NOVEMBER 1, 1942 – 8:01 P.M

I was not born to live in these times of turmoil. At least not in this place, Russia, the country I love. I am torn apart daily as I go through life as a supporter of the communist leader, Stalin, while in reality I am a lover of the newer democracy introduced by the Americans. I fight for my family, my beautiful wife Svetlana, not for Stalin and his government. I fight for the motherland; I fight to keep the Nazis from expanding into our country, not for the communism way of life. I fight in the Red Army because I love my nation and my family.

But today, my squad and I have bared witness to the atrocities that come when Nazism and Communism collides:

Today Nevski was given the permission he was seeking to assault the building, and immediately began making his preparations. First, he divided the company into two different groups. 1st and 2nd Platoons would be making the assault while the 3rd stayed and protected the wounded. He then called in for the support company to send in a new batch of machine guns, which would be essential to the assault.

When they were finally shipped down to us, Nevski distributed the weapons out equally amongst the platoons and then debriefed us all on the mission—a simple one, according to Nevski.

The machine gunners for 1st and 2nd were to set up in a park across the street from the building while their mortars set up on the roof of a building within range of the target. My squad and I would then go in Nevski and 4th Squad to assault the building under the rest of the company's fire. As our own machine gunners would set up to cover the exits, the rest of us would assault each floor until we were able to cut down the flag and burn it. Nevski thought it was simple, so he thought he only needed a handful of shock troopers to assault a building estimated to contain over two dozen Germans. To make sure that the assault was executed perfectly, he made sure that each man got a PPD-40 submachine gun, two grenades, and the choice of either a Mosin-Nagant rifle or a coach gun. I chose to take the coach gun, as the Mosin-Nagant is much better for longer and more medium ranges than to close combat.

We loaded up all the supplies onto the trucks and prepared to move out. Nevski quickly ran an inspection to see that the school's defenses were satisfactory and ordered all the men to get into the space left on the trucks.

We drove up to the street block behind the building, loading out of the trucks and setting up our machine guns and mortars. With the majority of the men in their places, I was given the go by Nevski to start ordering the assault. I ordered Nikita—our support gunner—and Belinski down the left flank, Sokolov and Durasov down the center behind me, and 4th squad down the right following Nevski. 4th squad would be doing most of the heavy lifting, as my squad usually served as a support force.

Nikita, as our support gunner, carried a Degtyaryov light machine gun, which was often called the "Record Player" due to the disk-shaped pan magazine perched on the top of the weapon and the fact that it revolves as the gun is fired. Durasov and Sokolov served as our riflemen so carried Mosin-Nagant rifles as their main weapons and would be assigned to flanking the enemy once they have been fixed by suppressing fire from Nikita's fire. Belinski served as Nikita's support gunner, carried all the extra ammo for the machine gun, and carried a submachine gun to assist Nikita. I, meanwhile, kept a submachine gun for as long as we are at this far a range, but once we get inside, I would most likely switch to the coach gun.

I raised a finger to my lips. "Shhhh…"

If we were heard by the fascists, all of Nevski's planning would have gone down the drain.

Nevski and 4th squad stopped in between a set of hills made out of a cluster of ice and snow. Their support gunner set up his bipod while the others checked their weapons. Durasov and Sokolov raced all the way to the metal fence that stretched out across the perimeter of the property, while Nikita, Belinski, and I set up the machine gun in the gutter of a road opposite of the building.

Blowing away the smoke forming around my breath, I jumped up from the gutter and joined my two riflemen. Nevski and 4th squad immediately pushed up into the grounds surrounding the building.

I spotted a German.

"There, there!" I hissed towards Durasov. "I see a German on the left second floor window…he's got a machine gun!" I patted him on the shoulder and pointed up at the building.

Durasov raised his rifle, aimed, and fired.

CRACK!

The bullet slapped the German's forehead and ricocheted into the side of the wall, pushing him off balance and straight out of the window. He screamed as he fell and his comrades were easily notified.

Two machine guns opened fire and two men behind Nevski dropped dead. One other pulled Nevski by the collar, pulling him to cover. Another machine gun, this set up high on the roof, caught wind of the attack and opened fire on anything that moved below it.

