The command bunker was a squat, reinforced concrete shell half-buried into the red earth, disguised under a camouflage net and surrounded by freshly dug trenches lined with sandbags.
It was neither elegant nor particularly secure, but it served its purpose; close enough to the front to remain informed, but not so close as to be obliterated by Japanese artillery.
Bruno ducked under the low entrance and was greeted by the acrid stench of sweat, engine oil, and burning paper.
Inside, the air was thick and hot; the lights dimmed to preserve night vision. Field phones buzzed.
Radio operators murmured into headsets. Maps were pinned to every available surface; marked, crossed out, rewritten again.
At the far end of the bunker, standing ramrod straight in his black-piped grey uniform, was the lion of the old world.
Generalfeldmarschall August von Mackensen.
