Disclaimer:This story contains strong language, violence and realistic depictions of war crimes. In some cases, the war crimes will have been committed by major characters. While many sympathetic military characters in the manga and anime are guilty of comparable crimes, I understand that it might be more difficult to read if the crimes closely resemble real life atrocities. If any of the above might be a problem, I recommend you stop reading now.

N.B. I have tried to make the story easy to read for those without significant knowledge of the period but I am quite fond of using foreign language terms rather than their English translations (which I feel sound clunky) so if there are any terms that you don't understand, I have added a small glossary at the bottom.

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Chapter 1: Kotelnikovo and Kalach

Kotelnikovo, Reichskommissariat Kaukasus- 23rd August 1942

The door creaked upon, the noise terrifyingly loud in the silent hotel. For a moment, Alphonse froze where he stood, fearful of awakening one of the less understanding officers and being chewed out, but the eerie building remained quiet and he eventually pushed the door open enough for him to slip through. The room beyond was in almost complete darkness, even the faint light of the moon was held back by the pulled curtain. Alphonse peered around, trying to find the Captain. He was almost sure that he had heard the man speaking but when he saw him lying still on the bed, the young manservant wondered whether he had been mistaken. He was about to slip out again when he heard the faint murmur of his master's voice.

"Just doing... I had to..."

The Captain began to stir, his sleeping form twitching as if possessed. Alphonse was surprised to hear faint sobs break up the man's barely formed words.

"Stop... No, I didn't want... Please... NO!"

The man's convulsions stopped and the Captain lay still again. Alphonse was about to try and creep out again when he heard the Captain speak again, louder and more coherent.

"Alphonse? Is that you?"

A thrill of illogical terror ran up the young man's spine as if he had been caught doing something terrible.

"Y-Yes sir."

The Captain's silhouette sat up, the sheets pooling around his waist. There was the rasp of a match being struck and a small kerosene lamp on his bedside flared to life. In the lamp's orange light, Alphonse could not help but notice that the Captain's hair was shining with sweat and his sheets were tangled around his limbs like a fever patient.

"Is there something wrong, sir? Are you sick? I mean, it would be terrible considering the attack is tomorrow..."

The Captain looked up, his dark eyes still clouded by sleep. For a moment he stared dumbly at his manservant but then he seemed to understand.

"Oh... Yes. Of course. The attack. We will be the first ones in."

The Captain lapsed back into silence for a long time before suddenly snatching up his heavy, silver pocket watch where it lay next to the lamp. After checking the time, he sighed slightly.

"We still have four hours before I am even meant to be dressed."

He turned his head towards his young bursche.

"You should go to bed, Alphonse. I did not mean to wake you up."

The young man simply shrugged.

"I am a light sleeper. And I don't think I will be able to get back to sleep, not now."

The Captain chuckled darkly, his head craning back to look at the ceiling where the lamp cast flickering spectres like a shadow play.

"No... I don't think I could go back either. Well..."

He looked down and gave Alphonse a forced smile.

"How about some tea, Alphonse?"

"With a little brandy, sir?"

"Yes. I think some brandy would do nicely."

By the time Alphonse returned with the desired drink in hand, the Captain was sitting half-dressed on the bed and fiddling with the buttons of the jacket, something he had begun to have problems with. Back when they were serving in France, the Captain had been able to dress himself adequately without the assistance of his trusty bursche but, in recent months, he invariably ended up confusing the rows of holes on the double breasted setup or else mangling the black necktie. This morning, the buttons were all over the place and the necktie had been tied into a truly grisly Gordian knot before being tossed carelessly on the floor. Once the Captain was distracted by his tea, Alphonse grabbed the tie and began attempting to unpick the Captain's previous attempt at tying the thing.

"Alphonse?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Thank you."

"For the tea, sir?"

"Oh... yeah. For the tea."

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The Captain pushed open the top hatch of his panzer's commander's copula, no longer able to bear the stuffy interior of the tank. As he stood up in his seat, enjoying the breeze, he heard his new radio officer babbling to the main gunner.

"They say that it is the largest air armada ever assembled. More than one and a half thousand aircraft have been pulled from all across the Reich to create it: Luftflotte Vier!"

The Captain felt the need to roll his eyes at the Private's excitement. Kain Fuery was one of the fresh new recruits sent in to replace their losses during Barbarossa and with an obsession with technology which made in equal parts very useful and slightly annoying. The Captain occasionally felt the need to snap at him but always fought down the urge, if only because it was not behaviour becoming of a commissioned officer. Fortunately for the nerves of the rest of the crew, the main gunner, a dark haired man with odd lightning streaks on his temples, had no such compunctions.

