The First Three Chapters

Here's an update for 2020.

My goal last year was to release this book, and while I sent it out to about 20 publishers, I also took up postgraduate schooling that was extremely demanding for somebody with no prior technical degree, so my attention was drawn away from being able to entirely dedicate myself to this project.

I'm looking to change that this year, so I'd like to share the first three chapters (plus an updated prologue). It's a hearty amount to put online, but it's what I send to publishers when I pitch my book, so I'm completely alright with sharing this with anyone and everyone.

I began this project because of an experience that I could relate through these soldiers and their stories paired with a newfound fondness for writing, so it's a very personal piece for me. Frankly, it's quite challenging putting myself so out there with something so transparent in how I find myself thinking. Regardless, I'm always accepting of any comments that you may want to send my way should you decide to read it, and feel free to share it with whoever else may find this piece interesting. Of course, I hope you enjoy.

Prologue: It was Them, or Us

Unterfeldwebel Rupert Schmidt

Crack! The bullet sliced through the air as it left the tip of my rifle. After a split second, my poor Soviet target flinched as he was disrupted by the rude interjection of my round. His rifle slowly lowered from his hands, falling to the ground as he slumped over on his stoop in the distance. Without any hesitation, I instinctively flipped back the bolt handle of my rifle up and tugged it back as a hot, empty shell casing spewed out of her right side.

It was often the only piece of consolation I could find after committing such a brutish action. The spent shell brushed against the metal receiver of my Karabiner – Ilsa, by the way – to make that familiar “kink”. It temporarily paused my worrying about what could often be several hundreds of meters away, just so I could tend to my rifle for a fraction of a moment. Pulling that bolt handle back has always been a wordless avenue for Ilsa and me to console each other after hacking away somebody’s soul from their body. It was as if we both needed a brief slice of reassurance from each other over what we had just done. We had no choice, we’d remind each other. This was war, after all. Ilsa and I - we hold together. From preventing my men from perishing by the endless onslaught of the Allied forces. From the fanatical Nazi regime that’s too focused on spreading hatred than keeping its own people alive. From not cracking under the pressure of what we’ve been witnessing out here. It all boiled down to one thing – we held together against losing our humanity in this brutal, modern, total war.

Our introspective moment subsided as the bolt slammed forward into the breach with another round taking the place of the previous. I always had to be ready for another shot.

Immediately after, another Soviet soldier shy of 200 meters away caught my sight as I panned the area through Ilsa’s scope. He was taking cover behind a large shelled-out building. One of my German comrades was inconveniently taking cover on the other side of a building in front of it, and I couldn’t tell if he knew if the Russian was so close. But I didn’t think so.

I couldn’t risk letting a fellow German soldier get jumped because I was too busy lollygagging around back here, so I withheld my burning instinct to relocate as Ilsa reactively snapped herself towards our next unsuspecting target. We needed to pull it off quickly because it was against my experience to stay in a spot for more than a couple of shots, and I had been here for long enough. Besides luck, abiding by the strict set of rules I’ve learnt is the only reason I’ve managed to survive this long.

The Soviet kept poking his head out for just a split second as if he sensed I was targeting him. Just long enough to at least get a picture of what was going on beyond his little niche. As tempting as it is to take the bait, I opted to hold my fire. He wasn’t exposed long enough for me to get a clean shot, and I didn’t want to alert any other enemies of my position with a resounding crack of rifle fire from my already-past-due niche.

Oh, how I longed fire anyway. If I hit him, then I did my job, and if I didn’t, he would hopefully just run away because he would know he was being zeroed in from afar. Then, I wouldn’t be forced to claim another victim, and my comrade won’t get killed. But that was exactly the problem with this war – retreating only held off the inevitable. Somewhere between the fanatical zeal on both sides after our ill-fated invasion, our allegiance to fight for our comrades next to us, and the primal instinct inside of us soldiers that secretly craves the rush, there was no retreat. Truthfully, I was probably not too different from this particular Russian. But I would be damned if he thought I was going to let him get one of my guys before I got him.

My comrade fired his rifle into the distance on the other side of his building, indeed not noticing anybody on the other side of his building. The cunning Soviet soldier, on the other hand, did. He readied his weapon by poking the tip out from behind his cover, prepared to make the dash. As it always seemed to be, it was them, or us.

The weight of responsibility my part in this gave me was immeasurable, even as someone whose life was hopefully not as immediately at stake. In that sliver of a second, I was the hand of God, deciding who lives or who dies. My old priest back at home would be upset at me for having such a mentality, but I didn’t ask for this responsibility, I didn’t ask to take anybody’s life, and I sure as hell didn’t ask for us to attack the Soviet Union. It was this blasted war that had us on the brink of everything from life to insanity that really made me ask myself what the dickens we were doing out here in this God-forsaken land that we tried to conquer solely for our own greed. But now that the first domino had fallen, we couldn’t have just stopped fighting and said to Russia, “hey, we’ve had enough war, we’re sorry, we were wrong to attack you guys, we’ll give you your land back, let’s just all live in peace.”

There was always so many of them, and the quality of our replacements was dwindling. We had already lost this war. We had been defeated long ago. But for some reason we were still fighting, like my comrade’s arm in a futile last stand, knowing he needs nothing short of a miracle to survive.

Finally, the Ivan sprung from the refuge of his building’s rubble wall like a lion after his prey, making a dead sprint to the other side of the structure with his submachine gun at the ready. Matching his pace for such a short dash this far away with the tip my rifle for an accurate shot would be next to impossible.

Ilsa tried anyway, and I fired a round right after he left his cover, hitting the wall of his building. By the time we were ready to fire another, the Ivan had made it to my comrade’s building. He fought the momentum from his sprint as he approached while snapping his head towards where he assumed my unprepared comrade was on the back side of the wall. My poor comrade either heard the Russian’s footsteps or my round hitting the opposite side of his building and took notice immediately, but from facing the other direction, his chances of survival were slim. He didn’t even try to whip his rifle around. He just winced, falling to the ground, and raised an empty hand between himself and where the Russian would appear.

I knew my only chance to hit him was once the Soviet had stopped running, and time began lagging to a crawl as the intensity sunk in. Through my grip on Ilsa, I felt my heart pound at what seemed to be a million pumps a minute. Though by the sheer terror on my comrade’s face, I could only imagine what his heart must have been like with Death himself breathing a cold, dead air down his neck.

The Russian’s teeth were exposed. It was another expression I had become familiar with while on the front. This Ivan was no longer human at that moment - he was a predator, ready to eradicate the evil Nazi menace. He brandished a PPSH – those absurd contraptions could spew out more than 900 bullets in a single minute. That means in a mere half a second, my comrade could absorb seven or eight bullets! It would be a particularly brutal reckoning from such a short range.

The biggest consolation I took away from that high-strung moment was that whilst Germany seems to no longer have God’s assistance in the war, at least this poor German might if Ilsa and I could have our say. This Ivan may think of himself to be a God with his authority to judge if my feeble comrade trapped in his palm lives or dies, but he didn’t realise that he was cornered in my palm as well. Then again, for all I knew, there could be another God with his own Ilsa about to judge my own life right now. But what only mattered right then was who could squeeze the life out of the man in their hand first.

It was bewildering to me how all those thoughts could flow through me in scantily more than a second of real time. Perhaps that meagre glimmer of intense moral contemplation had awakened what curiously lurks in the far reaches of my sanity. Regardless, it was my turn to be the judge now, with Ilsa as my hammer, and my bullet as the jury. With my heart about to burst out of my chest, I had finally made my verdict. As the Soviet’s submachine gun commenced its own hail of fire as he made it to the side of the building with my comrade, I promptly squeezed Ilsa’s trigger and absorbed her kickback. The jury was out.

