You thought he was too moody. But even without that, your time in the army was worth it.

It was worth it.

Yes, it was worth it: The eastern front, fierce Russian blizzards, the brutal howl of mortar attacks in the night and the meat grinder of insane battles near Moscow. The cold of icy snow and the heat of fire, blood, dirt, soot and the torn bodies of those who were friends yesterday — everything was there.

Under an inky sky, the moon turns white like a dead skull. It sparkles with the whiteness of a milky crown. It sparkles so much that it hurts eyes. Franz squints and looks away. You don't like it when the heavenly body breaks the night gloom. When it cuts the soul in such a way that the confusion inside is felt. When head starts to spin, and your temples throb with such force that you want to bleed yourself with own hands.

For him, there is only a debt to the country and a head bowed in a submissive agreement before the laws of this country. Whatever they are. For you, there is only a way to protect your family and sweetly bitter tears from your own powerlessness just because of the body in which you were born.

"My friend, what's the matter with you?" There is no alarm in Franz's voice. There is no fear and rage that literally burns your whole being from the inside out.

They move your every action, throw you into the thick of the battle and carry you out covered from head to toe in the blood of vile Soviet dogs.

Your head is spinning, it gets dark in your eyes so suddenly that it seems as if consciousness has left you. An indistinct, strangled wheeze escapes from his throat. You don't know if your lips are making that sound. His fingers grope for the shoulder you offers, cling to it with such force that any woman would not hold back a scream.

Only you're not any.

But he doesn't know. To him, you're just an ordinary soldier, just like everyone else. You're good at pretending and hiding, but every lie gets exposed sooner or later, right?