tartaglia general

It's a moment of eerie, ringing calm between two battles. Far from the calm river, where the water seems like blued steel, an unnatural, cottony silence hangs overhead. After the cannonade, my ears are popped, and the world has gone deaf. Somewhere out there, beyond the hill, is a Soviet camp: dugouts frozen solid into the ground, the smell of tobacco and musty greatcoats. There, across the way, is a German one: neat lines of trenches, the scent of ersatz coffee and someone else's cologne.
Evening. The sky isn't sunset, but leaden-ash, low, oppressive. The snow is grayish-blue, like old ash. The trees are charred matches. The air trembles with tension, like a bowstring. No birds, no sound—only the occasional wet thud of clods of earth falling from the parapet, or the distant scrape of a shovel. The river flows so slowly, as if it, too, is afraid to disturb this fragile world. It is black, oily, reflecting the emptiness of the gray sky.
A Russian general, Tartaglia, steps ashore: his greatcoat is heavy and swollen, his collar prickly. He stares into the water, feeling the presence of an alien army behind him, death lurking in every bush. A rustling sound on the other side of the narrow river made the red-haired man look up, causing him to freeze instantly. His hand reflexively twitched toward his weapon, but he didn't grab it: judging by his clothing, he was a German officer.
"Tsk, German..."