War with Felix and Graeber.

Life on the eastern front was always exciting. The brief pauses between operations and tasks weren’t long, as they gave the soldiers time to think about what happened the last time they were engaged with their combatants. The Russians constantly kept the Germans off-balanced by doing mindless, but not pointless, attacks along their defenses.

Graeber lost count of how many people he had killed, and Felix had stopped bragging about the ground beef he had made with his MG42. It was as though he realized how bad of a position they were in now that the Russian war machine was starting to go into total production.

The fields were littered with blown-out tanks, Soviet hardware, and decomposing corpses. And yet, it didn’t matter. They’d return repeatedly, beating themselves against the ever-changing front lines of the German army. A village had swapped hands five times since Graeber’s unit arrived, and already, it was about to change a sixth time…

Something blew up behind Felix as he and his assistant ran down the middle of the road. Perhaps the Volkswagen he so desperately wanted to hitch a ride on when their NCO issued the order to retreat. A burning tire rolled past him and crashed into a half-track as it barely dodged another explosion. The earth below Felix and his partner rumbled, and he felt the air in his lungs become dense. Unlike the pauses he dreaded during free time, there was nothing to think about except the present.

After a couple of blocks, they jumped into a trench. It was otherwise clear, besides a few scrambling infantrymen gathering ammo cans and managing mortars. Felix recognized one of them as Graeber and called out. It surprised him to see Graeber actually frantic-looking.

Graeber, as far as Felix was considered, was fearless. Getting shot at wasn’t a problem. The explosions from tanks and planes didn’t bother him. He was accustomed to Russian weapons and even volunteered to raid trenches and storm strongpoints. Graeber only showed the chinks in his armor when there was a chance to either be separated from the rest of the body of the German lines— encircled again and taken away from the others. Granted, he was never one to say he wanted to retreat, but when the situation became hopeless, he was first to be in the rear with the first ones out.

The ground shook again, and someone screamed. Graeber grabs Felix and forces him near one of the exits. “Lass uns hier rauskommen!”

“Die Dinge sehen nicht gut aus,” Felix swallows, feeling the weight of his machine gun. “Wo sind die Unteroffiziere?”

Graeber looked back at the trench and called out. He was a soldier and knew it was best to have an officer with them before making any proper retreats. “I was with Bergman. He’s nearby, but be ready to move.”

Felix looked at the Romanian and patted his shoulder. “Gather ammo. Find barrels.”

The Romanian nodded, joining the others in the trench as they prepared for departure. He noticed then how badly his hands were shaking and how unworldly the earth sounded. The chaos. The booming. The screaming. He sighed and leaned against the wall. “Fuck these Russians.”

…

…

Felix ducked into another trench. The large and open field beckoned for the unwholesome imagination of sneaking infantry and silent tanks. Beyond the area was a treeline. Again, it could be crawling with a hated enemy. He swallowed hard and leaned back into his position. A counterattack was already being planned, and the village beyond his vision would more than likely be in German hands again.

Felix’s knee bounces idly, his eyes darting in every direction before him, even the skies. His Romanian companion hadn’t been seen in over an hour, but he was **** to either call out or leave his position. Unfortunately, even though he wouldn’t have admitted it, he was nervous, and the thought of another attack prevented him from moving a single inch.

He regarded his watch and then sighed. Thirty minutes past midnight— rotation wasn’t due for another hour and a half. He reached for his canteen and drank from it; the water tasted different, almost tinny, maybe bitter, with a bit of defeat. He then reaches for an actual tin. Some loot he gathered from their last hard point was chocolate. Felix pressed the piece to his mouth and then slowly took it in. He chewed silently, tasting the dark chocolate as it melted between bites.

The night was silent, but it gave tension to the air. Fear worried the nerves, and Felix saw shadows in the milky darkness provided by the moon. Felix fidgeted and adjusted constantly, moving the barrel of his machine at everything that moved, occasionally breaking finger discipline whenever something moved a little too quickly for his liking. Along the trench, he heard movement and whispered conversations. Perhaps Graeber was one of them, Manfred? A surviving Ernst? Frank? Felix blinked. Frank was dead. He died two days ago from a thrown grenade.

