The sound of gunfire is heard from the war front, and the grass trees are folded to one side and a wave of wind is blowing. The small white bags that have bloomed in the grass are also swaying in the wind. Two or three white clouds are slowly floating in the blue sky. The grass is full of small white flowers with trees planted here and there, and the grass is spread in the plain until far away. The healthy sunlight of the morning filtered through the trees and fell on the ground. There. The soldier opens his eyes every now and then and stares at the sky with difficulty, muttering something. The soldier's cap is on his side, and a piece of cloth is placed over his forehead. After looking at the sky and the distant plain for a while, the pain of the soldier can be seen on his face. Holding her to her chest, she begins to hum again with difficulty. A young Red Cross nurse sitting on the ground next to the soldier Word by word, he writes down what he mutters in a book with a pencil. After a while, the soldier's pained face becomes relaxed and calm. What the soldier mumbled only happens between him, that nurse, and the wind. The wind knows thousands of those whispers.
Photo A Red Cross nurse recording the last words of a British soldier, somewhere on the Western Front, 1917
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