Challenge Submission Rettungensnacht

[Ottoman]

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RETTUNGENSNACHT

24 DEZEMBER, 1976 AC
71 BE
11:06 PM (DST)​

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The quiet chatter of the platoon in the basement went unphased, even as the dulcet voice of Lore Hoffmann warbled and began to loop with the shuddering impact of yet another shell topside. Languid green eyes remained transfixed where they were, only rising with the crumbling patter of dust and loose rubble upon the paper the orbs bored into. Blinking twice, the reader flicked the paper in his hands with a solid thump, scattering what detritus had collected upon it. Others would see to the gramophone, pulling its needle and halting the looping refrain, dusting the vinyl record free of the same debris that had fallen onto the letter he held.

A small, nasal huff escaped the man, stretching one leg from where he sat on the cot. Eyes danced between this word and that, repeating certain sentences he had come to treasure, even if he had only had it a week, as any week spent here was as a lifetime anywhere else. Three days was the average life expectancy once you arrived, or so the rumors he heard went.

He had been here three years.

Magadan - Massengrab.

That was what the Tsov on the radio always repeated, across every broadcast, between every song, coiled in every announcement. The Oriyaks played their music, popular and catchy tunes from back home, and spoke in their language, sharing eager news of Austran defeats and telling terrible lies about the things happening back home. It had been tolerable enough for a time - the music was good, and they even had the new Lore album - but everyone knew that those godforsaken rumors they bandied endlessly were what made Rudy paint the wall with his brains last week. They were lies, he had told himself and the others, blowing a hole through the wood-box radio with his rifle and throwing it outside into the rubble and carnage. They had to be.

No truth could do such a thing.

It was Hell enough to write the letters back home for those slain by the enemy or simple bad luck, but nothing was quite so hard to shoulder as telling a widow that their husband had taken his own life, and that he, as commanding officer, hadn't seen it coming. The signs were always so apparent in retrospect, but in the city of the dead one always tended to look after oneself, to fight to see another dawn, before you ever looked to another. With a pensive sigh the eyes drew over the letter still, though its words escaped him now, his cheeks flushed with the thought of his own tenure here in this godless place. With a crinkle the letter was lifted up, pressed soon against his nose as he sniffed at it, though with the slightest frown it fell away.

Klara perfumed her letters from the very start, and it was always something that thrilled him about any word from her, but ever since the gas attack last January he could never catch a whiff of it. Careful fingers, freed from their woolen gloves for a change, folded the paper back into thirds and stuffed it into its envelope, his gaze falling to the cigar box that rested beside him. It was a cheap thing, panels of wood held together by rudimentary grooves and glue, but it worked well enough to safeguard all the things he found precious. Its lid was open, flung back away from the four squat walls, to reveal a plethora of envelopes, photographs, postcards and more. Gently enough he laid the envelope onto a stack of some half-dozen others, tucking it neatly into place.

There his fingers remained, a thumb running across the coarseness of the envelopes as he stared beyond. Even as another explosion rocked the earth from above he reached for the small stack of photographs he allowed himself, and as he turned the first about a smile began to creep across his features. It was a typical sort of thing, a studio portrait made in Dinsmärk, with Klara, Klaus, and little Rhea - one that he was sadly absent for but one he enjoyed nonetheless. It wasn't often that Klara bothered to dress herself so finely, but he supposed that things were different now, three years later. She wasn't simply a housewife anymore, just as he wasn't simply a university student - but no one was what they were before the war anymore.

Without a second thought he flipped to the next, tucking the last one onto the back of the stack, and the beginning of a smile turned to a warm grin as ran a thumb across the weathered photograph. Bent and stained from repeated usage and travel in his pocket or sandwiched between the folds of his wallet, the photo was of his wife in her auxiliary volunteer uniform, two years prior when they had visited the Trigaustran Isthmus while he was on furlough. He hadn't told her how often it had been that he had patted at his breast knowing she was there, her sideways slyness always 'looking out for him'.

No, that would have to wait for after the war. He'd never hear the end of it otherwise.

Another shuddering impact, another wave of dust, and with a shake of his head, Johannes flipped again, still admiring the last before his eyes shifted to the next, his grin evaporating in an instant. Green eyes simply blinked as they beheld the single thing that could color his cheeks, the source of his hesitation in the fateful assault last winter, the single greatest dishonor he had brought upon himself. Shipped along with dozens of other things pulled out of a care package from home, it was offered to him by the boys for giving up his share of the apple butter. Its glossy finish shimmering in the candlelight, it was a photograph, a postcard, of the single most beautiful woman he had ever met - the same lavender eyes that had pinned the Iron Fulcrum to his tunic.

The Empress.

Of course, almost everyone thought she was pretty - more than enough of his friends and comrades had her picture tacked or taped above their cots, bunks, or foxholes through the years - but there was something about her that stirred him that he knew to be wrong. Gripped tightly between his thumb and finger, the officer pursed his lips as he stared at the thing, looking up briefly to scan the dimly-lit interior of the basement, looking for any tells, any hint, that could betray the prank he always figured this to be. But there was nothing, and again the Austran looked back to the photo, eyes dancing as he tried to remember how many times he had thrown it away.

No matter how many times he confessed in prayer, no matter how fervently he wrote to Klara, something remained, and already the meager stew he'd had earlier churned in his stomach at the thought. Another salvo of thundering rumbles announced the typical end of the Tsov barrage, though Johannes couldn't hear them over his shame, consumed with the postcard in his hand before a voice cut through the nebulous din of the men and their idle conversations.

"God fucking damn it!"

Without looking he knew the nasal tones of Preissler, the platoon Funker, and already a hush fell over the men as Hans looked up from the Empress. Green eyes dashed across the length of the room just in time to see the wiry man hurl the handset of the field phone against the mottled bakelite case it rested in, its bell whining with a muted ring like a beaten dog. As the field phone's wincing note echoed throughout the brick cellar, the men gathered remained silent as the grave as Preissler ran a hand through the lengths of blonde hair usually kept tucked beneath a field cap, sighing as he did. No sooner had he done so did Hans too offer wordless voice to his own exasperation, tucking the postcard to the back of the stack as he had the others, his mind elsewhere as he returned them to the cigarbox from whence they came.

