Into Kursk Graeber goes. (Long)

July 5th, 1943 Kursk

Graeber was staring at the trench wall, rubbing his chin absently, remembering digging Olena’s grave. At the same time, Adam and the SS troopers smoked and jeered before he was rotated back to the front with the rest of the 3rd Panzergrenadier Regiment… Lukas, who’d noticed his change in demeanor and attitude, pestered him relentlessly about what happened. Graeber lied, saying it was nothing, and that it was just annoying to see the rear lines living in such luxury. Lukas knew Graeber well enough to know there was much more.

“Wie fühlen Sie sich?” Lukas suddenly appeared beside him. The dark covered most of his face, but his lips bobbed as he spoke. “Bist du nervös?”

“Ja,” Graeber swallowed, moistening his lips, and looked around. Up and down the trench, troops moved into position—the cloak of night drapes over every soldier. The rain had stopped, but the mud remained, clinging to boots and gear, as well as mood and attitude, dampening everything. “Aren’t you?”

“Ja,” Lukas said, tapping the stock of his rifle with a ring. Despite there being no echo, it rattled Graeber's head, reminding him of what’s at stake for Lukas… He murmured something about Katarzyna, and Lukas bumped him. “Get any new letters from your girl?”

Graeber paled. He wished nothing more than to confide to her about Olena… “Lukas, I can’t talk about this right now. We need to focus on the war, don’t we? Don’t we have to kill all these fucking Russians so we can just go home?” He snapped, finally letting loose. “I hate these Russians. All of them. If they’d just given up, we’d all be home right now with our wives! Instead, we’re in the mud fighting every day and night!”

Lukas shut his mouth, listening, dumbfounded by his friend's anger. Graeber continued, striking the trench wall with his buttstock. “It’s easier to kill these Russians than to defeat them, right?! They keep throwing boys at us. How many fathers, sons, and brothers do they have to lose before they give up? How many fathers, sons, and brothers do I have to kill before it’s over, Lukas!? Jesus Christ, how many more need to die before they turn against their leaders and say it’s enough!” Women flash in his head, too. Daughters on his list of killed now. Regardless of mistakes not.

Lukas gripped his shoulder, squeezing it tightly and hissing. “Relax, Graeber! You’re yelling. You’re going to get beaten if you keep talking like that.”

Graeber shoved away. “Then beat me. I’ll just be **** back to the front anyway. I’m worth two dozen recruits. A whole regiment of recruits if Hitler keeps sending these children up front.”

He’s panting. The line of German regulars shooting glances in his direction. Finally, he spits and shakes his head. “What the fuck do you tell your wife about this, Lukas? Do you tell her we’re having fun and that the war looks great? And that any day now the Russians will give up and let us bury our dead?"

Lukas looks up to meet Graeber's eyes. “I tell her that I’m serving with my best friend, Graeber. I’m serving with you, and that’s why it isn’t nearly as bad as it could be.”

The rumble of tanks burns through the conversation suddenly, but Lukas grabs him and yells into his ear. “I tell her that I think we could still win because we’ve made it this far! You’ve been with me since training, Samson. I know that even if we lose this war, I can thank it for giving me a brother I never had!”

Graeber swallows, and the trench starts to move as the whistle sounds to advance. Officers scream, and the gears of the war machine begins to turn. Lukas shakes him, though he is still yelling. “When this is over, Samson. Even if it’s just a furlough, marry that girl! If I can’t give you hope, then maybe she can as your wife! Don’t let someone else’s **** be yours, too!”

It feels like he’s underwater. Graeber feels the rush of the impending doom of conflict again. It’s different than France. It’s different than Case Blue. It feels worse than Stalingrad, because now he has less to lose. Schneider was dead. Ackerman. Paul. Hans, too. Christ, what happened to Emil in Stalingrad? Is he dead like all those others? Was he buried with the rest of the 6th Army? They were running now, in a full sprint… Graeber outpaced Lukas like he didn’t want to see him die. Like he didn’t want Lukas to die either.

Graeber’s heart pounded, and he started to scream like a lunatic. The noise buried it in the rumble of boots and tracks powered by engines. Good Lord. What if Katarzyna dies? Not even trapped in this hellish side of the war.

...

...

Graeber had his eyes fixed forward to the approaching village. The fields were still muddy, but they all aimed towards Verkhopenye, a quiet place that was seized just the other day by the same regiment coming back to reclaim it. The slow advance echoed the loss of strength in the German combined arms.

