Allenby watched ambulances stream up the hill littered with German dead and wounded. “I’m tired of General Kess just assuming I’ll allow him full access to the field he lost. Not today!” He declared. “If he wants to remove his wounded, then let him come under white flag and ask me. General O’Brien clear the field!”
“Sir,” Reuter rode over to where Kess was involved in a heated discussion with Gorst. “Allenby has denied our medics access to the field. I suggest a white flag…”
“No!” Kess waved an angry cigar at Reuter.
Reuter threw up his hands. “If you’ll not go, send me or Colonel Gorst.”
Kess gave Reuter a murderous glare. “Gorst, you do it.”
It flapped in the wind, this white rag, signifying his humiliation. He was crawling, there was no other word to describe it. Crawling to the British with his hat in his hand to beg them for a favor. Gorst cursed when he saw O’Brien ride toward him.
O’Brien took his time. He rode a complete circle around Gorst, his eyes running up and down his foe like he had never seen a Prussian before. He even snickered a little when he saw the flag. Gorst’s mortification was complete. He flushed scarlet in anger. Enough of this! “I’m Colonel Gorst ,” he snarled.
“I’m General O’Brien.” O’Brien was happy that he outranked the little man.
“I know who you are,” Gorst snarled again. The hatred in his voice shook O’Brien. Reilly drew nearer; his hand resting on his pistol butt in warning. “General Kess requests a cease fire in order to remove our dead and wounded from the field.”
The request was sent up the hill. While they waited, Gorst continued to glare at O’Brien. O’Brien, up to the challenge, kept his own glare fixed on Gorst. Reilly glanced at his chief. What if O’Brien didn’t remain content with just glaring?