"Private?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Shut up."

"But..."

Fuery's words were drowned out beneath the roar of another wave of bombers flying overhead towards the city. The Captain watched them as they approached Stalingrad, an ugly smudge of greasy black smoke that rose from behind the horizon. Once the last of the bombers had delivered their incendiary payloads, the panzers of the Fourth Army would roll into the city. The attack had been carefully planned to the last minute. The Wehrmacht relied on synchronised attacks from land and air, operations that went like well maintained clockwork. So, like a loyal little cog in the vast and overly complex machine of the German military, the Captain could do nothing but wait for the signal to move. As he waited, he unconsciously flicked the lid of his pocket watch open and closed.

"Sir?"

The Captain sat down and peered past the loader to see the bespectacled face of his radio officer. The ignorant mix of fear and excitement on the untested, young Private's face told him all he needed to know. They had received the order. The Captain acknowledged and sent word to Falman for them to move out.

The panzer's driver gunned the engines and the machine shuddered into motion. The Captain looked left to check that the rest of the company was following. Lieutenant Havoc's second platoon was already on the move and third platoon, commanded by Lieutenant Breda, was keeping pace just behind. As they moved across the steppe, the panzers began to accelerate. Driving at such speeds was far from comfortable but if the Russians had any large guns, the flat and empty landscape made them easy targets.

In the distance, flashes of orange light were reflected in the oily smoke over the city. Those were from the anti-aircraft guns of the city's Russian defenders and the Fourth's primary objective for the day. They also represented the main threat to his panzers. Most guns designed to knock out aircraft flying at six kilometres up could do some nasty damage to a panzer at closer ranges. To his extreme left, he could hear guns begin to fire. Third platoon swung around to engage while second stayed its course to protect the Captain's flank. Shortly afterwards, the Captain heard Fuery shout over the noise of the engine.

"Lieutenant Breda has come under fire and has begun to engage the enemy. No casualties so far!"

The Captain acknowledged the message and sent one of his own.

"Tell him once he clears out the Reds he is to wait for the grenadiers to catch up. And good hunting."

"Yes, sir."

Two platoons now spread out into a wide line, Havoc guarding the left flank while the Captain led the centre. After another few minutes, the Captain made out a set of earthenwork positions about two thousand metres to the northeast. Within minutes, the rest of the platoon had called it in. Without even a word passing between the crewmembers, the main gun was loaded with high explosive shells and the lightening haired gunner was dialling in the enemy fortifications.

"Permission to fire, sir?"

Flashes of orange lit up the enemy positions as their guns began to fire. The Captain immediately sat back down and closed the hatch. He would rather deal with the copula's restricted vision than risk being hit by a stray piece of shrapnel.

"Permission granted."

Up and down the line, the panzers fired in a single thunderous salvo. The earthen fortifications disappeared in a spray of dirt and smoke. Here and there, the enemy guns detonated in spectacular explosions as their ammunition was detonated. The return fire was paltry, most of it flying past the advancing panzers and the rest glancing off their thick frontal armour. The Captain was unable to make out any casualties on his own side. A thin smile began to tug at his lips.

"Charlie? Enemy gun at 11 degrees. Fire when ready."

"Yes sir."

The next salvo was more ragged as the individual commanders chose their own targets but it was no less devastating. The return fire from the enemy guns was surprisingly persistent albeit ineffective. The Captain snorted. The Reds were putting up truly pathetic resistance today. As soon as he thought it, there was a cruel metal clang followed immediately by a nasty grinding sound. The Captain's panzer immediately slowed almost to a halt. The Captain looked down into the chassis, scanning for fire or blood. Having found no sign of either, he yelled out.

"Is anyone hurt?"

A chorus of negatives met his statement and he breathed a sigh of relief. Fuery, surprisingly enough was the first to ascertain what had been hit.

"I think they dislodged one of the treads."

The Captain swore, then slouched back in his seat.

"Fuery? Send a message to Havoc. Tell him that he will have to go to the party without me but not to advance past the enemy line. Copy that to Sergeant Falman as well."