Above, the midday sun broke through the lingering fog, casting an eerie glow on the scattered huts like God was there, setting the record straight on who was in the wrong. Graeber held his breath, remembering his wrongs. In the distance, the rumble of Panzer IVs gave sound, and he loudly exhaled.

Beside him, a soldier with a brown beard came crawling over, Alwin. A veteran from the kick-off in ‘39 in Poland. He was now in his 30s, but he looked drastically older. Despite that, Alwin liked the fight and was always forward. When he came back from his rear-guard duties, Graeber gave Alwin the same tin of chocolates he gave Olena, unable to eat or even look at the can.

“How’s it look, Samson?” Alwin used Graeber’s first name, and it always made him cringe. The ‘Jew name’ was used to tease him in basic training, which **** him to use his surname in all introductions at the front lines.

Samson looked forward, spying through binoculars. “Quiet,” he murmured. “I don’t like it.”

“We’ve made it this far without tanks,” Alwin said, drawing up his MP40, a feldwebel. “It’s only a matter of time before our armor meets their armor, don’t you think?”

“Yes,” Graeber snapped at him. “What’s the plan, here?”

“Let’s get you and Lukas fixed in a spot with Felix with the machine gun,” Alwin explained. Heinrich was with Felix, and they were one. “I’ll take the rest and punch into the village with the other teams. Keep our flank clear of scum and jump in when you see the flare.”

Graeber’s heart fluttered. The tension was taut. He was nervous. He looked behind him and stared at the gathered troops, spotting Lukas in an instant. Felix was nearby, and he ran up with the MG42, Heinrich trailing close, carrying cans of ammo.

Heinrich's patchy beard was scratched, and he pinched his lip, staring forward. Graeber met him early on after Stalingrad, but it looked like years had gone by since then. Lukas rubbed his ring, looking at the village, too. Felix, damn him, also shared the same 5,000 yard stare as the others, his lips dry and cracked. Alwin nodded and explained it to the others.

“Where’s a good spot?” Felix asked Graeber, adjusting the MG in his hands. “Where are you taking us?”

It occurred to Graeber that Lukas, Felix, and Heinrich were waiting for him to give orders. Oddly enough, he’d always considered Lukas more senior than he, but now he was filling the boots of a sergeant, or even a captain, as Alwin slithered down the slope to muster the attack.

“There’s a rock formation forward on top of a dimple. It looks like it offers overwatch and natural concealment around us, as well as hard cover,” Graeber spoke. A tank cannon barked somewhere, but the soldiers remained statue-still, listening to Graeber with indifference. “Felix, that’s where you’re going. Lukas, you’re moving with me to provide cover if needed. Felix, you already know what to do, but if no targets try to flank, stay put for exactly 5 minutes after you see me and Lukas join the spear head."

Alwin shouted. “Graeber! Get it moving!” Alwin, always lovely, could also become the NCO everyone knew him to be. He waved his hand and led the others forward, with a space between the men to avoid mass casualty situations.

“Move, move!” Graeber was the first forward, and Lukas was just a few feet behind. The last ones over were Felix and Heinrich. They jogged down, hauling ammo as bullets started to zip and impact the mud, splashing them with cakes of Earth.

Lukas fell on his knee, reacting to a muzzle flash. He worked the bolt and moved after every shot barely stationary for a second as Graeber provided careful return, too, supporting the holy object of the German army—the machine gun.

Grenades exploded on the forward positions, bursting into flames and destroying huts. Felix and Heinrich fall belly first into the mud, deploying the MG42 before pivoting it to the forward left flank, the dimple creating a natural shooting position. Heinrich holds the belt, tapping Felix's helmet with a muddy hand. “Fan the burst! Left!"

A sound like tearing fabric shreds the air as Felix depresses the trigger. The minor Russian counterattack is **** back before they can start taking shots at Alwin’s spearhead. A harsher buzz sounds overhead, and aircraft spiral into the mix. The cannons on a Junker JU 88P, popping targets in the village. Massive explosions cause the ground beneath Graeber and his clustered formation to tremble. He kneels, watching the tracers of the MG42 fly and bounce as they strike the ground.

The rumbling of tanks is felt; however, it’s not just the Panther; Graeber senses enemy tanks as well. Just then, a flare flies and pops, the red barely visible. He lowers down and grabs Lukas. “We’re expected to go forward… that’s our sign to go in!”

