They're going to a major offensive.

...Graeber isn't surprised...

...Graeber isn't scared...

..Graeber isn't far from the war. He isn't in the ocean. And there is no island of peace...

...All the infantry filtered down the slope; the battle already started. The ground thumped with heavy artillery as buildings and positions became either rumble piles or craters. Graeber slides down with Lukas as Felix and Dorin follow with an MG42. The rest of the platoon is close behind, with their leader pushing from the rear, eager to ensure everyone achieves the objective.

They were moving to a small town that had fallen out of their grasp a while ago. Graeber wasn’t here when it fell into the Reich’s first grasp, but he would see in return to their control after today. Clouds rolled in before he got the first glimpse of the buildings and gave it a ghostly appearance. It looked empty, but he knew better. The sound of conflict spiraled around him and enveloped every soldier, young, old, green, or vetted. What was he now? Old and vetted? Somehow, that seemed almost sad. He wasn’t even in his 30s.

Graeber carefully pokes his head over the lip as they hear Russian machine guns rip the air. Elsewhere in the trench, mortars are placed and put to action. The soldiers not committed to a task start leaning the edge, pointing and aiming with ruthless intent, searching for Soviet soldiers. Graeber rolled his tongue over his lips before sucking them in. Sweat trickled down his neck.

Suddenly, the deployed mortars begin thumping. Graeber hears their payloads landing somewhere in front of them less violently than their bigger brothers in the rear. Lukas and Heinrich drop beside him and check their equipment— namely, brushing off caked mud from their gun sights. One of them cursed as they sniffed. Both men had gotten sick a few days ago, which hindered their ability to breathe and perform as soldiers.

“Well,” Lukas began. “We made it here without taking any hits.”

“Let’s hope the Russians can’t say the same about making it to their positions,” Graeber said, watching the mortar team work their munitions. Silently, he prayed that every mortar shot killed or at least mauled one Soviet soldier.

BOOM. THUMP. BOOM. THUMP.

The mortars started an unholy orchestra of destruction. The payloads released vengeance— a payback for their 1943 winter offensive… for Stalingrad. For Graeber, this is the first major strike mission, so it still feels personal to a degree. Some of the troops have a collection of weapons. Self-loading rifles, automatic pistols— all of the men are adorned with camouflage smocks, some of the helmet covers, others have smeared mud over the reflective metal material. Graeber had the ladder, as did Lukas.

There was no present air support, but the last few weeks had seen intense dogfights and bombing to stifle Soviet activity. The lack of artillery response shows that perhaps the Luftwaffe succeeded in their raids.

“Alright,” a Feldwebel examines the men assembled in the ditch. His face is grimy, but his eyes aren’t wild. It was difficult to judge his age or to guess how long he had been serving in the army, “How is everyone? No one injured?”

The crowd is silent, besides the mortar crews doing work. “Alright,” his inexperience starts to bleed, and Graeber feels his stomach churn.

“Graeber, Heinrich, Otto, you’re going left with me. Lukas, you’re with Felix and Dorin as support— you stay behind once we get you into a firing position,” he inhaled, wiping his mouth. “Bruno, take your men and go deep right.”

The acting leader files out more orders— but Graeber is looking at Lukas, concerned to be separated. Quite frankly, Graeber could not give a single shit about the others in his unit. By now, nearly all of his friends were gone. He could count on one hand how many soldiers in this ditch that he had known since before Hitler. He’s about to recommend that someone be swapped, or they could be replaced. His stomach tightens when he sees a kid, probably 17 or 18 years old; the ridicule he’ll receive from the replacements and veterans, however. He wasn’t a coward, and he didn't lose his nerve. His ability to fight was better than any of the others behind him.

However, in France, he had Gerhard, Emil, Lukas— a trio of friends to lean on. He still had two friends in the earlier introduction of the Eastern Front. The idea of being trapped here by himself felt utterly despicable.

