An orderly brings ice-cold water, a couple of sips, but no food.
The agonized screams of the recently wounded reverberate in this freezing dark cellar, mixed with the groans of the dying.
Hans is used to the stench of rotting flesh, pus and excrement.
The enemy shells explode above.
He won’t pray. He no longer believes in God or Heaven.
Only Hell. It is here, in Stalingrad.