Remain focused.

"We must remain focused on the task," he says. "If I die before Natasha, it better be because I'm cursing her the rest of her bloodline until the end of time. No matter which of our government succeeds in killing the other."

Felix nods and then finds Donn, no longer willing to talk about the war for some reason. Felix hated the Russians as a whole, to the single individuals without reason- to get them a name or a unique face was odd to him. It was easier to hate everything rather than the specifics. So, even to him, Graeber's hatred for Natasha seemed queer.

...

...

The world became an ocean, and the little house became a small island of peace as Lukas celebrated his return to the front with Graeber. Even the war was turning sideways. The only thing the two could remember in their drunken, sloppy stir was that Lukas returned as a married man.

The troop had scored a full pantry. Peaches, meat, beans, and rice shared between 10 or so men was a feast. There was a stocked cellar with bottles of hard liquor, vodka, of course. Earlier that day, their Feldwebel was killed in action during the **** to take the village they were now celebrating, for the **** of 20 or so Russians and one noncom— the food before them seemed like a sign from the good Lord himself that it was time to greet another veteran.

Graeber wrapped himself around Lukas, pointing at the others. “You’ve married before these other bastards!” He said, unaware of the fact that Paul, in the middle, was married with three children in Berlin.

Graeber spun Lukas to look at him. “Married before me even! Congratulations!! Congratulations!!! Prost!! Prost!!!!”

Lukas kissed him on the cheek, taking his ring off to shine it under a ceiling lamp. It glowed soft gold, the memories not yet distant of his wife in Hamburg, Lorelei Kruger, soon to be Lorelei Hoffman.

“Once this is all over,” Lukas beamed at Graeber first but then at the others, basically strangers to him. “I’ll invite you all for dinner, and we can talk faithfully amongst ourselves about how shitty this war was and how tragically pointless this is!”

“Prost!!” The crowd of soldiers roared.

Lukas then fixed on Graeber. “On your next furlough, you should get married, too! What’s her name? The French woman you’ve been writing to?”

“Katarzyna?” Graeber barked in a hard laugh. “She hates me!”

Lukas laughed, too. “Why? Why would she write a man she hates?”

“ich bin Deutscher!”

For some reason, the entire unit became mad, almost rolling over with laughter. Graeber hunched over the table and reached for the bowl of peaches, knocking down a canteen full of water. The contents spilled, and he fell down with it. Around him, the room shook as his fellow troops laughed. He got on all fours and crawled to a couch. He climbed into the cushions, smiling without reason as he watched Lukas starting to dance in place. The others danced too but started to sing. Graeber joined the song but trailed off as he began to fall asleep.

…The next morning was gray. It wasn’t raining, but the sky threatened to storm. Around Graeber were soldiers left over from the strike. Empty bottles and cleared cans, and a tipped-over canteen covered the floor. He smacked his lips, nearly forgetting he was in a war zone. He didn’t remember the Ostfront until he saw his helmet hanging off one of the chairs and felt the weight of his webbing under his smock.

He looked around and noticed Lukas and Manfred weren’t with the others on the floor, snoozing in drunk slumber. Against the wall was Lukas’s Mauser; strangely enough, it was a pre-war model with the sights still hooded and the bluing on the barrel still fresh. Against the wall were other Mauser, but all dark and dented with use. He took his rifle and Lukas’s before getting out to leave in search of his missing friends.

Outside, he found the signs of the **** that ended the last noncom's life. A grenade crater there. Empty machine gun belts there. Forgotten Mosins here. The slight hangover he felt when he woke up fades away, and all that’s left is his growing concern.

The blown-out position where the machine gun nest was is vacant when he checks it. The barn is empty. Graeber goes door-to-door with increasing worry. He returns to the house where he and the rest had celebrated in a frantic rush to rally the soldiers into search parties, but when he comes in, he finds Lukas smoking with everyone else, gathering their wits. He smiled at Graeber, seeing not just his friend but also his rifle.

“There you are,” he says.

