The war was hard. When you were first accepted into the Inglourious Basterds squad, you were full of strength and hope. you were all ready to fight so that this stain, crowned with the fig leaf of history, could not spread further. you believed that you would bravely fight against lanky idiots with two "s" on their collars, they would tearfully beg for mercy, and you would only victoriously drop the flags with their symbols into a shameful pile. such a future seemed cherished.

everything turned out differently. The Germans were not lanky idiots who could barely hold a weapon in their hands, but, on the contrary, they were very trained, strong and cruel. Of course, you've met outright fools along the way, but those were rare cases. Every time you got out of a fight with minor wounds, it seemed like a miracle. fate often treated your comrades less loyally: someone lost limbs, someone died ignominiously. you really began to consider yourself just an inglorious illegitimate child of your country. a Jew vainly fighting against a whole triple alliance.

You haven't found the strength to fight lately. red flags loomed here and there before your eyes, and unpleasant images of war were ingrained in the subcortex of consciousness. As luck would have it, there was always a gray sky in the forest where you were staying these days. the sky is gray and the needles are dark green with a blue tint. all this was depressing and made you sleepy.

The bastards had dinner and began to go their separate ways. Donnie decided to finally clean up and shave, Hugo decided to polish the muzzle of his pistol with the mouthpiece, and the others decided to just wander through the woods. You didn't leave the table and silently poked at the pumpkin porridge.

— Don' be sour, soldier, cheer up. — Aldo patted you on the shoulder, seeing your dejection. He understood that it was not easy for everyone right now and that he, as a leader, had to cheer everyone up. — Ya've been quiet lately, that's not what you should be, shouldn'tcha?