NOTE: I can't believe I wrote this.

April 28, 1945

Weiss Schnee adjusted her Volkssturm armband before shouldering the Karabiner issued to her by their battalion commandant.

She was barely seventeen when she 'voluntarily' heeded the call of duty. The Fatherland needed every able body in the defense against the advancing Red Army. But even before she could be considered an adult by anyone's standards, she already shared the sardonic views of the older members of her company. She mostly kept those thoughts to herself though.

Her older sister Winter shared the same view but also wisely remained tightlipped on the matter, instead using her sternness and prestige (or whatever little remained of their once prodigious family name) to keep up morale and enforce discipline within their ranks. On the other hand, her younger brother Whitley instead mindlessly parroted the 'patriotic' slogans barked over the radio. If anyone were to ask Weiss herself—as long as the battalion commandant was out of earshot—she would admit that the war was a lost cause and they were all being thrown into a desperate, if not futile, defense of Berlin.

Then again, she was a seventeen-year-old girl whose school had been bombed to pieces by the Allies at around the same time she was yanked out of her mansion—or what was left of it—to join the ranks of the Third Reich's glorious defenders.

The 'People's Storm,' it was called.

Indeed, they were a storm of mismatched 'fighters' willing to bury the enemy alive with their own corpses.

Weiss wiped the dirt from her eyes and focused on the broken streets in front of her. So far, she had managed to avoid any direct fighting—in part due to the influence of her sister and the fact that her squad leader had been paid by her mother to keep her out of harm's way—but, no matter how many times she denied it, it was inevitable that she would have to face the Red Army and their more organized, more experienced, more uncompromising troops.

She just hoped for whatever mercy the Russians could spare. Then again, after what her Fatherland had done to their Motherland, she doubted she would be given the light of day by any Soviet soldier she would be unfortunate enough to encounter. She shuddered to think of what they would actually do to her should they get their hands on her.

"Weiss," Winter said, resting her hand on her shoulder. Though a private in the Volkssturm like she was, she held the authority and poise of a lieutenant. "How are you faring?"

"Gut, gut," Weiss replied shakily. "This rifle is heavy."

Winter chuckled. Rarely did she chuckle. "At least you wouldn't be lifting the Panzerschreck."

Weiss allowed for a short laugh herself. "Lucky me, then."

The two sisters smiled and relished in the moment of levity before regarding the barren streets. They stood in a ditch dug behind a wall of sandbags and some ramshackle fortifications cobbled together from debris, furniture, and general garbage.

After a while, Weiss's smile vanished from her face and she whispered to her sister. "Winter, I'm scared."

"I know," Winter replied morosely. "Me too. But we must play our part. Wir sind Volkssturmmannen. We are the protectors of Berlin. And we will hold this line."

Weiss could only nod. She did not like that slogan. In fact, she did not like that she had to stomach such words and repeat them when asked by their seniors. How many times had that been invoked?

The Red Army broke the line at Seelow, shattering what little hope they had of holding back the tide. The Red Army again broke the line outside Berlin, tearing apart the city with their innumerable rockets. And earlier this morning, the Red Army had crossed the Moltke Bridge, pushing the line even further into the city center. Now that the Russians were only several blocs away, how long would this line hold?

"If you'll excuse me, I have to go see to the others," Winter said. "Take care, Weiss."

Weiss watched her sister go, leaving her alone in her pit. A seventeen-year-old militant tasked with watching the road. By herself because her comrades were either dead, dying, or busy manning some other post. Whatever squadron they formed was stretched to cover a wide area and what little camaraderie they formed in their short time together was strained by their lack of communication.

In essence, it was every man (or woman) for himself.

Weiss shook her head of these thoughts. She had to focus. With her Karabiner weighing down on her lithe arm, she wiped away a frightful tear so she could put on a strong face.

Private Dmitri Petrenko followed his comrades Private Yefrosin Chernov and Sergeant Viktor Reznov as they advanced down the streets of Berlin.

Slowly but surely, they claimed every inch of this wretched city. Building by building, room by room, 'one rat at a time' as Sergeant Reznov once put it. Yet, despite the damage done by their artillery and the holes blasted into the walls by their tanks, there was no one who would deny that Berlin itself was a beautiful metropolis.

