West-Northwest of Rshev, Eastern Front.

4th December 1941, 1:40 p.m.

German Territory.

Winter.

“This cold winter air

calls with hearty strength.

Behold such a mighty Lord,

summer and winter He makes.”

- Extract from a German folk song

A storm was approaching. Karl could feel it on the air and see it in the patterns in the sky. The wind was picking up in the heavens, and by nightfall the clouds, like swollen bombers, would empty their sodden cargo onto the earth.

He had cut an indirect path north-east once off the road, keeping to his compass and the path of the sun. If his understanding of the area was correct, he was heading towards the Russian and German front lines, but depending on how far he had been taken he may be able to hit to the Volga before that.

That being said, he might have already passed the front lines - Ivan defences should be concentrated further North, around Selizharovo, or East around Stariza. No German forces would be likely to push through this area in the winter, and the Soviet defences would be weak as a result. The major offensive Wehrmacht units were concentrated around Moskau anyway.

The sun gazed down in a valiant attempt behind Karl’s back, casting a shadow for him to perpetually chase. Yet it couldn’t do more than take the edge off of the bone-deep chill on the air.

Karl crested a hill, looking out as best he could at the terrain ahead. He could see the depression cast by the main body of the Volga, perhaps an hour’s struggle through the terrain around him. Stretching off to his right and a little ahead was the road he had left behind. Dotted throughout the forest were traces of smoke indicating habitation. Most of them were likely collections of buildings, perhaps some workshops, but some could be patrols from either army - something he didn’t want to run into right now.

Worse news, though, was on the horizon. A few buildings peeking above the surrounding sky indicated a major town - likely that was Rshev, where the SS camp was located. He couldn’t have left it any later to get free of his captors.

But that meant that they would soon find out he was missing, and be on his tail. Perhaps they already were. He needed to get away from the road and into the forest - the one advantage he had right now was that they didn’t know where he had slipped away, and he wanted to keep it that way.

For now, he needed to keep moving, both to keep away from his pursuers and to keep the cold off his back. He slid down the hill through the snow, coming to a running stop at the base.

The first obstacle in his path to the Volga was a small frozen stream covering the base of a deep but narrow gully. He managed to leap it at a thinner point, dipping a toe in the water but managing to scramble up the slope on the other side.

From there was a struggle through snowdrifts half a metre deep. It was like walking through sand with shoes on. The snow sucked his feet back when he tried to pull them up and hid the uneven footing when he tried to put them down.

While walking, he ran into a townlet with its original residents still present. He wasn’t spotted by the woman chopping firewood out the front, but he had to hide in a thicket of trees while she finished her chopping. Ten minutes later, colder and delayed, he slipped away as she brought the next stack out from the cellar beneath her house.

He considered taking a fur blanket he spotted on a chair beneath the awning, but he wasn’t going to risk being caught and didn’t to take away even more from these people - more than their communist leaders and his fellow Germans already had. He feared that other soldiers, German or Russian, may not have those qualms, but there was nothing that he could do for them.

At last he arrived at the river, his destination. It stretched out, downstream to the Northwest and upstream to the Southeast, curling around North as it turned towards the sea. Beyond was a thicker forest than he had been passing through, but that meant less snowfall and less chance of being spotted.

Now that he was away from any potential SS search parties, he could find a place to lay low in the wilderness. His next move was to get to his supply cache East of Cholm, but that would take time and some equipment.

His effects would also be held by that officer at Peno. If he could, he wanted to retrieve those. It would make it easier to get into his storehouse if he had those.

Sitting in the shrubs across the river, he ate a quick meal of frozen rations. He chased it down with a handful of snow, but it didn’t deal with his dry mouth. He struggled to decide whether he needed water or warmth more. Thirst, he finally decided, could be dealt with when he had something to melt snow to reasonable temperatures.

At least he wasn’t sweating.

Finishing off his meal, Karl heard voices approaching from upstream. A hunting party walked into view, a pair of men with rifles slung over their shoulders. Both were bundled up in layer upon layer of fur and looked much warmer than Karl was feeling at that point. One kept his attention on the ground, following or searching for tracks, while the second kept his eyes on the surrounding trees and bushes.

His alert gaze passed over Karl but didn’t seem to notice him in the shadows away from the edge of the river. Instead, the tracker pointed out Karl’s footprints crossing the ice. They stared at them for a few seconds, then laughed something to each other and moved on.

The one on watch glanced at the sky and muttered something before the pair hurried their pace. Karl, glancing his head at the grey ceiling of the clouds beginning to drift down larger flakes of snow. He needed to get moving too.

