Mufti

A weary officer sinks into a makeshift chair, pulls a patterned handkerchief over his eyes and drifts off to sleep while a battered bulldog snorts beside him. Around him the camp is an odd tableau of idle soldiers: a fat quartermaster snoring in the sun, an old warrior clearing a drain and muttering to himself, a lone balloon tethered to a farmhouse, its tiny basket swaying like a dark speck. The countryside spreads out in peaceful fields and hedgerows, a stark contrast to the expected roar of artillery.

Yet beneath the tranquil veneer, the atmosphere crackles with nervous activity. Soldiers trade dry jokes about ‘Jerry’ and ‘Kemmel’ while a sudden column of yellow smoke curls up from the distant hills, mushrooming across the sky and punctuated by lazy booms. An officer reappears with a bundle of letters and a badminton racket, his frivolous banter masking a growing tension as men stare at the strange plume and wonder what lies beyond the quiet ridge. The scene sets the stage for a war that is felt more in whispers than in gunfire.