With the bullet soaring through the air and no longer within my control, I suddenly realised that all the God-like power I thought I possessed had instantly disappeared. All of my previous thoughts on who had the power had become void, as who really decided where my bullet would land after it left my rifle, who really determined if I was lucky enough to save my comrade’s life, who really chose life or death for any us lowly mortals, was none other than God, Himself.

Chapter 1

Grenadier Bruno Lindemann

It was my first day on the front lines, and I had found it hard to contain my excitement. I waited for years to be old enough to help the Fatherland! Training could not have gone by fast enough. I was too eager to get out on the field and show those communist peasants what a real countryman fights like. And today was the first real taste of really being a man. No longer would I be behind the mighty arm of Germany, helping those on the front lines from the home front. I would now be part of the outer layers of skin on the knuckle of the Third Reich! Together with my comrades, we were going to push the Soviet scum back into the barren lands they are born in.

When my train came to a stop at the camp at our camp, we dismounted the boxcars en masse. I decided I wanted to get a memento from everywhere I visited, so I promptly snatched a pebble from the ground as I stepped off. We were promptly placed in lines and sectioned off as if we were being drafted for a sports team.

After a few minutes of waiting as others’ names were called, mine was called, and I was introduced to a man called Oberfeldwebel Martin. He was an older man of average height with unrelenting eyes, balding beneath the edges of his felt cover. His uniform was spotless. He must know how to fight a war.

“Grenadier Bruno Lindemann? I am Oberfeldwebel Martin.” His voice was strong, and his words were delivered at a good pace.  It was a good sign.

“Show me your rifle,” he ordered. I snapped my feet together as I unslung the rifle across my back and presented it to the Oberfeldwebel as if in drill. He gave it a nod. “Go stand by the other recruits,” he ordered.

“Yes, Oberfeldwebel, sir.” I saluted before stepping around him to join the others.

Some of the soldiers I met on the train, the farm boy Grenadier Weiss and shoemaker apprentice Grenadier Graf, were already waiting behind the Oberfeldwebel with a couple of others I didn’t recognize, so I excitedly greeted them both as joining them in waiting as the Oberfeldwebel searched for however many other new recruits he was assigned from the train.

He called the names of a few others I haven’t met before, but nonetheless, I greeted them all as they joined us standing by. After another minute or so, I was thrilled to overhear Gernot Huber’s voice called, and then see the jolly big-boned Grenadier I talked to the most on the train make his way towards us. He said something to the Oberfeldwebel and then proceeded to fall in line like the rest of us.

“It’s my friend with the self-loading rifle!” Huber exclaimed after he caught sight of me.

I ran my thumb underneath the sling of the rifle on my shoulder and gave it a brief tug upwards. “I’m beginning to think that’s why you befriended me, Huber,” I joked as I gave him an excited hand-shake.

“Come on, this way,” the Oberfeldwebel interjected as he abruptly directed us to a spot away from the train staging area. Huber jumped in surprise as he marched through our freshly subsided handshake. I grinned at the wide-eyed Huber and fell in behind the other following the Oberfeldwebel.

The first thing I noticed about the camp as we marched away from the train was the energetic bustling of activity. The staging area where we got off was a bit crowded, but that was to be expected with as many soldiers stepping off the railcars. However, the camp was only marginally less huddled, if at all. Soldiers in all different uniforms shuffled to wherever they were heading in a hurry. At one point, one of them bumped into me and didn’t even acknowledge he did so. How rude!

The camp was rather extensive, too. Well, they call it a camp, but it was really just a makeshift headquarters out of the strip of stores in the middle of a small town, littered with a bunch of tents in the surrounding area. It had a larger building in the middle, which must have been a post office or something in the past, but now looked like where the higher-ups must make the battle plans. A couple of old stores around it were occupied as well, as either the medical facilities or as some of the troops’ quarters.

As we marched from the heart of the camp and into the areas less dense with soldiers, I realized that Oberfeldwebel Martin had been speaking to us this entire time. I hastily dialed in, catching something about the importance he placed on getting the new recruits acclimated to combat as quickly as possible.

“The best way to do this is by placing you under the direct supervision of somebody who understands the ropes. Because of such, I am going to make you the protégé of a soldier who knows the battlefield. Think of yourself as an apprentice under a master of war.”

A master of war? I tried to get a bit closer to the Oberfeldwebel so I could devour every last scrap of his lecture.

“I am going to hold you to a high level of accountability, as I expect everybody within my command to be the pinnacle fighting force of the Wehrmacht,” he explained.

Oh man, he really knew his stuff. How fortunate I was to be placed underneath somebody like him. He will without a doubt know the best person to put me directly underneath.

The Oberfeldwebel kept droning on, and I couldn’t help but daydream about what my “master of war,” was going to be like. I envisioned all the recruitment posters back at home – was he blond? Brown hair? Probably a huge guy – those ones always seem to do well in battle, right? Undoubtedly my mentor had to keep the sharpest of uniforms – like the Oberfeldwebel. Maybe he was one of those shave-twice-a-day kinds of people. You know, because they were extra disciplined. True German soldiers were the most disciplined men in the world.

I forwent listening to the Oberfeldwebel to continue imagining the proud German soldier I’d be placed under. It would probably take some time for me to get on his good side because that’s how the best master tradesmen are when teaching their new apprentices. He’d probably act like he is too cool to talk to me, too. Yeah, I bet he is a real ice cube. Maybe I would even be so fortunate as to land one of those heroes we see in the newsreels as my mentor, like those ones that single-handedly hold off entire battalions of angry Russians with nothing more than a couple of grenades and a side-arm. And of course, he will most definitely embroider the qualities that make Germany great! Yes, I had decided my mentor would be a true German, a true supporter of the Reich, my mentor had to be-

“Grenadier Bruno Lindemann, this is Unterfeldwebel Rupert Schmidt,” the Oberfeldwebel stated, stopping immediately in front of me. I had almost bumped into him. Grenadier Huber quietly chuckled, but thankfully I the Oberfeldwebel didn’t seem to notice, as his eyes were on me, with an open palm gesturing ahead. Excitedly, I shot around up to see my knight in shining armor.

My overwhelming thrill of the moment was put to an abrupt halt as I finally laid eyes on the man supposed to be my guiding light through the unfamiliar dimness of war. To my front was a scrub in his mid to late twenties, leaning on a wooden pole as he wrote in a book. He had long hair for a soldier – probably a couple of centimeters too long to fit underneath his cover – a smoke in his mouth, and stubble that suggested he had not shaved in at least three days. His uniform had mud stains all over, but despite this, his facial gesture when he heard his name called suggested that he hasn’t seen combat since the start of the war, if at all. Needless to say, my heart sank.

He must not have had the same feeling because his cheerful light brown eyes lit up as he caught sight of me. “Grenadier Lindemann! Pleased to finally meet you,” he exclaimed as he snapped his book shut and threw his cigarette on the ground, all with a huge, warm smirk on his face. “I have been eagerly awaiting your arrival so I can show you what it takes to become the best chef east of Germany! We are going to cook some exceptional dishes together, no stomach within a thousand miles will go unpleased.”

Thank goodness, there must have been a mistake. “Cook? I’m not trained to be a chef…” I inquired, glancing over at the Oberfeldwebel.

“Gotdammit, Schmidt,” the Oberfeldwebel sighed as his hand crept up to his forehead, all while rolling his eyes. “Not the chef thing again! Take your job seriously for once, could you?”

