Winter Sky

by Chris Stewart

woman looked down at them, her sizable weight compressing

Colonel Müller stood by the fireplace, staring into the flames. His arms were crossed against his chest, and the firelight reflected in the darkness of his eyes. He looked tired but defiant. Angry and cruel. He reached into his pocket, pulled out the worn notebook, stared at it a moment, then shoved it back into his breast pocket and sat down in the single chair. “Command Sergeant!” he called. Sergeant Fisser immediately walked into the room. He wore the usual crisp combat uniform, with its black boots and bloused pants. But, unlike before, he carried a helmet underneath his arm and a rifle across his back. As he opened the door, the commotion of men at war could be heard from the hall. “Sir,”