"Captain, the lines–"

"Are severed again." Johannes finished the Funker's sentence, glancing back over to him briefly, eyes darting to the field phone, "We gathered, Preis."

"... sorry, sir."

Another sigh slipped past Johannes's lips as he glanced over to his field gear, the web-canvas load-bearing equipment, belt, and pouches that he'd only just shed an hour prior, then to the greatcoat he had hoped to be pulling over himself to sleep, "Don't worry about it, Preis… I get it."

While the new arrivals envied a man like Preissler - rarely in the line of fire and busy, always busy, manning the field phone lines to the other dugouts and makeshift barracks - the old hands knew better. Hans and the others knew how it ate at him, that every time the lines were cut some poor bastards had to run wire to the severed position. Two or three would leave, and often only half of their number would return - if any at all. It wasn't easy to sleep in Magadan, and so Hans and the others had heard him weeping in the darkness of the small hours of the mornings. No one dared shame him for it.

Everyone did, sooner or later.

Even before he rose from the olive drab cot beneath him, Captain Dietrich could feel the dozens of eyes that now rested on him, and the electric silence that reigned over their number spoke volumes, even if their voices would not. Tonight, of all nights? Did the Tsovs have no dignity? Knees that should have been supple and keen groaned and popped in protest as the captain pulled himself from his cot, managing a stretch before the scraping footfalls of his hobnailed boots carried him across the stonework to the field gear, piled atop a wooden crate, and the greatcoat that hung beside it.

"... who's going out, sir?" A voice finally managed, little more than a whisper off to his right.

Sir. He still wasn't used to that. Almost a year after Hans was granted his commission and it still jarred him to be called that simple honorific. Sir was a title reserved for his superiors from childhood on - his officers, his professors, his father - not for him. He wasn't supposed to be called any such thing until next autumn, when he had hoped to find a position at one of the gymnasiums or universities after he graduated. Without consideration Hans scoffed at the thought, trying to remember just what it was he was attempting to articulate in that godforsaken paper he had written at the end of his first - and only - full semester in uni, pulling the overcoat from the nail its collar hung upon.

"I am," He replied simply enough, pulling the grey-green wool over his uniform one sleeve at a time, hands soon fiddling with the pebbled buttons of the double-breasted overcoat. "I can't ask anyone else to lead tonight." Despite such reassurance the solemn air remained amongst them, knowing that even if the captain was in the lead that someone had to carry the ponderous spool of wire. So the silence remained, punctuated only by the clink and click of the various accouterments and buckles that tapped against each other as Johannes hefted his LBE on, struggling for but a moment with the shoulders before his hands reached for the belt. With a definite clack the square-stamped buckle hooked into the notch on the opposite end, and Hans, turning about where he stood, glanced to those watching.

"... does anyone want to volunteer?"

It was little surprise there were none, the men long-since past any boyish eagerness of duty and obligation. The old hands knew well the dangers of Magadan and Oyirak in winter, and the replacements were already shaken from the tales - tall and otherwise - shared by the veterans they found themselves among. Sullen, weary eyes looked back at him from all corners of the cellar, and Hans already felt the pit in his chest begin to grow as it seemed more and more that he would have to pick someone - some poor man who feared that he would never come back from this forlorn assignment. Worse than the weight of picking someone from the crowd, to threaten the ersatz festivities of their holiday eve with the threat of death or dismemberment, Hans knew that the voluntold had a manner of apprehension about them that seemed to attract the Tsov without fail.

"Please, don't make me have to choo–"

"I'll go, sir."

It was a voice he didn't know, off to his left and down some three or four men, his hand raised, soon rising from where he was reclining against the brick and mortar of one of the basement's supporting pillars. Johannes offered a small smile with a nod, and no sooner had he done so than the men resumed their earlier pursuits, a wave of relief reinvigorating their conversations. Such pleasantries did little to comfort the captain as the volunteer's face too was foreign to him. Already the other man saw to his own equipment, and Hans reached to take up his rifle from where it rested, leaning against his cot. A light tap to the bottom of the box magazine, more out of reflex than necessity, checked to make sure it was properly seated before he slung it over his shoulder. There was no point in checking the ammunition, either in that mag or the other four that rested in the twin pouches on either side of his belt's buckle, as the battle rifle had remained silent so far today, its barking fury as of yet unnecessary.

Within moments Hans stood by the volunteer - a private, whose cleanliness belied his recent arrival to the city - and after fishing about in his greatcoat's flank pocket, offered forth to the man a smushed pack of cigarettes. It was a preemptive gesture, the volunteer distracted as he struggled with donning the gear that had long since become a second skin for the captain, but Hans was a patient sort, and waited until the fellow noticed - still unfinished with his frustrations - before speaking.

"Cigarette?"

The other's initial, quizzical expression shifted to a toothy grin, a quick bob of his head preceding his voice, even as his fingers reached for the pack, "Thank you, sir." Two taps of the pack brought one of the stained smokes from the depths, and with his field gear still unkempt, the man lifted the cigarette to his lips as he returned the pack to his commanding officer. Hans couldn't help the smirk he wore, recalling when he too struggled so with the infamous 'battle bra' that all the men had come to loath on some level or another, his dirt-caked fingernails fishing out a cigarette of his own from the pack before sending it back to the pocket it dwelt in.

"You're welcome - I'll leave you to get situated while I speak to Preissler and figure out where we're going, private…?"

"Himmelstoss, sir."

"Himmelstoss," Johannes repeated with a nod, having drawn a lighter from the same pocket to ignite his vice before offering it to the other. "Smoke it up and we're off," He mused, taking a lengthy drag of his own cigarette as Himmelstoss took the proffered lighter, "No light top side."

With another bob of his head, Himmelstoss lit the smoke and passed Hans his lighter back, the cherry glowing bright as he returned to the fight with his half-fixed equipment. Shaking his own head, Hans left the private to his business as he moved past, dryly spitting away the bits of loose filler leaf that clung to his lips from the unfiltered smoke. Sidestepping here, ducking there, the captain slowly wormed his way through the men, their card games and circles to approach the weathered steel desk that Preissler still sat over, fuming.

