Quoted By:
The skeletal frame of bent and bowing metallic bones could have once been a dance hall, the large wooden entrances have long been stripped. The cement skin was crumbling and exposed as much of the roof had long been blown off, allowing the dark grey sky to peer in along with snow to pile up within the deserted building. You hadn't spotted any tracks as you made your way inside, but that didn't promise you safety. Wondering to yourself about this dead place, the wide and tall walls could have easily held small gatherings here. Did the Bolsheviks once sing and play here? Did white loyalists once hide within these vacant walls and halls? A dream of culture the Slavics did not possess.
Now no windows remain, nor are smiles found on the faces of those within. The damned sons of Germany, The Might of the 6th Army. The Violinist crawls further forward, peering through a miniscule crack within one of the few walls that stood. The other men of your ragtag unit didn't share his bravery, damn you weren't even sure how many risked breathing. including yourself, you count right in total. Half of the boys you do not recognize, much of the advance into the city has been uneven. The damn communists were on top of you every step of the way.
"Obergefreiter… They are heading out to the wounded."
The Violinist whispers as you slowly slide into place next to him. Taking your time to not shilloute yourself you take up his position. Cold wind whips through the small gap and makes your eye water, you feel the liquid rapidly cool on your cheek in turn. But as your vision adjusts you spot the movement, the wounded Russians. Those that were still alive below you twitch and shift calling out to their comrades for help. The snowy carpet soaking up streaks of red. You are unaware if the mortar strike had been one of yours or theirs. Your positions are practically overlapping, but it caught the enemy right out in the open.
Across the way a group of spaced out figures worm their way through the open roadway. Moving from cover to cover, debris and ruined vehicles offered them some camouflage. But not enough, from your position you were able to start firing down right onto them. Haphazardly dressed the group varied in ages and apparel, some bore the tan uniforms of the red army under heavy coats while overs a mismatch of civilian and military clothing. Most of them were armed, rifles slung over shoulders as their heads swivel from side to side.
They bark at each other in their rotten tongue, the ugly language echoing into your hiding spot. You spot children and women among them.