DOTR: Alright, I'm tired of enlightening the haters on things they just can't seem to comprehend. The little word-thingies I write are purely fiction, as is the reason FanFiction . net exists; so fans like me can write her love for characters she fancies. I also happen to enjoy writing out historical fics and, yes, I do research. But, please, still keep in mind this is firstly fiction before anything else, anything else historical related is obviously secondary. Some facts may be warped and traded to place in another time, that's the beauty of the fiction category.
Well, now that I said that, I might add another word that I'm growing tired of putting in "warnings." Obviously this fic is rated "M" and therefore said proper rating could ensue many warnings, the list goes on, and I'm rather lazy to state them. If there's anything you lovely readers don't like then please find another fic more suiting your tastes, thanks. : )
Summary: WWII American solider Alfred F. Jones and his squad of paratroopers are captured by Nazi Captain Gilbert Beilschmidt and his regiment who are then defeated in battle and captured by Soviet Lieutenant-Colonel Ivan Braginsky and his forces. With suspicions high on the Eastern Front, the Russians treat the American prisoners as if they were German spies, and thus mistreatment of actual allies ensues while Alfred's defiant behavior catches the Lieutenant-Colonel's eye.
"Ludwig, Ludwig! We need help over here, damn it!" Gilbert dunked when a shell exploded right near his station. Shrapnel ripped into the men surrounding him to protect him so he could radio for backup. Cursing the number of soldiers he was losing, the Prussian pressed the receiver closer to his mouth and shouted, "Damn it, it's the Russians!"
Gilbert and his regiment were just heading back to the city to drop off the war prisoners when they ran right into a Russian squad fully equipped and ready to fight. If Gilbert didn't receive aid fast then they were in some deep shit.
"Captain, the prisoners are trying to escape!"
Gilbert whipped his head around at the loud statement and sure enough his scarlet eyes caught sight of the group of Americans making a dash for it into the woods.
"Those dummkopfs!" Gilbert ground out, watching in horror as his men who gave chase fell to the artillery of the oncoming Russian soldiers. But the Germans weren't the only ones to meet their end in the barrage of fire, the American prisoners even found their mistake in attempting to escape their captors under the guise of battle. It was a stupid thing to do and even the ones waiting later to dart for it didn't learn from their fallen brothers on the front lines.
Gilbert made up his mind and darted after the breaking prisoner circle. His men were already in disarray of how to handle the oncoming Russian forces and now they were stressing more so to keep the prisoners still and in place. Gilbert shouted out orders to hold the Americans down, it was for both their own good.
"Damn it, get down, Alfred!" Gilbert shouted when he lunged on a particularly close American prisoner he had recently grown fond of. The soldier was no more than 19 years old, just a baby, and Gilbert wouldn't have his or his comrades' lives foolishly cut short if he could help it.
Gilbert could feel the boy struggling underneath him, and so the Prussian pressed all his weight upon him, using his palm to press against the back of the boy's golden head, pushing his face into the dirt to keep him still. The rest of Gilbert's men managed to secure the remaining prisoners but now they had to focus on saving their own lives when the sound of thudding boots echoed across the battlefield—the Russians were coming.
Taking out his walther, Gilbert extended his arm and shot every charging enemy soldier that came into line of sight out of the wafting smoke. The Prussian shot and shot until he ran out of ammunition. He went to reload, keeping his knee on the American prisoner's back that still lay underneath him, but the sudden last barrage of shells surprised him and the force of its close explosion knocked him back and covered him and anyone near him with up-kicked dirt.
It was the press of a gun barrel to the skull and angry shouts in a Slavic tongue all too familiar to the Prussian that brought him back to consciousness. A kick to the side was definitely for good measure to relieve upset for the brave Russian men Gilbert's regiment managed to take down in the fight, but in the end the Germans lost as Gilbert knew they would. He wondered if his distressed message ever got through to his brother whom he knew was stationed not too far from here.
Raising his arms, Gilbert managed to sit on his knees and shake the dizziness from his head. When the muffles in his ear clarified it was then he found himself distressed by something else. Of the American soldiers that managed to survive the battery, they were now in the hands of the Russian soldiers, being treated as exact equals with the recently captured German platoon.
"Let go of me!" Gilbert's ears were already attuned to the sound of Alfred. The boy had already made quite an impression on him and the other Germans the time they caught the American squad, and it seems he's doing the same to the Russian's handling him in equality with his German captors. "I'm an American, damn it! Stop treating me this way!"
