They’d been hailed as heroes when the war ended, congratulated by every Allied general in Europe, given rooms in London’s best hotel. Hogan had enjoyed himself, of course, regaled everyone with tales of their exploits, accepted every glass of champagne.
But at night, his room suddenly seemed too large, too empty. He lay in bed, unable to sleep, until there was a familiar knock on the door.
“Colonel?” whispered LeBeau.
“Come in,” he said, gratefully.
By morning, there was a sea of pillows and blankets on the floor of Hogan’s room, and all of his men were there, sleeping soundly.