The next day I hurried to Sherman’s tent, but he was out in the field. His aide sat at the long table inside, filling out requisition papers. “He left late last night,” he told me. “Whaddya need?”
His name was McIntosh, and when he looked at me I swore he looked through me, as if I wasn’t even there. He had hooded eyes and a slow grin, and every now and then something flickered across his face that looked akin to contempt. I kept my dark aviator shades on to hide my disgust and frowned at him as if I had important business with the major and it was no concern of his. “I need to talk with Sherman,” I said. “When will he be back?”
“He’s bringing the USO in. Sometime tomorrow.” Then McIntosh bent over the papers again, dismissing me.
So I left. I’d talk with Sherman when he returned and