Through the thick bulletproof glass of his copula, the Captain could make out his platoon sergeant's panzer as it moved in front of his own to give his crew cover should they need to bail out. Ahead of them, the distinctive clatter of machineguns told the Captain that Havoc had closed with the enemy and were mopping up any stray infantry. Deciding to risk it for the benefit of peripheral vision, the Captain threw the top hatch open just in time to see Falman clamber out of his own vehicle. The grey haired NCO saluted as he walked over.

"Technical difficulties, Captain?"

"Something like that, Sergeant. I trust I am the only casualty we suffered?"

"Yes, sir. You always did have the Devil's Luck."

The Captain shrugged, his smile widening.

"At least it was some pathetic 35mm peashooter rather than one of those 85mm monsters..."

Fuery called out something from within the panzer and the Captain immediately dropped back down to catch it.

"Sorry, Private. What did you just say?"

"It is Lieutenant Havoc, sir. He asks if you can come immediately."

The Captain snorted and pushed himself out the hatch. As he clambered down the side, he turned to his surprised platoon sergeant.

"Sorry, Falman, but I am going to need to borrow your vehicle for the time being."

When the Captain arrived at the Soviet's defensive line, he was surprised to see the tank crews out of their vehicles and wandering around. As soon as his borrowed panzer came to a halt, he was met by one of Havoc's subordinates.

"Captain? I am truly sorry about this... Lieutenant Havoc appears to have taken a nasty turn and he demanded you..."

The Captain's brow furrowed and he followed the nervous sergeant around a scorched earthen position. The smell of awful greasy stench of badly cooked meat assailed their nostrils as they entered the gun pit. Havoc was standing next to the ruined gun, one of his ubiquitous cigarettes dangling unlit from his lips. As soon as he saw the Captain approach, he began to stride towards him. His commander did not notice the violence in the Lieutenant's step until it was too late. The blonde man grabbed the Captain by his jacket and slammed him into the side of the burnt-out gun.

"How could you!"

The Lieutenant's face was twisted into a furious mask, his usual easy-going demeanour completely absent. The Captain found the change quite startling.

"Lieutenant Havoc! What are you..."

"You knew! You always know! So why didn't you say something!"

The man's blue eyes began to water.

"You just told us to open fire..."

Over the distraught Lieutenant's shoulder, the Captain could suddenly make out a small figure covered by a blanket. A long blonde pigtail stuck out from under the thin covering.

"They were school girls! Barely even eighteen! And we just..."

Havoc was now staring at his boots, his grip slack enough that the Captain could have easily torn himself free. Instead, he simply stood there silently.

"Their guns didn't even have any effect. There was no reason for us to..."

Havoc fell to his knees, staring at his hands.

"They were just school girls..."

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Kalach, Stalingrad Front - 23rd August 1942

One of the men on the frontline panicked, throwing down his rifle and running away from the chest high barricade. He made it all of six paces before he collapsed screaming. One of his comrades turned at his pained cries and was horrified to find himself staring down the barrel of a blocky dull-grey pistol.

"Continue shooting, comrade."

The man blanched and stumbled backwards. Standing in front of him was a woman of about thirty wearing the uniform of a politruk. In her hand was a blocky Mauser pistol and it was pointed squarely at him.

"I said: continue shooting, comrade."

Despite the gunfire all around them and the fact that the politruk did not raise her voice, he could clearly make out the menace in her speech. With a frightened whelp, the man turned back to the fighting and began firing his rifle with feverous determination. Behind him, the politruk snorted and walked over to the wounded man who had tried to run. Instead of crawling back to his position, he remained lying on the ground sobbing like a child. Another shot from her Mauser ended the coward's screeching.

"Pathetic."

"Commissar Armstrong!"

The politruk looked up from the dead deserter to see a man with the distinctive white hair and dusky skin of Lieutenant Miles. He was panting and his rifle was slung. Armstrong gave him a second to catch his breath, not wanting to waste time trying to decipher a garbled message. After a short moment, the man stood tall and saluted.

"Commissar! Major Raven at the barricade at Komsomol Street is requesting permission to retreat. He has come under attack from fascist panzers and he does not have anything to hold them back."

The female politruk snarled at the Major's feebly hidden attempt at self-preservation but could find no fault in his logic. The Soviet artillery had been hit badly by the German aircraft and their own tanks were too far away to be of any use. All they had were a handful of outdated anti-tank rifles and defective rifle-grenades. After a moment's thought, she grudgingly admitted defeat.

"Send my brother's unit to the area. They should be able to keep the fascists busy, for a while at least. But Komsomol Street must hold."

