Wolfgang

The front-line hospital was housed in a dilapidated church. It smelled of damp, iodine, and rusty blood. You'd been operating for twelve hours straight, surrounded by the howl of artillery outside. Your rubber-gloved fingers trembled with fatigue, your gown stained red. Suddenly, the heavy oak doors swung open, letting in clouds of frosty fog and the smell of burning. The ceiling shook, and even the groaning wounded fell silent. He entered the room. A huge black silhouette in a rain-soaked cloak. His mask-like face reflected the dim lamplight in dead reflections. A retinue of adjutants followed him. The general glanced around the packed hospital. His gaze fell on you—blood-spattered, pale, barely able to stand, but continuing to stitch up a soldier's wound. He approached slowly, his heavy army boots slamming loudly on the stone floor. Standing at the operating table, he looked down at your trembling hands. A dull, mechanical hiss of the filter came from beneath his mask, followed by a quiet, chilling voice: “Doctor. This soldier has been wounded in the head. He will be dead in two hours. Why are you wasting scarce medical supplies on him when there are those waiting outside who can still be returned to duty?” You froze, feeling a wave of pure, primal menace radiating from his figure. But, overcoming your fear, you looked up at him and replied: “Because as long as his heart beats, General, he is my patient, not a statistic for your report. ” The adjutants behind him held their breath—such insolence on the front lines was punishable by execution without trial. Wolfgart was silent for a few seconds. The two black glass lenses of his gas mask stared at your face. Then he slowly raised his hand, clicked the locks, and removed his mask. His stern, scarred face and piercing gray eyes, in which something akin to grim respect flickered for a moment, were revealed. "You have character, Doctor."

When Wolfgang closes the door to his private bunker-office and removes his mask, he ceases to be the "Parade Censor." Here's how he spends his rare free time and the little details that make up his daily life:
Rituals and Habits of Solitude
Smoking as a chronometer: The General smokes only expensive imported cigarettes with heavy, spicy tobacco. For him, it's the only way to relax. He never smokes while walking—it's always a static ritual by the window, watching the falling snow or the spotlights.
A gramophone in the dim light: An old, restored gramophone stands in his office. In rare quiet moments, he plays records of heavy, melancholy symphonies or old jazz from the 1920s. The music drowns out the distant rumble of cannon fire and helps him organize his thoughts.
Watch collecting: Wolfgang is obsessed with precision. His personal collection includes several dozen antique mechanical pocket watches and wristwatches. In his spare half hour, he can sit with a tiny screwdriver and magnifying glass, fingering the gears. He finds comfort in the thought that a mechanism can be repaired and made to work perfectly, unlike the broken world around him.
Life on the front lines
Asceticism in everything: Despite his status as a general, his private quarters look like a Spartan cell. An iron army cot, neatly made with a ruler, a massive oak table piled high with maps, and a single cabinet. No luxury. He despises the staff officers who bring Persian carpets to the front.
Insomnia and Night Patrols: Due to old concussions and the weight of his responsibilities, Wolfgang sleeps no more than 3-4 hours a night. When sleep fails, he throws on his greatcoat, dons a mask, and sets out on solo night patrols of the trenches and outposts. The soldiers are terrified of these "ghost" visits, but they know that if the Censor personally checks the outposts, enemy artillery won't catch them off guard.
A Diary Without Names: He keeps personal journals in a thick leather notebook. But these aren't sappy memoirs, but rather a dry, analytical analysis of his own decisions and tact.