“I’m freezing…I wish these Germans would get up here already so I could shoot them, then we can get back to the village.” I look behind and see a human conscript bundled up like me, holding his rifle in his arms while he rubs his hands. Me too, bud.

  I look out over the edge of the trench as another BANG rings out, followed by more yelling. Those little wooden fuckers are putting in work right now. That’s gotta be the seventh one in the past twenty minutes.

  “C-Comrade Lieutenant?” I turn and face Sofiya, who has the receiver held in her hands. “Colonel Churkin is…on the line.”

  I grab it from her. “Colonel?”

  “Comrade Tidman, I’m not hearing any gunfire. What’s going on!?” The receiver nearly cuts out with how loud he yells. I move it a little farther away from my already damaged eardrums.

  “They’re caught up at the bottom of the ridge, Sir,” I answer. Shit, now that I think about it, I should send some riflewomen forward to harass any engineers they have.

  “…Is that so?” Churkin says quietly. I nod.

  Wait, shit. “Yes, Sir, they haven’t started firing on us yet, but I’m sending forward some pickets to harass them as we speak.” I snap my frozen fingers at a few conscripts, including the human man, and wave them to come closer.

  “Do so. Keep me updated.”

  “Yes, Sir.” I hand the radio back to Sofiya, who places it on her uniform’s shoulderboard. Leaning against the side of the trench, I have the six conscripts with me climb over and crouch walk to the boundary.

  Thankfully, there are still a few logs piled up with some of the chevaux de fris. Enough to give us cover. I order the anthros to spread out while I and the human conscript stick together and find a good, covered spot to observe the approaching Germans.

  They’ve only made it about halfway up from my quick peek. Using my binoculars, I scope out the main road and see at least…four…seven vehicles knocked out, and at least three of them burning. Those mines sure as hell work wonders…

  “Fuck…I can’t feel my hands…” The conscript I’m with nearly drops his rifle over the side of the log. A rifle.

  “Here.” I set my binoculars down on the log and hold my hands out. The conscript shudders in relief and hands the weapon over. It’s decently weighty, and being one of those older guns, it’s got big ass rounds. “How much ammo you got?” I ask.

  “Sixty. But five are already in that weapon. Oh, and these.” He reaches into his ruck sack and pulls out a pair of bottles with clear liquid inside and a rag on top. He smiles. “Gifts for Herr Ribbentrop!”

  I grab them and set them neatly in the snow. The last thing I need is to be covered head to toe in flammable liquid.

  “Can you hold these?” I hand off my binoculars to the conscript, who takes them with shivering hands.

  I haven’t shot with iron sights from this far in a while. Hope this gun’s zeroed in.

  I rest the barrel of the Mosin on the log, shifting snow around until the rifle sits comfortably. I adopt a sideways sitting position, with the stock of the gun going across my left to rest on my right shoulder. The sight, uhhh…it leaves a lot to be desired. A LOT. But, thankfully, Wehrmacht Feldgrau sticks out in the snow, including the fur of the German anthros. I can definitely see some sort of orangeish fur down there somewhere.

  “How far do you think they are?” I ask. The conscript looks through my binoculars.

  “Uhhh…a few hundred?” Right. Education wasn’t the best back then in the good old USSR.

  Well, the closest one looks about 350 meters, impossible to tell the species, but not human. I place the sight over the form and suck in my stomach. “See that orange one down there?”

  The conscript nods. “Yeah, looks like a cat.”

  “Tell me where the shot lands,” I tell him before pulling the trigger.

  The rifle kicks like a drugged mule, but my bulky coat softens the recoil. I quickly adjust to find my target, but can’t spot the fur again. “Well?”

  “She went down. I think you got her!” I pull the bolt back and chamber a new round. Scanning the field, I spot a less-brightly colored soldier, kneeling where the first one I shot fell.

  The gun kicks again. This time, I keep my eye on the figure, watching it drop down. Like a flock of birds, all the Krauts drop down to their stomachs…and one of them right on a landmine.

  BANG

  “Ukh ty! Unlucky svoloch.” Yeah, unlucky is a word for it. I load a new round as the bits of the ‘unlucky svoloch’ come falling down on the soft snow. A few shots ring out from my left and right as my own soldiers open fire on the slowly encroaching Nazis.

  I pop off a few more rounds, but nothing solid hits.

  It’s odd. Fighting in a war like this. Not war in general, but this type of fighting. No tactical insertion, no stealth. Just finding cover and shooting at an enemy at what would be considered basically point-blank. I am, or I guess until a few months ago, was a highly trained, fit operator who could parachute, dive, kill a man in hand-to-hand combat, and save another from fatal GSWs and intense trauma. I’m a paratrooper, paramedic, and spec-ops soldier all rolled into one elite package.

  And here I am. In the snow with a guy who probably can’t read above a first-grade level, freezing while I pop shots off with a rifle older than my grandfather, and killing furries that people back on earth would jack off to. Not to mention being stuck in a damn game of some kind.

  I gotta stop letting myself think like this. It’s bad for my sanity. The Soviets don’t have antidepressants, and I sure as shit can’t kill myself…Or I can. Still don’t know if testing that out is smart.

  “GET DOWN!”

  A pair of hands slam into my chest and send me down into the snow with a man on top.

  BOOOOOMeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee—

  “Ahhhhhh fuck!” I moan silently, feeling my ears ringing with tinnitus and more pain than I had ever hoped to feel again. I drop the rifle and grab the man above me, pushing him up and off with…a lot less weight than I would expect of him.