Lukas fumbles with his webbing, producing his bayonet and fixing it to the end of his Mauser. Graeber reaches for his and fixes it on, the flash briefly reminding him of Olena and the other POWs. Where’d that come from? He shakes the thought and jumps forward.

Another boom from within— someone is shouting ahead—the blur of Russian melds into another machine gun position, shredding. Alwin and the rest of the **** are barely beyond the first blown hut. The interior is filled with dead Russians, and a lone gray body riddled with exit wounds.

Lukas shoulders his rifle, punching a running figure just across the dusty road. A burning T-34 surrounded by a mix of units is displayed around it. German, Russian, horses—it’s not enough to distract any of the soldiers from what’s happening.

Graeber falls forward, seeking cover in a pillbox constructed of Russian sandbags. The burp-burp-burp of the nearby MP40 indicates that the attack isn’t just going, but the aggression is on. Lukas and Graeber expend their magazines in steady and accurate fire, punching muzzle flashes wherever seen. The team doesn’t move forward until Felix and his assistant gunner arrive, though. The team’s Hauptmann is last to regroup— within 8 minutes, the whole team has regrouped and is rapidly consolidating the next step. “Graeber, Lukas, Hauser!" Alwin calls while waving Günter forward, too. “You’re first to cross the street and into the shack. Clear it and create an opening for the next time. Hut-to-hut— enemy tanks rolling in, we got to find those anti-tank guns!”

“Understood, Feldwebel!” Some one says, but Graeber isn't sure who. It might've been him.

“Good! We’ll support you with suppressing fire, but you better run fast,” Alwin pushes the chosen soldiers and commands the others to fire. All around Graeber, the air became hot and thick as it started to vibrate. The gunfire was so loud and constant that the corners of his vision darkened. Despite that, he was the first one forward. Close behind him were the others. Lukas, Hauser, and Günter traced as bullets whistled overhead.

Graeber crashed through the front door. He found a wounded Russian grasping his arm, propped next to him was a Mosin. Before he could reach for it, Graeber shot him center mass and worked the bolt, jerking left just as another Russian shot, also armed with a Mosin. The bullet ripped through the hut, missing everyone. Lukas shot him, adjusting the bolt and leaping out of the way for the others. It wasn’t until a third Russian slammed his submachine gun over a doorway and held the trigger that the breach was compromised.

Günter was struck, and he fell forward, gasping as his multi-hit injury paralyzed him. Hauser’s arm was struck, but he fired back, barely hitting the doorway where the fire was coming from. Graeber stood on one knee and aimed to shoot, missing, too.

Lukas, grounded to stay out of the stream of bullets, shot prone, nailing the Russian's arm. It wasn’t enough to kill him, but the PPSH’s barrel buckled, spraying the rest of the drum onto the floor beside Günter as he rolled back. Spots of blood were already staining his chest region.

Graeber rushed forward, jamming the end of his bayonet into the Russian's belly and thrashed trying to dislodge the knife from his chest. Bones broke, and a wet cry came out of the Russian. He wiggled and yelled, straining for his sidearm.

Graeber gave a savage kick, shoving his rifle backward with the momentum, and stabbed forward again, this time higher, splitting teeth and skull bone. He reloaded, only to discover that his rifle was empty. He didn’t remember shooting much inside, but his primal mind had kept count of his magazine.

“Lukas?” he knelt, spying on Günter as he heaved heavy breaths. Lukas and Hauser had their bandages out, attempting a quick patch before moving on.

Others came in, their grass and mud-smeared helmets different from theirs. The faces were familiar. Weber, Volkheimer, and Werner came in.

Werner nodded, despite being younger than some of the veterans, he was was an Unteroffizier (lieutenant). He looked at the soldiers before addressing them. “Alwin was directed to pinch rather than to spread.”

There’s a thump, and then a loud explosion outside the village. The field guns were working the panthers into scrap. “And we need to move quickly,” Werner warned.

Graeber had liked Werner, despite being younger; his experience as a soldier bled through his dialogue and familiarity with the tasks as a trooper. Much like Alwin, he was easy-going until it was time to work. Little was known about his life before the war. Graeber noticed that his ring finger was faded with a tan line, but his guesses remained as guesses during these times of war.

Anton came in last, finalizing the completion of the impromptu strike team. Werner, Lukas, Graeber, Weber, and Anton were all settled with their respective roles. Anton was a designated marksman and used one of the G41 semi-automatic rifles during his deployment, the mud had worked itself into the action, however, and he was trying to clear the malfunction as they gathered for the next ****. “We’ve wasted enough time,” Werner exhaled, mumbling something, perhaps a prayer.

