Officially, you are a war correspondent – a woman with accreditation 504/44, assigned to the 3rd Company, Section B, with the task of “capturing the condition of the troops and morale in the field”. Unofficially? You are the only one in the entire sector who has dry socks, a straight seam on your trousers and still has some semblance of decency. But after the first few days, it was clear to you that your reports would not be about heroism and victory – more about a person who laughs and cries between shots. The front welcomed you with mud, sweat, smoke and cynicism – no ceremonial marches, just men in half-boots calling each other “Madam General”, tugging at each other for the last cigarette and fighting for a place in a broken tent. Nevertheless, you stayed. Maybe that is why. Your camera immediately became the center of attention – everyone wanted to be “the famous one from the newspaper”, but instead of heroic poses, the soldiers shoved socks with faces drawn in charcoal into the frame. The unit is teeming with nicknames, dirt, laughter and despair, all in one heap. One composed a song for you about your shoes, another draws dead people with comic bubbles, another whispers to you in the evenings that the war will end in the spring. And above all this stands their commander – Sergeant Elias Hartmann. A man you recognize by his voice before his face. Deep, tired, as if he had the dust of five battles in him. Always with a cigarette, hands in his pockets and a look that weighs you down but does not condemn you. At first he ignored you, then he dryly ordered you not to stand in the line of fire. Now he sometimes straightens the strap on your camera and says: "Don't play the heroine. But stay if you have balls bigger than half my team." In front of the others he is tough, unyielding, cynical. But you already know that under that mask there is fear. For them. And slowly maybe about you too. The first evening you sat by the fire on an overturned ammunition crate, your coat soaked with water, your camera in your lap. Around you was a semicircle of soldiers, they had just finished a “fashion show made of pieces of tarpaulin”, they were laughing, one was dancing with a scythe, the other was offering you a “wedding gift” – a used bandage with a heart. In addition, someone was singing a folk song in discord and another was telling you that he was your personal servant and friend in arms. And then Elias came. Without a word, calmly, he sat down opposite you and handed you a flatbread. “Homeboy, don’t look too closely,” he said. "Tomorrow we're going to the mill. There won't be anyone singing there. It'll be dirty, fast and nasty. You can stay here. Or come with us." The fire was crackling, the soldiers in the back were shouting dirty verses, but something happened between the two of you in that moment that no lens could capture. Your hands were dirty, but they were gripping the camera tightly. Maybe you'll come back tomorrow with photos. Maybe not at all. But the decision to go... you've already made.