  I sit up and find the reason why. His back is littered with metal shrapnel and shards of wood from a burst tree, smoking from an explosion. I lift the guy off my legs and lay him down, checking his carotid pulse, only to find skin going cold and no pulse.

  Even if he had a pulse, I have no medical supplies, minus scissors. But still…fucker saved my life, and I didn’t even know him.

  I flinch as a stray bullet strikes the log where I was aiming earlier, sending some snow and bark over me. I grab the rifle and the collar of the man’s shirt and start crouch walking back toward the trench line.

  I get right over a snowdrift-thwick

  Something catches me in the throat, right in the jugular. It snaps my head back with enough force to snap something in my neck, but not enough to outright kill me. I fall back onto the corpse of my conscript.

  I can do nothing but stare up through the sparse, branch-ridden sky above me and feel the warmth leave my neck in a river of blood, feeling the agony of the lead projectile move around my neck with each gurgle until my brain loses oxygen, and I feel the darkness take me. Finally.

  -/-/-/-/-

  Friendly fire.

  I die.

  To friendly.

  Fucking.

  Fire.

  My anger is sapped away by the cold, and the fact that I’m back at the camp with Colonel Churkin approaching with his map case once more.

  “Lieutenant Tidman! There is no time to dawdle! The Fascisti are on their way!”

  I wave at him. “I know, they’re coming in force, we have only infantry, I have to defend those three points on the ridge until we get Maxim’s right?”

  The Colonel stops, map raised halfway up, eyes scrunched. He quickly recovers and points up the ridgeside. “Then what are you waiting for? GO!” He yells, angrier than last.

  I gather my soldiers and run right up the ridge like before and jump back into the trench, pissed. No clue who would’ve shot me, but I know for a fact it came from this section.

  “Heads up, everyone, a squad and I will be advancing up to harass the enemy. Check your damn fire, and don’t shoot any friendlies.” I say, gathering the same six and having them all fan out, having the same human conscript with me.

  But, I move us to a different log, a good 20 meters away from the last one where he got peppered. I have him hand over the rifle like before and set up on a snowbank. Colder than cold, but I couldn’t give less of a shit.

  I find the same orange Kraut and fire. This time around, I can predict the recoil and manage to see my target go down. I bring down two more before the rest duck down, and again, I hear the others start to pop off shots.

  Swapping the conscript’s rifle for my binoculars, I sweep the bottom of the hill before spotting the source of the explosion from before. A tank, currently turning to face its casemate gun toward us.

  “Up. UP!” I yell, kicking myself back and away from the bank, yanking the conscript by the collar right as an explosion sends the snow bank flying in every direction.

  Well, I can at least smell cordite now. But I can’t hear again.

  “Come on! Pull back to the trenches!” I yell out as loud as I can, dragging the stumbling conscript with me.

  I get us past a few trees when, like a reflex, I duck my head, only for something to crack right over the top of my scalp and into the tree behind me. “FRIENDLY! FUCKING FRIENDLY!” I holler out.

  After running across the winding road, the conscript and I manage to all but fall into the trench, him on his hands and knees and me into the arms of one of Ivana’s engineers, who sets me down quickly.

  The rest of the harassers return, all of them moving much quicker than I did and returning to the line.

  “What’s going on?” Anastasia moves from her position to crouch next to me.

  “Tanks, they’re bringing up armor to roll through. We can’t shoot the infantry clearing the mines while the tanks are there, and with the tanks there, the Infantry can safely clear the mines to let the tanks get up here-thunk-. It’s a goddamn catch twent-” BANG.

  A small explosion goes off 10 meters from the trench and causes everyone except Ivana and me to duck. Was that a goddamn grenade? I reluctantly hand off the Mosin back to its owner and pull my pistol and peer over just as the heads of Grenadiers start to poke over the ridgeline. “OPEN FIRE!” I yell.

  “They have rifle grenades!” A engineer calls out right as a canine Grenadier aims their rifle up, places a canister on the end of their rifle, and fires it. The grenade goes high and lands in a crater behind us, spraying the trench with snow and dirt.

  “Fuck ‘em up!” God damn, these conscripts act a lot like modern soldiers.

  The wave of grenadiers makes it to the anti-tank beams and trades fire, but not only do we outnumber them, but they also have jack shit for cover. No big trees, no longs, and no big snowbanks, while we have trenches and dugouts.

  Three of the four squads pull back a little, trying to use a bump in the terrain as cover while they all go prone, but the one squad that gets caught out is cut down to just one.

  The one left, a pinscher or something, tries to run forward and take cover behind a razor wire fence, only to step right on a mine. The explosive detonates, well, ‘pop’ would be a better word for it. The mine pops and shreds the left foot of the grenadier, who goes down with a shriek of pain.

  “MEIN BEIN! MY FFFUCKING LEG IS GONE!”

  My heart sinks right into my stomach at hearing a female voice yell, but not with a Russian accent, but a German one. Why the hell can I understand her? Why is she speaking English?

  “Vau! Did you see that! Her whole foot disappeared!” Anastasia says with a small ‘o’ shape on her mouth.

  “FUCK! AGGGHHHHNNNN, SANI! MEDIC!”

  Ohhhh, fuck! Fuck this stupid fucking game bull shit! “Cover me!”

  “What, wait, what are-” I barely register the rest of Anastasia’s question as I hop the trench wall and move through the single gap in the wire.

