(Short beginning for you all to start from)

September 19th, 1942.

...we swear to you, dear Joseph Vissarionovich, that to the last drop of blood, to the last breath, to the last heart-beat, we shall defend Stalingrad...We swear that we shall not disgrace the glory of Russian arms and shall fight to the end.

Those were the words of the Zampolit that stood in every boat crossing the Volga. Herded in like cattle, the fresh cannon fodder of the Red Army listened to the sometimes stirring, sometimes meandering speeches of Commisars and Officers. This one certainly seemed to know what he was talking about. A distinct lack of cliches, a strong voice, and using patriotism more than communism he was able to motivate these battery chickens a bit more than the others. What also helped was absence of German air assaults. On bad times, they'd attack the boats. But this seemed to be a good time. The seemingly eternal time it took to cross the mighty river was filled with banter, maybe the last of their lives. In one of the crowded boats stood Yuri Ozerov. Wearing his jacket half-open to show his navy Telnyashka, he differed from the rest in that he had combat experience in some way. Well, your mileage may vary, but he saw the Marat sink and shot at a Stuka. It's something. He waited until the boat came slowed down and eventually stopped, and all the boys got out and were herded onto the beach. "MOVE YOUR ASSES", roared a heavy voice. Everyone coming from the boats, including Yuri, were herded into groups and were brought into the city of ruins, explosions, and death. Silent like the grave, Yuri followed his regiment, hoping nothing would go wrong in at least the first ten minutes.

The river Volga clashed with the bow of the small commandered fishing vessel, the spray of the river pelting Bogdan's face, smelling of grit and smoke. Germen dive bombers whizzed over head taking out the odd troop transport. Bogdan smiled and puffed another cloud of cigarette smoke from the corner of his mouth and proceeded to the stern of the small vessel, wading through a sea of young inexperienced soldiers. A bomb went off near by rocking the boat and sending some of the troops over board, pistol shots rang out from the guns of the unit leaders killing the over board warriors, the infection from the water would kill them they claim bit everyone knows they are not bothered to pull them back up.
Thud.
"Disembark!" roared the unit leaders in unison, the soldiers did as they were commanded and boots hit the shattered concrete of the pier, Bogdan walked off casually stubbing his cigarette on the coat of a comissar with out him noticing making Bogdan smirk, he popped the remains of the cigarette in his mouth and chewed it, looking up into the gray smokey sky all he could think to himself was "Welcome to Stalingrad."

As the Red Army began deploying over the Volga, a child in a winter coat with a short rifle slung over their shoulder watched on as men were hastily organised and prepared for war. The bombed out officers' outpost was pretty quiet, save for Alisa's commander discussing something important with somebody higher up in the chain of command. The message courier was tagging along with Lt. Andrei Petrovich, not really informed of what he was doing or where he was going. He simply needed someone to run errands, and that was Alisa's job.

"...That's a lot of soldiers." She told herself.

"Little one, come." Andrei beckoned as he started off into the ruined city once again. Alisa snapped back into life and dashed after the Lieutenant, taking her short rifle off it's sling in case it had to be used. The way home was through old pipelines, bombed out buildings and the like. These safer ways were used by ally and enemy, the battle lines not quite clear as they changed so damned often. Alisa had met more than one Soviet with a scoped rifle crawling around these ruins, drains, pipelines and debris-filled buildings. They were paths meant for the little messenger, as open ground would earn her a bullet in the brainpan, regardless of age or threat.

Oberschütze Moritz Greiter

HP: |||||||||||||||||||| 100%
Weapon Slot 1: Mauser Kar 98K | 5/15 8mm
Weapon Slot 2: M1884/98 III Bayonet | ∞
Item Slot 1: M24 Grenade | 2
Item Slot 2: <Empty>

---

Moritz fired. The shot was a hit, and the Russian tumbled to the ground. He pulled back the bolt of his rifle, and slammed it forwards again. He fired a second time. Another Russian, running for him with a broken chair, lost his face beneath the nose and came crashing down in an ugly display of bloody gore. Someone shouted something angry to his right, something foreign. Moritz's Mauser swung to take in this new threat; his right hand working the mechanism as it did so. Another Russian soldier, heavy clad in tattered rags pointed a PPSh-41 at him. Moritz closed his eyes, knowing that finally, someone had managed to kill him.

