S. Graeber, Wehrmacht Soldier (Axis/Germany) [Main Story.]

Graeber wakes up, and for a moment, all he thinks it’s for no reason, but then there’s a distant pop and a subtle thump in his sternum. Artillery that isn’t from the well-known 88’s or 7.5 cm Feld Kanones. It’s far enough that Graeber doesn’t panic or begin stirring out of bed, but it’s close enough that he lays awake, staring at the black abyss above him.

The other men in his room don’t make a noise, but they are undoubtedly doing the same thing as he is, awaiting panic, the rushed act of grabbing their gear to prepare for yet another red wave to crash.

A glint reflects off his K98 Mauser, which provides some comfort, but adds to the growing tension he senses in the room. Alone or not, the feeling of woe had been an increasing concern among everyone within the Wehrmacht war machine. The winter of 1942 put significant obstacles between the German army and the “minor setbacks” that drew them further from Moskau.

It felt like it had been years since Graeber had a full night's sleep— longer since he’d had a hot meal that wasn’t watered down or filled with meat that was unevenly cooked.

Tears ran down Graeber’s eyes, and he blinked. How much time has passed since he blinked? His eyes flutter while he lets out a loud yawn before he tosses himself to his side. A few minutes pass, and the interior remains silent, but the bombardment continues to break up the earth, pounding some poor bastards that had to brave a follow-up attack. Hopefully, the frontline he and his squad mates were stationed won’t have to experience such torment.

The pounding slowed, and silence came. All that Graeber heard was now the pounding his heart was giving his sternum. Excitement was running through his body, eager to leap for cover if the next volley of explosive ordnance were screaming towards his position. However, when it didn’t happen, he drifted back to sleep, which he so desperately needed…

…

…

June 27th, 1940

Graeber watched the green rolling hills of France pass by as he lazily joked and smoked with his squad mates. Above them, planes from the Luftwaffe drone by in formation, no doubt flying to the English Channel.

Victory had come swiftly, but there were still tasks that needed to be done. The tasks were primarily scattered in the rural countryside, where cowardly French soldiers hid, and weapons were still in the hands of the civilian population. Graeber had been rotated into a unit tasked with confiscating these weapons.

“The farm girls might be tougher than their husbands,” someone remarked.

“Little French girls with pitchforks are more dangerous than French men with rifles,” another one snickered.

The Hauptmann said nothing but smiled. Graeber squinted as the blued barrel of his rifle reflected the sun’s rays back into his eyes. He adjusted the weapon and rolled his tongue over dry lips before following the conversation. “If the country girls look anywhere as good as their Paris counterparts, then they can handle my pitchfork anytime.”

The truck’s live load bursts with laughter. Graeber watched the faces of his friends wrinkle with happiness, feeling quite proud that his comment was so well-received. He smiled before looking back out to admire the countryside that was now a part of the Third Reich.

Jeering and dirty jokes continued for another couple of minutes, but as the first village came into view, the energy of the truck changed, and everyone, including Graeber, straightened.

Everyone jumped out as soon as the trucks stopped. The majority of the infantry had Mausers, but the Hauptmann of each squad had their submachine guns. The oldest of the captains began a fluent French speech, enticing the village's population to hand over all firearms. Instead, the villagers stared, fixated on the Germans, the enemy, the invaders.

When they failed to respond with action, the Hauptmann turned, facing the infantry beneath his command. “Durchsuchen Sie die Häuser!”

A sharp bark of acknowledgment came from the Stahlhelm column before they rushed forward. They split up into smaller groups. Some of the groups kicked down the doors whilst the others made sure that the occupants of this small village didn’t intervene.

Graeber was joined by three other men when he kicked down a door. He was greeted by an ordinary-looking building with a stocked kitchen and an organized dining table. A living room that was clean and traditional décor he expected to see in a farmhouse. Somewhat unexpected were the stairs. But, he recalled the building being tall before he kicked the front door open.

He turned at the others, volunteering himself to search the upstairs while they searched the downstairs. His leather boots thumped against the wooden steps as he made his advance. A hallway greeted him on top. Closed doors covered his left and right flank. In front of him was another closed door with sunlight bleeding from the cracks.

Graeber hesitated for a moment, listening to his surroundings, but found it hard to ignore the crashing behind as his fellow Wehrmacht troops searched.