In the Crosshairs

Chapter 7: Another Life Spared

Three months later. December 15, 1942. 

Friedrich huddled in the corner of a random house, shivering from the biting cold of the Russian winter. He squatted down and drew his shirt over his knees to warm himself up. He reached down and tore off pieces of cardboard, throwing them to help stoke what of the dwindling fire remained.

Friedrich slid down the side of the wall, attempting to regather and refocus his thoughts. Over the past couple of months, the Germans had learned the night tactics of the Soviets. They often fought in the dark, meaning that Friedrich couldn't let his guard down, even in the night.

Friedrich shifted himself closer toward the house's large window, through which the bright moonlight was shining. He tilted his head, trying to listen to any outside noises. Distant gunshots, faint yelling, and the chattering of his friend Max's teeth were the only things he could hear.

Friedrich looked back into the room and gestured toward the near-empty matchbox in Max's shaking right hand. Friedrich could see a white, misty cloud accompany every breath he took.

"How many more do you have left?" Friedrich asked him.

"I... I think just one," Max responded dejectedly. Dread and anxiety were present in the air. They both knew that, if this one failed to light, they'd freeze to death by morning.

Max's trembling left hand slowly removed the box cover and took out the final match.

"Come on, Max. Last one," Friedrich gently encouraged from across the room.

After 8 unsuccessful attempts of grating the match across the striker, Max finally got it to light. Friedrich leapt out from the corner and ran over to Max, quickly attempting to cup his hands around it. But by the time he got there, the flame had already died.

"Motherfucker!" Max screamed as he chucked the match across the room.

Friedrich buried his face into his hands and began to silently cry. For the past 3 months, the battle of Stalingrad had turned against the Germans. The Soviets had completed their encirclement of the Romanian cavalary, and were slowly suffocating the Sixth army. Rumors circled around Friedrich, claiming that Führer would break the encirclement and save them. All that was needed... was bravery, toughness, and persistence. But somehow, Friedrich knew better. Even Max still believed in the cause.

"Don't worry. The next airlift is coming in a couple of hours. There's gonna be food brought to us," Max fantasized wistfully.

Friedrich glanced back toward the window and shook his head. Over the past few months, the fighting Friedrich witnessed was brutal, traumatizing, and scarring. Under direct orders from the newly-promoted lieutenant Martin, Friedrich massacred untold numbers of civilians through the fall season. Anyone suspected of being a Jew or a communist was shot on sight, while everyone else was deported and sent to work for the army. 

Everyone in the infantry division was bewildered by his promotion. Max theorized that Martin had taken credit for Friedrich's grenade kill against those Soviets in the office building. But regardless, he was now directly in charge of a force of several hundred men.

"These parasites are life unworthy of life," Martin declared. "No survivors. None."

Friedrich woke up nearly every night screaming from nightmares, echoing the voices of all the victims he had murdered. He cried as he thought about all the times he took the lives of little kids, mothers and their babies. Every time he did, Martin would pull Friedrich by the hair, screaming and spitting at him for the weakness he displayed against the Soviets.

"If you refuse, you will die," Martin would whisper into the quivering Friedrich's ear. "I promise."

Friedrich no longer recognized the man he was. He prayed every day for 2 things. First, that he would see Alexander again. Second, that he'd be killed soon.