Try to join Lukas’s unit.

The introduction of Samson Graeber to Lukas Hoffman’s unit wasn’t done officially. He wasn’t sent back with the trucks or the wounded. Instead, he was outfitted and rearmed to be another body within the position.

As Lukas had predicted, his request was met with professional joy. Experienced. Trained. The know-how and will-do attitude is well received. Graeber was taken in, but many didn’t bother with learning his name or any of his background. All that was known with most of the troop was that he knew Lukas.

The joy of his joining, however, was short-lived for Lukas. There was something else to be happy about. The same week, a letter came, and his own request for furlough came through. A superior’s signature and ink seal with a swastika came in the mail, and now, the war for Lukas could be briefly paused.

Lukas went through the usual procedure for leaving the front. However, he did find there to be much more stress involved in the process, not to mention the desire from the others to forget about the Ostfront becoming so unraveled and awkward for the Germans. Ever since the defeat at Stalingrad, the army's mood wasn’t what he remembered after France, Greece, or even the early kick-off of Fall Blau.

That was now behind him, however. In the final train that would take him to Hamburg, he wasn’t just de-liced and clean-shaved, but he had a pure mindset for the family and friends he would soon be seeing again. It was easier to forget the madhouse of the everyday conflict in Russia when he felt the German sun and saw the familiar. The last time he was here, it was during the Barbossa. An almost unexpected furlough which was virtually spent in regret when news highlighted the Blitzkrieg smashing across another border—

Lukas stopped himself. The war did not have an end in sight anymore, so it was important not to linger on the subject. He would be back in service soon enough.

Forgetting about it was easy, but the flashbacks came randomly now. Certain smells **** memories to return. Voices, dogs, and industrial sounds— they jogged visions of warfare, the degrading effects of the war machine that took down past armies that confronted it.

He arrived home with wet eyes and a heavy heart. Fear gripped him, and for a moment, he thought he was back in Russia. There was a Russian cold in his bones and the bitterness in his throat was unforgiving. What day was it? Where was he? He lowered himself to the ground while screwing his eyes upward. Open. Clear. Blue and bright. Planes? No… not here.

He rubbed his temples, cursing himself for being so tense. He told himself to forget about the war, but all the way home, he felt the tension at his core as if he was going on the offensive to take some street corner or nameless village.

Lukas knocked twice on the door and waited. There wasn’t any time to write about his return, so he supposed it was unlikely his parents would be home to take him in for lunch.

He swallowed and peered inside through the windows, but found the curtains blocking his view. His military equipment on his shoulders made him sore, so he set them aside in the doorway and sat on the curb.

Real warmth. He closed his eyes and soaked in the heat. It was so much better than what he was growing accustomed to on that now-alien planet where he had spent a year and a quarter fighting. He yawned before blinking his eyes open. He jolted when he saw a figure standing at the gate.

The figure, who had been watching him, bounced behind the brick wall. It yelped pitchedly before it peaked back at him.

“What must a man do to get some privacy, for heaven’s sake?!” Lukas barked, reaching for his rucksack and rifle. “Come on! Show yourself. There’s no reason to be weird.”

Anger boiled for some reason. It has been there since December, and now that Lukas could express such emotion without having to worry about being either killed or tasked with some worthless duty, he found himself eager to use it. He was only 6 feet from the gate when a girl stepped out in one motion.

“Es tut mir leid,“ the girl said. Her hair was wavy and brown. Her eyes complimented the shade with warm chocolate color. She had a field gray skirt on but only had a white blouse tucked into it. “Ich bin gerade hierher gezogen. Auf der anderen Straßenseite.”

“Oh,” Lukas felt pity now. He wished he hadn’t yelled at her. “Ich entschuldige mich.”

“Es war meine Schuld,” she chased with.

“Was willst du hier?” Lukas asked softly. When she didn’t answer, he pressed. “Brauchst du etwas?”

The girl shimmied. Her complexion was sun-kissed but was naturally pale at one point. “I— well, I wanted to say hello.”

“Hallo,” Lukas said.

She laughed softly and repeated what he said. Then she gestured to the house behind him. “Do you live here?”

“Ja,” Lukas said. “I did before becoming a soldier, at least.”

The girl sized up and nodded. “Where are you serving?”

His stomach knotted. “Russland.”

The girl could tell she had stepped into undesirable territory, so she quickly changed the subject. “Are the Hoffman’s not home then?”

“It would seem not,” Lukas looked back longingly. “Not yet…”

“Well,” she said. “I suppose not everyone can be as clumsy as me.”