"Which way, Preis?"

Gerhardt Preissler, a wiry figure two fingers wide with a stomach two miles deep, was a lanky man who had to sit askew from the desk to even have enough room for his legs. Grim, grey eyes still bore into the offending field phone - one of several before him - the man's taught, thin lips hidden behind the hand he leaned on, immobile until Johannes's words took root in his mind. "East," He murmured, mouth still hidden before he dropped his hand, reaching for one of the field phones as he scooted closer to the table, "I was on the horn with third platoon and everything just… just went dead."

"Alright," Dietrich managed, a mouthful of smoke quickly sucked into his chest as he lingered on the thought, eyes lazily wandering as the street outside began to take form in his mind. With a long, labored breath, smoke poured from the captain's nose, his voice returning with a flick of his cigarette, "While the kid and I are getting ready, ring the others. I want to know before I leave if there's more to be done."

The whirring of the phone's crank wound in his ears before Johannes was finished, Preissler not bothering to look at his commanding officer as he reached to lift the handset, "Already on it, captain." Another idle drag of the cigarette preceded the pat on Preissler's shoulder, though the Funker continued without pause, handset lifted to his ears as he waited for someone to answer on the far end of the wire. Without anyone to see, Hans's lips curled meekly, and without anyone to hear, he spoke.

"Good man."

Dropping his hand from Preissler's shoulder, he turned to regard the men and their meager celebrations. Withered little trees, made of the same itchy mess as the store-bought fakes back home, lined the cellar, cheap bulbs of bright plastic hanging from their polyester and wire boughs. Anywhere else and the man would have rolled his eyes, having come to despise the commercial farce that the holiest night in the calendar had become, but in Magadan?

It felt like home, if only for a moment.

"Sir!"

Hans jumped, startled from where he had been staring only to realize that it was Himmelstoss, now finally kitted for the fight, the spool and its harness held by his side. Catching his breath, the captain glanced to the wire, then back to the private before gesturing towards the former, silently offering to help, "Finish your smoke already?" Himmelstoss chuckled, the same grin returning with a shrug as he lifted up the spool for the captain to grab.

"Spent the last ten years at Krohn," He mused, turning about so that the spool could be mounted to his own harness, "Damn factory's so big I had about two minutes to myself by the time I reached the breakroom." Dietrich nodded, even if Himmelstoss couldn't see, hefting the spool up with a grimace and holding it there, a deft hand quick to slot the first d-ring onto its hooked cousin. Once he was free to breathe, Hans reached for the other.

"Forced to be quick then?"

"Yeah," Himmelstoss murmured, eyes widening as his diction hit him, "Er… yes, sir." A huff came of the captain as the second ring found its mark, Johannes soon reaching for the lower straps, hooked to keep the spool flat against his back. "Just a habit I've never quite shaken."

"There's far worse ones - there." With a good tug on either side to check the connection, Hans stepped back to allow the private some space to get used to carrying the spool and its weight. Tipping slightly, Himmelstoss corrected himself quickly enough, regaining his balance as he turned about, tugging at his y-straps to make sure they weren't bunched up. Green eyes looked up and down the figure, silently checking off the various equipment he was to carry. Hans knew it likely wasn't the first time the man had been topside - he had to get here after all - but it was his first time running wire. "Got everything?"

The other quickly patted over himself, from his pouches, to his canteens, to the rifle on his shoulder, and with an earnest nod he confirmed, "Yes sir, I think that's it." Dietrich didn't respond, at least not vocally at first, his eyes remaining for a moment as Himmelstoss made to effort to pat down any of his tunic pockets, even though they were hidden beneath his own greatcoat.

"No charm?"

"Charm?" The private's brow furrowed with the question.

"A charm," Hans continued, "Everyone has one, something to keep you safe. Erwin has his lighter, Andreas has his dice, Hell," The captain managed a spare glance back up the cellar, looking across the men, "Tischer has a sock for God's sake." Without a thought, the captain drew his hand to his left breast, patting the pocket there and the wallet within it. It was rare it ever left his person here, unable to spend any of the notes he - or anyone - earned, and today was no exception.

"I keep a photograph of my wife–"

No sooner had the words left his lips did he realize what almost happened, and with something of a start Johannes bolted back to his bunk. Still careful to avoid stepping over or on anyone, in moments Hans was back over his cot, looking down to the cigarbox with a sigh as he pulled the photo from the stack, free hand unbuttoning his greatcoat as he did. The weathered black leather slipped from within his coat, deft hands slipping its tab free and the photo inside without a glance, the heaving sigh the captain managed betraying his fear.

"There," He murmured, tucking the wallet back inside its woolen prison, closing the buttons as he turned about, forced to watch as Himmelstoss clumsily attempted the same approach he had. As the private began to list to one side, Dietrich threw up a hand, moving to part the woolen sea of the platoon so that Himmelstoss didn't fall on anyone. As Dietrich's voice faded from his little corner of the cellar his box was left open where it lay, the photographs within face down.

---

The pallid blanket that had settled onto the city glowed with the amber light of the northern aurora, billowing across the expanse of stars that shone in the aftermath of yesterday's snowstorm. Despite the bluster of the snowy gales before, the air hung still and silent over Magadan, as if mother nature herself rejected the place. Around the corner, past the collapsed department store across the street, a rifle's crack shattered the calm. A muffled, guttural cry summoned a rapid flurry of gunfire, answered in kind from a further, more distant position.

Hans peered from about the table he knelt behind, rifle shouldered as he looked out the long-blasted face of the building they were inside. Green eyes settled on the street corner the department store hosted, holding his sights on the askew fire-hydrant that jutted from the rubble, waiting to see if any movement or light issued from the nearby action. Beside him sat Himmelstoss, his short, quick breaths misting in the frigid air through his toque, having pulled the cable for the last block. A harried whisper, managed between breaths, "Ours?"

He couldn't tell which was which yet.