That was the difficulty with fighting the Germans: their entire doctrine was about piercing the front line. If the Soviets had learnt anything from the humiliations in the Ukraine, it was that even a single breakthrough could result in entire armies being surrounded and worn down by numerically inferior foes. It was a method which worked on the tactical level as well as the strategic and one needed to strike a delicate balance between the need to straighten any kinks in the frontline and preventing a total rout. Considering the overwhelming mobility of their foes and the quality of the troops under her oversight, any attempt at retreat would turn into a massacre.

"Chyort! Lieutenant Miles? Make sure these cretins don't break. I will deliver the news to the Major myself."

Armstrong barely waited for the Lieutenant to salute in confirmation before she took off towards Komsomol Street at a run. Major Raven... If one man filled the very definition of spineless, sentimental imbecility, it was that man. She had even heard that he insisted on tending to his own wounded, disregarding the entire chain of command for the sake of a handful of his men.

The blonde politruk turned a corner and was immediately faced with a dozen terrified looking civilians, women and young children. Instead of trying to protect themselves they were merely cowering in the streets. How pathetic.

"All of you! You have just been conscripted into the Red Army. Do as I say or I will execute you on the spot for desertion!"

Their panicky babbling turned to horrified silence. One of them, a grey haired matron who was fleshier than anyone had a right to be in wartime, stepped forwards and opened her mouth to protest. Armstrong did not even let the words escape before she emptied her Mauser into the bloated traitor.

"Any other questions?"

The assembled civies... no soldiers were quick to deny any thoughts of disobedience and the politruk began herding them towards Raven's position like the frightened sheep they were. While they did not have guns or training, they could at least help shoring up barricades or reloading rifles. Maybe their presence might motivate the men to fight harder. Some of the stories in the Government Issue pamphlets about what the fascists did to captured Soviet women should be sufficient to steel their resolve.

When they finally reached the Komsomol Street, Armstrong was disappointed to find that Raven had not been exaggerating. While the panzer seemed to have moved on, the effects of its cannon and machineguns were very apparent on the barricade and surrounding buildings, all of which were slick with Soviet blood. The Major was standing near the top of the barricade, directing fire through a flimsy cardboard periscope. At his subordinate's yell, he turned and recognised the female politruk immediately.

"Commissar! We are being overrun! I have already lost half of my company..."

"Then you still have half a company to give, Major. Also, I have some reinforcements for you."

The man blanched slightly at the sight of the civilian women and children.

"What are you doing? Those people should have been evacuated long ago..."

"Well, nothing we can do about it now. They can help rebuild the barricade and reload rifles for your men."

Raven grimaced but eventually relented and barked an order for his few surviving NCOs to put the women to work. As he did, he called over his shoulder to the politruk.

"I hope you have a better plan than just stand here and die, Commissar."

Armstrong smiled, a chilling, predatory thing.

"It would not be prudent to make plans which violate our orders, Major."

Before Raven could reply, one of the men on the barricades yelled out.

"They are attacking again!"

Immediately, the sound of gunshots intensified and the Soviet soldiers wearily threw themselves to the lip of the barricade, firing off a shot or two before ducking back behind cover. A few of the braver women grabbed rifles from the dead and joined the troop at the top. While Raven continued to peer through his periscope, Armstrong simply stood up and scanned the approach with her own eyes. The fascists were approaching steadily on the left, using the rubble caused by the aerial bombing as cover from the Soviet fire. She hissed at the incompetence of her ill-trained conscript troops as their fire failed to even slow the German advance. Bullets whizzed by her head and she ducked back down, crawling a few metres to the left before sticking her head out again. The fascists had stopped advancing and were now hiding among the rubble, about two hundred metres down the road. Armstrong suddenly had a very bad feeling about what they were doing, a feeling validated moments later by Major Raven and his ridiculous periscope.

"They have a machinegun!"

Unlike the sharp crack of the rifles, the German machinegun produced a lower sound like a hydraulic drill pounding through concrete. One of the women was too slow to duck and was scythed down in a hail of bullets from the automatic weapon. The gun proceeded to sweep up and down the barricade, forcing the rest of the Soviet troopers to dive for more solid cover. Armstrong peeked over the top and swore. The fascist had picked a very good position to set up his MG where a fallen slab of concrete provided his entire body with overhead cover from the Soviet elevated position. Only the ugly black body of his gun was visible. In the meantime, the rest of the fascists were running forward, grenades in hand. She tried to get a shot off from her Mauser but was immediately forced back down by another burst from the enemy machinegun. As she knelt behind the barricade, trying to think of a solution, she saw someone move out of the corner of her eye.

