He escapes, and he finds Emil.

“Emil!” Graeber shouted as he spotted Emil running in white behind a man hauling an MG42.

“EMIL!” Graeber shouted louder this time, and it got his friend's attention. He slowed and turned, spotting Graeber. He changed the direction in which he was running and regrouped.

“Everything is going to shit,” Emil cried out. “You couldn’t believe how bad it’s gotten!”

Both men ran like animals, desperately seeking shelter. The orders from the officers and NCOs came out, rallying the missed infantry units together as they reassembled in the second layer of defense.

Emil was bleeding, but it didn’t seem to be vital because he kept up fine with Graeber, even as they jumped into a blown-out wall with broken bricks and shattered windows.

They hastily prepped the machine gun into working order and loaded a new belt with ammo. Graeber hadn’t noticed his hands were shaking until he charged the weapon. Emil crawled around and took Graeber’s MP40 and loaded that too.

Graeber showed the mixed equipment over his friend’s gear and smiled somewhat. “You’ve got a little bit of everything.”

Emil chuckled, his dull eyes twinkling with youth briefly. “Everything for everyone.”

“Got any gum?”

“Nein,” he frowns. “Got chocolate somewhere, though.”

A bullet zipped past their heads and punches dust out of the wall behind them. “Later, later, later!!” Graeber shouldered the stock and blinked, the fear coming back to him.

“Do they ever stop coming?!” Emil shouts; anger bursts from his voice, and then the MP40, as he dispenses the entire magazine into the wave of Russians. Some were clad in white uniforms, while some were in brown overcoats. A whole line lay still in red puddles for a few seconds before the survivors were ordered to retreat. Not a minute after they escape the slaughter, their artillery shower the area with blasts that cripple the German line, killing and wounding more than a dozen.

When the pounding stopped, there was no roar from the Russians, just the groaning of the German wounded. Graeber rolled to his back, pressed up against Emil. “Another section lost.”

Cold seeped into the war-torn room. “We’ll… manage.” Graeber tried, closing his eyes.

…

…

Early December events, 1942

Graeber let out a long yawn as he carefully poked a glance out a window. His eyes drifted to the snowy streets were two frozen bodies, unidentifiable from his overwatch position, lay stiff and dusted in white.

He still had the MP40, but he often saw the others carrying a mad range of weapons now. Mosins, Mausers, and other small arms rotated the unit like whores in inflated Berlin.

Foot steps crept the stairs behind him, and he shifted. “Wer ist da?”

“Emil,” a voice said. “Ich habe Kaffee.”

“Kaffee?” Graeber felt the frost on his face crack when he smiled. “Komme komme.”

Emil came in, now dressed in white. Graeber whistled and took one of the cups. “Danke schon.”

Emil nodded as he pulled away from the white wraps that shielded him from the bitter cold. “Little comforts.”

A single rifle shot cracks out, and a loud blabbering Russian screams somewhere. Graeber shakes his head. “Ja, little comforts…”

“They’ll replace that Ivan for another,” Emil remarks bitterly as he sips on the watered-down product, supposedly coffee. “Fuck.”

The men remain seated for a few minutes in silence before Emil starts to laugh. Graeber, hallow-eyes and hungry, blinks when he hears the laughter from his companion.

“Was?”

Emil grins, shaking his head slightly when he leans back. “Do you remember our first day at basic training?”

Graeber hadn’t thought about his first day in what felt like decades, but it was only three years ago. “Uh, what about it?”

“I didn’t know you, but I got that smart idea of stealing those pastries at the canteen after our long march,” Emil snickered before letting it boil out in a warm laugh. “You came with Lukas. We covered our faces and bodies in mud from the rain before.”

Graeber smiled and then started to laugh too. “Yeah.”

“We went out to the canteen and caught by that sentry out front–” Emil started to hiss, his face becoming red as he laughed. Graeber laughed harder, too, their voices shooting out into Stalingrad like ghosts with a loudspeaker.

“He saw seven men covered in mud coming from the direction of the lake and thought we were ghouls and tried to shoot one of us before running away,” Emil bounced, his helmet covering his eyes, highlighting his teeth as they flashed through a pronounced smile. At the same time, he expanded his hands above his head. “Monster! Monster! Monster! Hilf! Hilf! Hilf mir, bitte!”

The laughter echoed as they laughed. “Who else was there? Who else was there?” Graeber said, wiping the tears from his eyes.

Emil shook his head. “You, me, Lukas, Garhard, and three others…” he trails off with a smile.

When they stop laughing, there’s silence. “Where is Garhard?”

“Rommel,” Emil is looking down. “In Afrika.”

“Damn,” Graeber downed the rest of his coffee. “Look at everything we’ve done since raiding our canteen.”

“Yeah... Belgium, France, Yugoslavia, Greece…”

“Wish I was in France right now,” Graeber yawns again.

“I wish I was anywhere but here right now.” Emil yawns next.

“Ja. That would be nice.”

…

…

Steam came out of their mouths as they ran. The intensity of the shootout becomes louder and louder. They feel the ground shake with an explosion thudding. Then, finally, they come across another German patrol. They’re all in white and armed with K98 rifles. Graeber sees that one of the men has an MP40 and longs for one again.