A burst of a machine gun thundered behind him. His hearing took a heavy dent by the close proximity of the weapon, and he opened his eyes to find his attacker reduced to nothing but a scarlet mess of red chunks and mist. Looking behind him, Moritz gave a slight nod to Oberschütze Peter Kraft - the platoon's resident machine gunner. Peter smirked at him, and moved forwards to deploy his bulking MG-34 so that he could unleash further death on the Communist scum. A 7.62mm bullet took his temple, opened it up, spewed his brains, and then forcefully threw him against a stack of iron piping. Moritz didn't hear the shot, and knew a Russian sniper had joined the fray. Rest in peace, Peter, you rapist pig piss bastard.

Lowering himself, and barely dodging the sniper's second bullet, Moritz scrambled across the chaos. Men screamed in pain and in fury, machine guns blasted from all directions and the distinct sound of advancing Panzers provided a diesel choked bass line to the hellish inferno. Were they winning? Moritz had no way of telling. He and his penal battalion had been assigned the wonderful task of clearing a wrecked tank factory - the Russians were well entrenched, but thankfully, not well armed. He'd seen at least three dozen of his comrades laying lifeless in the smoke and the rubble, but other than that, it was impossible to gain any situational awareness.

Briefly, he poked his head up from behind a leveled partition that once separated the women's rest rooms from the men's, but quickly ducked as another bullet scraped the tip of his helmet. The sniper was still at large, and worse, was apparently tracking him. He looked around for options; he couldn't stay there, sooner or later one of those barbarians would throw a grenade at him, or they'd come in a wave of ten with knives and sticks. He had to find his way back to friendly lines, and focused intently for the familiar sound of a Mauser Kar, dealing her vengeance upon those who threatened her owner.

After a few seconds, Moritz decided to try and head back the way his unit had originally approached. There were bound to be friendlies there, and he could definitely hear the surefire sounds of Mausers enmasse about a hundred yards in that direction. A few deep and steadying breaths, and he broke from the safety of the wall. The sniper fired and hit, and Moritz collapsed to the ground with a burning pain in his right shoulder. Without the need of further thought, he rolled sideways, clinging desperately to the strap of his rifle to avoid leaving it behind. The sniper tried to finish the job, but the next shot fell wide by a couple of inches, and then Moritz reached a hole in the floor.

He fell through bent girders and brittle plaster, and crashed down upon the desk of a department foreman. The office was empty, but showed signs of recent use by the Russians. Mosin cartridges lay on the floor, some still smoking from recent use, and a few ration tins written in an alien dialect were strewn around the place. There was a singular window, smashed and splintered, at the far side of the room. Even from his prone position on the desk, and in his half dazed mental form, Moritz could see the chaos outside.

Buildings were crashing down around an advancing section of Panzer III's, with a whole company of Panzergrenadiers steadily advancing in their wake. Muzzle flashes sparked from every crack and crevice around them; some of the Grenadiers fell - a Panzer exploded. Moritz could have watched the scene forever, it was fascinating and intense, but a too-close-for-comfort cry of Russian shook him from the distraction.

There was movement outside of the office door; an old, busted up thing with a smashed window in the upper part. Moritz rolled off the desk, and barely had time to bring his rifle to bare as a Russian soldier, bloodied and terrified, entered the room. Moritz fired, and the Russian flew back against the wall, leaving a blood smear as he slid to the ground. A second Russian soldier entered shortly after, carrying a pilfered MP40 submachine gun. He wasn't bloodied or terrified, but fresh looking and full of rage. Moritz had no time to cock his bolt, and charged the soldier.

Luck favored the German, as the Russian's weapon failed to fire. Moritz used the mid-section of his rifle to smash his victim square on the nose, and drove him to the ground. The Russian was dazed, and fought back with clawing fingers, but Moritz was quick to handle the situation. He liberated his M1884/98 III Bayonet from his boot, even as the Russian's head lurched forwards to headbutt him, and drove the blade into the man's ribcage. The Russian screamed, and blood splurted from his lips. The strength in his arms failed, and Moritz withdrew the bayonet and struck again. A few more stabbing motions later, and the Russian was lifeless.

There was no obvious sign of nearby Russian activity - apart from the floor above, where a deadly battle still raged in full swing. Moritz crawled away from his victims, and sat himself against a corner. He was exhausted, and the bloody wound in his shoulder had started to lash out at his nerves. The pain was intense, but it wasn't disabling. The wound was clean; the bullet having passed through from the back and exiting in the front. He wasn't sure if it was fatal, but he could breathe, and his arm would move as he willed it. Maybe it was adrenaline, and he was a dead man, but Moritz was certain his part in this war was far from over.