Lukas’s eyes shift, and now both men regard each other. The cluster of men starts to shift. Lukas cuts the crowd and slaps Graeber’s shoulder. “I’ll see you after this is all over, my friend!”

He smiles. "Yes we will."

…

…

The earth before Graeber turns into thousands of pieces as a mortar shell plummets down. The Russians haven’t responded with any of their rockets, so this was nearly a case of friendly fire.

Bullets continually snap in all directions. His group breaks into a thin line as they prime grenades and throw them haphazardly outward. Graeber knows they are throwing them too early, but as the faint thumps vibrate the ground, he figures they could still use the suppression.

Someone yells out in pain in front of him in pain. Graeber almost runs over, but as he does so, another mortar shell explodes— the dead center of the man he couldn’t identify. Otto? Heinrich? The body is in pieces, and the effort is pointless to find out who’s kid just died, so he continues to charge forward.

A larger crater appears before him past all the dust, and he jumps inside. Graeber discovers 2 Russians, dazed and confused from the shelling. He shoulders his Mauser and shoots the first one. There’s a sharp expression of pain from the first soldier as he’s struck. The second can harness no emotion as the next bullet goes between his eyes.

Graeber rushes over and shoots the first one again. He watches the expression of the first man become slack. He falls to his belly and starts to crawl. He grabs his grenades and sets them. He throws one, and another one, and then a third one. Some place else, he hears Felix’s machine gun rip the air. The impacts are close, and the frantic exchange of orders bounces all over the Russian position.

Bruno and whoever he gathered is starting to engage the trench somewhere else. He hears him shouting, the follow-up burps of his MP40– the steady stream of rifle fire. Heinrich appears beside Graeber and begins throwing his delivery of grenades, too. Steadily, each squad gets into position. German machine guns are displaced as they follow up.

An intense close-quarter exchange of small arms between the two armies. Lukas drops in carrying spare barrels, ammo cans, and his equipment with Dorin. A split second later, Felix falls in, panting hard. “Those idiots are going to kill us if they don’t stop shelling the front line here.”

Felix is dirty, and not just because they’ve spent the last few weeks marching and in almost constant ****, but because a shell blew up close to him. Graeber grimaces. “I saw it happen! Fucking mortar blew up Otto when he was wounded.”

“Oh, Jesus! Oh, no!” Dorin wailed in disbelief. Apparently more familiar with Otto than anyone else.

Felix wiped his face as he took Graeber’s position. Dorin pounded the ground with his fist as Lukas tried to comfort him. Graeber patted his shoulder. “Stay focused, pal. We have to get this over with before we mourn our dead.”

He felt guilty because he still wasn’t sure what condition Emil was in; likely dead, but unconfirmed. The same could be said for Gerhard. He felt the letters from Katarzyna burn inside his pocket, warming him as the chill of **** loomed in his heart.

The Feldwebel who led them joined in late. He was shot, horribly wounded. Some fingers were missing, and he was coughing blood.

“Scheiße!” Graeber said, pulling him by his straps. Heinrich came over and started to examine the damage, having some experience in the medical field. “You got this?”

“He’s gone!” Heinrich observes. “Looks like he caught a God damn grenade before it blew up!”

The Feldwebel coughed something else. Graeber shook his head. “Felix, you need Dorin?”

“Nein,” he says. “Why?”

“Have him comfort—“ Graeber wondered. What was the name of the dying Sargent here? “—this guy.”

“It’s a waste,” Felix says, shouldering his MG42 to light up a dozen Russians fleeing the trench line. After the excitement is done, he continues. “You’re going in soon. Dorin would be more of use going into the trench to clear it, you know?”

Graeber looks down and notices the man is already dead. Heinrich is grabbing papers along with the dog tag. He stuffs all contents into his pockets and sniffs.

"Verdammt!" Heinrich curses, throwing his hands out in anger as he frowns. "He was just talking about his wife today. And now I don't even see his ring!"