"Don't go off of the weapon," Dietrich's voice matched the air, eyes still fixed, "You use what you can feed." From the corner of his eye, Hans saw the dip of the man's helmet, and were he anywhere else he would've shook his head. It was becoming apparent that, no matter the circumstance, it was how Himmselstoss answered. "Besides," A whiff of hazy breath curled about the steel of his rifle's receiver, "We were friends until '74. We use a lot of the same weapons." We. It had been ages since he had heard anyone speak of their cousins like that.

After Magadan, one had to wonder if they would ever hear it again.

"... then what do we do?" Such thoughts were far from the other's mind, and Dietrich couldn't blame him. Going on afterwards was not his concern, simply having an afterwards was.

"We wait," He murmured, woolen gloves tightening on the rifle's pistol grip, the other holding fast to the crook of the magazine well, "Hopefully it's a patrol, not a position." He hoped that Himmelstoss would learn quickly, to pick up the bits and pieces of knowledge he shared, that someone - anyone - might make it out of this hellish ruin. Perhaps it was better that he hadn't gotten the time to know him, were anything to happen tonight - unburdened with the stories of family, friends, and happier memories.

But perhaps he would learn quickly, and live just long enough to share them.

Blinking away the thoughts, Dietrich tucked the rifle further into his shoulder, as if it would have made any difference, and steeled himself. Nothing had come from around that distant pile of rubble just across the street - not movement, not light, not even sound, at least since the second staccato of gunfire had fallen quiet. Something nagged in the back of his mind that it was dangerous to push on, especially if the Tsovs themselves had pushed forward enough to establish a field of fire over the plaza he knew that street to lead to.

It was a small miracle that some buildings remained roughly identifiable - it allowed for some basic land-nav - but were one to go off of landmarks alone, they would be lost in less than an hour. Almost two years of fighting within the city proper - ebbing and flowing into and out of the outskirts and the city center - had rendered much of it completely unrecognizable, shattered and smashed by repeated aerial and artillery strikes. One had to compliment their landmarks with other means, and the fools that hoped to use their compasses were found fatally lacking.

Magadan itself was the pride of the Tsardom of Oriyak, the industrial and technical marvel that set the standard for much of the once-Triple Alliance. The seat both of the Tsar and Oriyak might, it stretched for miles in every direction from the river that bisected it, east to west, and the magnetic anomaly it was built over in ancient days of yore. It was the sole reason for the city's being, to feed the pride of olden Tsars who yearned for 'all compasses to lead to Magadan'.

Such pride had killed thousands who did not know the stars.

The day was a simple enough affair - general directions for east and west, given the variation with the seasons - but night was another altogether. Certain constellations, their position and orientation, were the only reliable means of navigation and directional bearing in the city of the dead, and often both they and the Tsovs would fear to tread when cloud cover obscured them. Dietrich always counted his blessings that he watched them so often as a boy, inspired by the daring men and women who flew to their moons, praying that he could see the worlds and wonder that awaited them there.

Now he simply prayed they were nothing like this.

"... how long?"

"Hm?" Green eyes darted momentarily to the figure beside them, Dietrich snapped back to to the present by the private's repeated inquiry.

"How long do we wait, sir?"

Gaze returning to the street corner, the captain bit his lip as he weighed the thought silently before glancing back, genuinely this time, to Himmelstoss, "Long enough already, ready?" The slight jump to the man's shoulders at that last final word hewed at Johannes, though the other didn't have the chance to see the slight frown that had flashed across his features, far too busy sitting up. Ten years at one of the Krohn plants - that was the extent of what he knew about Himmelstoss - which placed him at least at twenty-eight, if he started at eighteen, his senior by years and frightened like a child.

It was never easy to see.

"Ready, sir." Came the breathy voice again, the private, now properly crouched, gripped the rifle that he had slung around his neck.

"Same as the last three."

The private nodded as Hans rose to his feet, carefully stepping through the debris and rubble that was strewn about the floor, approaching the small lip of the former window at the place's face. With his weapon's length still concealed inside of the shadows of the building, he scanned the far side of the street one last time, a lingering in his pass as pointed further away to their left - north - the general direction of the Tsov lines. Besides the scattered, momentary echoes of warfare beyond, it was dead quiet.

Already Himmelstoss took up his position just to Dietrich's right, crouching down as he did, tensed to spring forth and sprint for the far side. Already they had crossed one main thoroughfare and two sidestreets the same way, worming their way to the best places to cross through the rubble and ruins of once-great tenement blocks. The Captain had a habit of taking his time with every crossing, always waiting before running out into the street, but they hadn't seen anything so far. The private stared forward, but as the wait dragged on for ten seconds, and then twenty, the wire runner glanced up at his commander. It was never longer than twenty.

"No."

Just then the captain began to stir, his lips drawn ajar as he began to speak, and Himmselstoss sprung to motion.

No sooner had one boot stomped into the powdery snow just inside the door did a hand, quick and desperate, fly for the man's harness. Woolen fingers slipped beneath one of Himmelstoss's shoulder straps and yanked, hard, pulling the private from his feet and onto his ass with an ugly clatter. Breath knocked out of him, Himmelstoss gasped on the once-tiled floor of the parlor, wide eyes glancing up to Dietrich, who already pulled away swiftly from the window. Before he could even speak Hans had crossed the distance and drug Himmelstoss to his feet, rushing back into the cover of darkness further inside.

"I thought you were–"

"Shut. Up."

The captain was as frigid as the words he spoke, and doubly firm, pulling the man back behind the table from earlier, eyes desperately peeking over its chipped and splintered rim. Quickly enough they darted to Himmelstoss, and the captain's voice came in a harsh whisper, "Did you handle the wire? At all?" The look of bewilderment that answered him was not enough, the captain beginning to ask a second time before Himmelstoss shook his head. A jet of mist poured from Dietrich's lips as he breathed for the first moment since he had pulled the private back.

"Good man," He mused, eyes softening as he patted the other's shoulder, "Stay down."

Himmelstoss, still no more aware of what was going on than before, lowered his own voice as he finally spoke, "Why? What's–"

"Cobra."

No sooner had the serpent's name took to the air than the muffled offset thrumming began, a two note beat that could easily be mistaken for the trundling rumble of an engine or the chorus of some distant, automatic weapon - but nothing else came at quite that same cadence. It was a distinctively hostile sound, unlike the whirring roar of their own multiblade rotors, a chopping, heavy noise, like the ceaseless tramping of some hellish, bipedal beast. In seconds the muffled thrumming became a deafening barrage as the twin-bladed gunship crested the buildings nearby, bathing the street in its cacophonous symphony as the snow swirled wildly from the battering force of the blades.

