1941

The sound of bombs exploding and gunfire in the distance was what woke August from his slumber. His eyes snapped open at the sound of a grenade and frantically searched his surroundings to see if he was dead or not. He saw that he was still underneath all the rubble and clothes he threw on top of himself to make a camouflage, and when he felt the cool metal of the M1891 in his fingers, he became sure that he was alive. He visibly relaxed, his stiff muscles slowly releasing tension when another grenade went off and voices that shouted in German disturbed the momentary peace.

Shit! He cursed himself as he searched for his comrades through his scope. This was not a time to relax; he was in the middle of the war and one movement could mean his life or another's. But he was too late; the camp where his comrades had been was reduced to rubble and dust. The place where his comrades had fallen was now occupied by Russian soldiers who were taking the time to sift through the burnt things, trying to find anything valuable amidst the rubble.

Those Russian scum, he thought as he gritted his teeth in anger. Rage burned intensely inside him and the sound of their laughter only fueled it more. And before he knew it, he took aim and shot a soldier in the head.

"Найти немецкий ублюдок!" The captain shouted and almost immediately, the group of soldiers dispersed in pairs.

Shit! He cursed again, the word echoing repeatedly in his mind like a mantra as he saw the soldiers disperse in search of him. How could he let his anger take over him? He asked that question to himself again and again as he ran down the stairs as quiet as he could with his hand clutching the rifle tightly. He entered a hallway when suddenly, he heard footsteps and voices come towards him. He hid behind a column and crouched, trying to make himself smaller. They went past him, completely oblivious to his presence. The Russian soldiers kicked the back door open, the metal door producing a loud clanging sound as it fell to the ground. And August saw an opportunity that he could not let go; a forest was only a few meters from the door and if he could run there without anyone noticing, he could keep his life.

To hell with it! And all logic flew out of the window.

He closed his eyes tightly for a second, saying a small prayer to whoever powerful being who would take pity on him to spare his life, kissed his gun and ran blindly for the trees. He was only a few meters away from the treeline when he heard voices behind him.

"Принять его! пристрелить его вниз!" An angry voice shouted in Russian somewhere behind him.

He figured that meant an order to shoot him down so as fast as he could, he dove towards the shrubs, disappearing behind the thick bushes and dense forest. After a few seconds, he heard the rapid crunches of leaves and snapping of twigs behind him and cursed again for the soldiers were able to follow him. Well, at least on the bright side, they weren't shooting him. If he died, it was his fault anyway. He didn't do anything for his comrades, for his Fuhrer and for his country. He made too many mistakes that would get him killed on the battlefield. Most of all, he would die knowing he shamed himself by failing his country.