Lukas turned back at the face and knitted his brows. She walked out and grabbed a briefcase and a field jacket that matched the color of her skirt. She opened the coat to present a big ink stain on it. “The office had a visit today, and the manager said he didn’t want me to be seen with an ink stain on my uniform.”

The falcon on the uniform was militaristic, and the details spoke of other forms of military formalities. “What do you do for a job?”

The girl folded the jacket and set the briefcase down. “A secretary for one of the military offices here.”

“What’s your name?”

“Lorelei,” she replied. “Lorelei Kruger.”

“Lukas,” the two adults shook hands. “Lukas Hoffman.”

…

…

Samson Graeber was ankle-deep in mud. It started to rain the day Lukas left, and it snowed the same night. It was cold, and it left every man in the position in the sense of being frozen where he stood. He wiggled his toes and exhaled. Heavy breath left his mouth, joining the dense fog that crept in about 20 minutes ago.

Artillery began a deep orchestra an hour early as another Russian skirmish started somewhere beyond his vision. This fight caused an unwanted call to arms in case the brawl managed to poke a hole toward them. But it didn’t happen. Now everyone was awake and miserable.

Nonetheless, their numbers steadily grew as replacements slowly trickled in. Kids around Dieter's age, but there were some soldiers from other occupied places as well. Norway, like Graeber, and then France, Greece, Poland, and so forth. A steady notion of superiority came to Graeber’s senses. Perhaps the war wasn’t so unbalanced yet?

The troop remained stationary for the most part, partaking in tasks to strengthen themselves and fending off more Soviet probes that came along. These probes proved less effective this time around. Tigers tanks came. And then STUGs, Panzers IV arrived with large metal skirts and unique paint jobs. They’re no longer solid colors. The calibers are larger too. The infantry themselves are dotted with the colors of the earth, not just gray.

One day. Felix returned. He had matured a little since he and Graeber last saw each other, and it looked like he had aged at least five years. Despite that, his deployment revolved around the rear. Felix arrived with an MG42 and an assistant gunner from Romania. His name was Dorin, with a last name Graeber chose not to remember. Seeing all these familiar faces, Graeber wondered where Gerhard was, hoping he wasn’t just alive but also well.

Five days after Lukas’s departure, Graeber is nestled in with Felix and Dorin behind an MG42. Their banter is interrupted by a young man. He jumps in for volunteers for another round of rear guard action.

Felix drags on a cigarette and looks at Graeber. “Ich will nicht mehr,” he says with a dull color of blue behind the plume of nicotine.

Graeber deflates. He hasn’t done any rear guard actions before but would instead volunteer for work than be called for it. “Ich werde dann gehen.”

Dorin nods at Graeber, silently saying goodbye. A small mixed-man squad is assembled inside a barn that is being used as a barracks. Most of the men there looked like they were experiencing their first Russian winter but were at least grown men. Lounging around was a red-haired fellow named Johann, he was near a radio has silently announced the news from a German-endorsed tower. Besides Johann was Frank, Manfred, and one of the 3 Ernst's here. Manfred was one of the youngest people here but had enjoyed being in Russia since the beginning, from what Graeber knew, he was pulled out of his original outfit in Leningrad during the attempt to break out the 6th Army in Stalingrad, and that’s where he met Lukas.

Manfred spotted Graeber and waved him over. In his hands was a letter. “My furlough got accepted,” he said, but his voice had no happiness. “What am I supposed to do with this?” He waved it out hopelessly as if swatting away at ghosts.

“You go to the office and—“

“No,” Manfred cut in. “I don’t want to go back. I have nothing to go back to.”

Graeber considered what he had waiting for him in his next furlough. His parents were somewhere in Dresden, probably brain-dead to how sour the war had gotten for Hitler and the rest of the Reich. But, on the other hand, he had the luxury (if you could call it that, anyway) of knowing where his “sweetheart” was and had a decent probability of seeing her while deployed.

For Manfred, however, it seemed like there was indeed nothing. All that mattered was the war. He lived by the day, and the idea of leaving now seemed pointless, perhaps scarier than battle. Graeber was about to suggest he gave his furlough to someone else when a Feldwebel came in, flanked with two other men.

Graeber turned to Manfred to shoot his suggestion, but his attention was already away. A short briefing was given to everyone inside the makeshift barracks. There was an opportunity to ask questions, but no one had anything interesting to offer. By noon, they were sweeping the conquered territory behind them by foot, a daunting task that was more attractive when it was first toyed with.