Gilbert couldn't believe fellow allies were treating the Americans like this. Already he could see the Russian soldiers rounding up the surviving American prisoners and pushing them over toward where the rest of the Germans—now deemed prisoners of the victorious Russians—were being rounded up. Gilbert wondered if this mistake was because these Russian soldiers didn't know English, or if the worn German coats keeping the American boys warm were what swayed the Russians' minds from believing what the Americans were insisting. Either way, Gilbert didn't like the mistreatment, and, in want for fairness, began shouting out in Russian to the soldiers how the men demanding better treatment were speaking the truth.
"They are American!" Gilbert swore, startling the soldier baring over him. Even the harsher press of the gun to his head didn't hinder Gilbert from trying to win the case for the transferred prisoners. "I'm the head of this regiment and I swear to you we caught the—!" Gilbert groaned when the butt of the Russian soldier's gun hit him, dazing him.
"Keep quiet!" The Russian demanded. "All of you damn Germans."
Gilbert could hear the arguments waning while he tried to clear his vision, but of course one American was unseemly livid with the turn of worse situation for worse.
"Alfred," Gilbert groaned the boy's name, watching in dismay as a higher Russian officer came up to the three soldiers struggling with the American and dealt with the situation by ramming the side of a—was that a pole?—into the boy's head quite harshly, knocking him over and the conscious from his being.
"Alfred!" Gilbert gasped, well aware of the barrel now digging into his back and the growing annoyance of the soldier near him.
"I said be quiet!" The soldier demanded.
Gilbert wasn't one for injustice despite many of his people's actions. He wanted honor and clarity in war, and what he was witnessing was nothing of the sort.
The Prussian sneered at the way the head Russian stood over Alfred's mistreated unconscious form, and growled in upset at watching the large man press the end of the pole against the American's cheek, turning his face upward so he could have a better look at him.
"I said they're American!" Gilbert didn't care if he was beat again, all of this was wrong and he was going to address it no matter what. Finally the superior officer turned his eyes away from Alfred and spared Gilbert a glance. "You can't treat your allies like this!"
Gilbert didn't so much as flinch when the head Russian officer approached him with the same look he had Alfred before knocking his lights out, but Gilbert could certainly feel the stiffness in the Russian soldier near him. Every Russian soldier seemed to quiet when this man simply moved. The kind of fear he held in his subordinates was astonishing, but Gilbert would share none of it.
Finally, he was standing before the Prussian, his demeanor simply menacing. "As far as I know, Nazi, we were fighting Germans and they fighting us back. I see no Americans here."
With a deep frown the Russian turned on his heel and motioned for his men to round up the surviving prisoners. They were to be sent on a death march.
Gilbert was pulled to his feet. He was still a little off balance from his disorientation earlier, but he would find no help for his march, and, apparently, neither would the American soldiers.
"Come on, Al, you gotta wake up. They won't let us carry you forever!"
Alfred could hear the sounds of his brothers in arms, but just didn't seem to recognize the sound of their distress. He was tired, the Germans had them on poor rations and made them stand for the longest time at ungodly hours of the night—in winter no less. The only good thing they did was give them coats to keep warm in, but that was only because of the head German officer, Gilbert's orders. Right now Alfred felt a little rest was in order and just didn't want to open his eyes to the reality around them.
The reality that he and his surviving men were prisoners traded to be prisoners once again.
His sound and somewhat relaxing state was ruined the moment he was pushed over from the makeshift cot he'd been currently carried on. His tumble toward the cold ground stopped the prisoner march momentarily and it seemed the escorting soldiers weren't too fond of the hold. There were men on him immediately, forcing him to stand up, but Alfred only slouched forward, simply too exhausted and dizzy to stand up properly. The person he leaned forward on was warm enough and he would have offered a smile and thanks for their support hadn't his vision cleared enough for him to understand the man he was leaning on was none other than a German.
Alfred gasped and backed up, pressing into familiar faces and seeking American comfort. This might have helped hadn't the sharp smack to the back of the neck turned his attention toward a supposed ally soldier. Alfred frowned, glaring at the Russian soldier near him, seated easily in the seat of a truck with a smug-ass smile on his lips.
"Everyone carries their own weight and marches, comrade," the man said. He then motioned for the march to continue. "March."
Alfred wouldn't take this. He and his men were supposed to be freed, not get lumped in with their German captors.