Reaching into his chest pocket, he withdrew a pre-rolled cigarillo and brought it to his lips with shaking hands. Then he reached into his trouser pocket, and retrieved a battered box of matches. If he was going to die today, or tomorrow, or next week, then that could all wait. Right now, Moritz Greiter was going to enjoy himself one last time - damn the world.

Junior Sergeant Aleksandr Lagunov’s hand shook uncontrollably as he attempted to reload his rifle. The clip was slick with fresh blood from the hole in his arm and it slipped from his grasp and clattered at his feet. He quickly bent down and retrieved it, ignoring the pain in his arm.
“Sergeant, you need medical attention!” The man next to him, a young private, shouted over the roar of the squad’s DP machine gun.

“N-no….I’m fine.” Was his shaky response. He managed to maneuver the 7.62x54mm clip into place and reload his weapon. He turned and leaned out of a window, aimed at an advancing German soldier, and fired. The shot went a few inches wide, hitting the street next to the soldier. He swore, chambered another cartridge, and fired again. This time he didn't miss, and his target slumped to the ground. Several other hostiles who had attempted to advance were quickly cut down by a long burst from the machine gun.

This was the second German assault on his position, a two story building overlooking a major intersection, in the past three hours. His squad had lost contact with the rest of the platoon during the first assault, and they had been on their own since. They were halting the German’s advance so far, but without support, they wouldn't last much longer.

Oberschütze Moritz Greiter

HP: |||||||||||||||||||| 60%
Weapon Slot 1: Mauser Kar 98K | 2/15 8mm
Weapon Slot 2: M1884/98 III Bayonet | ∞
Item Slot 1: M24 Grenade | 2
Item Slot 2: <Empty>

---

Moritz's shoulder ached, and had started to freeze in place from untold tissue trauma. He tried to lean over and grab his rifle, but it was too painful to grasp it properly in both hands, and so he left it where it was. The battle above was winding down, and he could hear the deranged shouts of his fellow penal battalion comrades as they stormed forwards. It appeared the Russian garrison was in retreat, and with the third and final level of the factory complex taken, the gateway was open for the Sixteenth Panzer Division to press onto the next bloody engagement in the streets beyond.

Moritz climbed to his feet, shouldering the rifle awkwardly for later use. His right shoulder was a mess of blood and torn clothing, but the bleeding was slowing. If he made it out of this hell hole alive, he'd join a monastery and devote the rest of his life to God in thanks for sparing his measly existence from a collapsed lung. Nevertheless, the wound needed treatment, and sooner rather than later lest he succumb to infection. With this thought in mind, he carefully moved over to the office door with his bayonet held tightly in his left hand. He crept up to the door frame, leaned against it, and peaked out into the corridor beyond.

There were bodies laying around the place. Mostly Russians, but there were some of his countrymen. A detachment of the penal battalion had stormed through here an hour previous, and judging by the two Russians he murdered a few minutes ago, he guessed they either met their end or just plain didn't do a very good job of it. The fighting above had totally subsided now, and aside from the raging battle being fought outside by advancing panzers and their grenadier guardians against the Russians, everything seemed quiet and settled.

He advanced, sparing a glance at the MP40 laying on the floor next to the Russian he stabbed to death. He decided against taking it - it'd obviously jammed for a reason, and he didn't care for carrying a useless piece of metal around for later fruition. Not with his shoulder how it was, and not with the enemy possibly still at large. He slowly moved into the corridor, looked left and right to make sure it was clear, and then headed off towards a staircase at the far end. Offices, similar to the one that had offered him safety in his time of greatest need, lined either wall. He was careful to duck beneath the windows in their doors, and to listen out for activity inside. But there was nothing.

Moritz reached the stairway, and found the upwards route to have been completely caved in. A few glimmers of light shone through the rubble, and as he leaned forwards to peer through, he could see an open plaza dotted with craters and sandbag entrenchments. A lone red flag with the hammer and sickle floated in the middle of it all, and around it were piled the bodies of dozens of dead Russian soldiers. This was good, the left flank was secure and the Communists had been denied another strong point. Moritz wondered how long the Russians could keep this tenacious defense up - they had surely lost thousands and for what? A house here, a factory there and maybe a grain silo. Why was this place so important?

"Fucking Hitler," Moritz cursed under his breath, "the world stands at your feet, and you waste us in this heap of shit. This'll be the end of Germany, as we know it, and millions will curse your name."