Some of the other soldiers sitting around us began to chuckle. One laugh, in particular, was more noticeable to me, made by a soldier who was rubbing his already red eyes underneath silver glasses with his behind and legs flat on the dirt. With a desperate smile, his chuckle sounded more like an injured wolf, as if some looming sadness was preventing him from laughing normally.

The entirety of my situation sunk in at once, which must have shown, because Oberfeldwebel Martin took notice. He placed a hand on my shoulder. His scowl let slowly let up, but just a little, as he shared, “this man is a pain in the ass, Lindemann, and I’m sure you’ll find out soon enough.”

The Oberfeldwebel sighed, and then sort of winced before taking his hand off me. “But something has allowed him to survive this long in this war, and whether that is if he’s doing something right, or if he’s just plain lucky, under him, you’ll have a decent chance of figuring out how to survive out here.”

“Keep stroking the shaft, chief,” Schmidt threw in as he put his book into a pocket. His wisecrack made the men around laugh a little bit heartier, as if the sadness that burdened the man with glasses down earlier was uplifted ever so marginally compared to before. It still wasn’t very motivating.

Oberfeldwebel Martin violently stepped between the toes of Schmidt’s feet while jabbing an open hand right underneath his subordinate’s chin. Schmidt was pushed back a half step as the sides of his mouth lowered from a carefree smirk to an off-guard frown. “You will respect me in front of the troops, Schmidt! Especially after all I have done for you!” the Oberfeldwebel growled before he huffed, “And shave. Your gotdamn. Beard.”

The Oberfeldwebel held his hand up at Schmidt for another second. Underfeldwebel Schmidt’s eyes narrowed. His face has considerably more resolve as he raised his chin before dropping it down, giving a single nod to his superior. “You are right, Oberfeldwebel. I apologise for stepping out of line. Thank you for both looking out for me, and bringing Grenadier Schmidt to me.”

The Oberfeldwebel’s hand lowered, but he kept his eyes locked. Schmidt leaned around him and pointed at the other recruits. “Oberfeldwebel Martin is one of the only Obefeldwebels left still leading a platoon. He cares too much about us to do anything different. Saved me – well, rather, us all – countless of times. You’ve got the best chances of survival under him.”

The Oberfeldwebel grunted. He raised his chin high, further squinting at Schmidt, before marching off towards some of the other men sitting around, beckoning at the other recruits to follow with an aggressive wave. The other recruits followed in a confused gaggle.

I caught Huber’s eyes right before he followed the rest of them and shot him a crooked “uh-oh” face. Huber caught what I meant as the distance between us grew, and he blinked with a shrug. Optimistic of him, but I was still worried.

With his attention now fully switched to me, Schmidt grabbed my shoulder as he excitedly gave out introductions to the gloomy crew that laughed at his mockery of the Oberfeldwebel. “This is Gefreiter Burkhard Kuhn, that is Gefreiter Udo Sommer, next to him is Obergefreiter Karl Moller…” Almost every introduction was matched with either a nod or grunt, except the first guy, who reached out for a handshake with an oddly pleasant smile. He seemed like a friendly one.

Another man approached me before being introduced and grabbed the rifle strung around my shoulder. “A Geweher 43 wasted on a recruit, eh, Schmidt?” he asked as I lowered my arm so he could examine it. “Don’t suppose you had something to do with it, did you?”

Unterfeldwebel Schmidt kept his smirk as he raised his chin. “Not even as much as a hello to the new guy first, Herrmann?” The man shouldered my rifle and cackled lightly. Schmidt explained, “they still think I need more volume of fire.”

The man gave back my rifle and punched Schmidt lightly in the chest. “Can’t hurt. Hopefully, he does better than the last guy.” I didn’t see him do it, but I just felt as if his shrewd eyes had already looked me over from head to toe. I just knew he had already sized me up.

As he strolled away, Schmidt brushed his forehead and muttered, “he sure has a way with words,” before abruptly starting to prod me with questions. “So how was your ride here? Where are you from? What did your father do before the war? What do you like to do in your free time? Do you like it when you get asked a bunch of questions by strangers? Does it make you nervous?” Okay, maybe he didn’t go that far, but he might as well have. One by one, I’d answer them. “Uhm, great, West of Munich, he is a hunter, I like sports...” He must have liked my responses because he kept up the probing. Schmidt was oddly energetic for somebody who had supposedly seen so much of the war. It was difficult for me to comprehend.

Schmidt’s warm gaze soon turned into a light frown as the tone changed. “Alright, I have to see you shoot. Drop your shit right here next to mine except for your rifle, and come follow me.” I wasn’t expecting his order, but I did what he asked. He said a blanket goodbye to the squad as we got up and started trekking through the camp towards the outskirts.

“What do you think so far?” Oberfeldwebel Schmidt’s eyes glistened with excitement, as if he was the host of a most marvelous party.

I decided then was the time to show him how excited I was to be here. “I’ve been waiting for this day since before I can remember. I enlisted on the day of my 18th birthday,” I boasted. “I can’t wait to do Germany’s bidding against those filthy Soviet pigs!”

Schmidt’s eyes narrowed, and he turned his head away. “Ah, right,” he muttered as if praise of his craft didn’t please him.

For somebody as lively as him, I couldn’t understand why he wouldn’t at least pretend to be glad I was going to fight right under his wing. I had the ideal mindset for a German warrior. He should be excited for someone like me to come about to help his war efforts! At the very least, he should be pleased that somebody could act as energetic as him, if even for just a flash.

Silence overtook us as we walked through the camp. It could have been a bit weird if it weren’t for the constant movement of others around. Their noise provided a barrier to prevent any awkwardness from setting in.

As we hiked past some other vehicles, a gigantic tank stood out from the mix, and I couldn’t help but admire how statuesque it appeared in the setting sun. I remembered seeing such a tank while watching the news reels. I believed it was a Panzerkampfwagen VI. An actual Tiger tank! They had a special news clip when it arrived on the battlefield. I brushed it with a hand as we made our way past it. It truly was a marvel of German engineering: its boxy shape, its huge cannon, her crew having a smoke on its other side – the whole scene really was exactly what I pictured the true might of mighty German army to be like. I was reassured by it as we wandered by.

The camp got less and less busy until we eventually made it to an area open enough to fire my rifle. Schmidt had me shoot a couple of tire-sized logs in the distance, all in the realm of a hundred meters away. His reactions were a little generic: “Great shot!” “Good!” “Nice hit!” Of course they were nice hits. I was a hunter. I knew my way around a rifle.

We embarked back towards our spot in the camp after a couple of more shots. Not too long after, we again passed the Tiger tank. Even though her crew was no longer in sight, it still retained its projection of prowess among the environment.

It actually made me a bit upset. How come my mentor here couldn’t be as stoic and powerful as this tank? He was just some scrub who had somehow managed to survive so long. But you can avoid combat and survive. Maybe that’s his secret – maybe he just hides during combat. That would explain his softened face. He would never see combat if he hid like a coward the whole time. Something about him, about all of this, really just agitated me.

We eventually made it back to the squad, where we both sat down on the grass by our gear. I started to dissect Schmidt’s uniform. A random button on his shirt was not closed. He had a pistol of sorts on his belt. A big one, too, one I didn’t recognize. It couldn’t have been one of ours, so how did he get it? It must have been scavenged. Maybe he was a scavenger, too busy looting corpses to fight like a man?

Schmidt must have read my expression and decided to tackle it head-on. “Lindemann, something is obviously wrong. What does that face suggest?”

I scratched the back of my neck. I was unsure at first about if I should go for it, but Schmidt’s inviting charisma made it peculiarly easy to decide to mount an attack. I propped myself up from behind with the hand that was on my neck and let it out.