"You can't do this to us!" Alfred complained. The strength of his lungs was the first to recover from his lagged state—a pity the sense in his brain hadn't. "We're American officers, and if you don—!" Alfred winced when the taut strap of leather—he was certain it was a prod—landed on his lips, stinging the chapped folds, but he held back his tears if only to glare at the Russian officer with defiant eyes.
"I did not ask for retort, I asked for movement." The Russian leaned a little further, closer to Alfred that the American wondered how he didn't fall out of the truck he was seated in. "Now." The prod's pressure weighed with the Russian's lean. "March."
Alfred wouldn't have moved an inch hadn't his men pushed him forward to save him from an unnecessary punishment. But even with the push the damn Russian made sure to keep an even pace with Alfred, staring at him while he rode alongside the line of marching miserable prisoners. Alfred at first stared back at him, but numerous jabs to the back from his fellow American soldiers had him turning his eyes ahead, however, the presence of the following Russian perturbed Alfred to no end, urging him to stop or at least turn and stare back, but he persevered at least until the sound of the stalking truck's revving engines alerted the American that the Russian had moved on and drove up ahead of the group.
"Be careful, Al." Alfred turned back to his comrades marching behind him. They looked worried, frightened even. "Don't mess with Lieutenant-Colonel Ivan Braginsky, he's the head of the platoon, and he's not that forgiving."
Alfred had a feeling they were withholding some daunting information concerning this Russian and their predicament and Alfred worried over it, but, in concordance with his friends pleas, he remained kept . . . at least as much as he could.
The death march was not exaggerated in its title. Alfred watched soldiers fall and never get up. Some were still alive when they walked past them, the Russians not giving the time of day if the fallen were still hanging onto life or not. However, there came times when Alfred had stumbled, even banged up his knee pretty badly to where walking for any amount of time would put strain on his joint, but it didn't matter his exhaustion or injury, the Russian's, especially that Lieutenant-Colonel Ivan made sure to get him to stand back up and keep moving. And there had been days Alfred wanted to just be left to die, knowing that death was a much better place than the hell those Russians wrongly put him and his men through, hell, he even felt for the damned Germans marching along next to them. More than one were at least shot a day out of sheer entertainment and Alfred was growing sick of it all.
The closer they marched toward Soviet territory the colder it grew. They marched right into deep winter and soon enough they all were forced to stop and set up camp to wait out a thick paralyzing snowstorm.
The makeshift tents the prisoners were given were thin and barely kept out the elements, but by then Alfred and the other Americans had no qualms with sharing space with a fellow prisoner, German or not. It was so cold, even between shared bodily heat, that many would rather sit out in the continuously falling snow just to be near a lit fire. Alfred's preferred place now was out in the snow by the few fires they were allowed to have. By this point, he's long since learned that the fellow German prisoners were more so allies than their Russian captors.
"This is bullshit," Alfred muttered through chattering teeth. He was glad for the old German coat he and his men had been given during their first capture. More so he was thankful for the stoking fire in front of him that many a weary prisoner crowded around. If this kind of mistreatment kept up, Alfred was sure that none of the prisoners would make it to the prison camp they were all in the process of being escorted to. "We shouldn't have to go through this!" Alfred felt warm tears sting his eyes. His men were already stretched thin from the Russian assault and now at least one per were dropping dead a day.
"I'm sorry for your trouble."
Alfred looked up and noticed Gilbert Beilschmidt, the captain of the German regiment. He looked just as weary as his men, but he's held strong for them, keeping his head upright for the most part of their journey for that German pride.
Alfred still frowned at his statement. "Why? You would have treated us the same."
"Nein, lies." Gilbert frowned and glanced his red gaze over toward the patrolling guards, just as cold as them, but remaining posted to show the prisoners the frame of their loaded guns. "I would have never treated any of you the way they are."
"Sure," Alfred muttered. He shivered, wondering if the fire's even grown cold. His attention turned to the sound of the Russian guards, they were picking on a prisoner—an American.
"Stay seated," Gilbert warned, fixing a hard stare to still the American and keep his actions from catching up with his thoughts that would only end him in trouble . . . again.
Alfred narrowed his eyes at the Prussian, contemplating listening to him. Gilbert's kept himself out of trouble so far, so his advice was welcome, though, not always heeded.
Someone like Alfred couldn't sit idle when this was happening around him and so he jumped to his feet and made to push over one of the guards. This quick action startled the other and the man's chilled hands fumbled about for his weapon laying against his hip.