  Foregoing any sane thought, I run out, gun hanging by the tassel, and baseball slide to the side of the maimed pinscher. The girls fucked up leg is limp on the ground, while the rest of her is thrashing around in the snow.

  “Can you understand me?” I ask, taking my scissors out and cutting her ruined pant leg.

  “What the fuck-? What the fuck are you…?” She asks. She’s confused, but hell, so am I.

  “My name is Alex Tidman, I’m an American pararescue. Can you tell me you understand?” I finish cutting up her pant leg and tear it apart. Everything below the ankle is gone, which I’m guessing is better than it would’ve been had the snow not built up over the mine.

  “YeEEES!” She screams as I pull a wooden splinter out of the steadily oozing wound. Fuck, that’s arterial if I’ve ever seen one. “I need…your bayonet and your name,” I say, reaching for her knife. She tries to struggle against me, but the pain just causes her to grit her teeth and moan in agony. “FFFFFUCK! OK!”

  I yank the knife out of it’s sheathe right as a bullet skips across the frozen dirt road less than a foot away from her. I place the blade of her knife under her suspender strap and pray she’s sharpened it. While I saw, I looked up in the direction the shot came from, being one of the Grenadier squads. “I’M TRYING TO SAVE HER YOU FUCK NUTS! WATCH YOUR GODDAMN FIRE!”

  The knife launches up as the suspender disconnects, and I yank the leather off of her. I place the suspender around the knife handle once and then wrap it around her mid thigh. “Can I have your name?”

  “M…Mathilda.” She answers weakly. That’s bad. I place the leather sheath of her knife in her mouth. “Sorry about this, Mathilda,” I apologize before twisting the knife by the blade around and around, constricting the suspender tightly. The girl howls-and I mean howls-loud enough to cause my ears to ring once more.

  I use the little bit of suspender left to tie off the knife and dig around in her side bags and find-SCORE! A FIELD DRESSING KIT!

  A small part of me lets me smile, just a little, as I tear the kit open and find a sterile dressing pad. I reach into the wound and pull out some more debris, stuffing the pad where I can before wrapping bandages around as well as I can while technically still being shot at.

  I have to duck and lie on Mathilda for a second as a rifle grenade explodes in a stretch of razor wire. I should really get some of that shock trooper armor.

  Seeing as I can do nothing else for the now-crying girl, I lie prone next to her, with me facing my line and her facing the Germans. Fuck. Kind of stuck now. If I bring her back to my line, they’ll shoot her or let her die, but if I go to her’s, they might shoot me, or try to take me prisoner.

  Then again, I can’t die…yeah, fuck it. What’s a little experimentation?

  I pick up the girl’s rifle and ammo belt, throwing both over my shoulder as I grab her by the remaining suspender and pulling her, my back toward the Germans. This is a really bad idea, but if I die, I’ll just…leave her next time. I guess.

  I get past the anti-tank barriers before I turn and see I’m basically within talking distance of the three squads of grenadiers. “One of you fucks take her!” I yell before lying her down and hopping over her, sprinting back as fast as I can with her rifle and ammo still on me.

  I hear a gun bark behind me and feel the bullet sail past my ear, followed by more gunshots.

  Somehow, through the grace of Stalin or some shit, I don’t get shot, but I do end up busting my ass as I dunk myself back in the trench, the German rifle bruising my shoulder like hell.

  “What the fuck were you thinking, you tupitsa!?” Anastasia helps me back up, angrier than a pitbull named Sweetie Belle.

  “Watch your fucking tone!” I yell back, watching the wolf do a 180 from pissed to ‘Oh fuck, I just insulted a senior rank.’ “Now get back on the line!”

  Anastasia slinks off with her tail curled around her side, disappearing behind one of the engineers and down the trench.

  “Comrade! We have more conscripts at our disposal!” Oh, thank Christ. “Sofiya, send them up!” I yell out, unshouldering the German rifle. It’s shorter than the Soviet one, but it seems just as good, especially when my alternative is a revolver.

  I move down the trench, toward the right. We’re beating back the Germans on this flank, and it seems they haven’t made it up the other sides yet. “GERMAN CONTACT! ON THE NORTH!” God damn me and my mouth.

  “Anastasia, you have the Left, Ivana, Sofiya, with me!” I yell out. We sprint across the side road and over the central trenches to the sound of a heavy, low-sounding machine gun.

  The single Maxim, which I didn’t even know we had, is opening up from the rear of the Right flank as a similarly sized wave of grenadiers makes a push. Me, Sofiya, and Ivana’s squad all manage to filter into the rear of the flank, joining in on the fight.

  The German rifle does not disappoint. It’s lighter, kicks the same, and drops soldiers just as good, it would seem.

  But, while this side does hold up well, I can hear more fighting off on the Left. Hopefully it’s Osttruppen and not more grenadiers…

  The Maxim gunner jerks, a bullet catching her in the head and sending her down. Fuck.

  I step over her body and set my rifle aside, grabbing the door handle grip of the MG and pressing down the-.

  YATATATATATATATATATATATATATATATATATATATA-

  The mean green machine gun steadily pops off bullets, and due to how heavy the fucker is, it barely moves. I lower my head and peer through the shield of the gun, focusing fire on the clump of grenadiers not taking cover or retreating.

  While it’s not an MG42, the Maxim delivers carnage in a steady stream, with patience. The 4 Germans go down into the snow and do not pass GO, nor collect 200 bucks.

