December 12, 2018:
Now sombre, as we're used to him.
Parks, Etomps, France, May 1945. He's recovering from his wound. He'll be sent back to his unit, but the war is over. He's alive, so let's celebrate that.
Seated on a stone railing, feet in a chair. Arms crossed, like he's hugging his ribs. There's a cigarette in one hand, the poison that eventually killed him, as it would later kill his daughter after him. There's a smile that seems forced, almost a grimace. He looks like he's in pain.
He never talks of what he's seen.