There were heavy footsteps. Someone was coming up the stairs, and so Moritz threw himself against the rubble and let his body go limp. He closed one eye, but left the other open just a peak. A Russian, wearing baggy combat gear and a badly dented helmet climbed up to the landing. He gave Moritz a quick look, and then moved on down the corridor with a PPSh-41 in hand. Moritz should have made his move to safety, should have go down the stairs and tried his luck with whatever was down there, but for some reason that Russian had to die. It was instinctual. Heighted adrenaline, the combined psychological stress of battle and extreme fatigue drove him forwards.

He was quiet, his bayonet held low, and he quickly made ground. The Russian checked one of the offices, and muttered something. Moritz stopped. This wasn't a man, this was a woman. There was no mistaking that pitch - unless the barbarians had resorted to throwing kids into the meat grinder. He hesitated; he'd never struck a woman in anger. He was about to move back towards the stairs when the Russian turned. Moritz had no choice, it was do or die, and he closed the gap in a second. His body struck his victim, and they tumbled to the ground. She tried to get her SMG up to his face, but he pounded her face with his fists until she was still.

Feeling like the stuff of sin, Moritz felt a tear roll down his cheek. He felt for her pulse, and found it - he hadn't killed her, but she wouldn't be winning any beauty contests for a while. This was good, Hell could wait a while longer. Curiously, he removed her helmet and was stunned by what he saw. She couldn't have been more than sixteen years old, and his gut sunk a few more inches at the realization. Disgusted, he picked up the PPSh-41 with his good hand, and checked it. The killing machine was heavy to wield, but comfortable to hold. With his shoulder the way it was, he figured he'd at least be able to fire a burst before the strength in his right arm failed him. This seemed to be a better option than trying to keep his rifle steady, let alone cock the bolt, and so he exchanged the weapons.

The girl carried no apparent ammo for the thing though, and Moritz, despite the awful things he had done in the service of the Fuhrer, was not about to go rooting through her underclothes. He unclipped the drum magazine, and it seemed to be full - 71 rounds would last him long enough to get himself killed, he was sure. Shoving the magazine back into place, he made for the stairway, hoping beyond hope that the girl would come to and make it out of this Hell, but the dark reality of the situation told him otherwise. Still, he wasn't going to be the man to pull the trigger, not today.

As he approached the stairs, he heard more footsteps. He hoped they belonged to his allies, but the fierce shouts of a language he had little understanding of told him otherwise. He doubled back into the nearest office, grabbed hold of a metal filing cabinet, and despite the protest of his shoulder he sent it crashing into the corridor. Not wasting any time, he dived behind it, and poised his PPSh-41 on top of its rusted form. The footsteps had stopped; his attackers no doubt startled by the loud bang of the metal cabinet hitting the floor. He was in for a siege.

Between the sounds of war, the roar of tank and aircraft engines, explosions and gunfire, in a wrecked building sat the ungentle giant. Konstantin Aleksandrovich was a Battalion commander without a battalion which he considered a relief of command. If he wasn't supposed to take one step back he figured he'd just wait for some stragglers. Until that happened, he'd just look at what exactly he was defending at the present moment. An apartment block with sight on a burnt-out factory to the south, where a lot of Germans were pouring into. After they were done with that they would certainly advance to the north. Continuing the inspection, he found an apartment with a piano. Naturally, he couldn't help but push the keys a bit and it turned out to be in good condition.

"Screw it all", he thought. "I just failed to even reach that damned factory. My misery can wait". He sat down on the stool and calmly played On the Hills of Manchuria as the sounds of battle subsided around him. This wasn't supposed to happen, so he quickly rushed up to the highest floor and kicked a door in. On the corner, four stories high, with a clear view of the factory. If they were going into the square, he'd be able to shoot them off with relative ease. Three plates in his backpack and another one loaded, he could land a few shots. But in the block below him he heard a lot of boots. Another charge was coming, and it was going to be bloody.

Behind cover, Yuri and his regiment were poised to charge that factory. It would probably be less than 300 meters to the factory grounds, but the amount of guns pointing at them made it impossible to "just" run across. The mortality rate would be high, but with a bit of luck and getting to the fountain in time he may just survive for long enough to crawl back. There weren't any machine guns behind them, so Yuri figured he could get back if he made it. /If/ he made it. But there were very little troops in position to actually make such a break. Everybody realised that. So Yuri's unit waited for reinforcements, shared a few smokes and loaded up on Dutch courage with a bit of vodka. While this happened, the reinforcements that they waited for poured in. A Shtrafbat, and a group of M-42, a ZiS-2, and Maxim 1910s for fire support. With the heavy stuff being positioned in the next five minutes the 200 or so men gathered were given a simple order: Charge.