“Are you sure you know what you’re doing out here? I mean, I’ve seen a lot of newsreels with interviews of successful war heroes, and you’re nothing like them.”

Taken back, Schmidt’s expression changed from one of concern to one of surprise. He didn’t respond immediately, so I continued. “Look, Oberfeldwebel Martin said that he wanted new recruits like me to be placed under experienced men on the front, and from what I’ve seen so far, I am unsure if you are suited for command of anybody else. You can hardly take care of yourself, from the looks of it.” I used my hand to reference his unkept face and uniform. His head bobbled back.

Schmidt silently produced a cigarette, lighting it up as he processed my words. The air grew thick with discontent as the seconds passed where Schmidt didn’t say a word.

Just as he put his lighter away and began to open his mouth, one of the men from the squad we were sitting with walked into our sub-circle of conversation and interrupted us.

“Excuse me, Schmidt, I’m sorry to be bothering you if you’re in the middle of something.” It was the man who forced the laugh when Schmidt teased Oberfeldwebel Martin earlier. The really gloomy one. He was older than me, but not as old as Schmidt, with circular glasses seated in front of hollow, reddened eyes. He had probably shaved yesterday.

The man took a knee before noticing me and introduced himself again, which I was grateful for because I was so swamped with new faces earlier that I forgot most of their names already. “Sorry, I’m Gefreiter Udo Sommer, in case you forgot.” He raised a hand, and I shook it.

Sommer then turned towards Schmidt again before immediately fixing his eyes towards the ground. “About earlier…” It was blatantly obvious that something was really troubling him. He coughed as if to cover his uncomfortableness, and continued. “I, uhh, I… I accepted death out there.”

There was a brief pause, and I became aware of how serious of a turn this conversation was about to take. “By now I’m sure we all have at some point,” Sommer explained, “but today, I really, genuinely thought my time had come.” His troubled eyes glanced up to identify how Schmidt was reacting thus far.

Schmidt carefully nodded. His lightly squinted eyes gave away a complete fascination in Sommer’s words. Sommer picked this up but snapped back to the ground.

“I saw every bit of my most treasured memories scroll in front of my very eyes, as if in some newsreel,” he revealed, rubbing an arm with one of his hands. “It was at that very moment I saw my family. I felt their warmth. And I saw our restaurant back at home…”

There was a moment of silence. He wanted to break down further. But for some reason, he couldn’t. Maybe because he had a reputation to uphold, but at a moment like this, I doubted he was concerned about his reputation in the slightest.

Sommer’s eyes drifted up towards the sky. “I never felt a stronger feeling when your bullet hit that Russian soldier, especially over watching somebody go from living to dead so quickly within a couple of meters from me.” Your bullet, as in Schmidt’s?

Sommer gulped and faced his head away from us. His eyes focused on nothing specific far, far away. Birds chirped as he thought about what to say.

He soon spoke up. “You asked me a long time ago what I wanted to do after the war, and I couldn’t answer you because I couldn’t imagine anything beyond being a soldier. Fighting has become our life. It’s become all we know.” His words came across as stressed as he again took comfort in looking towards the ground. “I’ve wanted to die for such a long time now. I can hardly remember when I wanted to live.”

That’s when it clicked – the forced laugh earlier, the evident pain of his words. Sommer had no energy left to fight the hopelessness draped around him. He couldn’t even make tears anymore. He’s had too many hardships to be able to fend off the sorrow that seemed to also come from within. On one knee before us was a broken man.

But then he started fidgeting. Something inside of him sparked and began pushing out of him as if he was the class dweeby kid who has been picked on enough and finally decided to fight back against the schoolyard bully. That dreary shell around him earlier – it was fracturing like brittle pottery.

With the cloak that dragged him down with the horrors of the world driven off his shoulders just enough for him to breathe, Sommer snapped towards Schmidt, armed with the fiercest look I had seen anyone make all day.

“But at that moment, right before I almost died, I saw my loved ones at home. I saw my family’s restaurant.” His eyes teared up ever so slightly, but their lock on Schmidt was unbreakable.

“I’m sorry it’s taken so long, but if there was no war, I would have wanted to work at my family’s restaurant my whole life. I don’t care if I would never leave my hometown. I would have been happy there.” He ended his speech with the slightest expression of optimism he could muster, as if the girl he had a crush on but never talked to many years ago had moved back for his last years of schooling. Sure, he still may never talk to her, but at least that possibility could now exist.

Schmidt had a most sincere demeanor. “I’m glad to have finally heard that, Udo,” he reflected as he gave Sommer a respectful pat on the shoulder. “And someday, you’ll be able to return to it.”

“Yeah, yeah, but on my own terms,” he quietly shared, imaginative eyes off on the horizon. As he was pretending to wipe the soot from his eye, Sommer’s concern to appear tough had started to come back as he claimed, “I would have told that Soviet soldier, because I guess this all was technically his doing, but I can’t now, so you’re the next best thing.”

The two men let out a faint chuckle. Sommer’s laugh had become more human. He didn’t have to force it out this time around. It was clearly his first genuine laugh in a while. He still carried deep pain, but I felt that he’d have a good chance of being able to deal with its weirdness. In fact, I felt considerably more optimistic about the future of this new Sommer in front of me opposed to the one I had met mere minutes before.

 “Anyways, uhh, I’ll leave you two to it, sorry to interrupt. Thanks again, Overwatch,” remarked Sommer as he got up, and went back to his spot in the circle. Overwatch?

“I appreciate that, Udo,” Schmidt followed. Sommer was almost all the way back the spot on the dirt he was when I first saw him when Schmidt called on him again. “Hey, hold on a second!”

Sommer turned around and mirrored his quizzical face by responding, “yes?” Schmidt jabbed his chin upwards with as he declared, “call me Rupert.”

Sommer’s new guise was subtly childish as he smirked, “whatever you say, Underfeldwebel Rupert,” before he turned away.

There was something about Sommer’s new face. It was the same one that initially turned me off of Schmidt when I had first met him. It was never a face that demonstrated a lack of experience – it was one that shrugged it off, tempered enough to effectively dampen any hardships that affect a person’s wellbeing. I just may have begun to understand how such a seasoned individual like Schmidt could maintain such a pleasant demeanor despite the war ravaging on around him. Maybe, after all of my doubts, there was hope with this man after all.

Schmidt peeked at me, and I realised that my jaw was just slightly agape. He let out the dirtiest shitbag of a smirk and commented, “if you want to submit a request to change squads, by all means, feel free to take that up with Oberfeldwebel Martin.”

He took a lengthy, deliberate puff of his cigarette before casually turning his back on me to tinker with his gear. That bastard probably didn’t even have any equipment that needed to be fiddled with.

Chapter 2

Unterfeldwebel Rupert Schmidt

These blasted bugs were relentless in trying to me further into insanity. It wasn’t easy to keep a keen eye on the horizon when you had them flying by your face. Ordinarily, you could light up a smoke which puts them at bay, but not out in the field. Every second you look at the flies around you to properly swat them away is a second you aren't paying attention to your surroundings, just to wave to the enemy. But it didn’t matter if we were moving from place to place, because no matter where we went, there seemed to be more than a ration’s worth of our little insect friends, trying to get a slice of the action. Believe me, little buggers, you wouldn't want it.

Equally as frustrating as these bugs in my personal space were my new protégé of sorts, Grenadier Lindemann. After a little tiff when he first got here, he had quite quickly become casual. I usually am quite fond of having someone out here close enough to be on casual terms with. Udo Sommer comes to mind; I’ve grown quite an admiration for him as of late. But with Lindemann, it’s a bit different. It’s tougher to take an order seriously from a friend over a superior, so he has interpreted that voicing his displeasure over my instructions is acceptable.