A hand pressed into Himmelstoss's shoulder to keep him low, and Dietrich himself curled behind the table, mouthing a prayer that they hadn't left any trace of their passing.

But as soon as the deafening sound came it faded, echoing away as it continued off to their right, not bothering to linger over the forlorn street they found themselves at. More and more often the Tsovs flew over, always southward, and only rarely now did they hear - or see - their own. Somewhere in the distance, furious bursts of heavy weapons bellowed as some anti-air position engaged the gunship. For once Himmelstoss's heavy breathing was from something other than exertion, and the private paid a glance to the captain, "Handle the wire?"

"They can see our heat, even things we only touch." Came the misting answer, Johannes already passing back around the private and gesturing for him to follow, "Only ignore the jets. They fly too fast to care about us." In moments he resumed the position at the face of the building, a quick finger pointing for Himmelstoss to do the same. Once again the private resumed his position and his prepared stance, and once again Dietrich waited to give the signal.

"Go."

In a flash Himmelstoss began to bound across the breadth of the street, the soft crunch of the captain's footfalls just behind, as he rushed for the nearest corner of the department store, and the alleyway that once separated it from the next building. The spool on his back whirred as it spun wildly, the governor that kept it from moving so quickly long-since stripped out, the wire sinking into the soft snow behind them as they ran. The sound of their boots in the snow and the short, harried breaths between strides was all that carried up and down the street, and after bounding across the generous sidewalk on the far side, the pair ducked safely behind the concrete corner they had made for.

No gunfire, no voices, nothing. Good.

Pressing his back to the concrete of the department store's outer wall, the captain allowed them a chance to breathe as he sank into a half-crouch. Himmelstoss had flung himself on the snowy detritus below, the extra drag of the wire and the spool leaving him fatigued. Dietrich simply watched as the man rolled onto his side, his breathing already harder than Johannes's, the captain reassuring himself that they only had to make it to the sewer main on the far side of this building. Then it was smooth sailing - or crawling, rather - under the plaza to the third platoon. No more bounding across streets and risking the wrath of snipers, gun nests, or worse.

"Almost there, Himmelstoss," He offered, taking the chance to swallow the spit that had gathered in his mouth from the crossing, smiling from behind the upturned collar of his greatcoat and the scarf that ringed his head beneath the coal scuttle helmet. "Almost to the sewer, no more running."

"Thank God." Was all that the private managed, a long sigh hiding the man's face from view, one of his hands moving to rub at his chest. Dietrich had to admit it was a Hell of a first thing to do, but sometimes it was better to drop them in the deep end. So far Himmelstoss could swim, and Hans was thankful for it - the less time the wire was out, the better everyone's chances.

Already the captain glanced to their left, to the rising ramp of rubble that had come to fill the alleyway that once lead to the plaza beyond, the product of a shell collapsing half of the building beside the store. Bricks, boards and more filled the gap, and despite its gradual slope could prove a treacherous enough climb. Johannes himself had tripped and slipped here twice - still nursing one of the bruises to prove it - and so wasted little time in warning Himmelstoss, "Watch your footing here, when you're ready."

Always the trooper, the private hefted himself up to sit back on his knees, looking up the rubble and imagining what lay on the far side. "Alright," He finally sighed, pushing himself to his feet as he slipped an arm into his rifle's sling to pull it over to his side, "If it means no more running." The captain smiled, pushing off the concrete block wall, coming to stand beside the private. Helping Himmelstoss to his feet, the private offered a smiling glance as the captain hauled him up to his feet, "I'll hold you to that, sir."

"I swear it, by the scales," Johannes offered, smiling himself as he drew the fulcrum over his heart, "Just up, over, and a couple hundred meters underground."

Before the captain had a chance to say anything more Himmelstoss moved forward, eagerly taking to the slope ahead of him, careful to check his footing and grip with every step. Hans was left behind as the other pressed forward, his eagerness to be through with the piecemeal terror of the streets shining through this new bout of energy. For a moment the captain simply watched before he too began the gradual ascent, a small bit jealous of the fresh energy the replacements always seemed to have, his right hand holding the rifle aloft by the grip as he too slowly ascended the rubble incline.

One step, then another, a jutting brick here, a half-blasted door there, the pair wound and climbed their way up, and for once Johannes was thankful for the snow. It muffled whatever debris they kicked up, and held fast that which they didn't. Perhaps it was odd, being thankful for the most miserable thing about Oriyak and its endless horizons, but one had to take their victories where they could. No matter how small, a win was still a win, and made the next task just a little easier. As the captain planted his foot firmly on a brick, he looked up to Himmelstoss, who already neared the crest of the misshapen slope, blinking after his comrade before his voice found purchase, "Putting me to shame, Himmelstoss."

"Well," The other mused, huffing as he hauled himself up another couple of feet, the mist of his breath catching the lip of his helmet as the spool gently wound on, "You don't grow up in Stierburg without climbing Point Gariad a few times."

"Stierburg?" Dietrich replied, brows arched as he looked away from where he was stepping, confident enough in his footing, "Me too - though I… I never went out to Point Gariad." Such a thing brought a chuckle out of the other Austran, still worming his way up further as he spoke eagerly of happier things.

"Not a place for officer types, sir - no offense." The captain shook his head, even if the other couldn't see, lingering himself on memories of their far away home. "Too much drinking, and, uh…" Himmelstoss breathed, pausing before pulling himself up to the crest and crouching, slowly, as he admired the sight beyond, grinning as he did, "... loose women." There, in the silence of the night and the misery of their task, officer and enlisted man both shared a small chuckle.

