The Art of Defeat [Germany & N. Italy ]

[Germany]

February 1, 1943; After the Battle of Nikolayevka and the worst of the Stalingrad fighting...





Hitler, I swear, if I ever get even half a chance, I’m going to soak the earth with your guts for this. It didn’t have to be this way. If only you’d taken a moment to pull your head out of your ass and listen to good advice we could have captured Stalingrad months ago and turned it into an Axis stronghold. But no. You were sure you knew what you were doing. No one could tell you otherwise. Well, I hope you’re fucking happy now, you fucking idiot.

He’d given it the very best of his effort. Undersupplied, overworked, starving, freezing, mentally and physically exhausted, and under constant, unrelenting assault from the enemy on all sides — including Ivan himself — he had held his ground for months in that hellhole, fighting with every ounce of his strength, stamina, and mental clarity to keep his people alive and drive the Russians back.

He had failed. The 6th Army was no more.

For all of his might as a country, for all of his superior combat skill, experience, and strategic expertise, he had not been able to break through the Soviet lines to free his people. Doing so would have been treason anyway, since his boss had so foolishly and callously commanded the forces at Stalingrad to fight to the last man.

And that is just what they had done. Conditions had, at times, been almost bearable in the first 3-4 months of the battle, but when winter had set in the situation had turned first nasty, then dire, then brutal. Because the number of available aircraft for delivering supplies remained small, because the nearest available airfield was in Pitomnik and attempts to secure other airfields had failed, and because Hitler did not consider sending useful supplies or reinforcements to those who most needed it to be of the highest priority, the Stalingrad forces had only been able to receive just over an eighth of what they needed. Worse, not even all of that tiny fraction had been useful: one aircraft had shown up with summer uniforms and 20 tonnes of vodka ( what the hell were they supposed to do with so much vodka, try to bribe the Russians into letting them have the city?! ), another pepper and marjoram to flavor the food they didn’t have. With provisions being so low, hardly anyone had had access to any kind of medical supplies or adequate protection from the cold, and the point had quickly been reached when only those who could still fight were given any food at all and the rest were either left to die or mercy-killed.


As much as it had pained him, Ludwig had been forced to watch his soldiers — many of them personal friends — slowly freeze and starve to death in addition to getting slaughtered by the Red Army. As the most resilient German around, he had done what he could to alleviate their suffering as much as possible, forgoing his warm coat, boots, and gloves as well as most of the medical treatment and rations he was entitled to as a decorated general. But in the end none of it had mattered, and all he had done, it turned out, was purchased a few people a little bit of extra time in a living Hell. Some favor.

Towards the very end, after most of the remaining troops had either died or surrendered, the newly-appointed field marshall had failed to live up to der Führer’s expectations and surrendered a day after being promoted to the position, his action encouraging many troops to do the same and leaving the few that remained under Ludwig’s command.

Oberstgruppenführer Herrmann, what are we going to do? If the Soviets take us alive we’ll wish they hadn’t.

Ludwig squeezed his eyes shut. The words of the now dead soldier, uttered only yesterday, had a way of haunting him.

Knowing full well that the soldier was right, knowing full well that attempting to re-take Stalingrad would mean certain death for his disheartened little band, and taking advantage of the fact that his boss had not verbally and specifically ordered him personally to stay ( the order had been “fight to the last man”, which technically excused women and countries ), Ludwig had made the decision to retreat that very morning, and had had little trouble encouraging the others to join him without actually giving the order.

They had tried to sneak out, but naturally this proven to be impossible. There were simply too many damned Reds, and everywhere, too — how could they help being noticed? The ensuing fight to escape had been brief and incredibly brutal.

In the end, to the best of his knowledge, Ludwig was all that remained of the non-POW 6th Army, due entirely to the inhuman qualities he possessed as a country, namely tremendous endurance and the ability to continue moving with gunshot wounds in places that would cripple humans.