Our closeness should not be mistaken as friendship, however. When he speaks to me as he would to a friend, it’s in a casualness that doesn’t acknowledge that he is supposed to respect my commands because, at the end of the day, I am his superior. I always hated having to pull rank, but if he didn’t follow through with my instructions, there could be some drastic consequences. If he proves to be underwhelming, he could get my comrades killed. I usually don’t mind being a teacher – in fact, I generally quite enjoy it – but he’s been quite a pain during this whole ordeal.

I noticed the bulk of our men in front of us move from behind giant bales of hay to behind a small stone wall, so I notified Lindemann that it was time for us to move forward from the brush we were covered in as well.

He stopped fumbling around with the rocks by his feet to unenthusiastically respond, “yep," sounding like a child given a chore by his parents when he’d rather play outside with their friends. Admittedly, he could be grumpy because I forbid him from firing his rifle unless either I explicitly told him he could use it, or unless otherwise absolutely necessary. It was his first contact with the enemy, so I’d be lying if I claimed I wasn’t worried that he could become a liability.

We caught up with the others on a stone wall, which was a good 30 meters from the gaggle of buildings we were supposed to assault. I carefully peeked up from behind the stone barrier and snagged a glimpse of some Soviets in a building beyond. The wall we were hiding behind bent slightly around the barn to our front and continued to the front right. It stopped not too far to our left, where the only somewhat viable cover would be a very shallow drain ridge beside the barn.

Feldwebel Pfeiffer, our squad leader, also noticed the enemy. He stopped peeking above the stone wall and begun quietly barking out orders.

“I want you three fucks with me, and I want some gotdamn cover as we get close to that building!” he whispered aggressively.

The recruit underneath him scrambled to acknowledge his order as quickly as the others, which did not please Pfeiffer. “Did you hear me, you pigly looking fuck?”

The boy’s eyes widened as responded swiftly and immediately, “yes, Feldwebel Pfeiffer, sir!”

The recruit’s name was Huber. If I remember correctly, his first name began with a ‘G.’ Maybe Gernot? Anyway, Grenadier Huber was as fresh as they come and had quickly become close to his fellow rookie, Lindemann. A relatively stocky man for the front lines, he had a face as green as green could be. It gave me a sense of joy at first – people as innocent as Huber could still exist in this war-torn world. Even so, it’s also a bit sad. His face will be cold as the stone wall we hid behind after this battle. His mother will hardly recognise him. That is, of course, if he even survives. Pfeiffer was particularly hard on him, which was a bad sign. Pfeiffer sensed he’d need more work.

I noticed Lindemann was taken back by the way Pfeiffer talked to his men, specifically to Huber. I shaped my face to say, “that’s right, you little shit, you really want to find another person to show you the ropes?”

Lindemann must have noticed this telepathic thought, because he flashed back at me with a facial gesture that irrefutably implied, “fuck off.” If that’s how my mentee treats me, then maybe I am the bottom shelf rum of mentors. But hey, even bottom shelf alcohol can do the job. And believe me, I would know.

Pfeiffer violently beckoned that he wanted us all to gather around him to share his plans for the attack. I nodded to Lindemann, and we both shimmied along the stone barrier to where the rest assembled.

Feldwebel Uwe Pfeiffer was a short man and always had a frown on his face. One of the quickest men to pull his rank in any argument, he suffered from short man syndrome, where he felt as if he had to compensate his smaller stature with his other accomplishments. I’m on the slightly taller side myself, so I am not necessarily a conductor on such a train of thought. I don’t quite understand why some short people feel as if they need to act all strong and mighty. It clouds judgement. I’ll be your friend no matter how tall you are, even if you can’t reach the cookie jar on top of the shelves. Maybe that’s why Pfeiffer is so mean. Perhaps his comradery with the relatively taller Oberfeldwebel Martin was so somebody else could reach the cookie jar when he couldn’t.

Once we were in a tidy circle with the others, we saw Pfeiffer attempting at forging a map on the ground. The diagram was probably not Pfeiffer’s idea – he is way too dense for maps and the like. Though it definitely wasn't Moller's, either. Perhaps Kuhn politely suggested it to help with the new guys.

I used to think all soldiers fight for love, whether that is for their love of country, love of their specific speciality, or love of their families and friends back at home. Though I don’t think that is true anymore because of the conscription and such, I credit Pfeiffer with showing me that some fight because they simply love fighting. I’m unsure if he actually hates the Russians, or if he just loves to hate them because it’s a way he can justify fighting them. Either way, it’s a completely different mindset from that of my own, and probably why we’re not the closest.

While Pfeiffer was getting ready to brief men his with his rudimentary diagram, used Ilsa’s scope to scan the house I saw those Russians in. There was indeed a machine gun on the second floor of a building past an open courtyard between the barn and us, dominated by a well in its centre. The ground around it was checkered with one or two artillery holes. Not too deep though; either from lighter artillery, or general neglect of the land. To the right of that building was a one-story shop of sorts, which from our angle allowed us to peer into its empty storefront. Pfeiffer would likely want to take that. The only other building in our section of the town before it crossed over to where the other squads were attacking was far back and to the left of the one with the machine gun. I panned it through my scope, but still couldn't tell if it was occupied or not.

Keeping our future battlefield in mind, I made Lindemann peek above the stone ridge before I decided to test his knowledge. “Where do you think we should go?” I inquired after a couple of seconds.

Lindemann glanced at me, and then back above the ridge before I justified my task. “I want you to do the thinking. Don’t just follow me into battle –  you need to know why I chose where we’re heading.” Lindemann hummed in acknowledgement, so I added, “and eventually if I ever become a good enough instructor, I’d like you to find an even better spot than me. That’s when I will have fulfilled my teacher’s duties.” Sure, I loved goofing off, but I learned to take teaching very seriously.

It took him a couple of seconds, but he finally came up with an answer. “The long ridge on our left is our best bet. It will lead us closer to the machine gun.” He must not have assumed the building further to the left would be a threat. Or, the little bastard must want us to catch as much fire as possible so I will be forced to let him use his gun.

Either way, I wasn’t going to push it. “The building to our left could be a threat if we go there. Our safest bet is behind the stone wall to the right. That way, we’ll also have an open view of our environment.”

“We didn’t see anybody in it!” Lindemann was getting too loud, so I shot him a glare and put a finger to my lips, urging to keep quiet.

“You’d rather possibly get shot at by a second machine gun? And you’d be forced to go prone. If they know exactly where you are, you don't want to go prone, because once you are on your stomach, you can’t get closer to the ground to take more cover,” I replied. Lindemann was still unconvinced, so my hand was forced to torch his proposal. “Also, your sides are more exposed, you can’t change targets as easily, and you can’t evade if you need to without exposing almost all of your body.”

Lindemann finally agreed with a sassy huff. I would need to address his attitude at some point soon. What a shit he could be.

As expected, Pfeiffer’s plan turned out to go to the empty house to our right by splitting our forces into a smaller distracting force down the middle by the barn, well, and crater holes, and send the majority to the right by the empty store. Moller and his machine gun would take up a position on the stone ridge by the store, giving the bulk of our men some suppressing fire. After he consulted the rest of the squad, I debriefed him on what my plan was to support the men, and naturally, he got irritated.

“Why can’t you help us take that house? I want all of our manpower focused on it,” Pfeiffer argued. Maybe he would have been a better mentor to Lindemann. They both really love to complain.

