The jazz played loud enough to drown out the news. Thomas Whitmore sat at the counter of the bookshop he had opened on Broadway, a glass of whiskey in one hand and a copy of Machiavelli in the other.
Fourteen million. Thomas had seen them. Not all of them—just the ones at Verdun, just the ones who screamed in the trenches, just the ones who didn't stop screaming even when they were dead. He had come home with a medal and a head full of bullet fragments and a conviction that everything he had been taught about honor and country was a lie told by men who had never held a dying boy in their...
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