From his bird's nest, Sobolev looked on and wept as so many young lives were wasted. Germans shooting from the factory received return fire from the M-42s, and a Panzer III who drove too far was victim to a shot too. But Hitler's Buzzsaws opened fire at the Russians cutting the vast majority of them down. Seeing his friends die, Yuri panicked and legged it to the fountain and jumped in. He played dead for both his officers and enemy fire as with a heavy thud someone flew next to him. A tall man, strongly built, tanned, with blonde hair and blue eyes looked around him. Convinced it was a Zampolit, Yuri waited to die by a shot to the face by a Nagant and remained to do so even when Dimitri started shooting. After five bullets and a fistful of return fire, Dimitri too threw the towel into the ring and sat behind the fountain. "Wake up...", he pleaded to Yuri, hoping he wasn't dead. Now realising it wasn't a Commisar, Yuri woke up and sat next to Dimitri. Huddled up, out of sight of German guns, they decided to share a cigarette and stay low. The dried-up fountain was big enough for them both to lie down. "What time you got?", Dimitri asked Yuri, who looked and said "3:18PM". Dimitri sniggered. "We can't leave until dark, so we'll be here for a while. Better get comfortable."

As the teenaged partisan followed the army lieutenant around, she began to wonder if 'getting home' was an option anymore. The lines were shifting again, and very violently by the sounds of it. Simply taking a few hidden shortcuts here and there was beginning to sound like a dangerous move. The two readied themselves for contact as they moved further into the battle zone. Oh yes, this wasn't going to be a simple sneak-through - in fact that looked a lot like suicide as a Panzer III tore through a group of Soviet riflemen trying to cross the next street along.

"Damn it... Alisa, child, keep your head low and follow me. Let's see if we can't do our comrades in the open a favour and deal with any fascists sneaking around these buildings," Andrei Petrovich told his follower, to which she simply nodded at. This is where being a small target helped a lot! Any bullets that flew through the corridor windows stitched to the wall behind Andrei, while the enemy probably couldn't even see the girl following him whilst she crept along.

All of a sudden there was a noise that made everyone jolt. Not a bullet whizzing into the wall, or an explosion going off nearby, ...a metallic sort of smash. As soldiers stopped and looked up in unison to the floor above, Alisa audibly gulped. "We'll check this out. Zhenya, I leave the bottom floor to your men!" Andrei yelled above the resuming gunfire. The fresh-looking Sergeant nodded and spread his men out, the least they could do to survive against the enemy armor until more support showed up. Andrei charged upstairs with his PPSh-41 raised and ready to release absolute death on any unfortunate Nazi to meet his sights. His auburn-haired companion climbed after him and double checked her M38 to see it was ready for action.

After throwing himself against the wall beside the missing office door, Andrei peered inside to see a single soldier, using a filing cabinet as cover. His heart rate went crazy, and rather than keeping his head stuck out, the young man blindly sprayed into the room, shouting "Eat lead, fascist!", his finger pressing down harder on the trigger. With 71 rounds to waste he was confident he could take the besieged German out... But, blindfiring is blindfiring in the end. And it wasn't exactly safe to stand perfectly still.

Alisa meanwhile watched from the staircase, her rifle pointed down the hall in case anybody came to outflank the lieutenant. Today, the kid had visions of being able to etch another tally line into her shortened rifle. Adrenaline pushed her into a different zone of thought - overconfidence where she should feel inclined to stick to cover and not chance anything.

Oberschütze Moritz Greiter

HP: |||||||||||||||||||| 60%
Weapon Slot 1: PPSh-41 | 71/0 7.62×25mm
Weapon Slot 2: M1884/98 III Bayonet | ∞
Item Slot 1: M24 Grenade | 2
Item Slot 2: <Empty>

---

The first of the Russians made a bold peek into the office. Moritz was ready and depressed the trigger of his PPSh-41, but the weapon failed to fire. In a panic, he beat at the weapon with his left hand. The monstrous roar of his adversary's weapon opening up compelled Mortiz to seek the safety of the cabinet. A shot smashed into the top of his helmet with such force that the strap broke around his chin, and he was cast onto his back. In a daze, and with a wet feeling expanding down his neck, Moritz covered his head as more bullets thudded into the room. Plaster was torn from the walls, the decrepit window was blasted into near non-existence and a cart load of months old paperwork took to the air like an enraged flock of birds.

