Something with Werner Wolff
Bronze sheen of sweat on his bared chest, and the eyes of boyish innocence, merely a reflection of the sky above, bright, so very bright, glaze of drug mania melting into eyeball whites. He coughs up a bit of blood, wheezing like a cat struggling to get out a hairball. “You’ll be fine”, Peiper says (his hand in Werner’s, kneeling by his side) and Werner smiles with blood speckled lips and grape juice stained teeth and he calls him Jochen under his breath as if the medic wasn’t allowed to hear.
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