“If we split up, I can draw some of the fire from you guys while you take the house,” I reasoned. While that wasn’t false, in reality, I wanted to go back behind the wall because my abilities were best suited in the more open terrains where I could pinpoint places of interest that needed my assistance, instead of confined areas where any soldier will do. But Pfeiffer had a narrow mind, so I needed to come forth with a reason that suited his plans.

It worked. With a nod of approval, Pfeiffer grunted, “but if you’re gonna back there, make sure really fuck ‘em up. You got that, ‘Overwatch’?” He loved to mock me. I just put on my war face and grunted with a nod.  He waved me off, so I tapped Lindemann on his shoulder and gestured for us to halt as the rest of the men shimmered along the stone wall to get into proper positions.

Udo Sommer followed Pfeiffer and a few others had soon made it to their spots along the right. Once he made it, he glanced back at the other chunk of men to our left going straight. Then he saw me and shot unsure but hopeful eyes, so I gave him a nod. He had been working on regaining the spark that he once had. I was proud that he sought to improve himself.

Pfeiffer, too, scanned the area one final time, and I advised Lindemann to stay low until he was ready. We were already in a position where we could effectively engage the machine gun once Pfeiffer began the attack. I signalled to Pfeifer that we were ready, and he gave us an acknowledged gesture before he diverted his attention to Moller as he prepared his machine gun.

Although we have not been getting along so well, and despite his aptitude to become the single-handed biggest boulder of shit known to man, my biggest concern right now was Lindemann. Though he was hot and bothered over doing "Germany's bidding against those filthy Soviet Pigs" as he recently put it, there was no way he would be ready for whatever war has devolved to on this forlorn eastern front.

I swatted away another group of flies by my face. Those damned buggers might become the death of me.

Chapter 3

Grenadier Bruno Lindemann

It was a beautiful day. The sun was shining, there was hardly a cloud in the sky, and it was just warm enough for a picnic. I couldn’t miss out on taking advantage of such perfect weather, so I made plans to meet up with Annette.

We had been ambiguously seeing each other for a couple of months, but it hadn’t really gone anywhere, even though we’d hang out with just each and other for hours. So long, that I was frequently late getting home and my father would berate me for it. All very worth it, of course.

But I was distraught. I had already enlisted, and my date for training to begin was quickly approaching. I would never forgive myself if I didn’t tell Annette how she makes me feel when she is near. Maybe this time, I would tell her. Yeah, this time had to be it, because we will only have a few more picturesque days like this to spend time with each other before I ship off.

I trekked up the slight hill in the vast meadow of grass. She had beaten me to the lone tree at the top we always met up at. Her French braid holding down her otherwise wavy blonde hair, her dainty white shirt, her oversized hat – she was stunning, and always knew how to dress when she wanted to. Her eyes caught mine as I made my way up the slope, and as always, my heart skipped a beat. After all of the times we’ve met up, she still had that ability over me.

I could hardly think of putting together a proper greeting, but I somehow pulled it together enough to spit out, “good afternoon, Annette! You sure look lovely today.”

Annette grimaced as she gandered at the vastness of the meadows. Her freckle-covered cheeks seemed to get ever so slightly rosier as if I had embarrassed her. “Oh, stop,” she jested as she fixed her gaze back at me and gleefully went in for a hug.

When we touched for our embrace, time seemed to slow down until it damn near stopped by the time we were in a full lock. The world may as well have stopped functioning around us for all I cared. My concern about how the day was going to pan out, how Germany was doing in the war, what it might be like on the frontlines – all of it completely vanished. Besides an overwhelming feeling of euphoria, I couldn’t think of anything, really.

I read somewhere that we dream several times a night, and one of those dreams was usually just a feeling, repeated for several minutes. Since we forget most of our dreams, I, for one, can’t say I remember it every night. But I’ve remembered bits and pieces of those dreams. No light, no sound, just a feeling. That’s exactly what this moment was like – a dream of pure bliss. No thoughts bustling around, just a few seconds of simple happiness to enjoy within such a tumultuous world. Honestly, I imagine Heaven as being a similar feeling, because I could enjoy that moment with Annette for the rest of eternity.

Time regained just some of its momentum as the warmness of our hug came to a close. We began pulling away from our heartfelt embrace, but she held on to my sleeves to keep our hands locked around each other as if she had wanted to say something.

My stomach picked up on what was going on first and immediately started doing backflips. Oh shit, here? Now? I built the entire day around this moment, but I didn’t know if I was ready for this to happen already. I mean, the plan was to build up the courage throughout the day and hopefully tell her at the end. Ideally even be a glass or two of liquid confidence deep.

But on the flipside, we could go about our day as a couple, which could add a whole different dynamic. Oh shit, oh shit! But no matter how I reacted, I hoped I didn’t stutter. Please be smooth when you finally talk, Bruno, please be smooth.

Our heads were pointed slightly down with our foreheads within a centimeter to each other. There were a couple of seconds of silence, which could not have possibly seemed to last longer. Maybe she was waiting for me to speak. Already? I hadn’t fully prepared what to say. I mean, I had fantasized about this moment for the better part of forever and played out what I should mention countless times, but I didn’t fully put together which phrase I was going to use.

Forget this, I decided. I was just going to say what comes to mind. Let’s go, Bruno! Let’s do it! I opened my mouth and took a deep breath in. My palms were starting to get sweaty. Hopefully, she didn’t pick up on it. My knees were becoming weak, and my arms grew heavy. My hands were sweating profusely now, and my forehead started to perspire. I had to be drenched in sweat right. Oh, and at the worst of times, too! How preposterously mortifying. At the peak of my breath, I hesitated and started closing my lips, and completely fumbled at the goal line. I felt as brainless as a caveman asked to cook Italian food.

Okay, round one was a failure. But you were just testing the waters. Let’s give it another go! Round two, you got this. Just let her know what’s on your mind. It really shouldn’t be this difficult.

I had just started opening my mouth again when she managed to take the leap before me. “Bruno, there’s something I need to tell you,” she hardly louder than whispered as she goggled up at my eyes. I was hopelessly lost inside the captivating color of irises. They were the clearest of blues. You could see the entire vastness and beauty of the ocean when you got caught into daydreaming inside them.

I was so lost it took a second for me to react, but I managed to let out, “me too,” in the same whisperesque voice she used on me.

Annette smiled as she shook her head, and I managed to steal a glance at her hair as it flailed behind her. There was something about that French braid. Still, she started poking at me. “Oh, you do now?” She could be so sassy, and I was obsessed with it. “And what would you have to tell me?” She leaned back and cocked her head slightly as she let out a dainty laugh.

I resonated off her style, so I smirked and shot back, “well, you said you have something you needed to tell me, first.” We both giggled.

Her head stopped jostling around as our gaze into each other’s eyes intensified. Glancing down, for a split second, she looked up to about where my mouth was. Her mouth opened a sliver as she inhaled, but remained silent, as if she was trying to spit something out, but had also discovered the same difficulty as I just had. That was exactly why she is the best - she did the same things I do. I had been anticipating this moment for years, and despite my flop earlier, it was going even better than I had imagined.

“You’re going to be off so soon,” she eventually breathed. I noticed Annette and I’s faces had been slowly drifting closer together. Our grips around each other had tightened. The only feeling I had was pure bliss, like our hug before but with dialogue, too.

I entered the striking distance of her lips, but I couldn’t go in for the kill until I finished letting her speak. Annette pulled a centimeter or two away, just enough to comfortably make eye contact.

“Go on, Annette,” I crisply whispered. Staring at my right eye, then switching to my left, then back to my right again, her eyes began to glisten as if she was completely mezmerized with this moment. My eyes expanded in eager anticipation.

With an indescribable amount of passion, she boldly declared, “I need you to start using your rifle.”