Still, even countries were not exempt from suffering greatly from bodily trauma, and some of his memories of what had happened next were lost to a frosty gray-white haze of confusion. He didn’t remember how he’d remembered where the 4th Panzer Army was stationed, or how, overly-exhausted and in a great deal of pain, he’d had the presence of mind to keep going the right direction. A surreal forest of evergreen trees, blurred in the edges and laden with snow, had etched itself into his mind with a dreamlike quality. At some point he’d somehow managed to commandeer a vehicle with good snow-tires and drive part of the way, but he’d ditched that a while back to cover his tracks and keep the Soviets away from 4th Panzer a little longer.

By and by he’d reached camp early last night, much to the surprise and relief of his comrades, who’d lost no time in getting him some medical treatment; a warm shower; clean, untorn clothes; and food.

He’d lost consciousness early on and had slept in like something dead to an almost ungodly hour before waking up to pain and a lieutenant general informing him that, as the highest-ranking general within a good distance, he was now in charge of 4th Panzer, but should he not feel up to the task he would be happy to assume command for him.

Ludwig had assured the man that he was tired, but able.

The lieutenant general was gone now, leaving Ludwig alone with his poisonous and pessimistic thoughts on the bed in the recovery tent they’d given him.

But for as much criticism he lobbed at his boss — no matter how well-deserved — he couldn’t shake the feeling that he himself was also to blame for the Stalingrad loss.

His boss had been an idiot, but he had been weak.

Despite all his intentions and resolve, the ugly fact remained that he had let his people down. For the first time ever, in all of history, an entire German field army had been completely annihilated. Just the sheer realization of that was almost too crushing to bear.

If only I had been stronger, if only I had broken the defenses to retreat sooner, if only….

The list of “if onlies” went on and on. But wishful thinking would not turn loss into victory anymore than having a bad boss excused his poor performance. There was no hiding from the truth.

It was probably better not to think about it anymore, at least when he had matters to attend to.

Now that he could think more clearly, Ludwig did a quick damage-assessment. Taking off the black undershirt he’d slipped on before bed last night, he saw that the dressing on his left torso over the area a bullet had struck him was still in place, and only a little blood had seeped through the gauze. He pulled away the covers to reveal his lean, bare legs. The doctor had wrapped the bullet-wound on the right securely with white linen. So far, no blood was seeping through.

So far, so good.

There were a few patches of deep, nasty blue-and-violet bruises decorating a few places on his legs and torso along with some scabbed-over cuts and gashes which also extended to his hands and arms, the skin that wasn’t broken or bruised was a shade or two paler than usual, all of his limbs ached to varying degrees — especially his legs — and his bullet-wounds stung a little, but honestly, it wasn’t as bad as he’d thought. His body would need to heal, yes, but a strong country like him was capable of healing very rapidly, and as long as long as nothing else major happened to his people or within his borders, within a short time this would be nothing more than an unpleasant memory.

Rising and fighting the almost overpowering urge to dive back under the covers as the air in the tent was deathly cold, he quickly dressed himself in the warm black military uniform they’d laid out for him — complete with hat, boots, gloves, earmuffs, and woolen socks — his heart swelling with delight at this subtle hint that this camp may, in fact, be adequately stocked.

Having accomplished this, he grabbed a mirror that was sitting on a makeshift table nearby. Weary blue eyes blinked back at him. The lower right side of his jaw was blemished with the light violet-red and slightly olive-greenish tint of a bruise he’d received a day or two ago, and the two-inch-long cut he’d received that week on his left cheek next to the ear was still visible in the form of a whitish line of barely-elevated tissue. Other than that, he looked well enough, he supposed.

He slid a hand through his messy, but clean, honey-blonde hair, probing his scalp with his fingertips for the bumps and rough edges of the major head-wound he’d incurred last month that had left him unconscious for more than a day and had had his compatriots ready to bury him. Only the faintest traces remained: the wound had almost completely healed over. He hoped the lucky Russian sniper responsible had meant a gruesome and horrible end.

“General, Sir!”

Ludwig gave a surprised little jump and whirled.

Two Italian soldiers saluted him in the usual fashion, their posture straight and highly respectful. “Feliciano and his army are coming, and are in need of medical help.”