1st and 2nd Platoon opened fire amidst the chaos, with a little support from our own man, Nikita, whose gun began to whine as it fired. I aimed my PPD-40 at one of the gunners and fired a burst towards his chest. Signaling for Nikita and Belinski to move up to our position, Sokolov, Durasov, and I blindly fired up at the enemy positions.

A bullet whizzed past my head, hitting the steam evaporating from my breath.

Then, in turn, the steam turned into vapor, forming into a long white cloud. I watched as bullet soared through the air at 2700 feet per second until it impacted, right into Belinski's leg. Red mist sprayed out into the air and Belinski stumbled over with a gurgle of pain. We were all stunned, shuffling back farther behind cover. Belinski continued to wail in pain, his leg bent and bleeding badly. One of the Germans popped his head out, searching for us. I raised my weapon and fired a burst, blowing a chunk out of the man's face. One of the men from 4th squad ran up to Belinski and started to wrap his leg up with a bandage. He, unfortunately, was not lucky enough to be shot in the leg, but was rather hit in the chest and was killed almost immediately. I stepped out to fire a shot. The instant I did so, however, a bullet struck my ankle, tearing away both flesh and bone.

I stumbled over onto my knee and fired a shot off at one of the Germans.

Durasov crouched down beside me, patting Nikita on the back as he reached the cover behind us. "Are you okay?"

I bit my bottom lip. "Yes!"

"We got to get Belinski back into cover, comrade," Sokolov called. "Or he will either bleed to death or be shot by the fascist dogs."

"No!" I yelled, angry. "We're too exposed as it is…any man who goes out there is a dead man. No. Keep firing on them so Nevski and his men can break through, comrades."

Nikita shook his head. "Nevski's men are all dead, comrade!"

I closed my eyes, this time in a deeper state of anger. "Damn, we need to get contact with the rest of 1st and 2nd. None of us were supplied with one, but were any of Nevski's men given a portable radio?"

I looked out from cover and found an entrance into the building but thirty feet away. I, muted by the thunderous gunfire coming from the German machine gun, motioned for my men, with the exception of Nikita, to follow me as we assaulted the building. If we wanted to save Belinski and all the other men, we needed to eliminate the German threat.

Taking one last look at Belinski, who was almost trembling, I sprinted towards the building under Nikita's fire. As I ran, I looked up at the sky. All I could think about was the clouds. Not fluffy white clouds—surrounded by angels and sunlight, but thunderclouds taking up the whole greedy sky. I find it strange that I would do this, but then again, I had yet to see a blemish of blue on the grey sky for the past week and a half. If I was to die, I didn't want to go without seeing blue.

My ankle hurt.

I realized that I was more limping than sprinting, a worm-like trail following me closely. Reaching the building, I hugged the wall. I turned around and motioned for one of my men to follow. Durasov fired a shot at the Germans as Nikita took out another casing of ammo and Sokolov sprinted out into the open. Snow was kicked up all around him by the power of the bullets being fired at him.

Then there was a CRACK!

And Sokolov fell dead.

I drew out a grenade and tossed it into the window of where some Germans were firing from. Nikita and Durasov were then able to get to my position without incident. I kicked open the door to the structure, grenades were thrown and bullets were fired, and we proceeded to cover Nevski and the remnants of 4th squad as they crossed over to our position.

There were four stories in the structure and about twice as many Germans on each floor. Of the twenty-some Germans originally stationed there, three were taken prisoner. However, of the four men of 4th squad that entered with Nevski and my squad, one man came out alive, even if his leg had been blown off and had lost consciousness. We took the flag down from its perch and set it a flame. As the rest of 1st and 2nd Platoon set up shop in the lower levels and Belinski was attended to, my squad and I were given duty to watch the prisoners.

At around 7 o'clock, Nevski came in.

His eyes were teary, his brow sweaty, and his hands were clenched around empty bottles of German whiskey. He was obviously drunk and upset about what had happened just hours before. The bodies were being loaded onto trucks to be sent to Moscow, where they would be buried. He came right up to the prisoners, who we had lined up against the wall with their hands bound. We had given them cigarettes, as two of them were wounded and the other just seemed miserable.

