Disclaimers: I don't own Hetalia or any of its characters. I don't support Nazism or necessarily agree with any of the views, actions, or decisions depicted in this story. No harm, infringement, or disrespect is intended to anyone.

December 29, 1942

Stalingrad, Russia

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It was bitterly cold. So cold that when men exhaled their breaths left their nostrils and mouths in thick, milky white wisps like dragons, and the touch of any inanimate object, be it stone, or wood, or — God forbid, metal — burned like white-hot coals. Clothes, blankets, and the surface of every wall and weapon were filmed over with a fine layer of frost. In many places, much of that frost was covered by a heavy, chilling blanket of hard, icy snow.

Just as he had for the past several weeks in a row, Ludwig had awoken shivering next to his comrades, curled up into the tightest ball possible in spite of how dreadfully uncomfortable the position was. The sub-zero air had viciously assaulted his eyes the moment he had opened them, trying to rob them of all heat and life; it had taken a will of steel and a storybook hero's courage to pull himself to his feet and force his aching, tired body to walk away from the frigid form of the man he'd been lying next to in order to fumble around in the dark for lantern-oil and wood.

The big house they were defending had been devastated by aerial bombings months ago and subjected to grenades and heavy gunfire several times since, leaving it without much of a roof, only two and a half walls, and no intact window-panes. However, it had so far escaped the fires that had been ravaging the city on and off — including the great August fire — and it was actually in better shape than all but one of the large buildings for a few blocks in any given direction, making it a good fortress. Its location on the west bank of the Volga was crucial: this area was held and guarded fiercely by the Red Army, who had been taking advantage of the iced-over river to get supplies and reinforcements over to their side. As long as the Volga remained in Russian hands, the 6th Army would remain trapped in a deadly stranglehold inside the city.

The situation was dire. Not only did Ludwig and his men lack adequate protection against the cold — the few winter coats, hats, gloves, boots, earmuffs, and uniforms they possessed were feeble defense against the brutal Russian winter and the extra summer uniforms Hitler had airlifted to them a while back were a bad joke — they had already used up most of their fuel, ammunition, medical supplies, and other basic necessities. They were frozen, sick, and starving. Fully encircled by the enemy on the ground, only the Luftwaffe could reach them with supplies and take the wounded to safety, which was incredibly dangerous for all Germans involved and had already cost them way too many aircraft and highly experienced airmen.

Starting the first fire of the morning was never a pleasant task, but someone had to do it. As the most resilient, able-bodied German around by far, Ludwig had taken it upon himself to always be that person in any group he happened to be with. His compatriots deeply appreciated it, and it made him look that much tougher besides.

This particular morning Ludwig's search for fire fuel and other burnables had brought him to a wall-less section of the house where looking out into the black, starry sky and frozen, scarred landscape continued to be an experience akin to gazing out over the ruins of a city situated on the dark side of the moon. Each breath he'd taken had blasted his lungs with arctic chill, but once he'd gotten moving his muscles had warmed up and things had become a little more bearable.

When several pieces of splintered wood, an old chair, some useless cloths, and paper garbage had been arranged carefully in tee-pee fashion with the most flammable objects on the bottom, he'd doused the whole structure in as much lantern-oil as they could spare and set it ablaze with a match.

Standing in front of a roaring fire was the perfect reward for making it. Ludwig hovered as close as he could without catching on fire himself, rotating to face a new direction every so often to ensure all sides of him got equally cooked while he kept a sharp eye out for danger and possible aid.

Disappointingly, the skies were silent as usual. When the Luftwaffe visited, they always did so just before dawn to make them harder for enemies to visually spot and target. But these days they were coming less and less. Not by choice, Ludwig knew, but because they were running low on aircraft and the nearest airfield was some distance away. When they did make it through, the supplies they unloaded were never, ever enough — probably less than a quarter of what was needed — but they were something, and something was better than nothing.

I wonder if Ivan is awake yet?

Ivan. Just thinking about his nemesis made Ludwig's blood boil furiously, his heart beat faster. That insane, back-stabbing, bloodthirsty asshole had already violently slaughtered so many friends, soldiers, and allies. Yes, he was a tough, worthy foe, and fighting him up close and personal was always a deeply-satisfying thrill on so many levels, but it wasn't worth so many German lives, especially now that winter had set in and the damned weather and lack of food and basic medicine were killing more of his people than the Red Army.