  Every German soldier on the right flank hits the dirt and doesn’t come up, fearful of their lives, no doubt. I wave over a squad of conscripts and have them take over the gun, cause as fun as murdering Nazis is, I have a job to do.

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  “You may now dispatch Frontoviki Squads! These troops have access to Molotov Cocktails and submachine guns!” Jesus, Sofiya really knows how to sneak up on me. “You heard him, call them up.”

  “FLAMETHROWER!”

  I turn toward the left flank and see a jet of fire sailing from the front and onto the trench line. Oh shit!

  Grabbing Sofiya and Ivana’s wolverines, I make a dash back.

  Fortunately, the flamethrower missed the actual trench full of conscripts and hit the empty dugout instead. The conscripts rise out of the trench and gun down the squad right as we get there, just in time for the Germans on the left to retreat…and for an attack on the center to start…fuuuuuck!

  “Someone, grab that flamethrower!” Naturally, Ivana’s squad does so- “German mortars are setting up over there!”

  I look beyond the trench, where the German grenadiers used to be covering at, only to see a team of anthros setting up a mortar tube…within such a short range.

  “Ivana, hit those fucking assholes!” I call out, a bit angry. I mean, seriously, they’re that close? And they don’t even have infantry to cover them!

  Ivana obeys my command and moves up slightly, angles the German flamethrower, and squeezes off a jet of fire. Given the lack of mortar fire, I would say they’ve been handled.

  “Panzergrenadiers are inbound! Suppress them before they can grenade us out!” More fucking Germans? Good graciousness. “Ivana, pull back and get in the line!”

  I don’t wait for her, sprinting back to the right, only to be forced down into the dirt by a squad of white-dressed German soldiers with those assault rifles? FUCKING ASSAULT RIFLES?!

  “Panzergrenadiers, Wehrmacht”

  “In 1942, when Infantry Regiments were renamed as Grenadier Regiments by Hitler as a historical homage to Frederick the Great's Army, the infantry component of Panzer divisions began to be redesignated as Panzergrenadier regiments, as did Motorized Infantry units and soldiers.

  “These soldiers receive some of the finest training, equipment, and support the German War Machine is capable of offering. The squad enters the field armed with StG 44s. These are assault rifles, capable of firing in bursts and powerful at all ranges, but really effective at medium to close range.”

  Oh, great, so better than my guys in every way.

  A conscript runs and jumps into the trench, a submachine gun in hand. “Commander! Are you alright?”

  “Fine, just fine. Mind throwing a Molotov at those Panzergrenadiers?” The conscript reaches behind themselves and lights the cloth of the cocktail, throwing the bottle up and over. The sound of gunfire drops a little, but the sound of burning rises.

  “Thanks.” The conscript nods and moves down the line, popping off some shots at the Krauts.

  “TANK!” Oh, you gotta be- “MULTIPLE GERMAN TANKS!”

  Nope. Fuck this.

  “EVERYONE, PULL BACK! PULL. BACK! RETREAT OVER THE BRIDGE! NOW!”

  I pray everyone heard me as I push Sofiya by the buttocks out of the trench and-fuck she’s not fast enough!

  “Sorry!” I tell her preemptively before scooping up the lightweight radio operator and hucking down the road. A pair of Machine gun squads with Maxims sees me with her in my arms and almost stop, before seeing my face and me kindly saying. “BACK! GET BACK!”

  Colonel Churkin can kiss my white American ass.

  I keep running across the bridge and into the camp, where a collection of more engineers, machine guns, and soldiers that aren’t quite conscripts are rushing around.

  “Guards Rifle Infantry, Red Army”

  “Guards Rifle Infantry are elite rifle infantry with superior marksmanship. They are also versatile, given their upgrades and abilities.

  “Guards riflemen gained distinction after the Yelnya Offensive in 1941. The Red Army's 316th Rifle Division, involved in the offensive, became the first Guards rifle division (becoming the 8th Guards Rifle Division) after the actions of the 28 guardsmen commanded by Ivan Panfilov (hence, called Panfilovtsy or "Panfilov's Men"). By the near end of 1941, 6 rifle divisions became guard rifle divisions.”

  Oh, thank Christ, career soldiers.

  “LISTEN UP, THE GERMANS WILL BE HERE IN MINUTES! I WANT EVERYONE TO TAKE UP POSITIONS ALONG THE RIVER, BUT DO NOT GET CLOSE TO THE BRIDE, OR THE ICE! I WANT MACHINE GUNS, RIFLES, SMGs, EVERYTHING READY!”

  “Sir! We have anti-tank guns ready on the South, Central, and Northern sides of the village!” An engineer reports.

  I would kiss them if it weren’t for…you know.

  “ALRIGHT, GO!” The Guards’ rifle and engineers all fan out to the riverside as a few conscripts led by Anastasia sprint across the ice, as well as Ivana’s squad, and an MG team.

  1:57

  Thank you, magic sky clock.

  “Ivana, are the explosives set?” She nods, pointing to a plunger by a house close to the bridge.

  Ok, good. We have three AT guns, four MG teams, three squads of rifles, four squads of engineers, and a few conscripts, with more on the way.

  “…U-u-uhhh….C…C…Commmmm-mmmander…?” Sofiya says.

  “Yeah?”

  “…you’re still…holding……me……”

  I look down and see her, arms folded up and head tucked into herself like she’s trying to roll into a ball and vanish.