Nevski dropped the bottles and drew out one of his pistols, digging it into the chin of one of the Germans. "This one's for my mother!" CRACK! The man fell over with a bullet in his mouth. Nevski grabbed the next by the throat. "This one's for my father, butchers!" CRACK! "This one's for my little sister, you fascist son of a bitch!" CRACK!

Three bodies lay at Nevski's feet and everyone around him stared in shock. I was infuriated, my hands clenched and my nose flaring. He continued to shoot the dead bodies. "That's for Valentina! That's for my dog! Ah, how you like it!"

Several bullets now lay stuck in each body and blood had begun to pour out onto the floor.

I marched up behind Nevski and grabbed his gun, casting it aside. He turned to me with a frown. I frowned back. "What do you think you are doing, Nevski! They were POWs; unarmed prisoners."

He shrugged. "They were Germans, they deserved death."

I could smell the alcohol in his breath. "You're drunk, comrade, you need to rest."

He shoved me. "Go to hell!"

I stumbled over on my wounded ankle, pain coursing through my leg. I stood back up, slowly and with panted breaths. We exchanged looks with one another, Nikita and Durasov looking on helplessly. Nevski shoved me again, only this time less hard and more intimidating.

Now utterly furious, I swung back my fist and struck the captain across the jaw, knocking him off balance. He gathered himself and looked at me, drawing out his other pistol. I tensed and backed away, my eyes switching from the blood dripping from Nevski's mouth to the weapon in his hand. But, for some reason, he flipped the pistol over and carried it by the barrel instead of the handle.

"Huh?" was my stupid reply.

SNAP! Something hit me hard across the temple. Was the snap my bones breaking or the handle of his pistol breaking apart? I found myself on my back, the taste of blood in my mouth and my vision hazy. From what I could see, there was a large commotion going on before me.

Durasov and Nevski had collided in an all-out brawl; fists and feet met tired bones and already softened flesh. Suddenly, Nevski had Durasov on the ground, his pistol in one hand while the other fumbled for a combat knife inches away from Durasov's grasp.

I struggled to my feet, my recently sealed ankle opened once again.

Durasov grabbed the knife and slashed open Nevski's hand, forcing the captain to stumble back. Nevski fired a shot from his pistol, hitting his opponent in the shoulder. Durasov, numb to his new wound, plunged at Nevski with his knife, stabbing right through the man's flesh.

Nevski cried out in pain and squeezed the trigger on his pistol.

CRACK!

A bullet soared inches near Durasov's ear and slammed into Nikita's forehead, knocking two feet back and into the wall close behind him. I ran to my friend's side, but it was too late.

He was dead.

I cradled my comrade in my arms, completely oblivious to the men of 1st and 2nd platoons storming the room at the sound of gunshots. They separated Durasov and Nevski. I noticed them take the knife out of his body and try to breathe the life back into the captain, but ignored the rest. Durasov stumbled up to the opposite side of Nikita.

I closed the man's eyes and whispered a prayer.

Nikita and Sokolov…two out four men in my squad, men who I have shared dreams, nightmares, hobbies, rations, trust, and prayers with. I will never see these men again. All because of something only Nevski thought was needed.

I no longer consider Nevski a comrade.

NOVEMBER 2, 1942 – 11:34 P.M

The medic has managed to patch up my heel, but has told me that I will be limping for a couple months now.

Nikita is dead, but Nevski still breaths, having only been severely injured and will return to us in a couple of weeks. So, filling in for the captain, Commissar Pavelonva has taken command over the company. Belinski, meanwhile, has been patched up and has come back to us as we were transported from the school to a more sturdy building west of a large courtyard.

We have set up our guns so that they point directly at the courtyard and the houses beyond. Pavelonva has told us that the German "rats" have been using this courtyard as a supply depot for their armor and their artillery, and that patrols would be coming to and from the courtyard to reinforce their troops. When I asked him why he wanted our guns pointing at the buildings on the other end of the courtyard, he had this to say:

"The rats are creeping all over that position, so if they try to charge across the courtyard, our guns with be ready to end their fascist lives. If they come for our blood, they will drown in their own."

