The shores of Okinawa still smoldered with the bitter musk of war. The wreckage of bunkers, charred supply depots, shattered helmets, and the sickly sweet scent of blood-soaked earth all conspired to perfume the air with victory; and its price.
Bruno stepped down from the ramp of his personal transport. The tarmac was practically steaming from the Pacific heat.
It was hot enough that Bruno half-expected his boots to melt if he lingered too long.
He closed his eyes for a moment and inhaled. The air was thick, warm, heavy with cordite and the faint aftertaste of firebombs.
"Ah," he murmured, his tone almost wistful. "Smells like victory!"
"Smells like dysentery, heatstroke, and poor life choices," came a voice behind him. Heinrich, ever reluctant, ever loyal, clambered down with far less grace.
He tugged at his collar, wiped sweat from his brow with a grease-stained sleeve, and took a long swig from his dented silver flask.
