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In a vast cauldron.

In front of us, around us and behind us is an enveloping hell as the Russian drum on our trenches. Its explosions go on and on. Our ears have long since been deafened. Hardly anyone speaks. Only when a fountain of dirt and steed erupts close by does an angry verdes escape that one can read from their lips. Burning barns and villages stand out in the

distance like torches in the night. And refugees are coming back dragging their belongings in

prams and handcuts on their backs. A woman in a dressing gown that flaps in the wind stumbles

with her hair loosened. Her eyes are complete blank. She has a coffee mill in her hand which

she keeps turning endlessly.

Her mouth moves but makes no sound.

Ammunition and supply carts surprised by the attack,

racing back along the road,

the drivers wildly whipping their nags,

while shells howl into the banks and explode.

Refugees hurry by like creatures of the underworld.

Women, children and old men surprised in their sleep.

Some only half-dressed.

In their faces is despair and deadly fear.

Crying children, holding their mother's hands,

look out at the world's destruction.

The shock dies.

...