A bullet pierced the cabinet, and Moritz felt something cut across his face. This was enough to sober him up, and with the Russian's submachine gun still blaring in full swing, Moritz unhooked an M24 grenade from his belt, and unscrewed the base. As the Russian's weapon fell silent, Moritz tossed the stick-shaped bomb towards the door of the office and then reached across and grabbed his weapon. The grenade went off with a deafening bang, and his hearing was torn from him - but not his senses. The PPSh-41 hadn't been cocked; an amateur mistake, but easily forgiven when one realized the circumstances. Moritz corrected his mistake, and rose to his knees.

Smoke clouded the door way, and the air was thick with plaster. With almost no credible visibility, he fired three short bursts in the general direction of his attacker. The recoil of the weapon wretched his bad shoulder, and if it were not for the fight-or-flight state his body was in, it would have been enough to put him on the ground crying for his mother. Someone shouted in Russian on the other side of the door, allowing for Moritz to gage their position. They were right of the door, towards the corner of the room. If there was one thing about Russian architecture - it was made of 100% nonsense. He depressed the trigger and dragged the weapon across the wall.

Two dozen bullets perforated the wall, and there was no return fire. Moritz knelt, half covered by the cabinet, and waited for any sign of survival. There was none, but Moritz was sure the Russians had plenty more where that came from. He cast a glance behind him, and took in the massive hole in the wall that had once been a simple window. The frame had been splintered into nothingness by the Russian's salvo, and what glass there was, had been reduced to an almost fine dust on the floor. He was tempted to see it as an escape route.

Right on cue, another Russian yelled. This one wasn't a man, but a woman- another woman! Moritz hastily readied another grenade, and threw it at the door way. Turning, he took a leap of faith - and a much more physical leap, right out of the window. He was two floors up, and had no idea what awaited him, but it was better than being cornered and shot like a dog.

He hit the oil tank hard, and was sliced and diced by its brittle carcass. The interior however, was full of thick grime, and it cushioned the fall. Driven by a madness few in their lives would ever witness, he clambered out. Slick from head to toe in black slime, Moritz limped off in no particular direction. His hearing was still badly muffled from the grenade, and his vision was distorted by the muck that caked his face. Wiping a hand across his brow, his heart sank as his eyes focused on the blurry image of a red flag racing towards him. It was some distance off, but that wasn't what took the courage out of him. The ground around the flag was alive with men, and they were storming towards the factory.

The machine guns of his countrymen thundered from above. Moritz looked up and saw dozens of rifles leaning out of the factory's second and third floor windows. He had to get back up there, get to safety. With the will of twenty men, he hugged the wall and slithered across to the nearest entrance. A rifle shot fell wide of him, and smashed into a pane of glass that lined the side of the doorway. Moritz was indifferent to the danger. His body hurt so much, and he was so very tired.

"Moritz!" screamed a familiar voice.

Moritz fell forwards, but was caught by a strong embrace.

"Where the Hell have you been you worthless pig dog? Thought you were getting out of our bet, did you?"

Moritz tried to place the voice to a name, but couldn't.

"You look like shit, what the fuck happened?"

"Come on you two, the Russos are coming to take this factory back, and I don't think a smoke on the porch would do us much good."

Moritz's vision grew dark, and his limbs light. The last thing he could remember, he was being carried up some stairs by several hands.

Night was falling eight hours after the charge, and Yuri and Dimitri were still lounging in the shot-up fountain. "When do you reckon we can move?", Yuri asked Dimitri who replied "Not now, there's too much light." Resisting the urge to peek over, Yuri kept lying down and silently chatting with Dimitri. It took another three long hours before it was actually pitch black, and Dimitri alerted Yuri who was dozing off. "Dude, it's time".

"Fucking finally", Yuri said as he grabbed his weapon and slowly crawled over the edge of the fountain, immediately taking cover from the factory. He peered over the rubble to look at the side they came from. There was absolutely nothing in sight. "They must've fled to the buildings behind.", Yuri whispered as Dimitri climbed out and took the lead. "Try to find a Maxim. May come in handy if they attack." It was obvious they should bring some firepower along, but carrying a Maxim on a mount whilst having to stay low may turn out to be cumbersome. But the risk was worth it, because a rifle and a Shpagin didn't cut it. "Dimitri, where are we going with this?"

"We're going to that four-story building over there."

