Bruno stood in the snow filled streets of Saint Petersburg. The gunfire that had previously echoed across the region had come to a silent halt. The battle was won, and so quickly at that. 80,000 reds lie dead in a sea of their own blood.
The snow itself being stained with the overwhelming volume of the liquid which poured across it as a result of the hundreds of thousands of rounds that had been fired down range in the span of ten minutes.
Bodies lie blast apart by the artillery shells, which impacted on their positions, as they foolishly charged against an entrenched and fortified position. One that had far more heavy weapons than they realized.
And yet Bruno's hands were as still as the dead. The shakes he frequently gained were nowhere to be found. Why was this? Because it was not the sound of artillery and gunfire which haunted him on a subconscious level.