This time, a long sigh left his mouth, and he nested the stock of his machine gun deep into his shoulder. Hatred burned in his core, and he whispered curses to the Soviets. “Bastards…whore sons…cunts!!”

The weight of the war started to roll in his head, and horrible thoughts began to form in his brain… Graeber once said he’d never touch a Russian girl— indicating that he’d cherry-pick who he got off with, but what if meant getting back for the losses he had to endure these last few months? Dead friends. Lost sleep. Having to survive in frost and hellfire and push past starvation and thirst…!

In his mind, Felix was in a loop in a fantasy that seemed too realistic at first. Then, he saw the dark field before him and began seeing one of the nameless villages he had passed through while regrouping for Operation Fau Bleu.

The men in his mechanized infantry unit had unfamiliar faces, some had featureless faces, and half-tracks and motorcycles looked like built designs from a child’s sketchbook. There are villagers out of their huts, apparently pleading for something.

He walked over to the villagers and barked. “We’re taking what we need. If you try to stop us, we’ll kill you!”

An older man with deep wrinkles protested. “Don’t! Don't! Please!”

Felix blinked. He understood him perfectly, and the words that left his mouth weren't German… It was Russian. When Felix spoke to reply, he found himself speaking perfect Russian too. “What are you going to offer then?”

The older man looked at the others and frowned deeply. “Will you leave if you get what you want?”

“I want food, drink, trinkets, and money,” Felix spat. “If you offer none of that, then I’ll take it by ****.”

“How about sex?” The older man stammered.

Felix grinned, finding his question amusing at first. He looked at the old ladies behind and waved his hand at them. “I neither want you nor your ugly wives.”

The man stammered again. “You can have my daughter if you leave us be. Don’t take anything besides her virginity.”

A primitive switch flicked inside Felix’s mind, but then he imagined a disgusting girl with uneven breasts and short arms— a few teeth perhaps, but already balding. “She’s either a hideous person, or you’re the worst father a girl could be cursed with.”

The man was silent when Felix said this, so he continued. “Where is she then?”

He pointed to the house behind him. “In there. She stayed inside when we heard you coming. She recently returned from Moscow from her studies before you invaded.”

“Is she hiding?”

“Perhaps,” he shrugs. “Go inside and see for yourself. If she’s not there, then she’s ran.”

“If she’s ran, I’ll sack your village and **** you to the wilderness.”

“Yes,” he frowns, shivering in fear. It seems he’s more terrified for his own life than his daughters. “Yes, I understand.”

Felix shoulder-checks the Russians as he pushes past him. He steps inside the building and finds the interior well-lit. It isn’t dirty, dusty, or primitive. On the contrary, it was queer to him, considering what the outside looked like.

Inside, standing there like an obedient housewife, was a young woman with curly red hair and brilliant green eyes in a forest green sundress. She was barefoot but clean— pampered like a loved house cat. He thought he saw a forked tail swaying behind her and a pair of ram horns coming out of her pale temples, but when he blinked, she looked like a freshman in her first year of college.

“Herr Bachmann,” her German, much like his Russian, was flawless. “I’m I good enough for your services?”

“You might be,” he says, shocked at how beautiful she is. Her complexion isn’t pale but lightly sun-kissed, leaving her skin the color of lightly toasted bread. She shifts her legs and flicks her hair aside, fluttering her eyes at him. “I wouldn’t have suspected the village of producing such a fox.”

The girl smiles slightly but hides her pleasure quickly. “Surprises are everywhere in Russia.”

He scoffs. “Whatever. Your father has offered you to my liking”

“And you like what you see?”

“So far,” he grins. “You’re a virgin?”

“The men my age in Moscow were hideous and not to my liking. The professors gawk at me and are handsome but are far too old for me,” she looks at Felix and gives a devilish smile. “I had plans to visit Germany— the third Reich to find what I desired. Your barbaric nature after the Great War made interesting men, leaving me wondering—mmm, lusting for your culture. Instead, Germany has come to me…”

She giggles, and for a moment, her tail and horns return. “And now, I want Germany to cum for me.” Her features vanish, but it doesn’t register with Felix. He could make her do anything…