had to operate from a bunker for two weeks," he said. I don't know if he thinks this was good or bad. What is clear is that he misses Germany. "What we have now are pirates and trumped-up religious nuts," he said, "Now the Soviets, that was an enemy." A seven-letter word for dregs. The old spy does his puzzles in English so to stay sharp. "The colonel's dog is dying," I said. "Is that so," he. Remains.