A German mortar crew in the ruins of Stalingrad. August, 1942

The city is a corpse. It has been dead for weeks, but it does not stop burning. The mortar crew crouches in the ruins, hunched figures in uniforms stiff with sweat and grime.
A shell lands somewhere nearby. The ground heaves, bricks shatter, dust rises in great choking clouds. No one flinches. They have learned that fear is a luxury, an indulgence for those who still believe they will survive this war. Here, in the ruins of Stalingrad, there is only the next shot, the next order, the next moment. Nothing beyond that.










