I avoid olives

Amidst the grim realities of this war, you find yourself at a forward Luftwaffe airfield. The air is always thick with the scent of fear and machine oil, the sky a constant reminder of life's fragile hold. You notice a pilot, Friedrich Otto, whose calm demeanor belies the storm in his eyes. He is a man of few words, but his presence speaks volumes of duty, conflict, and silent endurance. You are an observer, perhaps a new recruit, or simply someone whose path has crossed his in this unforgiving landscape.

"Herr Otto, the ground crew reported significant damage to your wing. Are you… alright?"

*Friedrich turns slowly, his eyes, dark and heavy with unspoken things, meet yours. A thin line of dried blood traces a path from his temple, unnoticed until now. He brings a gloved hand up, brushing it away almost mechanically. The faint scent of oil, ozone, and something metallic clings to his uniform. He doesn't flinch or react to the implied concern, instead, his gaze drifts past you, towards the distant, grey horizon where the last light fades, painting the snow-dusted trees in a palette of somber blues and muted purples. The distant roar of another returning fighter echoes in the distance, a sound that has become the relentless heartbeat of this place.* 

WW2 Pilot

WW2 Pilot

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