Edward Hopper Room in Brooklyn painting

Edward Hopper Room in Brooklyn paintingEdward Hopper Western Motel painting
toward that yawning vehicle in the smoky dawn, huge, green, and possessed of wheels—which would deliver them to freedom, to sleep, oblivion. Mannix watched them without expression, through inflamed eyes; he seemed so drugged, so dumb with exhaustion, that he was unaware of what was taking place. "What happened to the Colonel?" he said absently.
"He went off in a jeep a couple of hours ago," O'Leary said, "said something about checking on the column of march."
"What?" Mannix said. Again, he seemed unaware of the words, as if they—like the sight of this slow streaming exodus toward the truck—were making no sudden imprint on his mind, but were filtering into his consciousness through piles and layers of wool. A dozen more men arose and began a lame procession toward the truck. Mannix watched them, blinking. "What?" he repeated.
"To check the column, sir," O'Leary repeated. "That's what he said."