But as much as Germany hated Russia — as much as he wanted to shoot him down and beat and stab him violently to a death even he wouldn't come back from with his own stupid faucet-pipe — he knew that the other nation was not the sole cause of his peoples suffering. No, Hitler was the moron who had ordered an attack on this vile hellhole of a city at the wrong time, in the wrong way, and under the wrong circumstances. The intensity of his refusal to listen to sound strategy was matched only by the intensity of his refusal to allow the 6th army to retreat or surrender: the orders were to fight to the last man, to die rather than become a prisoner.

And dying they were.

Horribly.

Bleak as it was, there was still a small flicker of hope. If only Ludwig and this group of twelve or so brave souls he was with could storm the big church a block and a half over, conquer it, and hold the position, they'd have a much better vantage-point from which to conquer and hold nearby surrounding buildings as well. If they got enough of them, they'd have access to at least a small strip of the Volga, where they could attack Russian reinforcements and get the wounded to safety. As an added bonus, losing any amount of riverfront could only hurt Russia and his troops.

Rustling and low murmurs sounded from nearby. The men were waking. Ludwig watched with increasing relief as, one by one, they rose up out of their real and makeshift blankets into sitting positions and rubbed the sleep out of their eyes, groaning at the prospect of yet another miserable day. Hopefully he hadn't lost anyone overnight this time; he desperately needed every last person, and people dying in their sleep was becoming far too common of an occurrence.

The first man to rise to his feet was the Obergefreiter, who, low-ranking as he was, was second-in-command in this unhappy little troupe. He immediately went about his routine task of rousing those who were still sleeping and counting everyone.

Almost immediately thereafter Ludwig had a few buddies joining him by the fire: they huddled as close to it as he first had, rubbing their hands together vigorously and moving around a lot to get the blood flowing. Tired, dirty, emaciated, and nearly as pale as the snow that was everywhere, they looked like zombies.

Ludwig wished he could do more to ease their suffering. As it was he already gave up as much of his rations as he could stand to without weakening himself too much to fight and was always the first to go without when warm clothing and bedding were in short supply. He didn't doubt that it helped — as a nation he could get by on less food than a regular human and survive colder temperatures for longer periods of time — but much like the supplies dropped by the Luftwaffe, it was never enough, and he couldn't help feeling that he was letting his people down. Failing them as their general and their country.

"Generaloberst Herrmann?"

The Russian-accented voice belonged to Novokov, the one and only Hiwi presently amongst them. It made a few men jump and go for their weapons, but they quickly settled back down again once they saw who it was.

"Ja, Novokov?" Ludwig answered coolly, stumbling a little over the pronunciation of the mans surname.

Are you planning on going for the big church?

Ludwig nodded seriously. "Ja. Taking that church is key to gaining back at least a portion of the Volga. Its too important not to focus on."

"Good plan." another man mumbled. His name escaped Ludwig.

Novokov pinned the general's gaze. "Then I must speak to you in private."

"Hey, whatever you have to say, you can say in front of us." Franz piped up immediately, sounding more irritable than usual. He frowned at Novokov.

Ludwig shot him a harsh look. "That's my call."

Franz didn't argue.

No one else looked as though they wanted to.

Having taken care of that, Ludwig returned his attention to Novokov. "Alright."

Novokov lead him through several rooms and upstairs, to the most isolated part of the house. He stopped near a window whose glass had long since been shattered to smithereens.

Ludwig stopped with him, waiting impatiently for him to say whatever it was he was going to say. He wondered what this was about, why the Hiwi didnt feel he could share it in the presence of the other soldiers. "Well?"

Novokov was gazing out across the destroyed city. His expression was plagued with worry and uncertainty. "It's General Braginski," he whispered, and even the sound of the name rolling off his tongue seemed to send a fearful trembling down his spine, "I think he might be in church. Its an excellent place for snipers like him, and hes always in most dangerous and strategically-important places. Always."

Ludwig's stomach sank like a lead weight. That's...not what I wanted to hear.

If Russia was indeed in the church, his presence was going to make it a hell of a lot harder to capture. Like Germany, he also possessed inhuman strength and endurance as well as much more combat experience than his apparent age suggested. If Ludwig didn't engage him immediately he could pick off several of his men with ease, from a distance or in close quarters.

Damn.

The church was so vital to any prayer of a German victory in Stalingrad; they had to take it, and soon.

Hopefully Novokov was wrong. Normally Ludwig liked going for his equals or better — even preferred it in most instances — but the stakes were too damn high to be jeopardized by a fair fight here, for the sake of honor or anything else.

