GAMEPLAY
Shovels rise and fall as dirt is flung over shoulders.
Soldiers, their eyes forever closed, wait off to the side.
Charon: A rare moment of peace. Is this truly how you wish to spend this time?
Franz: I'm not just doing this for you. Besides, I told you yesterday not to be so damn polite.
Charon: Apologies.
Franz: You've picked a nice spot for a cemetery.
Franz: Place hasn't been hit yet—still feels like summer.
Charon: The front may move in this direction soon enough.
Franz: True. The soldiers you've buried might end up blasted to bits in the shelling—or lying above the mud again.
Franz: Like ... what's that word again? Sloughs?
Charon: Yes, sloughs.
Charon: It doesn't matter. Once the shells stop falling, I will return and bury them again.
Franz: Then your work'll never be finished.
Charon: I don't mind.
Franz: Well, I'd rather spend my time thinking about how I'm going to swipe myself a roast goose.
Charon: ... Many ask me why I continue this task, but never you.
Franz: There's nothing to ask, Charon. The rookies are banging their heads on the air raid shelter walls, and the veterans are scrounging for cigarettes.
Franz: Just living another day is good enough for me. Who cares about "why"?
Charon: ... Indeed.
Charon stops. There's a woman in the distance making her way toward him, a medical bag under her arm.
The trees behind cast a shadow, hiding her face from him.
Charon: But some must search for meaning, or they cannot live.
Franz: Who's the Schwester?
Partita: Hello.
Franz: Tag, Fräulein. Do you know our Charon here?
Partita: Yes, Herr Schreyer.
The unexpected address causes Franz to rub his chin. Partita turns her gaze to Charon.
Partita: I'll be helping you bury the soldiers.
Charon: It is too dangerous. The field hospital withdrawal is certain to keep you busy enough.
Partita: Lieutenant Colonel Wolker gave me permission. You've got a habit of digging up men who are somehow still alive, it seems.
Franz: You can't argue with that.
Charon lowers his head and returns to his task in silence.
Partita: You were never good at lying. That's why you won't even talk about Walter.
Partita: Why won't you tell me?
Charon: It was shellfire. Dust flew everywhere, and then he was gone ... in the blink of an eye.
Partita: That's not the whole story. I know it.
Her conviction leaves Charon speechless.
Partita: First you dodge all my questions, and now you won't even say a word.
Franz: Fräulein, Charon's mind works a little slower than most. He might just be taking it all in still.
Partita: I see.
She sets down her medical bag and picks up a nearby shovel.
Partita: So, you're a man of action now, are you?
Visibly unsettled, Franz also chooses to remain silent.
Partita: Fine. Then, I'll keep shoveling right here with you until you tell me the truth.
Charon: There is no truth to tell.
Partita: Then it looks like there's nothing for us to talk about. Time to get back to it, action man.
As the grave takes shape, Partita makes her way to the cart, Franz following behind.
Together, they carefully lift one of the bodies.
A cough, faint and abrupt. The three of them glance at each other, and Partita looks toward the cart.
Franz: Wait, wait, wait ...
Among the many faces piled on the cart, Partita finds one with a little color in its cheeks and gently lifts an eyelid.
Partita: ... Mein Gott! He's alive ... He's still alive!
Franz: Good grief ... I thought we'd checked them all!
She rushes to her medical bag.
Partita: Quick, move the bodies off him!
Partita: Be careful, Franz. He might have broken bones.
Partita: Paul! Don't just stand there! Help us!
Lines from the journal's first pages surface in his mind.
Charon: ...
Charon: Coming.
The injured soldier who cheated death has been seen to.
Charon stands, still and silent among the beds and stretchers. The cries of the wounded surround him.
Partita vanishes behind a screen, hard at work. Franz motions for Charon to move along.
Charon averts his gaze from the mangled limbs, nods to Franz, and makes to leave.
???: Paul!
A haggard hand brushes his coat, then falls back, powerless.
Charon: What?
???: Paul ... Gott im Himmel, finally, someone I know.
???: Where's Willi? Go fetch him, quick ... He doesn't know I'm in the field hospital.
The soldier's words crackle from his dry throat. His dog tag reads "Fabien."
Charon: You are Fabien?
Fabien: Come on, Paul, I'm not already some nameless patient to you, am I?
Deprived too long of familiar company, Fabien has grown talkative—to an oddly feverish degree.
Fabien: Never mind. Anna will remember me no matter what. I just have to get my discharge, and then we'll go home together.
Fabien: Anna promised she'd make me a wreath of Ginster when we saw each other again ...
Charon: Who is it you're looking for?
Fabien: Anna! I want to see Anna—I'll write to her, and she'll come for me. I know she will.
Charon: There was another. Your comrade from the front, perhaps.
Fabien: I just want to see Anna.
As Charon tries to make sense of his rambling, a doctor walking by shoots him a look.
Doctor: Best not to take what he says too seriously.
Charon: Why?
Doctor: He rambles like that every day. Wound's not looking good, either.
Charon: What happened to him?
Doctor: Lost a leg.
Fabien: You think I can't hear you whispering about me, Doctor! Stop talking rubbish!
Fabien: Paul, don't believe him—he's just grouchy 'cause I won't call him "Herr."
Charon: He spoke no ill of you, Fabien—simply discussed today's lunch options.
Fabien drops his gaze, muttering something under his breath. Charon turns and lowers his voice.
Charon: Will he live?
The doctor, seemingly irritated with his own misplaced concern, lowers his gaze to the medical file.
Doctor: It's hard to say. Three days from now, we'll be evacuated to the rear. He'll receive better treatment then.
Doctor: But if his condition worsens before then, we'll have to leave him behind.
Charon: Leave him—with some painkillers.
Doctor: Yes. We're all preparing to evacuate. Frankly, I doubt he'll last that long.
Charon: ...
Doctor: ... Perhaps it's cold of me to say, but death's just part of the routine here. One bed empties, another fills, and the dog tags pile up like cigarette butts.
Charon: ... Understood.
The doctor gestures to Fabien with his clipboard.
Doctor: You can see him off, though I imagine you do that for everyone left behind, yes?
Fabien's murmuring begins to fade, then he gasps for breath, like he's choking back a sob.
Charon: Yes.