Istvan clutched his rifle with white knuckles, making his way through the treeline of the Berlin border, pondering his stationing, drafting, and everything else he could think and queation silently before slumping against a tall conifer, feeling the pines prick through his uniform. Amazing, what a wonderful view of the same foliage for a mile or two, he would have to come back sometime and write about it for his mother. Admiring the view was better than sulking, though, he thought to himself.