Turin, amidst the roaring sound of artillery fire, billowing thick smoke rose, and the entire city was engulfed in gunpowder smoke. The eagle flag fluttering in the wind had become tattered and ragged, seemingly on the verge of collapse at any moment.
In the ruins of collapsed buildings, corpses lay strewn on the ground, and from time to time, the screams of the wounded echoed, faintly revealing bleeding wounds, yet no one stepped forward to tend to them.
The heavy stench of blood mixed with the smell of sweat filled the air, acrid and unpleasant. Yet the war continued relentlessly.
Outside the city, Italian soldiers had already charged, undulating like waves, their shouts vibrating the earth and sky.
This was the cry of the soul, voices infecting and inspiring one another, dissipating many of the unnameable fears within their hearts.