"Got it. I'll keep looking out for a machinegun." It wouldn't be too hard to find one. Just look for two dead guys lying next to eachother, there's bound to be a machinegun with them, right? Only one way to find out. Crawling through the rubble, Yuri kept his eyes peeled and then heard a swarm of flies. "Bingo", he thought as he crawled towards it. after crawling through all the bodies of his comrades, some of whom he recognised, he crawled to what he envisioned: A pair of comrades lying side to side with an M1910 between their bloody hands. The sight had Yuri gagging. Two young boys, not much older than him, mauled by enemy gunfire. Despite the darkness he could see their frozen facial expressions of agony; psychological strain and a horrible pain as he remove their stiff bodies from the MG, sending a swarm of flies buzzing off. He did this a second time, rolling the dead weight over and saying a prayer for these boys before dragging the machine gun off with a dirty feeling. He hadn't rolled crawled fifteen metres on before he threw up. The stench of death was everywhere, it hung inside his nose as a disgusting reminder of where he actually was. He was in Stalingrad, and behind every rock was death. He felt death lure over him, holding its scythe over him, ready to strike it into his soul at any moment. He rested for a few seconds until he pulled himself together and kept on crawling. Through the rubble. Through the corpses. Behind Dimitri. To the building.

By some miracle, they weren't spotted for the entirety of their trip and reached the building virtually unharmed. Dimitri stood in a corner of the lobby and took the Maxim from Yuri who advanced corner by corner with his Shpagin. They both nearly pissed themselves when a voice, roaring like a lion, shouted down "WHO GOES THERE?!" in Russian. Petrified, Yuri instinctively shouted. "Yuri Spiridonovich Ozerov and Dimitri Borisovich Snegiryov, soldiers of the Workers' and Peasants' Red Army! Do not shoot us, we are on your side!"

"I have no doubts you are", a towering figure in the doorframe said. "You two sound like adorable Petersburgers. You're hereby under my command. Come up, we've got better things to do than slack around. Do you have any heavy equipment?"

"Comrade, we have a Maxim machine gun!"

"Bring it on up. We'll install it and wait for the Krauts. We can take turns sleeping."

0515 hours 20. September 1942
Grenadier Regiment 522 in all of its splendor stood up just under nine hundred soldiers of Der Deutsches Wehrmacht. Oberst Manfred Böhmer entered the Russian steppes with a strength of three thousand one hundred and seventy four personnel. After a summer of slogging their way to the banks of the Volga River, the regiment, one of three Grenadier Regiments within the 297th Division, two thirds of the Regiment were either bleeding in a hospital in the fatherland or buried in the soil where they lay.

It was in many ways disheartening. For Oberst Böhmer loved his men dearly and the act of fighting a war was the act of killing that which one loves.

Almost half of the men of this Regiment were rear echelon soldiers or manning the assigned artillery battery within the regiment. For immediate use in Direct Support (DS) artillery, the regiment had six 105 mm leichte Feldhaubitze (leFH -- trans: light field howitzer). The guns were located in a gun position about four kilometers west of where the regiment gathered inside the city.

The regiment, tasked with taking the factory near the banks of the river against a Soviet enemy bound and determined to defend their home were pouring across the river in droves and reinforcing their defenses on an hourly basis. German Luftwaffe pounded the boats, but more Russians were slipping through than the flyers could stop. German Artillery pounded the shores to prevent the survivors from making it into the city, but even still, more were getting past this obstacle than being killed by the lethal explosions.

The sun would be up in less than an hour. It was time to go. The companies were lead by Major von Küchen on the left and Major Klieter on the right. Behind each company were two additional companies lead by Hauptmann Bauer on the left and Leutnant Ziegler on the right. Each advanced company established a support by fire position on the second floor of their jump off buildings. These SBFs consisted of eight MG34 Machine guns and three 50mm mortars. The mortars were positioned on the roof and shielded by whatever structures remained. The flanks of their assault force were protected by survivors of a Penal battalion on the regiment's right flank and the remnants of Bewährungsbataillone 391 on their left flank. To support the assault, two Sturmgeschütz III assault guns or StuG IIIs would advance along both flanks to provide additional fire support into the objective buildings and to prevent the enemy from reinforcing the targeted structures from the flanks. Along the center road which the 522nd Grenadier Regiment straddled, two more STuG IIIs would advance with three Panzer Mark IIIs in order to advance with the assault force.

At zero five fifteen hours, the artillery battery commenced firing. Their first volley was High Explosive (HE) with a variable time (VT) fuze setting. The VT was set to detonate after passing through at least one layer of concrete, brick or wood. The purpose was to kill any occupants inside of a building rather exploding outside the building with a point detonated fuze that explodes on contact. The second volley of rounds was composed of White Phosphorus (WP) which would explode on contact, point detonated. During the explosion, much of the chemical would expand and burn at a rapid rate. If contact with the flesh was made, it would burn quickly and aggressively. The only way to extinguish this fire would be to dig it out of one's flesh with a bayonet or knife. Its intended purpose was as a smoke screen. When allowed to burn and expand, a large billowing white cloud that would conceal the movements of anyone inside the cloud. The battery fired four additional volleys alternating between HE and WP. The problem is, the rounds all landed either on top of the factory or in the street just east of the factory. None of these rounds landed on the street in front of the 522nd Grenadiers or the Russian troops they would be facing during the impending assault to be launched in the next ninety seconds.

