The sky was dark, the sun blocked out by a dark grey cloud. -A cloud of human ash. The furnaces were fired, the flames flaring around the bodies of the poor souls executed in the camp, consuming them as a dragon feasting on a knight.
The Germans had been executing many more in this camp, as of late. The Russians were on their way, and the Nazis had begun enacting their "Final Solution".
Very few of the camp's occupants dared venture outside, and if they did, they held bits of cloth over their noses and mouths to avoid inhaling their former comrades. Only one young man dared breathe normally and unrestricted.
-A young Russian soldier, by the name of Alexander Ivanovich.
Exander, as his friends knew him, was no more than average looking for a Russian soldier. He had brown hair that was cut short, brown eyes, and slightly pale skin. He wore a cold weather uniform, an officer's cap, and stovetop boots. His height of nearly six feet and weight of nearly 180 pounds had not changed, in the four months he'd been in the camp. Something the guards thought to be somewhat curious.
Exander currently stood midway between two watchtowers, the tops of his boots snug against the kill wire. He looked down at his boot encased feet, noting the wire and the three yards of open ground beyond it. The high fence, topped with barbed wire, that was three yards ahead of him was all that stood between the prisoners and freedom.
Well, the fence…and the guards…and the machineguns in the watchtowers… But yes, that was all that was between them and a relative amount of freedom.
His head tilted forward, Exander glanced from the corners of his eyes at the watchtowers – first the one on his left, then the one to his right. The guards looked at him, brows furrowed, their suspicions about them. The machine-gunner in the tower to his right readied his Mg-42, and aimed at him, as if daring him to make a move. The secondary guard in the tower to his left loaded a round into the chamber of his bolt action rifle, and a guard patrolling the exterior of the fence stopped and did the same.
Exander smirked, raised his head, looked between the towers and all the guards, and laughed to himself, then laughed aloud, slapped his forehead with his right hand, and plopped down on the ash covered ground. The guard outside the fence quipped a brow, rolled his eyes, shook his head, and went back to his patrol route.
The rifleman in the tower to Exander's left relaxed, went back to looking out over the camp, and then not seeing any other potential problems looked back out toward the woods. The machine-gunner in the tower on the right relaxed a bit as well, but kept a close eye on Exander. The gunner had an itchy trigger finger, and had been taken off the front lines six months ago.
Exander could feel the gunner's eyes on him as he sat in front of the wire, legs crossed Indian-style. Exander glanced up at the gunner, a dissatisfied huff passing across his lips. The gunner glared at him, and Exander rolled his eyes, focusing back on the wire in front of him. He plucked the wire, and indeed, it was wound tight, the entire length vibrating from one single pluck. It stopped vibrating, and he plucked it again. There was nothing much more to do, except wait for his turn in the chambers.