He moved shoulder-to-shoulder with the Hiwi, his face in a grim cast as he joined him in staring out the window. "If he is, Ill deal with him personally." he said with poise, a low growl seeping into his tone.

Down below, it was still dark. Still a lifeless, barren wasteland of snow, debris, and corpses. Not a creature stirred. The few plants to be seen were frozen so stiff they didn't move even when prodded by a decent wind.

"You're a brave soul, Herrmann."

"I've never been afraid of him." Ludwig admitted truthfully, "He's not some Ghost General. He can be hurt and killed like anyone else. I know. We've fought before." He paused for a moment, then, deciding it would be best not to dwell too much on subjects that would call attention to his and Ivan's more unusual attributes, switched gears. "Novokov? Why did you desert the Red Army?"

Novokov looked at him wearily, a resentful sadness shadowing his youthful features. He looked so young right then; he couldn't have been much over twenty-one. "Stalin. My family's always been in military, you see. Especially the males in my family; its our tradition. My dad and his brothers, his dad and his brothers going as far back as we can remember. We've always served our country and its leaders with undying faith and loyalty. Given them all we had and then some. My father and uncles were all intelligent high-ranking officers." His tone took on a bitter note. "Stalin had them killed in purge. Thanks to him and his merciless tactics my older brother got sent on suicide mission. I have family and friends starving to death in Ukraine while Stalin keeps saying we live in land of plenty. And with the NKVD running around murdering anyone he doesn't happen to like..." he shook his head and made a face, the bitterness reaching a crescendo. "I'll just say I wasn't thrilled about getting sent to defend his namesake city all in the name of his pride and glory. So when I saw that you guys actually had quite a few Russians on your side, I couldn't resist. Especially since I like to think I'm decent enough in your tongue — you can never have too many translators."

"You are decent in German, though you forget words sometimes."

Novokov blinked. "Oh. Sorry. Articles of speech can be so difficult to master when you're not used to having them. Funny that I have trouble with them, but I can remember the cases." He sighed, his gaze dropping to the floor. "Stalin's the biggest reason, but its also He struggled to find the words. I just feel like my country betrayed me, and my ex comrades don't care."

I know your country doesn't care. Ludwig thought. After hearing his story, it was certainly easy to understand why Novokov felt the way he did. Stalin was really no better than Hitler, he was just bad in different ways. "Do you ever regret it?"

"Regret what?"

"Changing sides."

Novokov shook his head. "No. It feels good fighting against Stalin. Although..."

Ludwig was all ears. "Yes?"

Novokov shivered. "I do miss being able to wear my Russian coat. It was warmer."

Ludwig couldn't blame him there. He turned away, the equivalent of a shrug. "At least you can still use it for a blanket."

X-x-X-x-X-x-X-x-X-x-X-x-X

The Obergefreiter's report revealed twelve men who could still fight and two more who couldn't. That made thirteen fighting-fit soldiers altogether, counting Ludwig. He decided to leave three men behind guarding the house and wounded and take nine with him to assault the church.

The three fighting-fit men in charge of guarding were the three best snipers amongst them. They would be left with most of the on-hand grenades as well. Ludwig hated to leave them behind, but the big house was an asset that could not be allowed to fall into enemy hands, especially if the attack on the church failed.

Everyone else was to accompany Ludwig in the death-or-glory mission, including Novokov, who was clearly terrified of Ivan, and Franz, whom Ludwig had once caught complaining about how he'd been "born to fish and forced to fight." It wasn't the ideal situation by far, but then, war always had been all about doing the best one could with what one had.

After a meager breakfast of watery broth and a few horse meatballs ( at least, Ludwig hoped they were made from horse — they looked and tasted kind of odd, and he didn't want to even think about what else they might be ) and some vodka to wash it down and put a bit of fire in their blood they readied their weapons and set out.

The first rays of the sun had just made it over the horizon. The snow glittered in the soft, pinkish blush of the approaching dawn. Still freezing, the air had that new-morning crispness to it.

Hyper-alert, Ludwig moved like a shadow on the sea, dashing in and out of gutted buildings, pressing himself against this wall and that, ducking, peeking, pointing his MP-35 in the direction of anything even remotely suspicious. His soldiers followed a few strides behind. It was generally a bad idea to rush like this, he knew, but their chances of taking the church were forfeit anyway if they happened to be engaged in battle before they even made it up to the blasted thing. Besides, moving targets were harder to hit, even for Russian snipers.