It was one of the women she had picked up, a pale blonde girl clutching a dead man's rifle. As she watched, the young blonde stood and brought the rifle to her shoulder. Bullets impacted on the barricade and flew around her but she did not duck. Instead, she stood calmly among the fire aiming the rifle. Just as Armstrong was sure that she would be cut down, she fired and the fascist machinegun went quiet. Immediately, the rest of the Soviet troops raised their rifles and fire on the advancing German riflemen. Running in the open and denied covering fire by their MG, the fascists were easy prey. Armstrong was not so much interested in them as what had happened to the German machinegun. Snatching a pair of binoculars from the protesting Major Raven, she examined the concrete slab where the gun had been set up and almost laughed.

The fascist machine gunner had damaged his bipod during his mad dash to the firing position and had tried to brace his weapon against the rubble with his left hand instead. The girl had managed to hit that tiny patch of exposed flesh, two hundred metres down range. After a moment, the wounded man abandoned his gun and tried to run but was brought down by a veritable fusillade of gunfire from the Soviet troops.

Armstrong turned back to look for the blonde girl but she was no longer on the barricade. While the rest of the Soviets celebrated having survived the most recent German assault, the politruk jumped down and scanned the streets for the sharpshooter. There! The girl was running away, the rifle discarded. Armstrong frowned and followed. After a minute, the girl dived down an alley only to find it blocked by rubble. She turned to find Armstrong standing in the alley's opening, her Mauser drawn.

"Why did you try and run?"

The girl gazed at her with frantic brown eyes and looked back at the rubble blocking the alley. It looked far too treacherous to try and climb, especially if someone was taking shots at you as you did. Desperation began to creep into the girl's brown eyes as she weighed her options. Armstrong made it easy by walking over to her and grabbing her arm.

"Why did you run? Answer me!"

The girl looked at her, the desperation turning her eyes wild.

"Please! I... I don't want to..."

She was babbling. Armstrong shook her slightly.

"What is your name?"

The girl clammed up for a moment before gazing dejectedly at the ground.

"Riza."

Armstrong's frown deepened.

"Don't play games with me girl. The only reason I haven't already shot you is because my brother needs people like you in his unit. Now answer me: What is your name?"

The girl replied and the politruk immediately understood her reluctance. Her father must have been the strategist the NKVD executed back in '37. Armstrong remembered him mainly for the fact that after his execution, all of his books on strategy had been removed from the military libraries. Given the current paranoia about spies and counter-Communist saboteurs, it was unlikely anyone with her name would last very long at all, especially with the NKVD checking the papers of anyone leaving the city. Armstrong knew that it probably would be the most correct option to hand her over to the firing squad. But at the same time, Alex's unit were just about the only things preventing a total rout in the sector. How many good Soviet lives would she be throwing away if she sent this talented young sharpshooter to the firing squad?

In the end, the decision was not hard to make.

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German Terms

Luftflotte Vier- or in English: Airfleet Four. This was the largest air formation ever assembled, numbering 1,600 craft at its height. Luftflotte Vier was responsible for the bombing of Stalingrad during which an estimated 40,000 civilians were killed (the same number as were killed during the ENTIRE bombing campaign against Britain)

Operation Barbarossa - The name given by the Germans for the invasion of the Soviet Union in 1941, which was intended to be a single knockout blow. While numerous crushing defeats were visited upon the Soviets, the Germans were unable to complete their objectives by the onset of winter, thus allowing the Soviets time to rearm and mobilise their troop strength

Panzer - German word for tank (in this story, it will usually refer to the Panzerkampfwagen IV)

Bursche - German word for the personal valet to a commissioned officer (known in Britain as a Soldier-Servant or a Batman)

Russian Terms

Politruk - or in English: Political Commissar. These officers were created to maintain ideological wellbeing among the military and (in the first part of the war) commanded "barrier troops" who would execute anyone attempting to retreat without explicit permission, in accordance with Stalin's Order No.227 (also known as the "Not a step back" Order)

Chyort - Russian expletive loosely equivalent to "damn"

NKVD - Soviet Secret Police. This organisation was responsible for the suppression of counter-government activity and major participant in Stalin's purges. Infamously brutal and unwilling to admit their mistakes, they were feared particularly for being prepared to arrest anyone for the smallest reason