"Go ahead and shoot me!" Alfred spat out while he reached down and helped his comrade to his feet. "But know you'll be killing an American soldier, and I hope to God the president sees to your detainment!"
"Over and over you swear you're American, yet you all sit so close to the Nazis and will not take off their coats."
Alfred turned. He had a special frown for Soviet Lieutenant-Colonel Ivan Braginsky. A frown that seemed to disturb everyone else but the large Russian.
There the man stood, in the shelter of a tent where the patrol guards would rest for a while before trudging back out in the weather to watch the prisoners. He was leaning against the frame, one flap open to reveal his relaxed smiling form.
"We're all freezing to death out here, so we keep close and keep the jackets. We'd gladly get rid of them, but only if you and your men provide us other coats," Alfred replied back.
His response elicited a chuckle from the head Russian, but the man only turned back into the tent to ignore. Alfred gladly shot him the bird before he and the abused American soldier returned to the fire. Alfred glanced toward Gilbert who simply shook his head and sighed.
"What?" Alfred questioned. "He didn't do a thing." Crossing his arms and leaning forward into the fire's heat, Alfred added a muttered, "he never does."
Alfred hadn't known what copious amounts of such attention would get him. So far he managed through the march, even though it was currently halted to let the rugged weather pass, survived the relentless ice and snow as well as abuse from the Russian soldiers, and soldiered on with the poor scrapes he and the rest of the prisoners were expected to live on.
The nights grew colder but he didn't complain. There were days they had to go without eating because of the poor rations. When the prisoner numbers dwindled some then they were served food fit for worms. It damaged many a psyche and thoughts turned dark and grim. But Alfred persevered like he always had and swore to himself that he'd live to return home. God, he missed the States so bad. He didn't even know how the war was going on in this frozen isolated prison.
But there was one night that came about where the previous isolation of icy hell didn't seem like such a bad place compared to what happened.
Alfred and a fellow American prisoner were in their rickety tent. They were huddled close, chest to chest to keep any heat emitted between the two. The snow had stopped but the winds chilled them more than that ice ever could. If the prisoners could manage a few hours of sleep every night then they could count themselves among the lucky. Most of the time they all ran on three or less hours of sleep every day, any longer managed then it was likely the prisoner was dead.
Neither Alfred nor his bedmate had managed to fall asleep yet. Their chattering teeth rung too loudly across their skulls, and their shivering shook either awake when one began to doze. But they hoped for rest, prayed for it.
When the flap to their tent opened it had been Alfred who was ready to cry out in upset over whoever let the harsh cold inside their already chilled tent. But the words caught in his throat when he watched two Russian guards slide in and take hold of his bedmate. The man yelped when they drug him out of the thin blankets they had wound themselves in. Already Alfred could feel the loss of his body heat and lamented firstly before his upset began to take him over for him to demand what the hell was going on, but again his words caught in his throat when he watched a third Russian enter his tent. It was Ivan.
Alfred might have said something in a moment or two when he managed to sit up, but the larger male was already on top of him, his smile darker than Alfred had remembered his previous malevolent displays.
With a cold hand pressed to Alfred's mouth, Ivan said, "If you cry out then I order my men to put bullet in his head."
Alfred's eyes widened at the posed threat to his bedmate and now he began shaking for an entirely different reason than chill.
There was no way Gilbert could sleep that night, not with how low the temperatures plummeted and his bedmate out by the fires. The Prussian was exhausted and just wanted a little rest, but without any source of heat he'd surely freeze to death in the night. So he got up and left the confines of his tent to make his way to the fire for yet another sleepless night. On his way he happened to catch sight of a couple of Russian guards mistreating an American prisoner. For a brief moment Gilbert wondered if the American had wronged them in some way; either being caught stealing food, cigarettes, flint, or just plain bad-mouthing them. The Americans were known to be more defiant than the Germans in the hold, especially one certain youth who got out of real trouble simply from the amusement of the commanding officer of this regiment. But even still, while the Americans were beginning to lean on the Germans so were the Germans beginning to bond with their fellow inmates.
Gilbert wouldn't let unnecessary mistreatment take place, and if he was punished for defending the right then so be it. A little fight might get his freezing blood pumping through him.
"Hey! Stop this!" Gilbert came up to the men and pushed the closest one off of the beaten American soldier. The other Russian soldier looked quite upset and made to strike at the Prussian, but Gilbert beat him to it. He really didn't feel like he had anything to lose and so punched the man right in the face. His knuckles smarted in the cold after the strike but it had been enough to land the soldier on his back for a short nap. When the other soldier regained his footing Gilbert decided to knock his consciousness from him too. It felt good to hit the Russians, and with the way Gilbert's heart raced he was certain he'd be feeling warm in no time.
