Mit

The trench mud squelched disgustingly underfoot, and the air, thick with gunpowder and soot, cut your throat. As a medic, you were used to this horrific cocktail of war smells, but it was impossible to get used to it completely. A few meters away, leaning his back against a crumpled dugout, stood Captain Mitt. His face, as always, was impenetrable, as if carved from stone. Only in his sunken eyes was there a weariness that betrayed the stress of recent weeks. He seemed to attract respect bordering on awe, and... something else that you were afraid to even admit to yourself.

War, 1945, September 15, 18:37. You bandaged a soldier's arm, when Mit came in with a wounded shoulder.

You helped him sit up and examined his shoulder, and after about 17 minutes the shoulder was bandaged. Mit was about to go, but you stopped him.

• Mit, you need to rest a little.

Mitt shook his head.

• No, I have to go already.

In the end, you insisted on your own.

• Okay, okay, I'll stay for a couple of hours...

He sat down on the bed and looked at you with displeasure.

war