  “Aw, shit, sorry.” I gently let her down.

  “It’s o-ok.” Her hooves(?) hit the dirt, and she scampers off toward the signal dugout.

  “Comrade Tidman.” Annnnnnnd here’s trouble.

  I spin around to face the Colonel, adopting a position of attention to endure the chewing out I’m about to receive.

  “Good work holding the Germans. I can see the smoke from down here. And you managed to withdraw with acceptable casualties.”

  Is…he serious? Is he thanking me?

  “However, I see you and your soldiers are…closer than I would appreciate. Do not give me a reason to charge you with reckless fraternization.” He turns away, leaving the threat to hang above like an ax blade while he fucks off to do something. Seriously, what does he do, other than deliver orders?

  1:21

  “Ivana, see if you can’t lay anymore mines. I don’t care about hiding them, just throw ‘em anywhere.” While she regurgitates my command to the other engineers, I jog over to one of the Maxim’s set up facing the bridge. The six-person crew has traded their rifles for E-tools, piling snow up to make an ad-hoc firing position.

  “Mina, if you keep throwing snow on my shoes, I’ll shove that Maxim so far up your ass, you’ll be spitting shells!” Heh. That was kinda funny.

  I make a quick trip back to the camp to gather some more medical supplies…what the hell…?

  Like the green light that gives Gatsby is rock hard erection for Daisy, a glowing light from my tent calls my attention to…

  The book.

  It’s glowing. Like, radioactive glowing.

  I really don’t have the time for this, but a glowing book? That’s a video game thing if I’ve ever seen it. I grab the primer and leave the tent, shoving the manual in my coat and returning to the aid station. The medics aren’t busy, only having one human casualty. Which either means a lot more survived…or died.

  “Hey, have anything I can borrow?” I ask. The medic in charge ties off the bandage, much to the chagrin of the conscript and his arm. “Borrow? Do you plan on giving it back?” I smile at the joke while his second grabs some bandages and what looks like old belts for tourniquets.

  I jam all the supplies in my bag and exit the tent right as the timer in the sky reaches 0:00, turning to nothing.

  And just like that, the sound of German engines starts to rise over the ridge. I sprint toward the center position, spotting one of our AT guns loading with its crew of mixed soldiers.

  “ZiS-3 76mm divisional field gun, Red Army.”

  “The 76-mm divisional gun M1942 (ZiS-3) is a Soviet 76.2 mm divisional field gun. The Main gun is crewed by a 2-man team, while the rest of the squad carries Mosin Nagant Rifles to engage enemy infantry and step in to replace dead squadmates operating the gun. The gun can function as an Anti-tank weapon and destroy medium armored vehicles or lighter, while also having the capability to use HE shells and act as an Artillery Piece.”

  Shit, better than nothing.

  “Incoming!” One of the gunners yells from the ZiS.

  A few squads of grenadiers approach the bridge in a loose formation, probing if I had to guess. The Maxim crew sees them too and opens up with the MG. The grenadiers all hit the dirt-snow, in this case, and return fire. However, a prepared position will always beat no position.

  Gunfire erupts from the left and right, but sparsely.

  “It’s a probing attack. There’ll be more soon…” The human spotter of the ZiS says aloud, and in a way similar to the commissar back in Stalingrad. Video game logic once again, I imagine.

  “Check your ammo, check your fire!” I call out. I have a full magazine for my Kraut rifle and three more stripper clips left in my pocket. Not great, not terrible.

  “ENEMY TANK! LEFT FLANK!”

  I stand up and peer over at the river where one of those squat casemate tanks is rolling over the ice.

  BANG-crrrrrrrrhhhhh

  The tank rolls right onto a snow-covered mine and almost jumps from the force of the explosives, before sinking front-first into the frozen water. It stops halfway down, bottoming out right as one of the hatches opens, and a human tanker in black climbs out, only to fall down the roof and into the water.

  Shitty way to go out…

  Infantry approaching alongside the tank literally freeze, seeing their armored support sink down in the river. One of the soldiers, a Panzergrenadier, rushes down to the bank and drops their rifle, wading into the water to save the human who fell in.

  A bullet cracks right above me, reminding me that, despite being a god damn furry game, it’s also the most realistic simulator of war: That includes dying.

  “StuG! Coming over the ice next to the bridge!”

  I look at Ivana across the street, who looks at me. I give her a nod.

  Ivana sets her rifle down and grabs the plunger in her paws, peering around the side of the wooden house. She grabs the top and pushes it down.

  The explosion that follows is so loud that it doesn’t really sound like a sound. It’s more of a wave that, once it passes, goes from ‘sound’ to ‘nothing but tinnitus premium’. My ears hurt from the shockwave, and I have to swallow and open my jaw a few times to relieve the aching.

  Then I feel bits of rock, debris, and freezing cold ice-water rain down.

  Looking up, I can see bits of the cobble bridge flying high. Shit, that’s gotta be at least…six stories. How much TNT did Ivana use? I’m willing to lean toward ‘all of it’.

  I look over the cover I’m using and…yeah. Yeah, that’s about what I expected. The bridge is gone, totally. And, the ice around it is cracked and shattered to oblivion. The tank that was driving by it is now gone too, sunk so fast I couldn’t even see it go under.

  Any infantry that thought about following are forstalled, and either stop, or have to swing wide to avoid the cracked ice.

  “COMMANDER!” a muffled voice yells right next to me. I look over and see Sofiya, her eyes wide and shaking me. She’s saying something, but for the life of me, I can’t hear it.