“Where were you?” Graeber tossed Lukas’s rifle on the table. “WHERE DID YOU GO!?”

The smile Lukas greeted Graeber with straightens. He gestured to Manfred. “We walked around to do a light patrol, was all. What’s wrong with you?”

Graeber couldn’t help but notice how hot his face was and how unreasonable his anger felt. He deflated and sat down. He felt as though he about to burst into tears. “I thought the partisans got you.”

A thick silence falls over each man. Partisan activists were in every corner of the East. The thing they did to your average Wehrmacht and SS soldier was beyond comprehension. He’d seen too many missing persons with their throats cut and their balls removed.

“Well, I’m here,” Lukas shrugs, rubbing his ring.

“How is everyone?” Graeber’s interest shot out to everyone suddenly. “Are we too hungover to ensure we’re presentable for the rest of the unit to join us?”

One of the troops idly checked his watch. “They’ll be here soon if everything goes smoothly. We should wash up and pile the bodies.”

“Yes. Good idea,” Lukas adds. “And for the rest of us, let’s clean up this mess so it isn’t known we did all this. No good comes out of undisciplined celebration, especially after the **** of our sergeant.”

“That guy was an asshole,” someone says. “He got Hans and Adolf killed last month.”

“Those two got killed because of inexperience! Don’t kid yourself,” Manfred drank from a mug, likely watered-down coffee. “Josef will be replaced by someone standing in this room.”

All eyes went to Lukas. Manfred continued. “Or we’ll all be dead by then. Who fucking knows?”

A solemn mood falls over the men, and now, no one dares to speak. Manfred, detecting the sudden change of emotion in the room, clears his throat. “Lukas is right, though. We should clean this up and make sure we’ll meet the army standard by the time the rear catches up with us.”

Everyone in the squad was a veteran of some kind— even some from Africa, where things didn’t sound so swell either. Whatever the mood was when they started, it was again natural by the time the rest of the unit arrived. New Panther tanks, Panzer IVs, and many infantry come, characterized by grass strapped in by wire in their helmets and carefully applied camouflage patterns to their webbing straps. They were no longer strictly gray or off-green; instead, they were now brown, olive, and dirty. He puffed out cigarettes with Lukas as they watched everything drone into position. It didn’t look like they had received any damage, but there wasn’t a question why this was. Local air superiors covered the skies in an almost visible net of winged protection.

Their knees bounced idly, full of anxiety and unpleasant wonder. The front of the German Army was here, but it didn’t feel like it was nearly enough for the red tide that was starting to wash over the land they had fought in for over two years. Some news about Gerhard would have been welcomed, but instead, it seemed that the British and Americans were giving them a hard time, too. Graeber cringed at the thought of the German resources being split into two separate fronts. Already, it was noticeably impaired, but if things got any worse…

“This should show them, right?” Lukas broke the silence. “There's a rumor among the troops that we’re outnumbered. But maybe this armor edge will be enough to beat the hordes of Stalin.”

Produced from his bread bag, Graeber starts gnawing on a stale muffin. The substance could only be enjoyed after some considerate sucking. He gets around to a reply after he swallows and puffs another cloud. “Superior training and all that?”

“Something like that,” Lukas sucks tenderly on the butt of his nicotine habit, producing a wispy cloud of his own.

Graeber watches the golden ring on Lukas's finger move, remembering Katarzyna, and frowns. Where was she in all this movement? Far in the rear or treating the wounded or closer to the front? A Tiger Tank prowls up, growling and rumbling; the barrel is in motion with the rest of the chassis before it lurches forward with a sudden stop.

“Our odds might be better off than you think,” Graeber remarks hopefully, maybe more for himself than Lukas. “We’ll just have to simply destroy the things they’re making faster than they can replace them.”

“They have more tanks than we have shells,” Lukas mumbled low enough that no one else could distinguish his words. He got up and patted Graeber on the shoulder. “Let’s get with the others and see where we’re going now.”

…

…