Wait, the fuck did she just say? I pulled my head away in shock as she repeated with the same sincere face, “I need you to use your rifle.”

Suddenly, the colorful bits of the world around us started cracking like shattered glass and falling away in little pieces to reveal a black background. Annette still had the same innocent look on her face as she softly whispered, “do you hear me? Your rifle...” Blackness began to overthrow the elegant environment around us.

Then, Annette started fading through my fingers, and I fell to the ground in a desperate attempt keep holding on to her. Terrified I was losing her for good, I shouted, “no, Annette, no! Don’t leave me!”

She continued to drift through my fingers into nothingness as she verbalized, “Lindemann… Your rifle… Lindemann…” After a few painful seconds, there was nothing left but blackness around me.

No, no, no! Anything but this! I jolted my hands towards my face to wipe my eyes but immediately felt a shooting pain by my brow as felt a bump. I winced, and when I opened my eyes, the harsh world had returned back to me.

“Stop hitting yourself with your rifle, and start hitting them with it!” Schmidt scolded. He was violently firing his own rifle off beyond the rock barrier we were behind.

Still bewitched over what in the name of fuck almighty had just happened, all I could do was watch Schmidt’s rifle as he fired it. It was the somewhat dated Karabiner 98k, but a particularly interesting one. It had more character compared to the rest of our weapons. It even had a name – I had seen it earlier, the name, “Ilsa” was carved in the upper part of the wood by Schmidt’s front hand. It had a scope, I’m pretty sure an older one with four times magnification, rigged up on the top. Paired with the little bit of tape around the slightly worn wood of the stock, it was truly more at home here on the battlefield than at camp. I didn’t think much of it when I first noted it, so watching it in action was much more apt than I had imagined.

Equally as enthralling as his rifle was Schmidt. He operated so precisely. His painted helmet would expose a subtle underlying tan base as it rotated with his head a split second after every shot was fired, so he could get an idea what was happening surrounding him. He’d even check behind him every once and a while. After a couple of shots in one position, he would duck behind the stone wall, top off his rifle with a few more bullets, and scoot to another position a few meters away before rising again to engage the enemy. When his eyes would change targets, Ilsa was always so quick to follow. He was tackling several different positions at once, judging by the areas he was aiming his rifle at. Their fittingness on the battlefield was a remarkable sight, and the duo’s synced harmony reminded me of what I hoped Annette-

“Lindemann!” Schmidt again interrupted my thoughts with a shout. “Your friend, Huber, will die if you don’t pick up your fucking rifle, and start using it!” Schmidt’s voice was coarser. A far cry from the warm tone he had when I first met him.

Huber was in danger? I raised my head above the stone wall we were behind on the other. The battle had clearly begun and had not been going well. Pinned behind the well in the center of the courtyard was Grenadier Huber, audibly terrified as bullets peppered the ground around him. To the right and left of the puny safe zone his well provided were two unfortunate comrades, limp and sprawled over the dirt. The one on the left was covered in blood. Feldwebel Pfeiffer was barking out orders with the rest of his men surrounding him on the outside wall of the store to our right. Behind Pfeiffer was our own machine gunner and his assistant, who occasionally fired a burst at the enemy before being forced down by incoming fire. Both groups were of little use to Huber.

A burst of machine gun fire ripped through the wood holding a bucket over the well, exploding the surrounding area with splinters. Huber let out a resounding shriek that even I could hear from so far away.

The spurt of fire found its way up to the rocks in front of us, which instinctively made me take cover. The sound of enemies shooting at us, Pfeiffer shouting commands, and Schmidt firing back – it was all so much to handle all at once. Just like my daydream, my hands were actually sweating. I couldn’t move. I felt paralyzed. I did not picture my first glimpse of combat going like this. This was horrendously more frightening.

Schmidt was right though. Huber was out there, and he must be far more frightened than I was. Just like Schmidt said, I needed to do something. I breathed in. Mouth open, I hesitated. Okay, next time. I breathed in again, gripped my rifle with all of my strength, and let out a roar as I swung it over the rocks and took a burst of shots toward the house.

I was hardly aiming. In fact, I’m pretty sure every bullet missed the house entirely, but that didn’t matter. I had reached the milestone of taking my first shot at the enemy. There was no going back now. I was officially a soldier, and this was my new life.

Though my weapon was self-loading and I could fire more rounds than Schmidt, I still mirrored by scanning around us after taking a few shots. The battlefield was bleak – another one of our comrades had caught a bullet by the house and was being tended by one of his friends. Pfeiffer was now leaning at the edge of the wall of the house, periodically engaging the closest machine gun, all while still barking out orders. There were Russians shooting out of most of the windows of the building with the machine gun. The limp man on the dirt to Huber’s side was in a much bigger pool of blood than I remember when I first caught sight of him. To top it off, Huger was uncontrollably sobbing right now. He was a complete mess. The situation was truly dire.

Just as I had finished assessing the futility of our situation, Schmidt’s rifle cracked next to me to seek vengeance for our wounded as the head of the man on the machine gun sprung backward with an oddly satisfying red spew behind him. What a shot! Their machine guns had a metal shield covering their front, so hitting somebody on one of them would be a tricky one to pull off, especially with as much adrenaline pumping through our veins.

“Men! Suppressing fire!” Pfeiffer commanded. He had noticed that one of the machine guns had been temporarily silenced and decided to take advantage of the opportunity. “Huber! Get your ass over here! Now!” They made it inside the closest building on the right. Their rifles poked out of the front windows after Pfeifer’s order and started firing at the enemy’s position.

Huber, hearing Pfeiffer, trembled before bracing to run. Come on, Huber, you could do this. But the terror-stricken Huber remained frozen, long enough where Pfeiffer yelled at him again. “Huber! Now!”

The petrified Huber stuttered another second before he jumped from his cover in such a hurry, he left his rifle behind. Hands above his head as he dashed, Huber screamed in terror as tears overtook his face.

The German rifles that stuck out of the window began to withdraw as the Soviets adapted to the barrage of fire. Oh no, did Huber hesitate too long? Terrified at the sudden possibility that I could lose my closest friend, I start shooting ferociously. No, no, no!

My assistance could not prevent Huber from stumbling over the carcass of our fallen comrade, which delayed him just long enough for a Soviet to hail of bullets from one of the windows at the unarmed recruit. He picked up a bullet in his leg, which forced him to the ground, right beyond our fallen comrade. He twitched as another bullet hits his shoulder, and Huger screamed even louder.

Gotdammit! Weeping on his back, he needed help, quick. I had to get to him! Forgetting what I was doing moments before, I rocketed over the stone wall and made a mad dish towards my wounded comrade.

“Lindemann! No!” Schmidt’s raspy voice pleaded as he fired another shot. He was shocked at my act of bravery, but if anyone would understand, it was him. Like how he saved Gefreiter Udo Sommer, I wanted to save him. I needed to prove that I was worth my weight, too.

Another Ivan jumped on the previously silent machine gun and began raining its bullets in my direction. The Bolshevik’s death-seeking metal sprayed the ground around me as I charged, which forced me to take cover in one of the shallow artillery holes. I quickly learned that my valiant sprint might have been too bold. Bullets tore up the dirt to my front and sides, and I was a terrible position. I couldn’t hug the ground anymore, as I was taking as much cover as possible in the small crater.

Ping ping! Two bullets hit the ground literally centimeters away from my ears. I could hear Huber’s stressed sobbing just a few meters away from me. Just like that, things had turned for the worst.