Luckily the small handful of Russians they encountered along the way were all asleep. These were dealt with swiftly and quietly; daggers streaked across their throats before they had a chance to even wake up. Ludwig and his men took as many of their weapons and as much of their ammunition and supplies as they could carry: they lacked the men to secure a return path.

At last, the churchyard was fully within view. Snow-covered and cast in a pink-tinged light, it was full of rubble and the occasional monument.

While his men crouched low in the corridors and settled behind corners and walls — and chunks of corners and walls — downstairs, upstairs, and at any and every place that offered a good view and decent protection, Ludwig peered through a glass-less window and scrutinized the church and churchyard carefully, forming a mental map of all interesting features.

Thankfully this churchyard wasn't surrounded by a fence of any kind — that always made things more difficult. The rubble and monuments made for very limited protection against sniper fire, but in a pinch they'd be better than nothing. From the way everything was situated and how the land rose and fell, it was extremely unlikely that there were any Russians waiting in hidden trenches in the ground. A thin, gray cat poked around timidly near one of the monuments, eating snow.

The church itself was two stories of weak wood, broken stained-glass, and exposed insides. The wall he was facing was half gone, and he could see the wooden pews and something that might have been an alter inside. No Russians yet.

Movement on the upper floor!

An enemy!

Every muscle in Ludwig's body tensed. Cold blue eyes narrowing dangerously, he slowly brought his submachine gun up, applied some pressure to the trigger.

A man — wait, no a woman wearing white — came into view. Her rifle was at her shoulder in an instant, and the still morning air broke with the first shot of the day.

She'd spotted someone!

The soldiers returned fire.

Fick! There goes the element of surprise. Ludwig cursed silently, exhaling the breath he hadn't even realized he'd been holding. Gunfire exploded all around him: there was a sharp scream, and the female sniper fell back.

We have to take this church...the Russians have the advantage in it...I don't know how many there are...

In that intense, heart-stopping moment, Ludwig made a bold split-second decision. It was incredibly risky and daring, but it might ultimately make the difference between winning or losing this church and, subsequently, the Volga, and it may just be the only chance they had. He was the only German here that could pull it off.

Lowering his submachine gun, the Aryan nation abandoned his station by the window and ran for the nearest gap in the wall.

I hope I know what I'm doing. But what else was there to do? Wait for the Russians to pick them off one by one? There could be ten of them up there, or fifteen, or more. And they almost certainly had more bullets.

The moment he set foot outside the ruins of his building he poured on the speed, traveling inhumanly fast. The Russians wouldn't have had time to all assemble yet — hopefully. He'd make it in like lightning, before anyone's eyes had time to process what was happening.

Even when he wasn't feeling his best — like now — Germany was a fairly fast runner, even by nation standards. The church rushed up at him. He swerved around a few monuments and debris piles so as not to make a straight line and shot in through the section of missing wall, diving behind the end of a pew close to the opposite side of the wall.

Had anyone seen that?

Everyone was pretty preoccupied with saving their own asses, so probably not. If they had, they'd probably attribute it to delirium, over-excitement, or hell, even too much vodka.

A volley of gunfire!

Bullets nicked the floor inches away from Ludwig, off to his right. There was no time to pay that any mind, however, as a bullet came at him from left, damn near hitting him in the side.

Flushed with adrenalin, the Nazi whipped around to see the Russian who had missed standing in full view and taking aim again. Without a second thought he brought his Maschinenpistole up and unleashed a stream of hot lead. The Russian crumpled to the floor in a bloody heap.

A quick visual scan of the area didn't reveal anymore enemies, but they were definitely there.

His heart thundering in his ears, Ludwig took a moment to steel his nerves and catch his breath, air shooting in and out of his mouth in curt, rapid puffs.

He'd done it.

He was in.

Now for the hard part.

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A/N:

Ja - Yes
Fick - German equivalent of the F-bomb
Hiwi - The German term for non-Germans assisting the German army. A startling number of them were Russians, with some being local citizens, some being Russian POWs, and a smaller percentage being actual Red Army traitors. In Stalingrad, they made up a full 25% of the Wehrmacht's front line forces. Google "Hiwi (volunteer)" to learn more.

NOTE: This one-shot is actually my opening post in a thread on a roleplaying board where I wrote for Germany. It can stand alone, or you can read the full version. To read the full version please visit the link in my author's profile. Thank you! :3