1941

The muscles in his legs burned and ached for a rest. His lungs greedily took in air whenever he inhaled or gasped. His feet felt like lead, getting heavier by the minute every time he lifted one foot after the another. His stomach begged for food but he couldn't satisfy its demands. How many hours had it been since he started walking? Three or four hours? He didn't know. For all he knew, it could be half-day since he started trekking to god-knows-where.

His shoulders slumped in defeat as if they carried the weight of the world on them. But it wasn't the weight of the world, it was the deaths of his comrades and his shame that weighed heavy on his shoulders. The dog-tag hanging around his neck moved from left to right as he walked and it reminded him of his fatal mistake. In a battlefield, a simple movement could mean life or death. A simple mistake could get you killed in a second.

August reveled in the thought of coming home. It was the only thing that kept him going. He wanted to feel the warmth of his mother's love and the joyous laughter of his precious sister. He missed home so much but the need to serve his country overpowered his desire of a happy home. He didn't want to shame his family by not going to war but now he had inadvertently did so by running away. A shadow started to creep in the back of his mind and he remembered that he was technically a deserter in their eyes. And according to the Fuhrer, a deserter should be killed immediately because someone who had lost against the enemy did not need to live.

Suddenly, a twig snapped somewhere to his left, followed by more crunches of leaves. His head immediately snapped to the direction and he walked towards there slowly, careful enough to not make any sound by stepping on clear ground and avoiding the twigs and crouching low. More twigs snapped - August knew he was getting closer. He crouched lower as the sound of footsteps was now coming towards him and prepared to strike. With every step the unknown assailant took, he loaded the bullets into the rifle and positioned it to where the sounds were coming from. He breathed through his nose and counted the seconds as they ticked by.

1, 2, 3....

"Я думаю, что сестра будет рад когда я это кролик дома. Право, Паша?" A voice belonging to a small boy reached his ears and he relaxed, lowering the gun and standing up. A boy was no threat to him, he thought as he turned to the opposite direction. He was slinging the rifle back to his shoulder when a crunch of leaves and a low growl that sounded briefly like a wolf's was heard behind him.

On second thought, a wolf or a dog as big as it would be a very big threat to him.

He raised his arms in small surrender and turned around. There stood a lanky boy, maybe ten or eleven-years-old, and a beast beside him. His eyes widened in alarm at the sight of the huge dog which was baring its sharp teeth at him. He looked at the boy with his palms up, signaling that he meant no harm. He took a small step back, cringing when a twig snapped under his boot causing the dog to growl louder.

The boy placed a hand on the dog's back, and whispered to him, "Я думаю, что он означает, что ущерб, Паша. Посмотрите на него. Он выглядит как дезертира."

The dog visibly relaxed, albeit only slightly. It was not baring its teeth at him anymore but it was still growling. The dog was smart; it was still cautious of him as well as August was of it. How can you blame him though? It was not every day that he had a dog growling at him, let alone one that could easily pass off as a wolf because of its massive size. It was more or less two feet tall with a heavy build and sharp canines. August cringed when the thought of the beast's canines sinking into his flesh flashed in his mind.

He slowly stepped back, eyeing warily the pair in front of him. Then he turned his back to them, silently praying that the dog won't pounce on him and walked off, leaving the both of them to their own business.