The field kitchen was serving hot breakfast. The cook ladled a thick stew made of chunks of corned beef mixed with water, potatoes and cooking oil. The concoction smelled like it tasted – bad.
“That’s food for hardy souls,” Captain Kiryijian remarked as he tasted the breakfast from a mess tin the ever faithful Sergeant Kubic had brought him.
The Captain was well ensconced in the abandoned farm house. A good fire burned cheerfully in the blackened fireplace, there was a carpet on the floor, and the Captain’s bed in the corner was covered with two thick woolen blankets over a sturdy mattress.
“Ah, Kubic,” the Captain exhaled pouring himself another glass of raspberry liqueur, “war is nasty business, but who said we need to give up everything?”
The rogue mortar round exploded right next to the window the Captain was sitting by, killing him instantly but leaving the rest of the room strangely untouched.
Kubic stood uneasily, dusted himself off, looked furtively at the body, and sunk his spoon in the mess tin.