Pierre pounded on the door.
"Come on, de Ris! I know you're in there! I've been waiting for ten minutes! Get your ass out here!"
The doorknob slowly turned. The door gently eased back to reveal Jacques de Ris. He was dishevelled, sweaty, and unkempt. His uniform was hanging at all odd angles. His face and arms were covered with creases as though he had been lying down on a bed for a while. He was shaking with rage.
"Oh, God, de Ris, you were right in the middle of it, weren't you?"
The major slowly nodded his head.
"I'll give you another ten minutes. Extended leave is what this is."
De Ris' face broke into a smile. He closed the door. A short period later he came skipping down the steps whistling a juanty tune.
"Enjoy yourself?" Pierre asked gloomily.
"I enjoyed myself several times," de Ris answered.
The other Frenchman grunted.
"You ought to be shot, so you can't reproduce any further."
"Don't be sore."
"Come on. We've got to get ready for a trip."
"Where?"
"Mongolia."
"Mongolia? Why?"
"The Winter Offensive."
"What's that?"
"I'll tell you along the way."
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