Another step, the snow-covered wooden plank underboot groaning with Dietrich's weight, "Well, I wasn't always an officer you kno–"

Without warning the powdery snow's grip on the board gave, and the captain's boot slipped off and away, causing him to fall a good foot or more. What otherwise would've been a minor mishap was complicated by the landing, for as Hans tipped to his right his shoulder slammed into a half-busted section of wall, jarring his whole arm, and the gloved fingernail that held fast to the small lip on the far side of his rifle's trigger guard slipped. As if shot on overcranked film, the weapon tipped before the captain had any realization of what was happening, his finger falling to the trigger even as he desperately reached to stop the weapon.

"Shit!"

The battle rifle barked a single echoing crack into the solemn night as Hans let slip his curse, Himmelstoss above rising from where he crouched to peer back from where he came, "Captain?" The wide-eyed gaze that met Himmelstoss's own betrayed the severity of his mistake, if the earlier curse hadn't already. Only in that terrible moment did Hans finally bother to notice - he had brown eyes.

Just like Klara's.

"Get dow–"

No sooner had the second word left Dietrich's lips than a trio of gunshots rang out, and without a sound Himmelstoss jolted, a hazing blast of breath billowing from his mouth. Lingering where he stooped before his legs buckled beneath him, the private fell forward, back over the lip of the crest towards the captain, helpless to do all but watch until the private slid and tumbled to where he could reach. The same strong hand as before lashed out, grabbing and holding tight to the private's gear as he stilled his descent, bracing himself against the same section of ruined wall that brought such calamity.

Somewhere inside of the department store's top floor - just beside the crest of the rubbled slope - someone shouted something in Oriyak.

Accusations and curses flew with wild abandon in the officer's mind as he held fast to his comrade, eyes darting between Himmelstoss and the peak nearby, knowing that whoever it was that shot the poor man would be here to finish the job - and him - in moments. Already the desperate temptation to flee surged to the forefront of his thoughts, the vanguard of his animal desires for safety and survival, but the short bouts of mist that curled about Himmelstoss's cheek told him enough - he was alive.

Johannes never abandoned the wounded, and would not start tonight.

Throwing his rifle to the side, green eyes darted about in despair as they sought something - anything - to shield them from wrath he knew to be coming. They settled soon on a nearby window - once some three stories from the ground, now at eye-level with him, the room within filled with the same rubble as he stood upon, its ceiling collapsed from some forgotten detonation. Muffling the grunts of exertion as best he could, the captain soon used both hands to haul the wounded man over to the sill, pushing him up and over the lip before scrabbling himself to do the same.

Even as he fell clumsily inside, he could hear the crunching footfalls of others above, the collapsed ceiling open to the same air as the upper, and final, floor. Scraping hobnails searched desperately for purchase as the captain righted himself and gripped the private's rig again, dragging him further inside, under the now-angled ceiling and into the relative safety of the darkness that the shadows provided. No sooner had the captain laid the private out on his side did he whisper quietly, "Where?"

"B-b-back," Himmelstoss stuttered, thick, winding trails of crimson dribbling from his lips. Dietrich, sitting over him from behind, looked to where the private had indicated, and certainly enough two garish holes had split apart his greatcoat, the frayed wool already ringed with the crimson of the man's life. "S-sir?" The Stierburger glanced hurriedly about the ruined room - some kind of storage before the war, judging by the filing cabinets - unable, or incapable, of turning his head towards Johannes.

"I can't f-feel my legs."

Dietrich continued, despite the other's desperate commentary, woolen hands checking over him, patting down Himmelstoss's gut where he couldn't see. A sinking feeling came to dwell in the captain's own belly as his fingers found no holes on the front of the other's coat, sliding across the fabric, slick with warm wetness. Already Hans's features began to twist, even as he lowered himself to hold the other where he bent over, a hand coming to slip around and under Himmelstoss's helmeted head, cradling it as he offered the platitudes he had heard so often already, "They can work miracles now in the hospitals - what's your name, private?"

"Hi-H-Himmel–"

"Your Saren name, son."

Another misting breath, another bout of blood from the private's lips, "A-Augustus, s-sir."

"An imperial name," Dietrich whispered, "A strong name." Already the footsteps above drew closer - moments away from the alley now - and Johannes pulled closer to his wounded colleague, fingers coming to wrap about themselves about the private's mouth, holding fast his lips from any other spoken noise, "Be strong now, Augustus, not a sound and I'll get us home." Already he could feel the other mouth something beneath his hand, the pursed lips of a p coming at the start:

Promise?

"I promise," The captain whispered, voice cracking as the heat of the other's blood warmed his frigid fingers, "Not a sound."

So it was that the captain held fast to the convulsing private, shivering himself as every footstep above fell like the tone of some terrible bell, each one bringing the fiery wrath of the Tsov one step closer to the both of them. A light grunt outside followed a soft impact, the enemy having hopped down from the ledge to the crest of the rubble where Himmelstoss stooped just moments ago. Though it did nothing to help, Dietrich wrapped his spare arm about the private, looping under Augustus's right, embracing him as Johannes's hand found his own breast.

Without a sound beyond the shivering breath they shared, Hans began to pray.

Triune Father, Hallowed be thy many Names…

"There's no one here!" The Tsov called out, the rolling tongue of the Oriyaks carried without concern, though the implications of such a thing were lost on the Austran officer in that moment, far too concerned with the hot death he knew to be coming. Perhaps it was cruel to lead Himmelstoss on like that, but such forlorn promises were often the only thing that gave men courage when their own life slipped away, just as he knew Augustus's to be. Perhaps it was better neither could see the gore Hans knew to be pouring out inside the woolen shell of the private's overcoat.

Thy realm shall come; thy will made manifest…

Another, more nasal voice - a second Tsov - chatted with the first, still above both the Austrans, "Bullshit - there's one of their rifles!"

Dietrich didn't have time to curse his decision to discard the weapon, too consumed with his thoughts and the careful, crunching steps of the boots that now descended, approaching the window he had hauled them through. His hand clutched at the wallet beneath the folds of his uniform as the words, once spoken solely in his mind, began to slip into the cold air of Magadan's reality.

"So in Heaven,"

Another crunch, another spurt of blood seeped between his fingers.

"So on Earth."

Himmelstoss convulsed again, Dietrich's fingers slipping before righting themselves once more, a watery gasp slipping out into the open. Even through the thick wool of his coat and tunic Hans could feel as the wallet bent in on itself, buckling where he squeezed, grip tightening with another of the Tsov's careful steps, the white mist of his breath billowing in the darkness of the shadows.