“Aye!” Emil shouts, joining their ranks. “What’s happening?”

“Just another fucking engagement,” one of the men says. “Big supply dropoff at Pitomnik. The planes are grounded right now, waiting for the fighting to stop.”

“What’s it matter to them?” Graeber says. “They should go before they are blown up by either Soviet aircraft or artillery.”

The man shakes his head. “A patrol said they thought they found an AA emplacement. They won’t take off until this firefight is done.”

“Those planes are basically our lifeline out here,” another says. “Besides, maybe if we’re wounded enough, we’ll be flown out.”

“Or die trying,” another offer. “Either way, not all of us are coming out of this next **** unharmed.”

Another thump. Graeber and Emil join the patrol as they run down the desolate streets. Knocked-out tanks, disabled field guns, old gore, and frozen weapons litter the ground alongside the broken glass and debris.

Eventually, they stack alongside a gate where the firefight is visible. “There they are,” Emil says. “God must be pleased with our fighting group. It looks equal. The only tank is shitting black smoke!”

“Thank God,” Graeber says, feeling the cap of his stick grenade. “We’ll just flank the Russians then. Volunteers for rear actions to make sure we aren’t flanked?”

Several men call out. Graeber cocks his head. “The rest of us will support the attack then. Sound good?”

“Textbook,” someone says. “Maybe we will get out of his unharmed? How many Soviet scums have we killed since getting encircled? It’s time we give some of these bastards a taste of what it’s like being cut off.”

Without roaring or cheering, the column of about 30 Heer infantry fell into action as though it was a training exercise with live ammunition. Graeber is the first one to spot a Russian. He is wounded, but there is little room for mercy now. He shoulders his Mauser and rides the recoil back as the first shot of their engagement is rounded. A quick look of pain runs across the man’s face before it becomes waxy and dull. The bolt action rifle has its machined parts worked until there’s another live cartridge ready to be used in the chamber.

Despite being active in the fight, the column still goes unnoticed for a considerable amount of time before spotting the next group of Russians. This time, Emil joins Graeber in the shooting. The proximity of the battle is intimate. Unfamiliar voices are heard as they exchange commands and warnings. Among the foreign voices are the faces of nameless owners. The panic, the wildness, the hatred– they all blend together until there is a feral fight between the two militaries. Both parties want survival. Men dash between rocks and blown-out walls as bullets of all calibers spiral out of barrels. Some land in the snow, sometimes the walls, but eventually, they hit something soft– human flesh that bleeds and causes immense pain. Rifle fighting becomes difficult once the infantry units find themselves close to each other. Mosin or Mauser, MP40 or PSSH– the tools for ranged warfare suddenly become barbaric clubs or another item beneath the stomping boots.

Graeber fire the fifth bullet from his rifle before he is struck in the head with something hard. For a brief moment, he scrambles, thinking it’s a grenade, but when he feels hands on his Y-straps, he realizes something else is happening and wishes it was a grenade.

He is thrown into a door, which caves in behind him as he falls into broken glass and wooden splinters. He hears Russian before a demonic roar emits from the doorway. He’s confused but reaches for the handle of his spade when he gets on all-fours.

Again, he is struck on the head, but his helmet blocks the ****, and hitting becomes something akin to a nuisance than something that would have been otherwise harmful. He grabs his aggressor and shoves back, arching his arm with his entrenching tool.

THUNK

“Verdammt noch mal!” Graeber wiggles his spade back and forth to dislodge it from the doorway. It doesn’t take long, but every second matters when fighting hand-to-hand. He ducks for some reason. He supposes instincts **** his muscles to act without reason.

Something else sharp, becoming stuck in the doorway, he sees a knife, the pointed edge carved deep in the wood. He shoves at the owner of the knife backward and kicks the man in the ribs, frantically trying to get his spade free again.

One tug. Two tugs! The third is enough to yank it free. He faces the Russian, fearful and enraged. Graeber strikes the Russian with the broad side of his shovel. The first hit sends him to the floor, but he hits him again with the sharpened tip. His skull splits, and blood gushes out in an instant.

The moment is still heated, and surviving is all that calms Graeber. He walks out of the building and finds the others. It’s a messy display of Hell, and it is difficult to see who is and isn’t German. Some of the figures are all white in clothing. Others are so dirty they look like they’re Soviet. He goes to one man who is straddling another and pulls him away. Unfortunately, the man who was straddling the other was a German. His face is swollen and red, so Graeber takes **** with only two strikes before going to the following figure.

Time blurs, but when the fighting is over, the world surrounding Graeber is filled with the moaning of the wounded. He finds a wall to lean against and finds his breath. His cheek is cut, and his eye has been struck blue. He cranes his neck and rubs his forehead against the broken brick. “Emil!” He shouts, the pain slowly being accepted from his adrenaline-ridden body. “Emil! Wo Sind Sie?!”

The soldier with the MP40 runs over and tells him they must keep moving to meet with the others. Graeber looks at him and then at the warzone. “Wo ist mein Freund?”

The soldier makes a face. “Ich weiß nicht. Wir müssen weitermachen!”

Graeber looks around, trying to find any sign of Emil, but nods when he is pulled along. He retrieves his Mauser and trails behind four others.