  Then, with frustration in her big ass eyes, she turns and points behind her without looking, right at another tank rolling across the ice and onto our side of the river, along with an armored car with squads of Panzergrenadiers making their way as well.

  “Retreat,” I say, unable to hear my own damn voice. “Give the order to retreat. To the HQ, NOW!”

  Sofiya fumbles for her receiver and says something into it, before lowering the radio and yelling what I think might be ‘PULL BACK!’. I watch the AT crew and Maxim team pull their weapons back, and the Guards rifle squads make an effective retreat. Also, the capes or shrouds or whatever they have on are badass, but I can’t say I like the caps.

  Shit, right, active battle.

  I stand up and shakily run down the road, once more watching everyone else pass me by, and bullets skip all around. This whole ‘retreat retreat retreat’ bull shit is getting tiring real damn quick.

  I throw a glance back and watch the German stop and lower the Soviet flag while a grenadier pulls out a full-size Nazi banner and strings it up. Are they seriously taking the time to capture a damn FLAG than overrun us ASAP?

  I shove the anger and thought down, finding my way back to the camp, along with the ragtag remnants of all three flanks. There are a lot fewer here now than there were before we started this shit. At least…half. Half are dead or missing.

  The few soldiers who were left with Churkin are in the midst of digging a slit trench, using spades, farming equipment, and even a man using his helmet.

  “Whoever is left alive and can hold a gun, get in the fucking trenches, or find cover!”

  The Maxim team lowers their gun down with them in the dirt, scraping the frost to make an indent big enough for the weapon to sit right. The rest of the remnants fan out and use flipped tables, carts, and piles of firewood for cover.

  I find myself taking cover with a Guards riflewoman, an Arctic fox, behind a fencepost and a stack of empty crates. She rests her gun atop the boxes and folds her left arm to support her other arm. It’s a good stance, and much better than I’ve seen any of the conscripts handle their weapons.

  Speaking of her weapon, it’s not a rifle, but rather an antique LMG with a round magazine placed directly on top of the weapon’s receiver.

  “DP-28 light machine gun, Red Army.”

  “The Degtyaryov machine gun, ?'Degtyarev Infantry Machinegun', or DP-27/DP-28 is a light machine gun firing the 7.62×54mmR cartridge that was primarily used by the Soviet Union, with service trials starting in 1927, followed by general deployment in 1928.

  “With various modifications, it is also used in aircraft as a flexible defensive weapon, and equipped on almost all Soviet tanks as either a flexible bow machine gun or a coaxial machine gun controlled by the gunner.”

  “Incoming!” I snap my head forward as three squads, one Grenadier, two Osttruppen, come running down the road.

  “Fuck ‘em up!” I yell, using the Kraut bolt action to drop a human Grenadier. The round rips into his chest, and he drops, his head hitting the ground and making a loud crack, loud enough to hear over the wind and shouts from both sides.

  The other three grenadiers, all Anthros, stop in their tracks, one of them, a black wolf, dropping her arms, followed by her rifle. Despite the gunfire being traded, including her two squadmates trying to rally her, she drops down to her knees, grabbing the dead-adier.

  “KLAUS! KLAUS! AUFSTEHEN! BITTE, STEH AUF!” Her cries permeate the air, even silencing my tinnitus. Her friends grab her and tear her off of the dead German, with one forcing her to pull back and the other grabbing the corpse of their fallen and pulling him away.

  “Keller, watch these trenches. I don’t want us getting stuck in a ditch.” I comm the driver. The intercomm crackles before he answers, “Ja.”

  I can feel the gearbox shift and squeal, followed by the engine’s whine drop down before climbing again. The tank pushes over a wooden barricade and flattens the wire entangled with it. I spare a look back at the infantry following our tracks, Panzergrenadier, Osttruppen, and a support group with an MG.

  “Volkov, Bauer, I want high explosive loaded before we cross this ridge.” I slide down in the cupola right as Bauer’s hand slides a shell into the breech of the 7.5cm gun. “Fuchs. Hear anything?”

  Volkov adjusts the gun, her tail flicking against its safety harness. Fuchs is silent for a moment before her voice responds over the radio. “Nothing, it’s all garbled. I think the ridge is interfering with us. Once we clear it, I’ll have a better signal.”

  I stick my shoulders out of the hatch once more, right as we crest over a final string of wire and onto the ridge.

  Frankly, it's a mess.

  There are dozens of bodies, at least ten or more squads worth. All of them German, with a few Bolshevik ones scattered in the defenses. And, a few humans.

  I suppress a growl and cough instead. There’s no point in getting angry now, not when the enemy is down there.

  Specifically, that cluster of tents and Soviets across the river that have somehow managed to slow us down for an entire month.

  If we can destroy the defenders here, we have an open road to Moscow, the capital of the Soviet Union, and all its inhabitants.

  “Frau Heller, message from above. There’s a threat of a flanking maneuver; we’re being ordered to pull back and reinforce the South.”

  “Did you tell them we’re almost through the lines in Mtsensk?” They wouldn’t dare take this from me now.

  “It came from the top. It’s an emergency.”

  Everything from the Wehrmacht is always an emergency or urgent matter.

  “Fine. Keller, turn us around and bring us down the road. We’ll leave the breakthrough to the rest of the Battalion.”