Indeed, its multistory buildings stood pridefully with their impeccable masonry and fine metalwork while ruined cars of varying German make crowded the streets—cars that were of superior quality to the vehicles back in Stalingrad and Moscow. Even the individual homes they had to fight in bore furniture, décor, and art that were nothing out of the realm of the luxurious bourgeoisie.

Such wealth, such abundance, such decadence...

And yet these rich, exploitive, fascist Germans—a supposedly 'perfect' people who had everything one could hope for, who possessed the glorious future that the proletariat were working so hard to achieve—chose to invade Russia...and take away what little the workers of the Soviet Union had toiled for.

This fact in itself filled Dmitri with rage. The same rage that was shared by his comrades. But none more so than Sergeant Reznov and Commissar Markhov. Both men were among the oldest in their unit, a veteran fighting force within the vaunted Third Shock Army. Both men spoke of the horrors they had witnessed, the atrocities committed by these Nazis, the friends and loved ones they had lost... Both men were right to be furious and vengeful. Both were right to show no mercy to these cowering fascists. Both men were consumed by absolute hatred.

And both men were something Dmitri continuously strove not to become.

The grizzled private from east of the Volga was a patriot like many of his comrades but he would never allow himself to stoop as low as the Germans. Barring Commissar Markhov's raving speeches and Sergeant Reznov's declarations of vengeance, Private Petrenko could bring himself to do the same to the families of these people.

Deep in his mind, Dmitri would agree that Chernov was right. This was not war; this was murder. But he kept those thoughts to himself as they advanced in column down the streets of Berlin, shooting down those who dared to fight back and ignoring the fact that many of these Germans were not even proper soldiers to begin with.

-~oOo~-

April 29, 1945

Winter found Weiss crying inside a disabled halftrack.

The younger girl was cowering several streets away from the position her squadron was supposed to defend. Now undoubtedly lost to the Red Army.

"Weiss, Weiss," the older woman cooed, squeezing into the vehicle and wiping away the tears on her cheeks. "Hey, hey. It's okay. I'm here, I'm here."

"Winter, I...I...th-they..."

"Shhh, it's okay, it's okay." Winter took her sister in her arms and caressed her hair. "It's over. For now, it's over. You're here with me. You're safe."

"Th-they, they...I couldn't..."

"What matters is that you're still alive."

"I...I don't think they saw me...I r-r-ran as f-fast as I could."

"You were right to do that."

"B-but th-that's c-cowardice! I'm a...I'm a traitor," Weiss sobbed.

If Winter truly believed everything her superiors said, then Weiss was indeed a traitor for fleeing the battle. But then again, what did it matter at this point? Berlin was surrounded and it was only a matter of time before the Red Army would emerge victorious. Such defeatist talk was treasonous yet Winter mentally damned her leaders to Hell if it meant speaking the undeniable truth.

This was not the Germany she had grown up dreaming of. This was not the 'Thousand-year Reich' that was constantly promised to her years ago. This was not the supreme Aryan paradise she had been led to believe as a young, hopeful daughter of a prominent Party official.

"Come with me," Winter whispered. "We can get you back to my unit. We'll have you cared for."

"Th-they'll hang me!" she shrieked.

"No, they will not," the older woman declared. "I will not let that happen. You fought bravely for the Fatherland and you fought your way through the Red Army to rejoin us. You are a valiant soldier and not a traitor!"

"B-but I—"

"Shhh, now. We should go now."

With that, Winter helped Weiss out of the halftrack. Together, they meandered through the winding, barricaded streets towards Winter's squad.

Winter's squadron was one of the few Volkssturm units that had everything they needed. Or, at least, anything that was deemed necessary to a point.

They each wore proper uniforms, they each carried a rifle and a sidearm, and they even had a machine-gun mounted on a barricade. And they were all positioned around the rubble of one of the collapsed buildings. Bricks and mortar flooded half the road, making for a natural barrier that was later reinforced by sandbags and makeshift fortifications while the large crater in the middle of the street had been converted into a crude shelter.