“Knock it off!” Felix hisses. “You all best get ready to put your bayonets on and get ready for the next step— clearing the trench!”

As he says it, whistles blow, and the next step is announced.

“Stay sharp!” Lukas shouts at Graeber as he starts moving forward the rest of the unit. More than 40 German soldiers start storming the trench line as suppressing fire traces ahead, cutting above their helmets, peppering windows and pillbox slits. Being placed so close to the front makes Graeber forget about everything—even his sweetheart, whose letters warmed him just a few moments ago.

Graeber is one of the first in and almost one of the first to die. He hesitated when turning a corner and shot his arm over an intersection—a rifle round splitters in a wooden wall in a near hit. He creates space and peeks at the corner, already aiming. The recoil is hardly felt this time as the adrenaline pumps into his body. On the front end of the trench is a pair of Soviets armed with Mosins. They’re no match for his K98k. It’s a direct hit on the first one, but his partner snapshots him. He misses again, but it’s only because of luck.

The trench starts to buzz with activity as the rest begins to become filled with hand-to-hand fighting. There are all sounds of cursing, shooting, and chaos as the world folds in on itself. Distantly, tank battles start to rage out of the trench, unloading into buildings and thick armor. Graeber peeks at his corner again and doesn’t see anyone. He goes forward carefully as he narrows his gaze since there’s another split in the trench system. On the right-hand side, it looks like it opens into a room. Out of stick grenades, he reaches for his breast and produces an “Eiehandgranate,” he throws it inside and waits to see if anyone runs out. The grenade detonated, kicking out dust and debris at the exact moment. Someone inside wails in horror as someone else sprints out. Graeber shoots, and the man falls flat as a hole kicks out flesh and blood.

Someone else jumps out but is also dazed. Graeber shoots him as well. He throws in another grenade, even as the person inside is wailing for help. The second grenade pops, ceasing the man screaming. Graeber waits a little longer, checking his flanks and occasionally down to where he started to ensure everyone else is still inside. Eventually, however, he goes inside to investigate the situation. Inside the trench room are radio supplies. Close by is a body, bloodied by the two grenades he threw in. There aren’t any rifles, but he spots a collection of handguns on the table. Satisfied with his clearing, he steps out to join the rest of the troop dealing with the ****. His bayonet is stowed after the remaining Russians either flee or are killed inside the outer ring of defenses. They aren’t folding in as much as Graeber would have liked, but before noon, they have the first layer of protection breached. Advancing tanks pluck off Soviet armor, and soon, the town is experiencing direct tank fire. After a few minutes of cherry-picking buildings for tank fire, the order is given to start door-to-door fighting.

With their Feldwebel KIA, they’re folded into Bruno’s squad. Felix is wired to get the project over with. He shoots his gaze outward all the time and shoots at everything that moves. In the windows. In the streets. In the alleyways and burning cars. No one stops him, not even Lukas who’s face wrinkles uncomfortably every time a burst is fired from the MG42.

Bruno is gnawing on his lips. He crouches over to Lukas and grabs him, practically throwing him in line with the others inside the town. “We’re tasked to help the capture of the hotel,” he says, kind of quietly. “There will be a lot of resistance in there, so I’m asking everyone to keep their eyes peeled. Is that understood?”

“Yes,” everyone chimes in.

Graeber exhales shakily. Memories of Stalingrad begin to creep into his mind again. He hadn’t had to do any form of urban fighting since he was evacuated from there. It hasn’t been all smaller operations or battles in village-like areas.

The purr of tanks starts growing louder, and soon, they’re spearheading the third step of the operation. All the stored infantry that took the trench lingered in cover as the tank and support soldiers started creeping in. It’s not that they’re allowed in, but most of the machine gun positions have been either blown up or ripped into pieces by covering fire. And then, it happens. A T-34 rolls out from one of the side streets and shoots quickly into the leading tank, which is a Panzer. The upgraded armor doesn’t do much against the 76mm munition at this range. The tank bursts in an explosion, but the soldiers that were using it for cover only scatter.