Feliciano?! Ludwig felt his heart begin to race, his eyes widening appreciably with a flash of sudden worry. Hadn’t Feliciano and his army been fighting off in the Belgorod Oblast region? That area was still very unstable. If the German army had gotten their asses kicked this badly, he dreaded to think what had happened to the Italians.

“Yes, of course,” he said slowly, carefully, “how far away are they?”

“The camp is within their view.”

Well, that doesn’t pressure us for speed. The German thought sarcastically, giving a frustrated sigh. “Tell Felciano that I’ll see to it that he and his people are treated to the best of our ability.”

The Italians’ faces lit up with this news. They gave another quick salute and dashed off.

Ludwig sprinted out of his tent and was immediately hit with a blast of cold air. Several of his troops saluted him as he braced against the wind, throwing an arm up in front of his face to shield it. “Get the doctors! Prepare the medical supplies! Set aside as much space as we can for tending the wounded! We have an injured Italian army coming in.” The orders were barked, one after another.

His men got to work immediately, almost falling over themselves as they rushed to carry out these tasks. One solider muttered something about useless Italians, and received a harsh glare from Germany.

After a minute or so of rushing around repeating his orders to everyone who either hadn’t heard or needed extra motivation, he made it to the side of the camp.

There, sure enough, he could just make out the battered, broken forms of the Italians coming in. They were dead on their feet as it was, and there were far fewer than he’d been expecting. He hoped his camp could comfortably accommodate them all: he had seen enough suffering lately.

Where are you, Italy?

He drew in a deep breath at the burst of pain that ignited his ribs and scanned the crowd hopefully for his ally.

True, Italy was pretty useless in battle, and true, he frustrated, angered, and annoyed the hell out of him sometimes. The Italian Army’s most recent defeat was a major disappointment and a setback of probably epic proportions if this little visual feast was anything to go by, and right now Ludwig didn’t even want to think about how bad the damage was to the Axis war effort as a whole.

But failure or not, Feliciano was his friend — probably the only real friend he had right now — and his presence at his side would be a comfort in these bleak times.

___________________________________

Notes: I use "dimgray" for all NPC speech ( characters that don't have a roleplayer ) and "darkgreen" for Ludwig's speech. Ludwig's thoughts are in italics and dark green.

All of my background information is fairly accurate ( to my knowledge ), even the part about the 20 tonnes of vodka instead of more useful supplies. I researched this extensively before writing, but if you find any errors, have any questions, or want to look at my sources, just send me a PM!

If you need me to modify the setup or change anything, just let me know. It won't be a problem! And don't hesitate to ask me if you have questions.

Oberstgruppenführer = Ludwig's rank, in German. He's a general, with both the Wehrmacht and the SS. Um...I don't really use too much German in these posts because my German blows, but whenever I do I'll be sure to add translations at the bottom.

Uh, yeah, that's it for notes. I hope you can use this!
[/color]

[venecianovargas]

It had been unbearably cold when they had arrived...and even now...it really hadn’t changed much. Their bodies couldn’t acclimatise to such drastic change in weather. In Italy, even if one lives in the north, it never reached such freezing temperatures. The worse it got was minus ten but minus thirty to minus forty, such a thing was unheard of. However, this time Feliciano had not said anything. He didn’t want to disappoint Ludwig again. There had been too much of that in the past but this time it would be different. He was desperately trying to be strong and he’d march through it.

There were many things that he could say he disliked about Russia and the main one was the weather. It was strange to lose sensation in ones limbs. The stinging pain of cold hands was a discomfort that Feliciano could do without and the longer they stayed outside the less he could feel his body. The pain would slowly ebb away leaving numbness in its place. There were many times that it became nearly impossible to grasp his gun because his hand just couldn’t close around it. In this weather his cheeks and nose had attained a permanent red like colour. And really, Feliciano had to blame the fact that they were ill prepared. All of their equipment, even their winter equipment, could have never prepared them for what they had had to face here in Russia.