As the winds began to trail flakes of snow from the tops of snowdrifts, creating a veil of foggy particles down their sides, Karl started to worry about shelter. He knew there would be houses around, but had no idea where, and hadn’t had paper available to map out the smoke trails from his previous vantage point.

Instead, he wandered down what he thought might be an animal trail as the skies began to loose their payload. He entertained the thought of building a snow cave or some kind of shelter out of snow, but he didn’t think the drifts around here were thick enough to allow that sort of shelter. It would probably be blown away by the wind.

As he was thinking, there was a gunshot from far off in the forest. He couldn’t tell where it came from, but from the sound it was somewhere in the direction of Rshev.

The first crack was not alone. Soon the forest opened up with distant gunshots, all from the same direction. Some sounded like single shot weapons, others were a chatter that he recognised as an MG34 firing. It sounded like German troops engaging enemies - Soviet or otherwise. Unless it was a training exercise, his pursuers had to have come out in force.

As soon as he thought that, the gunfire died away. Karl could only hope that whoever was the other side in the firefight distracted the SS for long enough that they couldn’t find him.

As light died away, the howling of wild animals pushed that hope from his mind. It sounded like there were wolves around, and Karl was still definitely on his own. He checked the operation of his pistol, making sure no parts were frozen stiff, and kept advancing.

However, the howls only grew louder as he continued. Baying resounded from multiple directions as he realised he was surrounded. He tried to climb a tree to stay away from the animals, but the branches at ground level were barely thick enough to support the weight of the snow atop them, let alone him, and before he knew it the pack were on top of him.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

They weren’t wolves, they were dogs of war. Four of them were circling in the snow around him, hindered by the terrain and in pain from the cold but egged on by their hunger and the promise of the end of the hunt.

One eyed him from atop a nearby rocky outcrop, while the other three pushed themselves in a circle around him through the snow. They were huge and angry dogs, the drifts of snow barely reaching their knees. Had they been standing on their hind legs they might have been as tall as him.

His concentration was cut short as two dogs leapt at him, barking. He stepped out of the way and let the two crash together. He was knocked staggering by one which was knocked from the collision into his legs, but regained his balance and ended its life with a quick pistol shot.

A second pistol shot took out the leg a second dog as it leaped from atop its rock at him, then he switched hands to draw his bayonet and meet the final pair.

He kept the two at bay with swings of the weapon, the last rays of sun glittering off it across the small clearing. As they started to circle him to attack from two directions, he jumped for one of them, cutting across its forehead and blinding it with drops of blood in its eyes.

As it shook its eyes clean and blindly lashed out, the other jumped forwards to assist its ally. Its legs snapped shut inches from Karl’s leg, but he jumped clear, backing towards the exposed boulder behind him.

The remaining two growled as they stood together against him, but with a gesture from his pistol and a whistle in the distance they turned tail and ran, leaving him scraped and battered but not seriously wounded.

The injured dog would freeze to death within the hour if he left it alone. Instead, he ended its whimpers with a two-handed thrust from his bayonet.

Wiping the blade clean, he spotted an insignia on the dog’s collar. A rotated Wolfsangel, chosen perhaps for its similarity with the ϟ character.

“Schutzstaffel hounds,” he said to himself. “Of Das Reich?” Perhaps they had his scent. Yet there seemed to be no soldiers following on the tracks of the dogs, which he couldn’t explain. The dogs themselves were there to find him, wound him and slow him down, not kill him. Yet that would mean nothing if nobody was following the dogs to bring him back.

Counting it as a stroke of luck, Karl pushed himself through the threatening storm towards what shelter he could find.

Minutes later, despite keeping an eye on his compass, he couldn’t be sure where he was or where he was going anymore. Visibility had fallen as the blizzard picked up to match anything he had seen before in the Alpen. He had no idea what the temperature was, but when he scratched at the edges of his beard he could feel the hairs frozen solid. His toes were aching in their boots, and he had no doubt that if he stayed out in the cold for much longer he may find himself with frostbite.

However, moments ago he had spotted a glimmer of light and hope among the pale flurries. It was as little as a single spark, but to him it indicated a near-certain promise of warmth and safety.

Growing closer, watching the patch of light flicker as it was hidden and revealed by undulations in the snowfall, he found himself running into an artificial wall. The light he could see was through the barest crack in the wall, a viewing slit not closed perfectly allowing a glimmer of illumination through.

Moving around the wall he came to the front of the structure - some sort of house. A chain for a lock was hanging against the doorframe, but the door wasn’t sealed. Someone was inside, perhaps a local family.

He thought back to what Russian he knew, pulling up a few words. “Впусти меня? Что кто-то внутри.” (Can you let me in? I know there’s someone inside.)