The only thing I could do was to start daydreaming again. I thought about my family, my schoolmates, and of course of Annette. I wondered if I’ll ever get to-

A bone-chilling scream suddenly arose from behind me that captivated the entire battlefield as the machine gun shifted targets to behind me. I could hardly turn my head, but managed to twist it just enough to catch sight of Schmidt charging into the barn out of my peripherals. This time, I was glad he interrupted my drifting mind.

Disturbing roars seeped out from within the barn were paired with gunfire that randomly rung out of some of the small windows on the side facing us. One of Schmidt’s rounds produced an agonizing scream from the enemy’s house in front of us. Finally, the barn door exploded and Schmidt charged out.

I only got a brief glimpse before observing him through the corners of my eyes, but for the first time today, I notice Schmidt’s face had completely hardened. He was baring his teeth with a mouth that if could ever see a smile again, it would be a miracle. His brows touched from such a determined frown. But the biggest change was his eyes. I could have sworn his normally light brown eyes turned engagement ring gold. They were more than just the eyes of a soldier – they were eyes of a killer, just as willing to force an unfortunate enemy to part with their life as he was accepting to lose his own in the process. This was the face of an entirely different person. Supplemented with the terrifying cry he let out, I could hardly believe this was the same man who had earlier joked about being a chef instead of a soldier.

Schmidt carried the attention he had drawn from the enemy back with him to the very ridge on the other side of the barn he was ragging on me for suggesting earlier, narrowly missing him as he fled. With the communists’ fire now drawn to him, our men in the house on the other side finally had an opportunity to push forward. In a similar fashion to Schmidt, they let out their own battle cries as they threw grenades and pressed on the attack.

I pulled my rifle out of the hole and took aim. Explosions rocked the building as our men peppered it with fire. The defense of the enemy’s position to our front was now breaking. There are two dead by the machine gun, with its current Bolshevik operator visibly wounded on his left arm. Two bodies had fallen out of the building on the left side, and there was a man slumped over on a wall within view through the main door. Besides the dead and wounded, bullet holes plastered the building’s exterior.

As a final desperate act, the wounded Bolshevik at the machine gun of the breaking house made his own roar, and desperately strafed the area one final time. Noticing my terrible position, he swept his weapon towards my position. I ducked right before it reached me. The communist’s own horrifying yell carried on as he shot up the area surrounding me. I nimbly poked my head out after the salvo ended just in time to hear the crack of a rifle pair with the Bolshevik’s head popping back with a spray of gore behind him. What a terrible final act for him to go out with. The enemy position was now completely compromised, and hardly any other resistance was put up as Pfeiffer led his men inside from the front.

Oh shit, Huber was on the ground right by me! Now safe from the enemy, I vaulted out from the crater towards where Huber was. My heart sank as I witnessed what might be the grisliest sight I had ever laid my eyes upon. I knew it was him, but if I didn’t see him trip in the same spot earlier, I wouldn’t have been able to recognize him.

It was horrible. Really, truly, horrible.

Unable to hold myself up anymore, I fell to my knees, and my eyes started to water. He was unarmed and already hit, why would they shoot him like that? What kind of sick monsters would do such a thing?

A hand grabbed my shoulder. I turned to see Schmidt. The gold I thought I saw from his eyes had vanished, and his hardened face managed to return to his soft, empathetic one. “I’m sorry,” he consoled. I closed my eyes and faced back at Huber’s corpse.

Those fucking pigs. Those fucking communist pigs. Those people who shot him weren’t men, they weren’t even human. They were dirty, disgusting animals. They will pay for what they did, and I will deliver them justice for their crimes. They didn’t deserve the right to live, they needed to die. It made me want to kill every last one of them.

They could still be here! I sprung up, rifle in hand, and darted to the side of the building the now-silenced machine gun was in. Schmidt was taken by surprise. “Lindemann? Lindemann!”  Maybe I could get one of them. Make them atone for their sins. I’d avenge you, Huber. I’d make them pay for what they did to you.

I reached the side of the building to see three of the filthy Bolsheviks cowering away, probably 40 meters out. The first man had a rifle, but the other two pigs must have left in too much of a hurry to grab theirs. What a poor choice. I thought one might remain inside, though, so I charged in through the back entrance and into the cellar of the defeated Soviet stronghold.

A heavily bandaged Bolshevik animal stumbling around inside caught my sight as I stormed inside the building. His eyes widened and he began raising his hands, but he was too late. I had already fired a round into his stomach with a satisfying red puff splattering on the concrete walls behind him.

After a second of standing with his hands still raised from his hips, he fell to his knees, and then the ground. “Clear!” I heard our men from above shout as I stood with my rifle in hand. Clear maybe, but I wanted more. For Huber. So, I decided to take another shot at the filthy animal on the floor of the dimly lit basement, and I raised the butt my rifle from my hip to my shoulder.

Out of nowhere, a hand swooped in, yanking my right shoulder back and forcing me to discharge my rifle off into the wall. As the bullet pinged in the confined basement, the same hand swiftly came upwards into my gut. I dropped my rifle and put my hands on my knees.

“You callous brute!” Schmidt stood in front of my hunched-over body. Being on the receiving end of his eyes was much more chilling.

“You shot a wounded, unarmed man trying to surrender? Do you think that shit is ever okay?”

Confused over what just happened, but still fuming with rage strong enough for my eyes to water, I shouted back, “they shot Huger, and he didn’t even have a gun either!” The punch, paired with everything else I had just gone through, kept me bent over. I wanted to throw up.

“Those defenseless men share nothing with that sadistic asshole who executed Huger but the country they were forced to fight for! How does committing the exact same atrocity as him make you exempt from the same sin?” Schmidt’s face was overshadowed by a demanding scowl.

“Answer me!” he commanded, shoving me on the floor. I bounced off the basement wall and collapsed to all fours. I was speechless. I could only just stare at the ground.

Thick silence contaminated the air for a couple of painful seconds before Schmidt slowly spoke, “I don’t care this war puts you through. As long I have any say in it, I will not allow you to lose your humanity.”

Schmidt grabbed me by the front of my shirt and yanked me off the ground, very close to his face. His eyes shined that bright gold for a wink as he stared into my soul. He growled, “and if I ever see you shoot a defenceless soldier again, I’ll kill you myself.” He dropped me to the floor again, turned around, and took a few steps away from me, observing the rest of the basement.

The battle was over. There were no more Russians left in our part this town. For the first time in what seemed like forever, there was no sound of rifle fire. It was silent. However, the otherwise welcomed silence was a bit unwholesome with Schmidt in my vicinity.

“When we receive word that the other squads have taken the rest of this town, I want you to go dig a hole outside and bury your first victim,” he muttered before marching off outside.

I gazed past where he previously stood to see the Russian I had shot still lying on the ground, with a puddle of blood oozing around him.

Schmidt wasn’t around anymore, but the silence remained about as thick. The weight of my actions wrapped around me like a tattered cloak as the circle of deep rose grew from underneath the soldier that I was responsible for felling. I ripped that man’s soul away from this earth, separating him from the terrible cause he believed in enough to fight for.

Frankly, I was befuddled. He was a communist. They do terrible things to our soldiers. To Huber. He could have grabbed a gun and shot me. I thought shooting him would pay them back for our fallen.

But I didn’t want to mess with Schmidt. He scares the shit out of me. I’d really have to watch my actions, or maybe even he would kill me. Combined with just losing my best friend out here, it was just so much to worry about. 
I rubbed my gut as it ached. I then understood the burdensome weight of the melancholy cloak that Sommer had draped around his spirit when I had first met him. I was wrong before when I thought I had become a man during the battle. Worrying about what had happened, what I was going to do next – that what it meant to be a man, and it was decidedly less fulfilling.