Concurrently with the impacting High Explosive and White Phosphorus rounds, sixteen MG34 Machine guns positioned on the second and third floors along the west side of the street forming the Line of Departure (LD) all opened up adding to the din of battle. Along with this, the StuG IIIs and Mark IIIs moved up and began firing HE and machine gun rounds into the objective buildings. The 50mm mortars on the roof also dropped a combination of HE and WP rounds which landed on the Russian side of the street designated as the LD for the assault.

Grenadier Adolf Bergmann lay in a cellar hole waiting for the command to move. He thought of his mother and father near Vilseck and his Jewish Grandmother he never knew. He neglected to inform anyone that he was a quarter Jewish. He believed it was in his best interest to keep that little bit of information a secret. But given the current situation, he knew it really didn't matter anymore. He knew in his heart that he was not going to make it home for Christmas -- ever.

Oberleutnant Klaus Bergen held the extreme left of the line. Confidence filled his heart as he chose to remain an inspiration to his men. He checked on them frequently, moving from position to position issuing words of encouragement. Klaus was positive he would not only survive, but see the factory on the other side of the street fall into friendly hands.

Feldwebel Johann Harmann had already received the Iron Cross Second Class and was really not in the mood to try for the Knights Cross of the Iron Cross. His head pounded, his nose was stuffed up and body aches wracked him completely. But in Stalingrad, it was either fight or die. There was no rest, even if you did have a bad case of inluenza.

Major Günter von Küchen stood in a doorway watching the building across the street. It was at least an eighty meter jaunt to get to the factory. This would be the sprint of their life. It wasn't that he didn't believe his men were up to the run or the hand-to-hand fighting that would ensue on the far side. He knew his men would do well, but getting there was what troubled them. The Russians constantly reinforced their position with troops emerging out of the banks of the Volga. There would be no way the 522nd Grenadiers could push the Russians out. These doubts the Major kept to himself. He told his troops they would all meet success and he encouraged them nonetheless. He looked them in the eye, shook their hands warmly wishing them well all the while knowing he was sending them to their death. But alas, Major von Küchen would be crossing the street with them.

At exactly zero five sixteen and thirty seconds, Oberst Böhmer blew on his whistle. Major von Küchen and Major Klieter both blew on their whistles as well. The shrill ear piercing sound propelled the first wave of Grenadiers, two companies numbering around two hundred soldiers jumping up from their positions and sprinting the eighty meters across the street. Russian made machine guns, fixed along diagonal firing angles forming interlocking fields of fire opened up creating a buzz saw of hell as the German Grenadiers charged right into the maws of death. Several of the Russian machine gun positions had been eliminated by indirect fire from the mortars and by the machine guns upstairs. These gaps provides the 522nd with a few isolated regions to establish footholds in the factory.

Once they were inside, it was almost as if every man was fighting for his own life. The Russians came at them with bayonets fixed on theor Mosin Nagant bolt action rifles and a few carried the same PPsh Submachine guns that all the leadership in the 522nd had converted to months ago.

Major von Küchen fired several bursts of 9mm slugs into a crowd of Russians inside the factory, scattering several and sending a few to the floor. Oberleutnant Bergen, pushed his troops forward to clear out rooms in and spaces inside the factory. It was an intricate labyrinth of places for marksmen to hide. Too many in one place. Feldwebel Harmann made it to the far side and flopped on the floor behind members of the second platoon. His head was buzzing from the noise and pain. It was an almost unendurable experience he was forced to tolerate. He struggled to regain his composure. Grenadier Bergmann lay bleeding to death in the street with a half dozen of his comrades. They would not see Siberia in this lifetime. Nor would Adolf Bergmann ever see a Vilseck Christmas again.

Once the first two companies had established footholds at the west end of the factory and adjacent building complex, the 2nd wave of companies commanded by Hauptmann Bauer and Leutnant Ziegler blew their whistles and the remaining two companies of the 522nd charged across the road. They encountered some of the same machine gun fire as the first two companies, but continued into the cauldron unabated.

The German Grenadiers of the 297th Division and the Russian soldiers fighting for their homeland and the city named for their leader were gripped in a hand to hand struggle for life or death. Many would never leave this hellish place.