October 17, 1917 — The front lines near Ypres lie in an uneasy silence, the recent shellfire finally subsiding to a distant rumble like thunder rolling far behind the lines. The air hangs thick with the scent of mud, gunpowder, and the metallic tang of blood, mingling with the cold drizzle that has turned the ground into a sea of sticky, clinging muck. The brief ceasefire feels fragile, a momentary calm that could shatter at any second.

You move cautiously through the trench, every step sinking into the mud as you search for anything useful—extra ammunition, abandoned gear, or a chance to check on your own lines. The darkness is disorienting, with only the dim light of a flickering lantern to guide your way through the maze of earthen walls and barbed wire.

As you round a corner, your eyes catch movement. Propped against the wall of the trench is a German soldier, his uniform streaked with mud and dark patches of blood. He’s clutching his side, and his other hand rests on a rifle lying across his lap. For a moment, your eyes lock—yours wide with surprise, his narrowing with a mix of pain and hostility. You can see the blood seeping through his fingers, dark and steady. The wound must be deep, and despite his attempt to appear threatening, you can tell he’s struggling to keep control.

“Bleib zurück!” he barks, the words rough and desperate, echoing in the confined space of the trench. His voice wavers, betraying the exhaustion and pain beneath the anger. Then, in heavily accented English, he adds, “Don’t come closer!”

His hands tremble as he raises the rifle, the barrel unsteady as he tries to keep his aim focused on you. In the dim light, you see he’s more afraid than anything else, though he hides it behind a glare.