  I break line of sight, ducking to dodge a hail of bullets. The Guards rifle soldier lets her DP respond, sending a steady stream of Soviet-six-two into the bunched-up squads. Not a second later, the Maxim opens up, suppressing anyone still trying to advance.

  I rise and pick a target, a Grenadier waving an arm around, yelling at others. Likely an NCO. I wait for her to raise her arm before I fire. When she raises her hand again, I fire, right into her armpit.

  The shot makes her arm jerk before it falls. She stumbles to her knees, then to her side. Probably ripped one of her lungs open with that bullet.

  I hold the bolt open and reach for another clip…I reach for another…No ammo.

  I drop the rifle in the snow and pull my revolver out once more. As I fire at another canine Osttruppen, I make a deep, deep reminder to myself to get a goddamn gun, and not a sidearm.

  “Medic!” My head snaps to the left, where a wolverine engineer is clutching a paw.

  I sprint from cover and jump from the snow into the trench line. I nearly knock over one of the human medics as I land and move as fast as I can while crouched in a crowded trench.

  Sliding past the last conscript in the trench, I come to a stop right in the middle of Ivana’s squad. One of them, the one who called out, I was sitting with her back facing the enemy, nursing a contracted paw with what looks like a GSW right in the center.

  “Let me have it.” I grab her wrist, having to use more strength than I would think to pull it away from her. Entry through the palm, exit out the back. No spurting, but probably fucked up the metacarpals.

  “Got a name?” I start digging through my bag of goodies, hoping I grabbed a German bandage at some point. “Yana. Fucker blew my hand out!” She snarls, turning her head to peer over the side of the trench.

  I find a crumpled Kraut bandage, thank god, and tear the pack open as a stray round smacks into the dirt behind me. I drop the packaging and shove the bandage into her palm before pulling around. If it hurts, which, I know for a fucking fact it does, Yana doesn’t give it a sign, minus her anger already present from the Germans.

  I use a Soviet ‘bandage’, which I’m pretty sure is just a sheet or drape that someone cut up, to wrap over the German one. While she’s distracted, I reach up and grab the tip of her pointer finger-digit and…well, I can’t check for discoloration if I can’t see the skin. Hell, I don’t even think the skin of a wolverine will be discolored by pressure. There goes blanching…

  With nothing else I can really do, I grab a stick from the ground, about as thick as a my thumb, and place it on the dorsal side of her hand. As I do, she flexes her fingers and straightens them.

  “Flex them.”

  “What?” She looks back down at me.

  “Curve your fingers like you’re holding a small ball.” She does so, and I use the rest of the ‘bandage’ to wrap the splint around her arm.

  “Tanks!” Naturally.

  I leave Yana and poke my capped head out of the dirt, spinning to face the West. Another squat German tank rolls over the road, clipping a cart and knocking it over.

  The tank slowly decelerates and comes to a stop thirty meters in front of me.

  The world slows down like a movie filter. The gaps between the Maxim’s bullets get longer and longer as the barrel of the panzer moves, turning degree by degree until I’m staring down the barrel.

  “God damn it.” I curse. All of this bullshit, all that work for this? Aghhhhh, FUCK!

  I let my gun hand lower as I mad dog the tank, waiting for it to fire…

  …why do I hear tank treads from behi-

  BANG-THOOOooooow-BOOM

  I jump in my skin as a cannon goes off, not even ten meters to my right. I can only watch in pure disbelief as a tank shell-yes, I WATCH a TANK SHELL-fly through the air and into the vision port of the German tank. The shell hits with enough force to rock the panzer rearwards. It rocks back before an explosion erupts out of the entry hole, followed by a second out of the roof hatch.

  With hands trembling from adrenaline, I turn to face the source of the cannon fire and nearly faint from secondhand patriotic fervor.

  My eyes don’t need to give me a text box to tell me about the T-34 tank. But, they do so anyway.

  “Model 1941 T-34/76, Red Army.”

  “The backbone of the Red Army’s armored forces in the opening years of the Great Patriotic War, the M1941 T-34 combines mobility, firepower, and protection in a revolutionary design. Its sloped armor increases effective thickness against enemy rounds, while the powerful 76.2mm F-34 gun is capable of engaging infantry, fortifications, and most German armor of 1941–42. Wide tracks grant superior performance in mud and snow, allowing it to traverse terrain that would bog down lighter vehicles.

  Crude optics and limited crew visibility can hamper battlefield awareness, but in skilled hands, the T-34 is a fast, hard-hitting spearhead capable of turning the tide of battle.”

  “FUCK YES!” I yell out. No doubt my old NCO wouldn’t approve, but the guy loved handing out NJPs, so he can suck my fat Floridian cock.

  The T-34’s turret turns as the coax and hull MG’s light up the German forces, who begin beating a hell of a retreat at the sign of our armor. And it’s not just the one. I can see two other T-34’s coming up on the left and right sides. God Bless the USSR!

  “Now it is time for revenge! Fuck them up, Comrades!” The weasel conscript in our trench says in a weird, broken English-sounding accent.

  I gotta get in contact with that tank commander.

  I have no clue where Sofiya is, but I don’t think the T-34 even has a two-way radio. So, with the Germans on the back foot, I once more leave the safety of my comrades and book it to the tank. I clamber onto the engine deck of the tank and…well. I knock on the hatch.

  The coax gun stops firing, followed by the sound of metal grinding on metal, before the large hatch opens up.

  A pair of curly, gnarled horns poke out, followed by the head of what I can only describe as the cutest cartoonish lizard in the world with death in her eyes-wait.

