Into the Mud

A Waffen SS officer attempts to slow the Russian advance into Germany.

“Find who’s saying these things. The Reich will prevail, but not if these damned peasants keep spreading their discord around.”

“Jawohl, Herr Obersturmbannführer.” Private Wachstein saluted smartly. I returned the salute, trying to convey strength and rigidity, but it was hard. We were losing the war. I needed to do everything possible to keep morale up for as long as I could, but I never could shake the constant sense of futility. Those Gott verdammt Americans won at Normandy, and it was all downhill from there.

I took my SS insignia into my hand. It was the Eagle clutching a swastika in its talons, with the iconic SS symbol below it. Three years ago, shortly before Stalingrad, it had made me feel such power... and now, only sadness. The Russians were coming from the East, the Allies from the West, and Berlin was only a fraction of its previous glory. The Wehrmacht was downtrodden, tired, and beaten. The SS was falling apart. Even the führer was feeling the end coming, falling deeper and deeper into paranoia every day.

I shook my head, desperate to clear it of such thoughts. Pinning the insignia to my black uniform, I grabbed my Mauser C96 off my desk, holstered it, and left the tent. The air outside was freezing. It bit, dulling the muscles with its frigidity. It also held a refreshing power, that awoke the mind and boosted alertness. My breath came out in clouds before me. A chilling breeze swept through the town, carrying the scent of death. Bodies hung from trees, buildings, and signs, lots of them children and elderly, half of them badly decomposed. The soldiers milled about halfheartedly, poking at their minimalistic lunches. Their exhaustion was evident in their postures as well as on their faces. Our land was getting smaller every day with the Red Army’s ruthless advances across the continent. First we lost Poland, then Belgium, and now they were in Germany. The war in Africa had been a disaster. Rommel’s Afrikakorps fell under the British boots, and the Americans had taken France. The war was over, and everybody knew it. The fighting would’ve been over already if Hitler wasn’t so sure that the Reich was still strong. It was a delusion that had driven him mad. He kept calling for his armies to counterattack, armies that no longer even existed.

“Why are you sitting around, doing nothing?” I barked at the lounging men. They all immediately rose to their feet, assumed a stiff posture, and stuck their arms out in the Nazi salute. “We have too much to do for you all to sit on your rears, looking at the clouds. The next man I see slacking on his duties will be punished severely. Is that clear?”

They all ran off to find something to do. It irritated me that they were so afraid of me. If they were scared by one of their own officers issuing an order, how could they possibly stand up to the Reds? America was a problem too, but they were much further away than the Russian soldiers, and the Americans actually took prisoners. The Russians held a personal, vehement prejudice against us. I couldn’t exactly blame them, now that I knew what it felt like to have my country invaded. The führer had undoubtedly made a mistake with Operation Barbarossa.

And there I go, questioning my leader again. Forcing those evil thoughts from my mind, I looked around for areas that needed defenses. The bridge that led to our location needed to be blown, and we needed sandbags and machine guns set up on the East and North roads. There was a tower in the ruins of the old village. The town had been so hopelessly destroyed by bombers that not even a sign stating its name could be found. The tower looked like an ideal sniping position, despite the fact that a large portion of its wall was missing about halfway down, exposing its infrastructure. I waved over Kapitän Franz von Frieder, who knew the men a lot better than I did.

“Ja, Herr Oberst?” he asked respectfully when he got to me. I could hear the tiredness in his voice.

“I need your best marksman, immediately. A spotter too, and some good binoculars. Tell him to scale that tower over there-” I pointed at the tower “-and to bring a scoped Gewehr and plenty of ammunition.” The Kapitän saluted smartly and turned to leave. I thought of something extra and added, “actually, hold off on that. Bring me our scouts. I want to know how close the Russen are first.”

