Back to the war.

Ukraine, February 1943...

Graeber was placed in a forward position. A bitter aftertaste in his mouth reminded him of the last time he had been put in offensive operations. It still felt large scale, but it lacked Operation Fall Blau's superiority. New equipment was being fielded, but the soldiers were younger and inexperienced. Graeber and his new companion, Dieter, were lightly equipped and given direction to resupply an SS Division in the outer perimeter— Graeber immediately disliked the task provided to him and the stranger but ultimately chose not to upset his commanding officer.

The SS unit had requested that they remove their wounded or as many of them as possible. It seemed they were battered and ruined but were too prideful to remove themselves from the accounted position. They would hold out until proper orders were issued.

Dieter was only 18, hardly out of his mother’s womb as far as Graeber was concerned. He filed into the truck and decided to let Dieter take the wheel. The skies were always buzzing with the Luftwaffe, and the territory they were traveling in was still while behind the combative zones…

Dieter was nervous when Graeber said he would be driving to their location. It was 8 hours away and would be done primarily at dawn before the sun blessed the roads with light. After a bit of ****, Dieter agreed and then went to a supply cache to look at the equipment they were issuing out.

Mausers. Gewehr 41’s, Stick and egg grenades— the works of mortars and more in crates were nailed shut after the examination.

Graeber didn’t find anything exciting until he found a rifle that stood out. One of the men getting ready to hammer down the top of the crate stopped when Graeber yelled out.

“Warten!” Graeber walked over and gestured to the sleek metal rifle. “Was ist das?”

“Maschinenpistolen,” the man replied, setting the top aside. “MP43s.”

Graeber took his Mauser and leaned it against the wall. “Kann Ich einen genaueren Blick darauf werfen?”

“Ja,” said the man.

Graeber took the rifle and held it. He looked around and asked how to load it. The man looked in an ammo crate nearby and eventually produced a stick magazine that was curved and filled with short bullets. Graeber wearily loaded the new arms system and asked how to use it.

The loader looked at his companions and took the rifle from Graeber, giving him a quick rundown on how the manual of arms worked with this so-called MP43.

To say the least, Graeber was intrigued by the process and swallowed. This difference this would have made in Stalingrad, even in the early operations during Operation Fall Blau, would have been note-worthy. Automatic if desired, and with that much firepower in one magazine?

“Am I allowed to carry this?” Graeber asked. “Can I carry this during the drive?”

“I don’t see why not,” the loader said. “Just be sure to hand it over to its owner when you drop the supplies off, OK?”

Graeber smiled and looked at Dieter. He was pale, and his mouth was outlined. He shook his head and flashed his Mauser to indicate he was happy with his armament.

After unloading his K98k, he gave his ammo to Dieter and loaded his weapon into the back of the truck. He then loaded himself into the passenger seat of the truck and sighed. The loader walked up and poked his head inside.

“Remember,” he started. “All roads lead to goodbyes, so don’t get too attached to that gun. And please, don’t lose it. That’s the army’s newest tech.”

“I understand. I’m sure we’ll see each other again,” Graeber shook his hand and turned to face Dieter as he plopped inside and got into the driver's seat. “Godspeed!”

A column of vehicles was outside where the dirt road was. It was the Ostfront again. Different from Poland and not quite Russland proper. It was Ukraine, and it had a softer chill than what he remembered. Katarzyna might’ve been asleep or lying restless somewhere miles away.

Dieter slowly drove behind another truck and waited for everything to move along. Graeber looked at Dieter. The war started a hundred years ago, and the soldiers were now getting young.

The war was taxing for all the mothers back home when victory seemed near, but how about now that it seems distant?

Graeber caught his reflection in the side mirror as the moon’s light reflected on it. He stared at himself and thought for a moment he was looking at someone else. The man’s face was ghostly pale, weathered, and somewhat gaunt. This wasn’t the 24-year-old he last saw in Poland, where things were better, and the war was still far.

Here, he looked closer to his 30s. His stomach churned, realizing he had been in service for almost four years. Wasted youth, he wasn’t sure, but the opportunities he missed must have been countless by now.

The truck lurched suddenly, and Graeber cursed. “Easy on the gas! Don’t wreck the truck in front of us.”

“Sorry,” Dieter gasped. “It felt stuck for a second.”

Graeber looked past the hood of the truck. “You haven’t seen the mud yet, have you?”

Dieter was silent, so Graeber continued. “Until you’ve seen Russian mud, don’t worry about getting stuck. The ground is frozen, and snow still sticks to the trees.”

“I was supposed to go to Africa,” Dieter said suddenly. “My teacher said by the time I was 20. We would be marching in London.”

Graeber scoffed. London seemed so far now. So did Africa. It was hard to fathom whether there was anything else besides Germany and Russia. What was a London? An Africa? Foreign countries? They were rocks in outer space.

The hours droned by, and clouds started to cover the sky. They began in an empty pocket in an area thick with trees, but when the column began to split in different directions, Dieter drove with two other trucks in an open field that looked like a pilot’s ideal strafing run, but the cloudy night gave no such opportunities for any lurking Soviet aircraft.

On either side of the road, however, were vast lands that could have been hiding entire teams of enemy forces. Graeber remembered setting a few night ambushes when he was still going towards the oil fields and then Stalingrad. His partner remained beside him, quiet and easygoing, unaware of the hell he was now a part of. The war would soon dominate his mind whenever he lived, awake or asleep.

