Martini in a Strange Land

The Eastern Front, 1917. The Great War, which had lasted four years, was less than a year from its end. And yet Lewis, an Austro-Hungarian technical soldier and firearms enthusiast, happened to run into a level-100 big shot flying a heavy bomber to scoop up some fries. Thus goes the poem: Wings beat in the wind, gathering in the sky. Unexploded bombs fall, and the fields lie strewn with them.