I can’t shake the Fuhrerbunker image from my mind.

Everything is monotonous gray. The wood paneling and tasteful furnishings do nothing to dispel the atmosphere of gloom and artificiality. The plumbing and cables on the walls and the hum of the generators only drive it home. Outside, the artillery seems to be getting closer and closer.
An occasional near miss shakes loose a sprinkle of dust from the ceiling and a slight tremor in the wall. The lamps flicker but they do not go off.

There is no day or night, the harsh glare of artificial light only helps to highlight the crisp uniforms in field gray and SS black, their colorful insignia and decorations glisten bravely. The pretty young staffers, their hair and clothes immaculate, stand by phones that never ring and rip copy off the last functioning teletype, somehow they have managed to find stockings and makeup from some hidden cache.

The Chief is silent and morose a lot, now. He tries to control his temper, but occasionally still erupts into rage and fury. He appears tired, distracted, ill. He spends much time thumbing through old documents or listening to reports from grim, breathless aides, but his heart is not in it. He stares for hours at the maps, moving markers around them, imaginary battalions and brigades futilely struggling to stem the relentless Red tide.

Outside, the artillery seems to be getting closer and closer.