On the Freeman front, a German lieutenant, his face blackened by smoke, sat on a shell crate writing a diary.
The pen tip danced agilely on the white paper, but the lieutenant's mind was filled with the image of machine guns spitting fire:
"After months of fighting, this region has turned jet black, trees becoming branchless stumps embedded in earth that looks stirred up."
"The land is bare, like it has leprosy, with countless craters of various sizes, not an inch of it unscathed."
"Dearest Leonie, the enemy is about to attack; they will be unstoppable, and this may very well be my last battle..."
A soldier crouched down, coming over to offer the lieutenant a cigarette. He inadvertently glanced at the diary, asking curiously, "Why don't you send it out? I mean, she's your lover, right?"
"She's my wife." The lieutenant paused his writing and gently took the cigarette: "She died last month in childbirth, along with my child, because no one could get her to a hospital in time."