When dawn started to break, the truck in front of them stopped. They had been driving for nearly 4 hours. German forces occupied another village. Their gray uniforms were dusty; their helmets were wired with tall grass. All their expressions were weighed with baggy eyes and hollow eyes—pale blue or dark brown. Graeber exited the truck and went to one of the men waiting. Hanging from his shoulder was an MP40, and his head was exposed. His tunic had no rank or visible insignia, but his stance exposed him as a Feldwebel.

Graeber didn’t salute or change his poster around him. He instead nodded. “Guten Morgen.”

“Ja, ja. Guten Morgen,” he said. “Is all this for us?”

Graeber shook his head. “SS unit 5 hours from here.”

“The SS?” He scowled. “If that’s going to Manfred’s position, you’re likely to be resupplying corpses. You’re better off dumping off here and going back.”

Graeber’s stomach turned. It’s what he imagined, but hearing it firsthand was off-putting. “Orders are orders. If I do that, I will be court marshaled.”

“Whatever then,” the Feldwebel grumbled. “What is that you have in your hands?”

The MP43 flashed in his grip despite the sunset not quite yet above, bleeding over the land. “Cutting edge technology.”

The Feldwebel extends a hand out to examine the new weapon, and Graeber gives a quick rundown of everything he knew about it. Finally, the Feldwebel seems overall impressed with it and hands it back. “This’ll give us the edge we need against these Bolshevik bastards.”

Graeber, now unsure where the war is leaning, just smiles and agrees with the Sargent. “It looks like we’re stopping here for a quick stretch. Are there any tasks you need help with?”

The Feldwebel looks back. “How long will you be here?”

“Depends on the Hauptmann,” says Graeber. “No more than 5 minutes, I’m sure. Maybe ten if he’s too tired to continue.”

“Go to the canteen,” Graeber is told. “Find Jäger and Otto there. I’ll speak to your Hauptmann and see if I can’t keep you guys a little longer in the meantime.”

“Ich verstehe.”

The village under occupation was small, but some of the original people were still there. A few old men, a few farm animals and cats, and some women, mostly old, but also some daughters. The canteen was a smaller house next to a larger stone building. There were two men inside; Graeber assumed they were Jäger and Otto.

One of the men stood up. His sleeves were down. His smock was worn with the white side out, and his boots were caked with dried mud. There was a mud-smudged Stahlhelm clipped to his webbing. Head wrap was fashioned around him, and it was gray, complimenting his trousers.

The other man remained seated. He was eating bread but was otherwise the same in attire and looks. Young, seasoned, and tired. “Jäger und Otto?”

The standing-up nodded. “Ja. Ich bin Jäger. Das ist Otto.”

“Ich hieße Graeber,” he looked at the men. He got the mood of uncertainty.

“Are you a replacement?” Otto asked.

“Temp work,” he said. “Passing through towards the SS Unit 5 hours from here.”

“Great,” Jäger smirked. “Where did you come from?”

“Poland,” Graeber sniffs. “Before that…Russia.”

“Wow,” Otto suddenly says. “We’ve all been in Russia since 1941, you know?”

Samson Graeber has strict orders not to say where he came from. So it would only take one of these fools to accidentally mention his last major operation to get him sent somewhere that would kill him.

...This place will kill me. What difference does it make?...

“Wounded early during Operation Fall Blau,” Graeber lied.

The trio becomes quiet. Jäger licks his lips, his eyes hollow at the reference that knocked the wind out of the Wehrmacht and the Hitler Regime. The Italians. The Romanians and all forms of the German armed forces were unbalanced.

Jäger suddenly coughed, his hollow eyes drifting to his friend and then Graeber. “Well, we ought to be moving if we don’t have you forever.”

Otto moves first, and then Jäger. Graeber shuffles to move out of the way for the two men. Eventually, he follows them out, and they make their way toward a well-used path that cuts through a wooded patch. Jäger coughs again, this time harder than before.

“Verdammt,” he curses. “When’s my furlough going to get through? I haven’t seen my ladylove in over a year.”

Otto sniffs, his air visible when he exhales. “She’s blonde, isn’t she?”

A moment of silence. “Shut up, Otto,” Jäger warns.

“She’s probably been arranged with some SS officer stud.”

“Shut up,” Jäger warns again. “I’d love to see Hamburg again too. Russia— this countryside has become my everyday life.”

Jäger cranes his neck before coughing again. “Verdammt!”

Otto looks back and Graeber and cocks his head. “You don’t have to look so worried, my friend. The villagers here haven’t caused us any trouble.”

“Why’s that?” Graeber realized he was tense and relaxed.

“Einsatzgruppen,” Otto pales over, the name rolling off his tongue like a sour candy. “Every Jew, communist, male—“

“—They— took a lot— only a handful of— women are still here to manage some—things!” Jäger hacks, his cough becoming worse the longer it drags. “They rolled over here a while ago and took everything last year. So we settled in over the winter.”

A shiver rolled down Graeber’s back. His mind rewinding events of intense combat and grenade trading between Russians. “How are the locals then?”

Otto spoke, shooting a glance back at Graeber. “Submissive is a word, I guess. But they hate us because we’re all the same.” He scoffs. “Honestly, I wish they killed all of them.”

“Otto,” Jäger sighs.

“Whatever,” Otto is the first to step into the road that splits the village. It’s well-used and has tank tracks running in both directions. “We’re here because someone from our troop was dispatched down here for firewood and never came back.”

“So we’re just looking?” Graeber asks, somewhat confused. “For one guy? Why not just go door to door?” Graeber asks.

“What do you think we’re doing?” Otto says. "His name was Fischer, by the way."