He then sent me on my way with an ignorant scoff, shooing me with his hands. So, I returned to my men as they began to set up the two machine guns we had been given. Belinski showed us all where he had been shot and the scar that was left after the medics had sealed the wound. We inquired him about what it had felt like to get wounded, to which he replied, "I felt vulnerable…like a baby chick that has just hatched out of its protective shell."

Durasov then turned to me. "How did it feel like for you?"

I shrugged. "It was painful, that's all I can remember."

Durasov laughed, shaking his head whilst lighting a cigarette for both me and Belinski. I can't remember the last time I had had a cigarette before this moment, and, as the heat of the tobacco touched my lips, I felt warm for the first time since September.

Belinski took his coach gun and rested it on his lap; taking a drag from the cigarette he had been given. "If it weren't for cigarettes, comrades, I don't think I'd ever make it through this winter. Already my fingers have begun to stiffen with frostbite and my body endlessly shakes. Even when I was resting in the field hospital it is cold."

A little after five o'clock in the afternoon, rain began to fall upon us in sheets. Gusts of bitter wind seemed to blow straight in our faces. I withdrew myself from the room we had begun to take shelter in and sought refuge inside the kitchen the Commissar had taken as his headquarters. It was filled with men from the company and civilians whose homes had been destroyed. Despite this, I managed to find myself a place to lie and quickly fell asleep. About one hour later, I was awoken to the sound of the people stirring and talking, and coming awaken I heard the sound of a plane buzzing overhead.

I ran to the window, as it did not sound like one of our planes, and found that it was definitely one of the German Stuka bombers. Pavelonva called for everyone to take cover just seconds before the bomb was dropped and the plane's machine guns begins to fire.

BOOM!

The kitchen exploded.

NOVEMBER 3, 1942 – 8:56 A.M

War is everywhere, and its danger grows as the Fuhrer's army grows in size and ferocity. I have underestimated the Third Reich's savagery and lust for power. Its massive, tireless, well-prepared armies attack our positions relentlessly, usually with little to no warning, and leave a sickening path of destruction in their wake. And now they have done the unforgivable: I have received a letter that my home and neighborhood in eastern Stalingrad has been attacked and destroyed. The place where I spent my childhood; where my brother, his wife, and his two children had made their homes; now utterly annihilated has been left as a smoldering heap of rubble. I can only pray that my friends and family escaped safely.

General Badanov came to our position today, looking for volunteers for an elite shock battalion he was forming. I eagerly volunteered my squad for a scouting post in his new army. The horrors of this war have given me a new resolve, and I am no longer content with what my company has currently been doing. We will not lose Stalingrad; Hitler shall not conquer the motherland.

NOVEMBER 4, 1942 – 9:30 P.M

Tonight I have the pleasure of camping with Badanov's army. The battalion has heard rumors of a pending attack. They are holding the high ground in the old ruins of Stalingrad's industrial district. Colonel Voronin has been given command of this army and never goes anywhere without his five bodyguards. I fear that he believes someone is going to make an attempt on his life.

I spun up a conversation with Voronin, who spoke of the war in the idealistic manner of a loyal Russian. "Stalin is a noble man; Hitler, on the other hand, is his opposite…is evil. Hitler and the Third Reich seek power and wealth, like so many generals before him. At what point do we, intelligent beings, begin to learn from our history?"

NOVEMBER 17th, 1942 – 7:13 P.M

Our men moved away from the industrial district after being relieved by a larger force. We travel along the banks of the Volga River in an attempt to distract the German 6th Army as Operation "Uranus" was put into effect. From what we have been told, the plan was for the units of the Red Army on the enemy's northern flank to assault the German and Romanian positions in hopes of encircling the enemy army group's main component, the German 6th Army. From what little information we were given, it was basically a perfect plan.

But I have my doubts.

We were to take up residence in the ruins of one of Stalingrad's northwestern districts and fire upon the enemy's positions with our mortars. Hopefully, the Germans would send the majority of their troops to attack our positions, leaving the rest vulnerable to the Soviet attack.