Gilbert grinned to himself just for the hell of it, glad that this spot was more recluse from the eyes of other patrolmen. Leaning down he offered the battered American a hand. Gilbert hadn't expected him decline his offer for support, but the distressed American was quick to wipe his bloody nose and offer explanation besides the assumed held racism.
"A-Alfred!" The soldier gasped, his eyes glancing back to where the prisoner tents lay, a clear drag line in the snow lay as path from where he came. "Braginsky came in a-and they dragged me out!"
So much for the adrenaline pumping fire through Gilbert's veins. All he felt now was sheer ice in his gut over what he was hearing and coming to in his mind.
"W-We gotta help!" The American began to try getting up. The Russians had beat him in his struggle as they dragged him away from his bedmate and brother in arms. "I won't . . . I won't leave him!"
Gilbert would have offered his frame for the soldier to support himself on. The man's left eye was swelling and with his already wobbling legs, Gilbert doubted he'd be able to get far on his own. But Gilbert left him. He left the soldier to his own balance as he, himself, turned and darted back toward the tents.
Even with the snow so high he made quick time. He knew where Alfred's tent was and as he came closer his ringing ears already caught sound of the boy's desperately pitched pleas. Gilbert didn't waste another moment and literally threw his life away in that moment when he pulled the flap of the tent back and leaned into the tent.
Sure enough, there was Ivan Braginsky laying over Alfred. The American had tears streaming down his face and his arms up in struggle with the overbearing Russian pressing down upon him.
Gilbert didn't wait for either to notice his presence. He reached out and took hold of that long scarf of the Russian's and pulled him right off of the boy as well as directly out of the tent and into the snow.
Gilbert thought about striking him for what he tried to do to Alfred—he could still hear the American's frightened sobs from inside the tent—but a sense of dread froze him and watched as Ivan retaliated quicker than expected. In an instant the Russian was to his feet with his gloved fist knocking right against Gilbert's temple. It hurt and the Prussian fell to the ground, but the moment he felt Braginsky take hold of him to lift him to his feet, Gilbert reached forward and struggled to pry his grip off of him. He braced himself when he watched that fist retract and reel for another pummel. But their skirmish had alerted the other prisoners who were trying to sleep in their tents. They came out immediately and offered support for the Prussian while posing a threat to the currently alone commanding Russian officer by encircling him.
Ivan noticed them immediately, his attention now pulled from beating the defending prisoner in his grasp to the surrounding war prisoners. The Russian looked around him for a moment before seeing some of his men approaching in the distance. They were just far enough for the prisoners to do the man damage if they wanted to and so he released Gilbert and let the Prussian fall to the ground.
Ivan straightened, took on the image of warden once more and smiled at the closing prisoners.
"It is very late, da? You all should be getting rest. It will be eventful day tomorrow," he spoke with calm while continuing to steal glances toward the oncoming Russian soldiers making their way through the snow to the cluster of prison tents.
None of the captured soldiers were looking for a fight, but Gilbert could see their tense forms and a few clenched fists. They didn't want to fight but they would defend.
The circle was broken when the Russian guards finally came. They pushed through the boys and broke them apart. They expressed their apologies to their leader who seemed more collected than them about the situation.
"Is fine," Ivan said with a wave of his hand. Gilbert caught him turn his eyes back toward Alfred's tent for a moment before turning back to his men and offering them a practiced smile. "Everyone was just turning in for sleep. As am I."
Ivan took up an escort and walked off, but Gilbert understood his muttered orders on his walk away. The remaining guards heeded the words said and took a hold of him. He knew he'd pay for what he did and so he kept to his silence.
He was dragged away, but he managed to catch sight of Alfred still inside his tent. The boy was trembling, tears still in his eyes as he struggled to put his belt back on and fix his ripped coat and disheveled pants. Their eyes met briefly and it was then Alfred shone understanding of who had saved him and the sacrifice he made for him.
DOTR: Lol, another ruined oneshot of mine. Came out too long (currently have 60 plus pages of this little baby), and so a multichapter it is! Welp, hope you enjoyed. I'm currently working on a Halloween fic (let's hope I can keep it a oneshot :/), but I have a tendency to write at work and this fic is what I waste my time with, haha.