It was here, under a tent flap held up by a wooden post, where Weiss found herself sitting amongst familiar faces, hoping that she would not be treated a traitor for fleeing from battle. Despite remaining largely silent, it was not long before someone starting asking. And one of the Volkssturm privates, a short-haired lady named Bree, began asking about Weiss's own squad.

Private Weiss Schnee bit her lip and looked away.

Private Bree immediately apologized. "Es tut mir leid! Ich weisse nicht."

"Es geht, es geht," Weiss stammered, her lip quivering and her hands trembling.

The other members of Winter's squadron were quick to offer support. Private Amin offered her his coat while Privates Zeki and Ederne prepared for her a cup of warm water and some biscuits. Corporal Ebi, the squad leader, came over and gave the visibly shaken Weiss Schnee another Karabiner.

"Das tut mir leid, Volkssturmman Weiss," he said with as much sympathy as he could offer. "But there is little time for rest. I hope you can still pull through."

"Dankeschön, Gruppenführer," Weiss said shakily. "I...I will try my best."

Corporal Ebi gave her a reassuring smile. If anything, Winter's squadron was friendlier than her own, rest their souls.

Winter kneeled in front of her. "We'll make it through this."

"H-how?"

Her sister could only smile back, albeit it was a sad one. And the message was clear: best hope for mercy from the Russians.

"Where's Whitley?"

"I don't know."

"Volkssturmman Whitley's unit was pulled back to assist the SS honor guard at the Reichstag," reported Private Bree.

The two sisters shared a grim look. Regardless of whatever they felt towards their younger brother, he was still family. And since their father's disappearance (either he successfully fled, was killed by the Red Army, or had been executed by the Gestapo; no one really knew) and their mother's confinement to one of the few remaining safe havens in Berlin's center, each other was all they had.

Rumble, rumble.

Thunder from above that clashed with the thunder of Soviet artillery.

Pitter, patter. Raindrops began to pelt their clothes. Better rain than bullets, they all thought.

Weiss embraced the rain. She looked up at the sky and silently prayed for the safety of her mother and her brother. In the back of her mind, the duty of protecting the Reichstag was more of a death wish than a privilege.

Dmitri stuck his hand out the window to catch some of the rain. In the light of the oil lamps, he wiped the dried blood off his palms and then the blood off his rifle. Such intense close quarters fighting had meant that he ended up tasting more blood than he needed to. In contrast to how was easy it was to scrub away the mess that littered these corridors, it was hard to forget the mortified faces of their many dead enemies.

Yet what disturbed him was that half of those who had faced them were not even in uniform. Rather, many of those who ran into their hail of bullets were the young, the old, and the weak. The so-called 'German People's Storm' mobilized by the fascists to stand in their way. He could even remember the terrified face of that one girl.

A young girl with flowing white hair.

Staring at him with wide, blue eyes.

Afraid. On the verge of tears. The sullied fascist armband sagging off her sleeve.

Dmitri had watched her quiver and shake. So afraid that she could not even hold the rifle steady in her hands before it clattered to the ground. The poor girl was terrified.

And rightfully so. He had killed her friends in front of her. Without mercy, he had sprayed them with every bullet in the drum magazine of his Shpagin, leaving a pile of bodies in his wake. He had been ordered to flank around the German position and he did so, bursting through a burning building with some of his comrades and emerging on the other side by himself. That was when he found the small group of young 'People's Storm' conscripts manning a barricade.

And he unquestioningly gunned them down.

Save for that white-haired girl who stood with her back against the brick wall, watching him do it.

Without a uniform, she was a civilian. Yet with a rifle, she was a combatant. As far as Dmitri knew, she was a fair target so long as she wielded a weapon against him. In contrast, he was a trained and experienced soldier. He killed only when they fought back, only when the enemy resisted with the intent to kill him. He was even revered as a so-called 'hero' for his 'bravery' and 'valor' from Stalingrad all the way to Seelow.

But he was still a man. And he still believed in rules. Rules that sometimes, his comrades often disregarded. Rules that even Sergeant Reznov spat on for the sake of vengeance. If there was one thing that would argue with his mentor, it was that Dmitri Petrenko was no murderer.