Bring me back to her.

So he continued until Himmelstoss jerked forcefully one last time and grew limp, the warmth of his bloody breath stilling against Hans's hand as life left the eager volunteer, leaving Johannes alone in the darkness. The tremble that came of his own lips was something that couldn't be helped, tucking his face into the dead man's shoulder as he allowed himself a small sob, a gasp for air, his lungs desperate for fuel in the wake of fervent whisperings.

The itchy scratch of Himmelstoss's wool collar went ignored then as the steel of their helmets clinked together, too consumed was the officer in the heat of his shortcomings - as too were the enemy's footfalls, which had ceased some moments ago. Only in the silence that reigned in the wake of Augustus's life did the captain realize that they too had stilled, his watery green eyes rising to behold the sight he had feared: a broad-shouldered man, bedecked in the olive-green uniform of the old Tsardom, his bayoneted assault rifle held steady in mittened hands. But despite the aurora's glimmer of the blade's steel and the harsh curve of the magazine, it was the Tsov's visage which drew Hans's eye.

It was a round face - typical of his people - weathered and pock-marked, the sort of sight that immediately sprang to mind from the word 'Oriyak', every inch the rough and tumble sort that called this cold place home. Thick lips pursed themselves beneath the graying whiskers of a wide, bushy mustache, and it seemed for a moment that he was about to speak, but something held his tongue. More than any superficial mark or the styling of his hair beneath the askew pilotka, it was the glimmer of the Tsov's damp lavender eyes, bright against the cold darkness of Magadan, that stole Dietrich's breath.

Without a sound, the Oriyak signed the fulcrum over his heart.

"... well? Did the fuckers duck in there?" The voice above called out again, echoing from where the other Tsov peered down to look at his comrade. For a moment the mustache of the one at the window twitched, lips drawn tightly together before parting, the soldier stepping back and away from the window he looked through.

"... no," His voice husky with age, "They must've bolted."

"Hm, pity," The other replied, an exasperated sigh echoing above, "Anyway, get back here - it's your play and I'm not done winning all my money back!"

No sooner had the other spoke did the Tsov finally break away his gaze, rifle dropping to his side as he moved to climb back over the rubble that surrounded him, up and away and out of Dietrich's sight. Johannes himself remained transfixed, petrified, having looked into the face of his death and left to live with the consequences of his earlier mistake, the cooling body of the private still held fast in his arms. The conversing Tsovs grew muffled, returning to their business on the floor above, and a hearty chuckle from the second, more nasal figure rang out in the silence of the night.

Below, in the shadows of Himmelstoss's grave, Dietrich began to weep.

---

The muffled scraping of hobnails on brickwork was the only sound that heralded his return, weary feet slowly descending the last of the small stairsteps that finally lead to their refuge. As the first glow of dawn would greet the frosty men who stood the coldest watch of them all, Hans would return to the warm glow of the cellar to finally rest for the night, just as it ended. Slowly, stiffly, the captain reached a gloved thumb under the sling on his right shoulder, and leaned one of the two rifles he carried against the cellar wall nearest to him.

Most of the men were asleep, unphased even by the stomping and scraping that Dietrich had managed at the door above. While it was not always easy, after the first week in Magadan, one learned to sleep whenever, and however, one could - even through the most thunderous bombardments. Johannes couldn't blame them, though no doubt the holiday wine rations had helped. His own eyes weighed heavy, a newfound weakness seeping into the knees at the warm flicker of firelight, shining in the gaudy ornaments on the cheap little trees. It almost made him smile.

He would settle for being warm.

So it was the captain wasted little time in pulling the fingers loose on his gloves, weaving as deftly as his weariness would allow through the snoring figures huddled under overcoats, parkas and blankets. Despite such precautions, bumps were inevitable, though more often than not the sleepers simply grumbled - if they did anything at all. Soon enough Dietrich stood over his little plot of the cellar, no more wide than the length of the cot the men insisted on carrying along for him the last three months. It was empty, unclaimed despite the leap in comfort it provided over the meager cushion of foam pads and sleeping bags.

He had been gone so long he half expected it to be taken - claimed - by the same law they had all bound themselves to should they perish; everyone takes one thing, closest friends first, until everything was claimed, save that all personal items went back to the family. There was no need to try and mail a cot or a warm, Oriyak ushanka back to some poor widow on the peninsula, not when they were needed here and now, where such things meant life or death. Perhaps he actually had died, and the grueling trek he had endured was simply passage into a better world.

Or perhaps he was already long dead, and all of this was Hell.

A weak hand tossed the once-green gloves to the cot, and the captain unslung the second of the two rifles he carried, deliberate as he thumbed the magazine's paddle and tossed it too onto the cot beneath him. Fingers, just now aching with the seeping warmth of the cellar, gripped the cold handle of the rifle's steel action, racking and locking it back, an errant shimmer of brass cast arcing through the air. Languid eyelids lifted, wide as they beheld the consequence of his precaution, following the cartridge as it tumbled through the air, only to be caught, clumsily tucked against the gut of a baggy undershirt.

"Hey–!" The muffled exasperation was unique in its timbre, hushed as not to wake any of the surrounding men. Something approaching a smile formed on the captain's lips, a small nod of paid to the first sergeant as his eyes began to droop again, looking back to the rifle he stood, leaning it nearly against the column at the foot of his cot.

"... thanks Erwin."

"Had me worried for a bit," The Anfanger crossed the distance between them, offering the errant round back primer first, "I, uh, guess the new guy–"

Hans simply shook his head, ending his friend's question before it ever finished, his gaze glancing past Erwin and to where he knew Preissler slept, raising a single finger up and over his lips. Were the Funker sleeping - be it by the grace of God or liquor - Dietrich would rather Preis have one more peaceful night before another wept for the dead man's soul. "With the others, up top. We can stack a cairn."

