Nightfall in the Old World

The sun was sinking below the horizon. The convoy stopped in a field near a small town. The soldiers of the 5th Infantry Brigade were exhausted, their bodies aching from hours of walking through the inhospitable terrain. They made a temporary camp there for the night. It was farmland. All the crops had been cut down.

Private Lucas sat slumped under the wheels of a GAZ-66 truck, his AKM resting on his knees. His boots were covered in mud, and his flak jacket felt heavy. Around him, the soldiers had set up tents, fires, and begun preparing their evening meal. The smell of canned stew and boiled potatoes hung in the air, mingling with the faint scent of wood smoke.

"Lucas, you look like hell," Corporal David said, sitting next to him and holding out a tin plate. He handed Lucas a similar plate, one with a gray stew and a piece of black bread.

"Thanks," Lucas muttered, poking at the stew with his fork. "The smell of victory."