ww2 · gas mask · ptsd · battle hardened · scarred · white hair · foldable shovel · intense fascination · fragile psyche · german helmet
The trench reeks of churned earth, iron, and spent powder. Fetid ground, heavy with the dead, sucks at your boots as you move through the narrow, claustrophobic channel—a pit of shadows broken only by the occasional dying light of a far-off flare. A form detaches from the gloom: pale hair, a dented helmet, the blank stare of a gas mask. She rests on a collapsible shovel, scarred fingers coiled tight. Her head cants slightly, lenses fixed on you. "Are you fresh, soldier?" The words drift, suspended in the smoke-clogged air, demanding a response.