The Tank

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The Tank looked huge, a dark grey cylinder that sternly contrasted with the dawn’s pale colors and filled the heart. Giovanni Corte could not help but hold his breath when the huge silo of steel and concrete appeared beyond the mist. He felt a chill run through his body.

The early morning air got into his sleeves and under his collar while he was steadily approaching the structure with two NMO officers at his sides.

While they walked in utter silence tufts of grass and gravel crackled unpleasantly under their boots. Giovanni felt like he was walking on an expanse of brittle bones, trampling them underfoot.

The soldier at his right chocked a sneeze with his gloved fist. He was quite slender, which was pretty clear even under the large black coat, and the vaporous ghost that came out of his mouth quickly vanished in the chill of that newborn January. The other officer, thicker in build, rapidly glared at his comrade as to reprimand him for the sudden, albeit trivial, lack of self-control. The small four-pointed stars they both wore on their shoulders and berets weren’t shining as usual, always polished like golden jewels; the cold, dull light hovering on the whole Camp 9 made them look dull, almost opaque.

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