As I found it

by C H

As Wittgenstein bent over his notebook, steam rose from the collar of his filthy gray tunic, slowly trailing over his ears and over the fuzz of his close-cropped head. From the Russian trenches one hundred and fifty yards away came trickles of smoke from charcoal braziers, where soldiers were warming their hands and brewing bitter black tea. Beyond, over a field of shell holes and barbed wire entanglements, lay a pulverized village, a shallow bluff and a thin line of shattered birches with black branches, their silver trunks gleaming like glass as the burnt sun rose behind them.

—Bruce Duffy, The World as I Found It

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