Remarkable work was done by the 5– clearing and reflecting huts. The harsh air stank with **** and burning flash as planes flew by, occasionally so low that they could feel the heat of the engines.

Machine gun teams raked over hot spots, nailing and mauling infantry as the village slowly bled back into German hands. Outward, stacks of black smoke rose skyward from knocked-out tanks, both German and Russian casualties littered the open ground, and planes added to the wreckage. Armor brawls continued, battering thick frontal armor with blasts from their main guns.

As they approached the final position of opposition, Lukas and Anton leaned against a wooden wagon, weighed down by closed-boxes. The teams utilizing the ammo fired continuously at the friendly armor, sometimes successfully knocking them out in fantastic fashion.

Lukas wiped sweat from his forehead, noticing that no other friendly infantry were suddenly around. “Where are the rest?”

“Nowhere near where they’re supposed to be,” Graeber rubbed his hands together, grime and gore spreading. “We can knock those out without the others.”

Lukas relents with a throaty voice. “We need to try at least.”

Anton perks up, but before he can speak, he’s shot— a perfect hole dotting his Stahlhelm and bursting at the back, he dies instantly, and the others in group falls flat.

Werner crawls like a bear, grabbing Anton Y-straps and yanking over with a curse, taking his grenades and then his indication tag. “Sniper!”

Graeber’s body becomes electric. Werner began tossing grenades into the trench. One after another, throwing everything on and off his person.

Lukas started to do the same, laying his Mauser on the ground to join Werner’s frantic throwing. Graeber stays low. Weber did the same, nailing someone stalking forward clean in the heart.

Werner stood on his knees, working the bolt. He shoots another, but is immediately **** down by a hailstorm of lead. Werner starts laughing hysterically. “That was close!”

There’s another brief exchange of grenades. Toss over and toss backs before both sides finally expend their supply. In the trench though, there are screams from the wounded.

The firefight spreads as more of the regiment spills into the last position, forcing the Russians to support the others. The anti-tank guns were still hammering the armor.

The exchange of fire and return fire expands for another handful of minutes as the Russians refuse to surrender or give up their guns. Werner stops a flanking maneuver, expanding his last magazine for his MP40. He switches to his Luger. He’s only saved by Weber, who rushes over to help.

Lukas and Graeber notice that the firing along the trench line has been drastically reduced. They both silently know that this is the moment to push— without speaking, or asking for permission, they advance, hunched over and low to the ground, stepping over craters from the grenades and bodies from both sides— the machine guns bursting up and down the line.

A thought to grab one of the submachine guns crosses Graeber's mind, but before he can commit to the action. There’s an invasive bang— Lukas drops soundlessly.

Graeber’s head snapped forward, and he saw the head of a Russian peering over. With the same motion and breath, Graeber shoulders his rifle and shoots the Russian; there’s another bang, and this time Graeber feels a numb kick on his side.

He steps forward, the pain melting into a strong throb as he charges forward, stepping over Lukas, not ready to help.

Graeber jumps into the trench with a stumble. The effect of the grenades becomes visceral to him. Blown body parts litter the ground as commonly as spent brass. Guts, fabric, and little pieces of scattered jewelry lump his steps.

The trench opens further down, and he walks forward. The anti-tank guns are pointed down range, where armored machinery clash in the open. Massive brass cylinders lay around, empty and used— still warm to the touch.

His back stiffens. On his heel, he spins around and sees someone standing there with a gun— a Mosin in her hands. Natasha. She's bloody and her cheeks are slightly torn from the back-and-forth of grenades. A sniper **** into the trenches to keep the Germans off for every possible second. Damn her!

Natasha's aim is off, her fingers bloody, her forearms torn. Her injuries prevents her from killing him... And his injuries prevent him from killing her. Instead of working the bolt, he lunges forward with an animalistic yell. An incredibly rare moment of bayonet sparing follows suit, and he’s disarmed with a needle jab in his hand— the throb of pain pinches through the numbness, but his hatred flares as he snags her rifle out from her hands. He casts it aside, but she produces a hunting knife from her webbing and uses his open attack to plunge the tip of the blade into his side.

Graeber grabs her wrist and wraps his fingers around her neck with his other hand, squeezing hard and through a wet growl. Natasha’s eyes bulged and watered at the sensation, dropping to her knees in an attempt to slip out of his grasp. Instead, she gives Graeber full advantage.