  “Fuck you want?” She growls at me, her breath smelling exactly like gasoline, and her scales look like they’re covered in it, too.

  “You’re the commander?” I ask. Her serpent-like eyes narrow, and a forked tongue darts out as she scowls at me. “You’re god damn right, I’m also the gunner and loader, and I’m kinda busy here!”

  Spoken like a tanker. “Look, we got more German armor on the other side of the river,” I take my binoculars out of their case and put them to my eyes. “At least three more of those tanks like the one you just destroyed.”

  “What, The Sturmgeschütz? Those thing’s aint shit! That dinky short-barreled howitzer can barely pen’ us at close range.” She spins around and grabs the sides of her hatch, pulling her upper torso out to peer around the side of the metal plate. She’s wearing as much as I am, which, given that she’s a lizard in the winter, makes sense.

  “Yeah…they ain’t shit. As long as no Pak guns get in the way, we’ll clean up this shit for you!” She drops down in the tank, pulling the hatch closed with her. I just barely manage to get my fingers clear before they get mutilated in the worst door injury since an eleven-bravo slamming a Humvee door on his knuckles.

  I slide off the tank’s rear ass plate and onto my feet right as it kicks into gear, cutting up the snow as it charges after the German infantry.

  You know, as time goes on, I’m beginning to think that standard combat procedure doesn’t matter in times like this.

  “ALL RIGHT! PUSH UP! BEHIND THE TANKS!” I belt out the order, raising my gun in the air and squeezing off a round.

  As if it were a segment from Enemy at the Gates, every soldier I have left climbs out of the trench line, even including the Maxim, and…shit, a lot more guys than earlier. Where the fuck did they all come from? The HQ?

  Knowing better now, I don’t question the logic and just keep running behind the tank being commanded by the lizard-lady. The Germans cross over the frozen river with the three T-34’s at their heels.

  Two more german StuG’s are parked, their guns facing us and ready to fire.

  The one on the left fires and sends what must have been a high-explosive shell into the lizard’s tank. The shell explodes, but the tank doesn’t even slow down. Instead, the tank drives right over the rubble of the stone bridge, no doubt shaking the crew around like shaken babies. The second StuG fires, but misses the turret, sending a round into an abandoned house, which basically disintegrates into atoms.

  The charging T-34 drives between the two German StuGs and makes a hard turn, somehow not slipping a track, and stops itself while aiming at the ass of the right tank.

  I step onto the ice right as the tank gets a 76.2mm armor-piercing shell up the colon, and by the time I cross, the T-34 has already put one into the side of the other as it was turning.

  I have to take a moment and stop to catch my breath. That adrenaline is starting to wear off, and I can feel my body burning up like a god damn firework. I kneel next to an older wreck of a tank, watching conscript and Guards rifle squads tank cover around me as the other pair of Soviet tanks cross the river and begin pushing up.

  The familiar staccato of a ‘42 starts playing. Moments later, a boom rings out, and it stops.

  In all my years, I’ve never been more thankful to have had the help of a tanker before. God Bless 19Ks and 1812s.

  “C-Comrade!” I turn with less enthusiasm than before to Sofiya, whose tiny chest rises and falls with a respiration rate that would be the cause for concern in a hospital. “It’s the Colonel!”

  I grab the receiver from her and place it on my shoulder. “Sir?”

  “Lieutenant, you’re not dead yet. I’m impressed, but not satisfied. Retake that ridge from the Germans before they can get artillery up there.”

  “Copy.” I drop the receiver in Sofiya’s mits and use the hull of the wreck to pull myself back up.

  “We’re taking that ridge again. Let the tanks take fire, capture the trenches, and kill any Germans you see!” I order. I can already feel my throat becoming sore, and I know it’s going to hurt like a bitch tomorrow, or whereaver the hell I end up next.

  “Ura!” A familiar wolf girl stands up with her rifle, bayonet fixed, and charges right up the hill. “Anastasia?”

  Then, like a fuse going off:

  “URAAAAAAAAAAA!”

  Everyone, the engineers, Ivana, the conscripts, the Guards rifles, everyone except Sofiya and me, all stand at the same time, raise a fist or weapon, and start sprinting up hill.

  It’s scary. I mean that. Watching what looks like a pack of animals running faster than a car up the side of a ridge with weapons in their hands, blades on their rifles, and teeth bared.

  Then, I feel something soft and warm at my side. Like a heated pillow, or blanket being tucked under my arm.

  I look down at my right and see Sofiya, her radio pack in the snow, under my right arm, her head nestled beneath my armpit. Her oversized helmet blocks her from my view, all except the very edge of her black nose.

  “Thanks.” I offer. Her helmet rubs on my coat as she nods.

  Sofiya and I advance slowly, my legs starting to really feel that burn. There are bits of intermittent gunfire, automatic and bolt action, and every so often, the boom of a cannon firing.

  By the time we crest the ridge, both of us being bathed in the chilled Russian wind, the tanks are already on the other side, firing downwards at the retreating Germans. My squads move, clearing out trenches, lowering the fucking flags, and, to my dismay, executing survivors by the sound of it.

  But…it’s over…

  “Comrade…?” A tiny voice speaks to me.

  God…that snow looks so fucking fluffy. Like a big pillow.

  “Commander, you’re—Oh crap!”

  The world rises faster than the Russian Revolution, and I find the sweet embrace of sleep, or death, to take me.