He tries to do more, but reality brings him back.

Before Felix could move off the bed to proceed with his use of the Russian, she cursed and pushed him back. “You’re needed in your reality.”

“Get back on the—“

“—Felix!” A familiar but unwanted voice called out for him in a tight, throbbing exertion. “Felix! Are you asleep!?”

“Nein,” he whistled, eyeing his wristwatch. Only a handful of minutes had passed since he last checked. “Ich bin wach.”

“Gut,” the man responsible for the disruption of his dream was Manfred, the idiot who was contemplating giving his furlough to someone else. He fell beside him. “We’re not supposed to rotate for another little while, but I can’t sleep. Switch me now and get some extra rest.”

Felix shifted, almost too excited to leap into his offer. Still, when he moved, he felt his trousers full from his overly stimulated manhood. And then he felt light-headed. “Schiße…”

Manfred grabbed his shoulder. “Even in the moonlight, you look pale. Are you sick?”

Felix shook his head but then threw up all over their boots. Manfred groaned, shoving Felix back. “You’re sick! Get some rest!”

There was no energy in Felix’s system. Leaving the realm of the succubus so quickly and without warning had left his body in a queer state. He held his system and wondered why he had a sudden health change. However, oblivious to the events that happened earlier. He climbed out of the trench and found his way back to the barracks, where he hoped he’d find his wet dream but was instead tormented by nightmares of war…

…

…

Graeber stood in the village where less than a day ago. Everyone he knew was alive, but the war was becoming pointless. He thought for a second and decided against it. 1943 would be different, for either the better or the worse. He hoped for the better but felt dread behind his head.

“Manfred!” He shouted when he saw a figure slide out of a house like a smooth otter from a river.

Manfred turned and faced Graeber. He seemed boyish from the distance he was. Too small for his uniform and too short to be in the army. He came over and saluted Graeber. “I’m going back home.”

“How come? What changed your heart?”

“This village,” he stretches. “Too many close calls this time. I got to see my family again. Maybe get a girl.”

“Ah,” Graeber smiles warmly. The idea of Katarzyna comes to mind. “Is that what’s made your mind straight?”

Manfred shrugs while his eyes shift in the environment. He looks tired but not much more than the others. “A break sounds nice too. I have a feeling we’ll be…” he trails off, not daring to say anymore.

Graeber fidgets, unsure what to say to his companion. So, instead of lingering on the future, he clears his throat and gives a warm smile, his face wrinkled awkwardly, but his voice comes out steady. “It’ll be over before you know it.”

Manfred lets out a deep sigh, his eyes going to everyone else in gray and dotted camouflage. “One way or another, at least, it'll be over for all of us.”

When the platoon is resupplied and the replacements arrive, Manfred departs with two others for their furlough. An itch of envy comes to Graeber the first night as he starts the first minutes of his watch, but as he listens to the silence of the front, he realizes he wouldn’t know what to do with himself anymore at home. He had no desire to find a lover, nor did he dare see his parents (although he was positive they’d love to see him and not just his letters.)

Cool air brushed against his cheeks and wisped around his neck. This gesture in Germany was kind but on the battlefront of Russia. It felt cruel to him. For the first time in his deployment, it felt like he was truly alone, even as the infantry around him settled in somewhat noisily (they were now primarily replacements and hardly knew when it was best to be silent.)

Graeber let his lungs deflate as he exhaled. The cool air caught his breath suddenly, and he felt the chill of a lingering winter. He held on to his breath to see if anything had happened. Snipers were always lurking and used whatever advantage they odd to demoralize units. Stalingrad was a sniper’s playground, but the open field was where they hunted.

When nothing happened, he relaxed, letting his eyes work the fields for dangers. He saw something once, but it was sleek and slender and shimmered with orange in the moonlight. A fox, no doubt, going through the battered earth for salvage— scraps of meat from either Nazi or Soviet…

In the morning, another roll call dragged him out of sleep. It seems like the front was stabilized for the time being because there was a steady stream of mundane tasks being issued out, like chores for children, fortifying the trenches, and routine maintenance for the emplacements: rifle cleaning and camouflage application to the big guns and helmets.

Graeber ate and cleaned his mess kit before sharpening his bayonet. He was getting ready to get comfortable in the trench when he and several others were called for a 6-man patrol for forward reconnaissance.

“Simple task, really,” the posted Feldwebel tells him and the others. “I’m not in the mood to die, so let’s not think we’re going anywhere that’ll be our last.”

The Feldwebel provided was a recently promoted one. He was younger than Schnieder and was also less experienced. He had copper-colored hair, dark brown eyes, and the complexion of a sun-burned Italian. His voice was throaty and deep, making it difficult to understand him sometimes.

“Bruno,” someone grumbles behind Graeber. “Who promoted that guy?”

“Shut up,” someone else snaps. “At least with him, he won’t send us needlessly to our deaths. He was well respected even prior to his promotion.”

“As a grunt,” the first voice says. “Who knows what’s gone to his head since then?”

Graeber looked back. “Where’d he come from?”

“Leningrad,” the first voice belonged to a fair-skinned baby with gray eyes. His complexion was accompanied by hair so blonde it looked white. “The noose must be loose if we’re getting soldiers from up there down here. Look at all these people we’ve had getting pooled here.”

“And who are you?”

“Heinrich,” he flatlines. “Heinrich Klein. Pulled out of rear guard activities in Ukraine.”

“SS?”

Heinrich shrugs. “No. Wehrmacht civilian business. Rounding up Jews and enemies of the state,” the word "Jew" rolled off his tongue like he didn’t give a damn about his previous workload.

“Oh,” Graeber shifted his weight, wanting to ask more, but thought better. “At least you’ve got training and experience.”

“Hardly,” Heinrich grumbles and then shrinks down. “I don’t think things are going very well here. Hopefully, Hitler has a few tricks up his ass that will solve this Soviet issue.”

Graeber’s interests peak, but not for the better. The conversation is about to become more interesting when Bruno shouts. “Unless you are talking about the mission, please refrain from chatting needlessly over there. Understand?”

“Ja, ja,” Heinrich disregards Bruno like a little brother, despite being clearly younger than him. “Wir wissen.”