We are now camped amongst the ruins of the city. Its cement sidewalks and fallen walls act as a window into the past of this bloody war. The lifeless eyes of a weather-worn face stare out at me from among the ruins. Those eyes of stone, belonging to some abandoned and broken statue, are a haunting sight.

This is my second war, both wars fought for a righteous cause, both enemies ruthless and vile; and yet, even now, one thing remains the same: the eyes, the look of overwhelming fear and desperation in every set of dying eyes. And yet, the gut churning feeling I get when I look in those eyes is the same feeling that keeps me hear on the front lines. Some other set of eyes is counting on me to keep the spark of life and freedom alive in them.

This district is a tactical bottleneck. Mountains of snow and debris are piled on top of every road, forcing the Germans to march their men through one road in order to reinforce the 6th Army. I am told that, if the 6th Army is reinforced any more, it would be impossible for our comrade forces to defeat the army.

Now, for the first time since I have been deployed into this city, we have a chance to win this fight and encircle the German armies. Hitler believes we are all worn out. His forces have cut away at our numbers by engaging in all these bloody battles after battles. But, finally, the tides are changing. We are summoning reinforcements from all around—gaining help from civilians and outside armies alike.

Earlier today I was caught off guard by the loud vroom of wheels speeding against debris. I reached for my binoculars to take a closer look, and discovered a sea of Russian troops. Mounted on top of jeeps armed with machine guns, I saw the rest of our original company approach our positions, Captain Nevski standing at the helm. They all parked in an alley, took off the machine guns, and covered the jeeps with camouflage. Nevski then ordered the men to set up their guns among our already set up positions.

Voronin, after having a brief conversation with Nevski, came up to us with a glum look on his face. "Andrei, you and your squad are to report back to Captain Nevski from now on, understood?"

Durasov and Belinski expressed looks of distress.

I tried to calm them. "Does that mean we're no longer apart of Badanov's unit, sir?"

"Yes," Voronin answered. "Your company is short-handed as is, and Badanov had no right to take you from them. You and your squad shall be taking orders from Nevski once again, is that understood?"

I swallowed hard. "Yes sir."

I motioned for my squad to displace from our current position and ordered for them to follow me as I went to Nevski for our new orders. He looked at me with disgusted sneer and said, "Toufexis, take a machine gun and dig yourselves some foxholes along the debris right of the road."

I cocked an eyebrow. "But, sir, we'll be completely exposed if we set up there."

He squinted. "I know."

I swallowed hesitantly. This man wanted us dead. But, what was I to do about it? He was our CO and if we didn't do as he said we would be shot. So, reluctantly, I told my men of our new orders. Despite their pissed off attitudes towards the situation, they did as they were told and we moved out. I grabbed a Record Player machine gun and followed Durasov and Belinski as they headed over to our designated position.

As we began to dig our foxhole, Durasov began to gripe. "That bastard, Nevski, wants us dead. For what we did to him, he fucking wants to kill us."

Belinski squinted in confusion. "I thought you said he started it. What should he be mad about? That he lost? That he killed Nikita? That Svoloch deserves to be court-martialled and executed for treachery. Stalin has little need for heroes, so he must have little patience for traitorous drunkards."

"If Nevski's a traitor," I said. "So is Durasov—no offense, comrade—and so am I. All three of us had some fault in what happened. It's what he did that led to Nikita's death, but what you and I, Durasov, did that fueled the gears of the machine. Though it might seem like utter foolishness, Nevski has a right to be angry…I mean you slashed his chest open for God's sake. He fell over and his finger slipped."

"The gun shouldn't have been out in the first place!" Durasov exclaimed. "He was under the influence of alcohol. That is what led to our comrade's death, not my actions or yours. We acted in self-defense and the defense of others, despite the fact that the others were fascists."

Belinski smiled deviously. "Maybe it was your love for the Germans th—"

"Fuck you!" I yelled. "Keep digging."

All of us stopped talking at that, picked up our entrenching tools, and continued to dig our foxhole.

By the time this was done the sun had fallen.