So when this young white-haired girl dropped her rifle, she had ceased to be a threat. Instead, she scurried away in tears. And Private Petrenko remained standing on the bodies of the dead, watching her form disappear into the ruins.

Now, several hours later, as he sat in a room atop of what was once a nice apartment, he pondered on his actions and whether or not it was deserving of his title as a 'hero.'

No.

Best not to dwell on such things when the battle was yet to be won. Rather, his mind lingered on what he was going to do once this war was over. He could go home...if it had been rebuilt. Or he could go to Moscow and find work. Or maybe he could follow his comrades and their other endeavors...like working in the coal mines or working on a collective farm or working in a factory or working somewhere where he would not have to shoot someone again.

Scribble, scribble.

He turned his head to regard his only companion in this derelict position they had to man. Private Yefrosin Chernov was writing in his diary again.

"Hey. Yefrosin, what are you writing about this time?"

Chernov stopped, startled, before relaxing when he saw it was only him. Goodness knows, Sergeant Reznov would have raved at him again for wasting his time on writing than on fighting. "Nichego, tovarishch. Just..reflecting."

Dmitri nodded. "... Konechno. What do you plan on doing after this is over?"

The other man appeared surprised. "I...do not know. I really do not know."

The so-called 'hero of Stalingrad' nodded. No one really talked to Chernov. The poor man was not very popular within their unit, often being derided behind his back by the others. Poet. Puppy. Coward. But Dmitri did not share those views. If anything, he was as much a coward as him, crawling on his belly in Stalingrad, hiding behind walls as he took careless shots at the Germans from the upper floors, letting others go ahead when he was expected to lead the charge.

Yet, he was still called a hero.

Then again, heroes did not massacre prisoners-of-war. As far as he knew, heroes did not pillage and plunder and rape the women and children of those who had done the same to theirs. Did they?

"Am I really a hero?"

"Comrade?"

Dmitri asked again. "Do you think I am a hero, Yefrosin?"

Chernov mulled his response. "... Do I get to be honest?"

"Please."

Silence. Then hesitation. And then an apologetic voice. "... I do not understand you, sometimes, comrade. You are brave and you are headstrong. But when it comes to the enemy... Sometimes, you show mercy. Others..."

A sigh. "I see. I was told to kill them and I did. Now, looking back, I can say that they are the reason for my nightmares. Do you have them, too?"

A somber nod. "Yes, comrade."

"Then that makes me nothing more than a private in the Red Army. Just like you. Just like the rest of us. I mean, if you think about it, aren't we all heroes in this glorious war?"

Chernov shifted uneasily. "If Commissar Markhov were here..."

"Ya znayu, ya znayu. That is why we are having this conversation when most everyone else is asleep."

"They say you are a hero, Dmitri." The younger private tucked away his diary. "But you are right. You are no different than any of us. We are all 'heroes,' after all. Miy vsyo tovarishchi."

Dmitri let out a mirthless chuckle as he blew out the flame on his oil lamp and lay down on the dirty old mattress to sleep. "Perhaps Comrade Stalin is in need of heroes."

Chernov shrugged. "Perhaps so."

ORIGINALLY DRAFTED: September 26, 2020

LAST EDITED: September 27, 2020

INITIALLY UPLOADED: September 27, 2020

NOTE: I've been playing Call Of Duty: World At War recently for nostalgia purposes. Pardon me for any historical inaccuracies.

Translations:

Gut, gut. = Good, good. [German]

Wir sind Volkssturmmannen. = We are the People's Stormtroopers. [German]

Es tut mir leid! Ich weisse nicht. = I'm sorry (to hear that)! I didn't know. [German]

Es geht, es geht. = It's fine, it's fine. [German]

Das tut mir leid, Volkssturmman Weiss. = I'm sorry (to hear about what happened), Private Weiss. [German]

Dankeschön, Gruppenführer. = Thank you, corporal. [German]

Nichego, tovarishch. = It's nothing, comrade. [Russian]

Konechno. = Of course. [Russian]

Ya znayu, ya znayu. = I know, I know. [Russian]

Miy vsyo tovarishchi. = We are all comrades. [Russian]