It had been like no other battle or rather battles....there had been many of them but now...it was all just one big blur. Feliciano had remembered watching Ludwig go one way and he another. Of course, it was only natural that Feliciano lead the Italian 8th Army’s Alpini Corps. It was his duty after as a nation to endure the same treatment as his people. He wouldn’t have let them go without him anyway; no matter how bad he had wanted to stay with Ludwig.

Feliciano had said his shaky goodbyes before parting ways. Of course, little did he know that the next time Ludwig and he would meet; it would not be on the best of notes. After their departure things had gone down the drain. How could they have thought they could have won on Russian turf? Had they lost their minds when they had marched into this large and freezing country?! B-b-ut....Mussolini always knew what he was doing...right?

Wrong.

When the second part of Operation Saturn was launched by the Soviets that was when the real mess began. They hadn’t stood a chance as they were flanked from all sides. They were surrounded with nowhere to go and Feliciano could only watch as man after man was gunned down in cold blood. There was no mercy on this battlefield and the white snow that had given him the allusion of purity was now stained with the blood of innocent men. And, Feliciano couldn’t say that his men were the only ones innocent but Ivan’s men as well.

Feliciano could watch as these people killed each other but he just couldn’t make himself do it. He stood there frozen...in fear...as the battle swirled around him. It was a wonder he hadn’t gotten killed himself. Luckily, one of his men had seen him and grabbed him trying to desperately fend off the enemy. Tears froze against his cheeks and he didn’t even have the force to struggle against the soldier pulling him to safety. Why couldn’t he do anything?! He had made a promise to himself that he would be strong for Germany! That he would be a good friend this time...could he not even do that for the person he cared about?!

At that moment, Feliciano did something uncharacteristic of him. He pulled out of the soldier’s grasp and ran back to the fighting. It was clear that he was not thinking clearly and it didn’t help that tears were blurring his vision. He wanted to help...that’s all. He didn’t want people constantly taking care of him like when he was a kid. He could do things on his own!

Feliciano could not tell you exactly what had happened at that moment. It was as if something had possessed him and driven him forward. He could only remember things clearly after everything had died down. All that remained in front of him were the dead and what made things worse was the fact that his hands were coated in blood (that wasn’t even his own) frightened him. Feliciano held them away from him as he began to cry once again. He hated this. He didn’t want to be here anymore and the worse thing about it all was that his heart ached at all the atrocities being committed.

He curled into himself sobbing quietly unwilling to move. Feliciano didn’t care that his side was getting cold due to the snow or that Russian reinforcements could be coming at any moment. It all seemed trivial to him. All he really wanted was to wake up from this nightmare.

“Feliciano!”

Feliciano didn’t even look up but it wasn’t too long after that a few men were kneeling beside him, examining him and making sure he’s alright. The entire time he refused to respond and merely continued to cry quietly to himself.

“He’s been shot in the right shoulder and left side...” One of the men whispered. “It’s a wonder he’s kept consciousness...he’s lost so much blood.”

The two men heaved him up and for the next hour or so carried him forward. Finally, Feliciano seemed to have snapped back from his stupor and weakly thanked the two men for their help. He would walk the rest of the way on his own. It felt like days before someone spotted the 4th Panzer Armies camp. There was a cry of relief from most of his men and surprisingly enough even from him.

Ludwig?!

He wondered if his friend was there or not. Could he still be fighting the Russians? It was a probability but Feliciano really hoped that Ludwig was indeed here. He could really use his best friend right now. Noticing how the camp was growing bigger and bigger Feliciano straightened his posture, with much difficulty, and wiped at his tear stricken face. He knew the other would be disappointed with him at the news of their loss but at least the German’s presence would comfort him regardless of the screaming.

The Italian’s were greeted warmly as the wounded were taken for treatment and the exhausted taken to rest and eat. Feliciano on the other hand would not let anyone help him until he found Ludwig. Where was he?

“L-ludwig?” He called out hoarsely. Wow, he hadn’t realized it had been that long since he’s used his voice. He sounded really bad.