Erwin's blue eyes narrowed, shaking his head as he raised his hands, gesturing to help with the captain's field gear. A weak, clipping scrape unhooked the buckle from the belt, and soon enough Erwin lifted the webbing up and off of Johannes's shoulders as he bent and contorted to pull his arms free of the mess. "You shouldn't take the risk - you remember what happened to Janke." Suddenly free of the binding weight of the combat harness, Dietrich felt he could finally breathe, resisting the immediate urge to simply collapse onto the cot before him.

Instead he simply righted himself, beginning to unbutton the double breasted coat, ignoring the other's chiding as he worked his way down their number, "How bad is it?" The field gear fell into a slow, clattering puddle of vinyl, canvas and webbing as Erwin lowered it to the floor opposite of the cot.

"Is what?"

Finishing with the last of the pebbled buttons, Dietrich made a half turn as he began to pull the greatcoat from his shoulders, "The blood."

The first sergeant's voice waited, helping his comrade with the coat soon enough, holding it up by the shoulders once Dietrich was free of it. "Not awful," Was the initial assessment, Erwin lowering the coat to fold it together, "Overcoats come and go, I would be more worried about your breadbag." His friend cast a tilt of his head towards the field gear, and the stained bag that rested on the posterior of his belt, just below the small of his back where it was marked from carrying Himmelstoss back.

"I'm sure my food is fine," The captain mused with a groan, hands bracing themselves against the lip of the cot as he lowered himself to its luxurious tautness, "It's why I got one with a liner." The captain could not help the sigh that escaped his lips, the song of burning legs finally allowing themselves to let go. His green eyes settled on the fieldgear before darting to the greatcoat that Erwin now offered him, its back bearing a swath of the same mottled brown that his gloves now bore, the same coat he slept under.

Fatigued arms accepted it, laying the bundled mass of wool just to his side as he pulled a leg up to begin slipping out of his boots. First one, then the other, both soon stacked neatly together underneath the lip of the cot's canvas surface, the two men silent as Johannes scooted himself back onto the cot, coming to lean against the pillar at its foot, much like his rifle. Despite all the motions, the captain's eyes remained on the stain.

"He was from Stierburg."

Home.

The Anfanger shifted on his feet, his socks almost silent against the brick underfoot, squint softened with the words that Dietrich murmured. "Did you know him?"

His gaze unerring, the captain tugged at button at his collar, popping it loose as he brought one leg to cross over the other, "No." Himmelstoss was a man just further ahead enough in life that they never crossed paths, though Hans could not help but wonder if they could have been friends in a different, better life.

He hoped so.

"At least there's that." Erwin murmured, pursing his lips as his own eyes fell to the floor, silence resuming in the wake of Johannes's meek echo.

"At least there's that."

Without warning, a light tap came at the captain's shoulder, baggy eyes turning slowly to regard the touch of the first sergeant, who had come to kneel beside him. "Before you pass out," The other started, his fingers beginning to fish for the pack of cigarettes that Hans knew Erwin to always keep in his shirt pocket. Thinking it simply an offer of a smoke, the captain raised a weary hand, shaking his head to decline before his friend continued, "I got your box put up like you asked, it's tucked in your ruck."

A small glimmer came to Dietrich's eyes then, his hand falling back to his lap as he paid another warm nod to his oldest comrade, "Thank you, Erwin."

"No problem," Came the reply, mouthed around a cigarette of his own, its orange filter pinched between his lips, "Honestly, I shouldn't be surprised you always make it back." A cylindrical lighter, itself pulled from a pocket somewhere on the stocky Austran, flicked to life as Erwin lit his vice, puffing at it twice before the cherry flared bright with a long, hard drag. Smoke wisped, billows caught in the light of the candles lit about them. Blue eyes darted, briefly, to the aforementioned rucksack, its shapeless form distended with the odds and ends that Johannes didn't immediately need.

"You're a lucky man."

For the first time since the store, the captain's lips curled gently, his own eyes narrowing as he scoffed, "Going through my shit early, Win?" The other Austran grinned, shaking off the implied presumption with another hit of his smoke. There was a constancy that Erwin had in him that Dietrich could never quite place, an unshakable belief in his leadership, ever since that first, terrible day. Dietrich knew that Erwin did no such thing, and likely stood vigil over the cot until his return with the dawn.

"Wouldn't dare jinx you, Hans - I just wanted a little taste of home for the holidays, to chase down that boot-hooch they dare call spiced wine."

"Oh I'm sure it is spiced," Dietrich chuckled, allowing himself the joke, "Tischer's Special Reserve."

Fuck that, Erwin mouthed, lingering on the thought of something remotely edible coming from anything that housed that walking war crime's rancid feet. Once the laughter died between them the first sergeant sighed, glancing over before rising, "Fröhe Rettungensnacht, Hans."

"Fröhe, Erwin." The captain replied, his eyelids growing heavy as the other stepped away, interrupted in their descent by one final remark, a thing which brought a curl to his brows.

"I guess old Ascher was right about charms."

"Pardon?"

"Don't you remember?" Erwin asked, turning from where he had been stepping away, his hands already fast in the pockets of his trousers, thumbs hooked into their lips. "Placebo trinkets," The First Sergeant grumbled, cigarette dancing as his voice assumed a gravely imitation of the gruff man who commanded their company before Dietrich's promotion, "Idols for cowards, all that mess?"

"No, I recall, what do you mean?"

"Your photo," Erwin stated plainly, "Klara, with the binoculars?" Ever the fool, the first sergeant struck a crude imitation of Mrs. Dietrich's pose in the photo, a sassy curled hand set upon an exaggerated hip as he did, drawing another weary huff from the captain despite his confusion.

"Yeah," Dietrich managed, tilting his head as he tried to get at what the other was saying, "I take it with me every time."

"Not this time."

The light smile the others antics had summoned vanished as Hans squinted, searching his memory as fingers reached for the pocket on his tunic's left breast, fiddling with his button as he spoke, "No - I came back for it, I made sure to after helping Hi–" No sooner had the captain begun the fallen soldier's name did he have the black leather thing out and in his hands, parted to reveal the focus of his desperate prayers. With heat rushing to his cheeks, every trace of Dietrich's voice halted, caught in his throat by the sight within. Curious, Erwin crossed over again, looking down into the folds of his friend's wallet, pursing his lips as did.

"Told you so - I thought you threw that away?"

---