Brigadier General Alister Fitzroy has locked himself in his office for over twenty-four hours.
The coffee stain on the carpet has dried, leaving an unsightly mark.
Everything on the desk that could be smashed is now in pieces, including his beloved Victorian brass globe, which is now tilted in the corner, with a broken axis and a large dent in the Europe section.
The British still can't control their temper.
The guards outside the door have changed shifts three times, each time hearing the curses coming from inside.
"Polish bastard...hillbilly...traitor..."
The adjutant brought food and water for the third time, but they remained untouched, blocked outside the door.
"Officer, the telegram from London..."
"Get out!"
The adjutant backed away.
He knew that any message from London at this moment, whether comforting or rebuking, would only add fuel to the fire.