There was no reply inside, although he could hear the crackle of a fire. Stomping around to keep warm, he tried German. “не русский? (You don’t speak Russian?) Hello, can I ask who’s inside?”

Something groaned inside, perhaps a floorboard or perhaps just the roof settling with the snow on top. Karl reached for his pistol.

“Hello?” he tried again. He heard a clatter inside, then a thud. After a moment’s deliberation, he stepped against the doorframe and pushed the door open.

After a moment’s resistance it gave way, giving him a view of one side of the room. It was sparsely lit, the flickering of a fire casting monstrous shadows along the walls.

However, his view was obscured by a flood of thick smoke, pouring out the doorway at head height. Coughing, he reeled a step backwards, letting the smoke clear out before he poked his head around the corner to check the contents of the room.

The source of the smoke was a fire in the corner. It was burning through its fuel with ardour, coughing up a steady stream of smoke into the air of the hut.

The only occupant was an insensate Russian soldier, walking wounded from what Karl could see. His pistol had fallen next to his body, probably the clatter Karl had heard. A medkit was open on the floor next to him.

Judging him as no threat for now, Karl strode over to the fire, bent double to stay below the fumes. He pulled the chains to open the flue. A small clump of snow fell onto the fire and sublimated in the pop and hiss hiss of steam.

With the flue open to let the smoke escape, the air in the cabin started to clear up. Karl closed up the door and took stock of the space.

It appeared to be no more than a rest space for a single person, with a small cot, a table and tiny kitchen area. Cupboards held some cans of food, and a few useful items and trophies, including a stuffed fox head, were scattered among the shelves.

The next point of call were the Russian’s wounds. Checking him over, he looked to have passed out from smoke inhalation - his wounds had bled, and he appeared to be in the early stages of frostbite, but there was nothing there that could threaten his life.

He was wounded twice in his arm, one a small cut around his shoulder and the other a larger slice into his flesh with a large chip of wood embedded inside. Scattered around the wound were smaller cuts, probably from flying shrapnel or a fall against a sharp surface.

Karl cut a patch from his jacket away from the wounds - with the holes in them the arm would have to be patched anyway, and it was warm enough in the cabin now not to have to worry about him freezing. Frozen blood spilled out of the Russian’s glove and scattered onto the floor, melting into puddles.

“These Ivans, always so quick to kill themselves,” Karl muttered to himself.

He grabbed a pot from a shelf and stepped outside with deft movements to fill it with snow. Within moments the water was melting over the fire and some rags were shredded to be boiled in it.

He pulled the injector the Russian had been using away from his arm, tossing it away into a corner. Painkillers were missing from the medkit, so these had to be those. More minor injuries was the last thing he wanted to give this man right now.

The already opened medikit provided a complete resource to deal with the injury. He scattered a few pinches of disinfectant powder into the wounds. The soldier didn’t even stir in his sleep - either his rest was deeper than was healthy or the painkillers had kicked in.

As the large piece of wood came free from the wound, a steady stream of blood followed it. Karl used a piece of cloth to mop most of it up, but it welled up once he was done soaking.

A pair of tweezers extracted remaining fragments of wood from the wound, interspersed with the now blood sodden cloth. That was as far as Karl’s medical knowledge would take him. Now it was time to seal the wound, and he didn’t know how to stitch cuts.

A hot poker, steeped in the fire, was a crude but effective solution. Karl tapped the soldier’s shoulder with it until the bleeding slowed enough to be bandaged. He wanted to do minimal damage, but a few grunts of pain even through the painkillers were unavoidable. With the wound sealed, he wrung out the boiled cloths. Half were used to dab the wound clean and the other half to bandage it.

He was no doctor, but he did what he could. The man would live. With no infections. Hopefully there were more dis

The immediate issues out of the way, Karl had to figure out where he was going to have the soldier recuperate. He did want to sleep himself, but there was only one bed and he didn’t fancy getting cosy. It wasn’t quite that cold yet.

Eventually, Karl gave up his right to the wounded. The other man was there first, after all. He padded up the soldier in the bed and covered him in blankets from the cabin, keeping his wounded arm free.

He set up a spot for himself on the table near the fire, huddled in the blankets stolen from the truck. He kept one hand free to poke the fire, the block of wood he tossed in heating his face through to the depths of his soul.

He let himself slip into a half sleep, ready to jump up should the Russian awake before him. He doubted it based on his wounds, but it always paid to be prepared.

The storm may rage outside, his men may be a hundred kilometres away. But he was free and he was alive. He had survived until today. God wills, he would live until tomorrow. And who knew what tomorrow would bring.

“When your woman invites her friends

To gossip about you

Open the gas tap fast

Then she'll pass out.”

- Alternate extract from a German folk song