Wolves against the World

Chapter 8

The thunder of the artillery was deafening. The battle had been raging for days, with no signs of diminishing or giving them rest. They'd been wandering through cold mud and watery snow for weeks. Most barely felt the feet that carried them forward, numb to the pain, blinded by sleet, and deaf from the roar of the battle. They'd been promised new clothes for the winter long before they'd reached the battlefield, but winter had come and the so dearly necessary clothes took more and more time to arrive. Most had received a warm coat by now. The death toll had made supplies a little easier to get.

The snow was falling in thick, wet swathes now. The enemy's attack had hit their troop yesterday and since then nobody had gotten a minute of sleep. Barely a minute passed without the whistle of bullets, left, right, above, followed by the crack of the muzzles.

He didn't believe the lies anymore – the lies he'd been told by his superiors, his family, his priest, his neighbors. Not after what he'd seen out here. Those at home had no clue what the war looked like.

He elbowed Achim, slumbering right next to him, sunken against a tree. He twitched, but barely lifted his head and blinked before sinking back into semi-unconsciousness. His lips had turned blue. He wasn't even shaking anymore. "It's so warm..." he muttered, the ghost of a smile on his face.

He hoped one day he could forget it all. Go far away, and just forget. Lost in these thoughts of freedom, he could nearly forget the situation they were in. They'd be shot if anyone saw them, whether it be a German or Russian.

But did it matter? He couldn't go forth and fight for them, not after what he'd seen.

Out here in the cold, they'd freeze to death soon enough. Being shot was the easier option.

The wood over his head burst apart. He screamed and dove into the snow. Tiny bursts of pain flared in his back as the splinters dug into him, but the tree hadn't been frozen enough to turn the wood into shrapnel and he'd gotten his hands on a good coat.

The roaring of machines was coming closer. The front line. The tanks. They needed to leave.

"Achim?" No answer. When he dug himself out of the snow he realized why.

He scrambled to his feet and ran.

He should have accompanied his brother when he emigrated. First to England, then to the New World. He'd been an idiot for saying no, just a blinded sheep like all the others. Now it was too late to reverse his decision. The future was set, the dice rolled, his destiny written. His only hope to trick cruel fate was to survive the battle and join the fleeing troops. But he knew it was pointless fantasizing – they'd fight to the last man, and die. He could hardly feel his legs anymore, and everything else was only red hot pain.

There! Who was that? Maybe being taken prisoner was his only hope...

The first thing he noticed was the taller man's red hair, flaming in the snow like a beacon. Then there were more. Three. Four. A short man with dark hair and a dark smile. Another tall man. A short, slim figure... was that a woman? What was a woman doing out here?

He stopped, feeling every heaving breath strike daggers into his lungs. He looked around, but the snow covered everything in white, creating frantic, senseless patterns in the air.

The figures were gone.

A hallucination. That must have been it.

"Faber! What are you waiting for?" Someone gripped his arm with bone-crushing force before he could even think of defending himself.

Aw, shite, he thought. Obersturmbannführer Göding already hated him. He wouldn't get away again so easily.

"Where were you? And where is Jansen?"