Feliciano glanced around frantically...feverishly. Where was Ludwig? Was he not here after all? He pushed forward but his strength was waning and as soon as he spotted the tall blond he collapsed in the snow from exhaustion.

---

Thank you so much for rping this with me Ludwig~ : D

I use red as Feliciano's dialogue and blue for NPCs.

I was actually able to find quite a bit of information on this subject but unfortunately when it comes to the Italian divisions there really isn't THAT much info.

Anyway, I hope this makes sense and thank you again.

[Germany]

Where is he? Ludwig’s eyes swept over the war-torn, frozen, and tired faces of the scores of men that made up the front several times without catching so much as a glimpse of his friend and ally.

He has to be here somewhere, he reasoned.

He had missed him somewhere. Yes. That had to be it. Feliciano was extremely empathetic and cared deeply for his people — even more deeply than most nations cared for their people, it seemed. Perhaps he was a little further in the back, helping a gravely-wounded soldier along or trying to boost morale.

The first of the wounded were spilling into camp now, some literally collapsing like sacks of wet cement onto the snow once they were within meters of the nearest tents. These were immediately tended to by Ludwig’s soldiers, who began directing the less injured to more comfortable places around fires and carefully moving those who were in the most dire need of medical care inside the tents.

In all his life, there were few times Ludwig had seen anyone so happy to see a German camp. Though they lacked the strength and vigor to express it much through words and actions, the eyes and faces of the Italians shone with a gratitude that was unmistakable. Even those who weren’t fully aware of their surroundings seemed to be distantly aware of the fact that they had found a safe place.

Ludwig took a few more paces towards the incoming tide of people, initiating another fiery complaint from the left half of his ribcage, which he did his best to ignore. The area the bullet had struck was uncomfortable and sensitive to the cold and movement, but the pain wasn’t enough to seriously impede his thought processes or double him over, or anything as drastic as that. Like his aching limbs, it was more of an ever-present nuisance that flared up a bit from time to time.

The hoarse, pain-stricken sound of his name threw his attention immediately to a critically wounded young man who stumbled toward him with great difficulty.

ITALY?! he shouted in his head, somewhat shocked, and it was barely in time that he changed it to “Feliciano?!”

Instead of answering, the Italian collapsed where he stood.

He looked…not well.

Ludwig dashed over to him at once, his mouth opening a little in mounting horror as he took in the bullet-wounds on Feliciano’s shoulder and side. The size of the holes in his uniform and the pale, ashen color of his friend’s skin told him right away that the other nation was in danger of hypothermia at best and a false-death trip to Mussolini at worst. The blood was everywhere: caked over his face, frozen on his hands, staining his clothes.

“Feliciano? Feliciano, can you hear me?”

My god…Germany shook his head, a great deal of concern flickering over his normally brutally-austere features. The pain he had felt only moments ago was all but forgotten. He had seen seriously wounded countries before — hell, he’d been responsible for inflicting some of the wounds on said countries — but Italy was one of the last nations on Earth — if not the last — he would have expected to see in such a miserable state. How the hell did this happen? Italy doesn’t fight, he runs away…or surrenders.[/i]

Right now it didn’t matter: his friend was in need of immediate medical attention.

Without another word Ludwig knelt down next to his ally, got his arms under his knees and neck, and lifted him all the way off the ground. The extra weight on his already-aching arms made them hurt all the more, and his chest responded with a fiery wave of protest.

To hell with them. He couldn’t be bothered with that sort of nonsense now.

This doesn’t feel right. A shudder of worry raced through him as he realized that Feliciano was too light, and as cold as death. He had to get him inside and warmed up — now.

Turning around, he started back to his tent, moving as quickly as his injuries and the elements would allow. “Stay strong, Feliciano.” Though he was trying his hardest to sound strong and commanding, he could not stop the weariness of the past few days from creeping into his voice and weighting it down, “I’ll take you inside where it’s warm. Get you fixed up.”

That was first priority. For now, his questions could wait.

____________________________________

Notes: No problem! Your post was very good. I think we're getting off to a wonderful start.