Reaching into my pocket, I found my tobacco and rolling papers. Making the cigarette was difficult with my numb, trembling fingers, but I more or less got it to work out. Striking the match and then cupping my hand around it, I enjoyed a deep drag of smoke and held it in for as long as I could. It was delusional to think that a cigarette could relinquish my stress, but during these trying times, I found my need to smoke them growing exponentially. I began making my way slowly back to my tent, and was about halfway through the cigarette when I got there. I was taking the last puff before tossing it on the ground when Private Wachstein came up to me, escorting a frail, old woman. She was horribly thin and dressed in rags, and her expression was blank and faraway.

“Herr Obersturmbannführer! This is the woman who was passing out those flyers. I brought her, like you asked,” Wachstein said.

I looked the woman in the eye for several moments. She seemed like she didn’t even know I was there. Her gaze was focused on something in the distance, and there was only a sad pity in her eyes. I had no idea why she wasn’t begging for her life. She was probably senile and mad from hunger.

Sudden fury gripped me. My job was hard enough already without rebellion from the German people! Here I was, sitting in the cold day in and day out, protecting them from the invader swine, and they want to rebel? I helped clean out the Jewish parasites from our great Fatherland, and they show no sympathy, no understanding?

“Hang her,” I said coldly. Wachstein looked uncertain and stood there dumbly. I waited a moment, but he made no move to carry out my order, so I repeated myself, more firmly this time. “Hang her. Hang her from a tree and let her stay there.”

“I... I...” Wachstein gulped. “I don’t want to, Herr Obersturmbannführer. I... I can’t. She’s just a-”

Wachstein was cut off by the crack of my Mauser pistol. The lady dropped to her knees, blood already staining the front of her tattered dress. She gasped for air with futility, producing ghastly croaks and choking noises and looking at me with burning anger. I put another bullet between her eyes and she fell backwards, twitched a few times, and was still. Wachstein was in disbelief. He stared at me, wide-eyed, and I shot him too. Civilians were bad enough, but I couldn’t have my own men disobeying me. He had disobeyed a direct order, and-

“Russen!” somebody hollered at the top of their lungs somewhere across the camp. The voice was followed by an eruption of gunfire and several shrieks of pain and cries of rage or surprise. I turned around and looked at the bridge we were supposed to blow. An army of Russian soldiers were storming across it, and many dead Germans already littered the ground on our end. I took off running to the East and found the road blocked by T-34 tank and even more soldiers. They had come out of nowhere. Where the hell were our scouts and watchmen, and why didn’t they report the Russian advance?

Four Wehrmacht troops ran past me with MP40s and STG44s, emitting a battle shriek that could scarcely be heard over the cacophony of noise. At least ten Russian soldiers opened fire on them with their PPSHs and the Germans fell to the ground. One was still writhing in agony, though from the amount of blood he was losing, he wouldn’t be in pain much longer. I didn’t stay to watch. I ran for the North road, but that was cut off too. We were surrounded.

A Russian came around the tent and saw me. He started to cry out “SS!” but I shot him in the neck and he dropped dead. Several more appeared behind him. With pure terror coursing through my veins, I started taking wild shots at them, backing up as I did. I managed to fire five bullets before somebody grabbed me from behind and forced the Mauser out of my hand. He delivered a sharp blow to the back of my skull with the butt of my pistol and I dropped. Stars and bright lights danced around my vision and it got harder to stay awake. Immediately after I landed on the ground, the soldiers set upon me, kicking me viciously in the ribs, arms, legs, groin, and head. The pain I felt became one. My vision darkened, my thoughts slowed, and I was barely conscious.

The kicking subsided. A pair of powerful hands lifted me roughly from the dirt and dragged me to a tree. I heard people speaking Russian around me. The gunfire had stopped. I wanted to squirm and kick and scream and fight, but I didn’t. The sense of futility was oppressive, omnipotent, the only reality I had left. I felt a rope be placed around my neck. It tightened. I didn’t resist. A moment later, I was pulled upward sharply, and the rope around my neck became a vice, strangling me, draining my life away. Finally, the war was over.