The flanking German tanks switch gears and respond quickly but ultimately miss. Bruno whistles. “Los! Los! Schnell!”

Graeber is the first one to go. He and the rest of the squad start running across the street as renewed vigor of battle breaks into the town. They rush inside the first building that they can and start clearing it. It’s shady business, but it’s empty. They get Felix in position, and he starts working. His MG42 quickly expends his ammo as he spots Russians to chew. He gets suppressed, however, and is **** to retire to a less favorable position. It’s time to move again.

Several tank shells struck the next building they moved into, which was at one point occupied by a collection of Russians, but they were either dead or dying. Unable and unwilling to help them. The Germans kill them. Felix is given another spot to shoot, but this time finds nothing. They’ve outflanked the tank but don’t dare bring any attention to themselves. Instead, they select someone to report to their armor where it is. The idea was sound, Graeber supposed, but it was impossible to move their armor anywhere without getting into a situation that was less-than-favorable to the remaining defenders. They had their hands full. They couldn’t simply go around and support the tanks without leaving a flank exposed.

The third building is where they stumble open, ready for resistance, and someone else is killed. Heinrich is hit but is dragged to safety. Bruno leads an attack through an open window. There are dozens of grenades thrown. Keeping the grenades company are hundreds of rounds of bullets. Someone else in the squad is killed, and another is wounded. The last Russians surrendered, but none of the attackers felt generous, so they killed them, too. It becomes clear that Heinrichs will be unable to keep the squad numbered as he is medically served.

The fourth building is worse than the last, and it’s only because of the breakthrough of armor that they can clear it.

The fifth and sixth buildings follow the theme, but with the show of ****, it’s relatively easy to clear, but there are still causalities because of these hard points. They gather a few POWs, but they’re beaten and shot– Graeber doesn’t partake in these acts, but he doesn’t feel guilt or the need to stop it from happening. By the time they've taken the hotel, the sky is starting to turn dark blue, but at least then, the fighting has been taken out of the town.

Bruno finds Graeber and claps his shoulder. “Fantastische Arbeit heute,” he smiles. “I will put in a good word for you, Graeber!”

Graeber feels himself smiling, too. “You did good, too, Bruno! Are we going to be doing anything else today?”

Bruno shakes his head, taking off his helmet. Graeber couldn’t see Bruno as a superior. He seemed too nice. It was likely he got this promotion because someone had died. Graeber saw that happen often when he was in Stalingrad, but he didn’t personally dislike him. “I would be surprised if we’d move on. We’ll probably let the mechanized unit keep going, but we’ll stay here to get ourselves rearmed. We took some losses… But I don’t have to tell you that.”

“Heinrich,” Graeber remembered aloud. “Where is he?”

“He’s fine,” Bruno confirms and then looks like he’s remember something. “Dorin was killed, though.”

“Fuck,” Graeber says. “They got Dorin today, too?”

“Ja,” Bruno looks down. “Got shot in that last stretch.”

“Felix? Es Felix…?” Graeber trailed off, unwilling to finish his question.

“Wounded,” Bruno exhales. “But, not badly. He’ll be back before the weekend. He wasn’t there to see Dorin die. So, when you see him, can you do me a favor and hand these to him?”

Bruno hands Graeber a mess of papers. Some are blood-soaked, others are stained. “Sir?”

“I’m going off to see the rest of the soldiers,” he explains. “So, I might not see Felix by the time I’m free again. When you see him, just give him these. Felix spent the most time with him, so he might know where they should go.”

Graeber felt the papers in his hands and thought they felt heavy suddenly. “What are they?”

He shrugs. “I couldn’t tell you,” he says. “Just give them to Felix when you get the chance, would you?”

“Right,” Graeber says.

“Danke,” he cocks his head. “Bleib sicher.”