I made a review on Machine Stand Cast to help you in your decision

The telling of “Machine Gun Kelly’s Last Stand” is at once fast-paced, eerie and suspenseful. Stanley Hamilton’s eccentric characters are plucked from the pages of history to recreate their nefarious deeds. Truth really is stranger than fiction, and Hamilton fills every keystroke with tension.

How can I improve this story opening / prologue?
I feel that my writing isn’t emotional or interactive (between the characters) enough. However, this IS meant to be distant, as the invasion only sets the mood, and the farmer character is to be established in the next chapter. How can I improve this? Thanks

The road south of Dieulouard probably saw more use in those last few weeks than its entire lifespan. A gently curving and winding two-lane path, it cut through the modest woodlands of the French countryside and disappeared around a sloping hill in the distance, the tall golden oaks breaking up the sunlight and casting scattered shadows on the concrete. In some sections of the road, where the sun bathed it in brilliant gold, one could see the endless rows of crops. The road south of Dieulouard was in the midst of farm country; few rarely traveled it or experienced the rare serenity of doing so.The last few weeks were different. The old farmer, whose rustic farm lay perhaps one or two kilometers down this road, noticed quite an increase in activity rumbling past his farmhouse window. No, these weren’t tractors or delivery trucks hauling the summer harvest down to Rouen or Paris. The farmer took a closer view, hobbling on an old walking stick to the side of the now busy road.These were trucks all right, but trucks filled to the brim with men. Most were wearing helmets and wielded rifles, Machine Stand Cast dark khaki uniforms glinting in the sun. The rest were wearing helmets and shouted at the others in authoritative French, their orders fleeting but distinct as the trucks sped by the farm gate.There were other members in this endless procession; a few metal-clad, camouflaged tanks (they certainly looked different from the predecessors in the first Great War) gunned down the road, treads trampling the fallen oak leaves.Sometimes an officer or two noticed the grizzled, bespectacled old spectator standing curiously by the farm gate, and offered quick salutes. The farmer raised his hand, his tired blue eyes following the trucks as they disappeared around the hill. For a few weeks this repeated, a steady convoy of trucks and tanks heading north, the shadows of the oaks dancing over them as they sped along.The farmer had often spent his spare time doing little but reading the paper, walking the sheepdog, and entertaining the few guests and visiting family he had in this part of rural France. There was no harvest this month, so the parade of vehicles provided a little diverse entertainment.He noticed the explosions soon after, little thumps and distant flashes on the northern horizon; they soon crept closer, growing into loud booms that kept him up at night and red glows tainting the black. During the day those same explosions endured, trails of acrid smoke trailing up from where they occurred. The trucks came less frequently, also, carrying men with the same helmets and rifles but no longer with the proud stance and demeanor of the French soldiers that first visited him. Instead trucks started heading south, emblazoned on the side with red crosses and filled with grim, blank faces. Soon it was a flood of French army trucks heading south instead of north, making a desperate beeline toward, at a guess, Paris. The explosions came uncomfortably close, so much that the old farmer’s bedroom was bathed in light and shook every time one came during the night. Masses of planes in the air also appeared, and the hatred and fear in the Frenchmen’s faces were visible as they made their escape on the road, truck-mounted machine-guns clattering away at the humming vultures.The road finally calmed down again, its lanes quiet; the last truck had flown past a few days past. The overhead bombers (and explosions that always followed them) swept past the old farm and instead pounded craters in the southwest. Two days later another vehicle peered into view around the hill to the north, its treads grinding differently on the road than its French counterparts. It was of a dark navy color, a white and black cross emblazoned on a circular turret. Three more followed, cautiously heading down the road.The farmer decided he had enough of sightseeing and headed inside, closing the door behind him.
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