Love and War in Northern France

his thoughts at war

I lit a cigarette. Three days had passed since the last peaceful evening. I remembered how the sound of the church bells used to signify something good—time for service, holidays, gatherings with friends. But now they had become a troubling signal, heralding destruction. Each toll seemed to pierce the silence, like a hammer striking an anvil, shattering the world around me. Not just shattering the calm life around me, but my mind as well. I was probably losing my sanity.
The trader from whom I had bought tobacco just a week ago now lay by his shop, surrounded by scattered goods. He no longer looked so spirited, especially considering the crimson blood that streamed from his mouth onto the gravel. This once-vibrant man, who had always joked and treated me to new varieties of tobacco, had now become just a lifeless barrier in the path of a German boot.
The child who had been fervently arguing with his mother outside my window just a week ago would probably give anything to see her again now. Her voice, coaxing him to calm down, rang in my ears like cursed bells, and I couldn't help but notice how she anxiously searched for him amid the chaos and destruction. That innocence was now lost, as if someone had torn pages from the book we all tried to read.
Our dear Miss Lorraine had passed away unexpectedly in the local hospital on the second day of the bombardments. I would have dreamed of giving this noble woman a beautiful funeral with all the honors, but instead, I had to care for the wounded who had survived and simply filled the local hospital.
I was shattered but not broken. The only way available to me for relaxation and stress relief, which replaced delicious food, quality conversations, and my favorite hobbies, was rolling cigarettes. I found a temporary escape from reality in this simple activity. And I would be lying if I didn't mention my thoughts about Anna. Her image haunted me, like the faint aroma of tobacco lingering in the air. Although I was sure that such cheap dopamine in the form of cigarettes held no interest for her. She was the opposite of my addiction—a fresh breeze filtering through the world, so gentle that it could tickle my earlobes.
We stood at the edge of the trench, watching the smoke rise above the horizon. The fighting had intensified, and the hellish cacophony echoed from all sides. My hands trembled as I held my notebook, trying to jot down every word, every detail. But a sudden explosion shattered the silence, and the ground beneath us shook.
"Florian!" Phil shouted, pulling me from my thoughts. "We need to get out of here!"
I looked around. Chaos reigned around us: soldiers darting in search of cover, the cries of the wounded mingling with the sounds of shells. I felt the blood pounding in my temples. In that moment, I realized that our duty as correspondents was not only to report the truth but also to survive and return alive. But how was that possible amid such brutality?