They still have to take the town. The fighting continues.

...Graeber races behind Felix as the street erupts in sudden chaos. The windows flash with rifle fire as they’re ambushed. The pockets of Soviet resistance stop even the simplest of movements. It’s door-to-door fighting, and every room has at least one Russian rat hiding behind something.

The two have been separated from the main body of the formation but have no interest in doing nothing while the brawl goes on. They follow the shouting and gunfire, and eventually, it leads them into an empty room of some kind of department store. It’s otherwise empty except for the old posters and signs of intense combat.

Graeber is dripping with sweat, along with Felix, who is hauling his MG42. He places it down on the dust-covered counter and frantically wipes his head everywhere on his body, checking for wounds. “If I were one second later on getting out of the half-track, I would have been fucking killed.”

Graeber has cuts on his cheeks and hands. The caked dirt stifled any bleeding on him. He removes his helmet and rubs his forehead, smudging dirt and other signs of conflict over him. “Well, we lost everyone else on board. Including an officer.”

“Better them than me,” Felix picks up the machine gun and walks over to the back entry. “We might have ourselves a good fighting position here. I don’t think anyone saw us running this way.”

“Anyone. That includes our boys, too. We might be marked off as killed or MIA if we don’t link back up with the body of the army.”

“Yeah,” Felix pokes his head out through the back door, and the sounds of warfare intensify. He retracts and takes a deep breath. “We are going to outflank those bastards. Earn a medal or maybe even a promotion. Earn furlough? Extra rations? A dinner with Hitler.”

“Not with this operation going into full swing. These recent campaigns have staging all over it,” Graeber draws near the door and opens it wide, hoping to entice someone to shoot if they were watching. With no response, he exhales deeply and then slowly out. “I don’t care what happens after we kill these fuckers. At this rate, I just want them dead.”

“You have grenades? I only have one,” Felix worries.

“More than enough to cause some confusion, but nothing for long-term separation.”

Felix is silent, and when Graeber looks at him, he realizes he’s waiting for him to give the go. Graeber nods once. “Lasst uns aufbrechen.”

Despite this being the first time the two have worked so closely together, they do it well and run into no hiccups. They crawl in the battered streets of this nameless Russian town like they did when they were on the outskirts of Stalingrad and slither around like wet rats when they need to get somewhere partially blocked off by broken bricks from a neighboring building. It takes 10 minutes to get a deadly flank out of the Russians that kicked off the ambush, but they catch 7 of them with their guard down.

Felix adjusts his grip on the MG42, utilizing the bipod like some haphazard foregrip. He braces against the doorframe and lets loose with Hitler’s Buzzsaw. The sound of the machine gun rattles the room as much as it rattles Graeber’s skull. The violent flashing mimics a gory slideshow of the Russians getting mauled. Beneath the tears is also Felix yelling, only audible because of the proximity they share with each other.

Even with all the Russians on the ground, Felix takes no catches. He spends the rest of the belt spraying against them as they lay on the ground. The barrel is smoking, but the battle outside is still raging. “Let’s step up in here,” Felix says after they realize there’s no exit. “Close this door the best you can while I get situated here.”

“Verstanden,” Graber moves as fast as he can, securing the door by closing it and barricading it with large rocks.

“Da drüben rechts!” Graeber quickly reloads his Mauser, but his eyes are sharp, and he spots the slight movement of Russian infantry struggling in the rumble. Felix reels, jerking the barrel to where he’s told. He squeezes the trigger, and a hailstorm of bullet-looking hate rains down on the trio. The last one does a small dance as he tries to spin around but ultimately falls like the other 2.

Graeber doesn’t notice how fast his heart is pounding. He works the bolt of his Mauser recently until he starts seeing infantry in gray moving in. It’s come to his attention that he hadn’t forgotten about Lukas when this kicked off. He knew he wasn’t in the half-track that blew up, but what about the others?

“Wir müssen umziehen!” Felix gets ready to displace. “Gehen wir weiter durch dieses Gebäude.”

“Dann schnapp dir deine Scheiße,” Graeber lifts the ammo can and continues to shadow Felix as they sprint through the dusty, debris-covered floor and travel up a flight of stairs. Graeber tries to clear every room they go into, but he mostly hopes the place they’ve run into is vacant. Eventually, they find a room overlooking a street where a lot of activity occurs. The Stahlhelm of the Germans bounces in all directions like curious groundhogs as they spy for the enemy no more than a block down. Graeber also sees the little khaki and olive-colored stains against the bricks of the Russians as they get into their hard points.

Felix has Graeber reload the MG42 as he scans the street for upcoming targets. Graeber shuts the tray and pats Felix’s helmet. “Zünde sie an!”

Felix streams down a steady line of bullets down the street like he had done in training at paper targets. Only this time, the targets are flesh and can shoot back, and a few do.

Graeber hunkers down with Felix as, every so often, someone wings a shot at them. Sometimes, they hide behind the wall and wait a few seconds longer than they should to give their shooters a false sense of success, but they pop back up at either a different window or the same one.

Felix throws off Graeber after a close call and kicks rocks in his face. “By now, they’ve gotten smart and have sent someone to kill us, so go back and check no one is creeping up on us.”

“Give me your Luger then,” Graeber demands.

“I have a P38,” Felix doesn’t fight Graeber for who has neither. Graeber grabs his Walther and an extra magazine before rushing to their flank. “Hurry up! Go, go!”

Graeber only has to peek down the stairs to see a pair of Russians racing up the stairs. Graeber promptly shoots the one leading the charge in the back, who experiences a panic return fire from the person from behind. He isn’t cucked to a Mosin but sprays a whole 72 rounds back at Graeber from his PPSH. Feeling the disadvantage of his rifle, Graeber is yet again desiring an MP40. He pokes his head up carefully but is met by another hailstorm.

He slowly works his way down the stairs, listening to the Russian rapidly approaching his floor. They meet eyes, but Graeber’s trigger finger is quicker, and his payload is much deadlier. The Russian’s head explodes into bloody chips and gore.

Graeber remains here for another 20 or so minutes before returning to Felix. He’s run out of ammo and has been reduced to shouting the positions of Russians to the others below. The engagement lasts another few minutes, and the Russians have decided to pull back even further. Graeber hands back the P38. "Just 2 Russians," he sighs. "Didn't even need this."