[venecianovargas]

He hurt....he was in so much pain. It almost felt as if someone’s boot was crushing his chest and the funny thing was that he could barely feel his wounds. The pain he was feeling was the pain he felt for his men, for Russia’s men. Ludwig’s familiar voice went unnoticed as he lay pathetically on the snow breathing heavily. His eyelids felt heavy but he couldn’t fall asleep just yet. He wanted to see his friend...he wanted to tell him that everything was okay and that he had been brave. He wanted to tell Ludwig that he didn’t run away like he usually did but that he was sorry they couldn’t win. He would tell Ludwig that although they lost this one he would try harder next time. One lose was nothing....they could still win.


“Feliciano? Feliciano, can you hear me?”

That voice sounded familiar. Feliciano could barely glance up to see the tall blond beside him. Germany almost looked deformed in his blurred vision.

“...Ludwig...you look like one of Picassos’ paintings...” He manages to say weakly as he tries to stifle his laughter. The cold and loss of blood had gotten to him. There was no way he was thinking straight and the fact that he wasn’t even bothered by the snowy blanket under him said a lot.

Feliciano remembered getting picked up but he had no strength to move, to adjust into a more comfortable position. If anyone had been looking they would have agreed that it was a sad sight. The Italian was lifeless in the German’s arms. The usually animated man, the man who snuck away to take siestas instead of train or enjoyed decorating German tanks with portraits had lost all liveliness.

It was as if Feliciano was living an out of body experience. His head swayed from one side to the other as he was being carried away. He already felt ten times warmer in Ludwig’s arms but now his eyelids were heavy with sleep. No matter how hard Feliciano tried to fight against them it proved futile as he lost consciousness upon entering a tent.

~~~~

It could have been minutes, hours or even days that had passed before he woke up. Feliciano was not entirely sure but the first thing he noticed was that the sun was shining awfully bright today. He stared at the side of the tent that the sun was penetrating for several minutes before glancing around curiously. His brown eyes were surprised to find that this was no ordinary medical tent but one of a commanding officer. There were no other wounded soldiers to be seen. When he had finished examining every inch of the tent he noticed the white sheets and that he was no longer wearing his bloody uniform. That was when the pain hit him, his shoulder and side began to throb painfully at the smallest of movements. His surprise must have briefly masked the pain but now it hurt. He sucked in a breath as tears prickled his eyes. This really hurt.

Feliciano was quick to curl into himself before falling back onto the cot and letting out a cry at the way his shoulder landed. Ow, ow ow owww! This was too much, he didn’t like this...and where was Ludwig? He was sure he had seen his friend before he had passed out. Feliciano didn’t dare move from his position as he called out for his friend.

“Ludwig...?”

[Germany]

The trip back to his tent seemed longer somehow than the trip away from it had been, despite the fact that it wasn’t that far. It felt so good to get back inside, where the air was slightly warmer and less active.

For once, Ludwig was grateful he hadn’t had the chance to make his bed: the covers were all the way down to the foot.

Perfect.

Gingerly — almost lovingly — he laid a bloodied Feliciano out on the white bed sheet, slipping his pillow under his head and putting him into what he hoped was a comfortable position. He did a quick assessment of his wounds: the ones to the shoulder and side were definitely the biggest concerns, apart from the hypothermia risk.

Ludwig began working automatically, his mind going into a mechanical auto-pilot as he removed his friend’s bloody uniform, found the medical supplies in a corner of the tent, and began cleaning and dressing the wounds, taking all the care he could not to aggravate them or make them worse. Triage was not really his forté and he avoided it whenever he could, but he knew enough about medicine and medical practice to perform it when he had to, and with reasonable care and efficiency.

After everything was clean and disinfected and he had staved off the bleeding with the aid of a hemostatic agent, guaze, and bandages, he piled the blankets onto the wounded brunette and went to get a hot water bottle.

____________________________________________

Feliciano was out like a light. Over the next day Ludwig continued to check in on him whenever he got the chance in-between strategizing, moving equipment and supplies, talking the morale back into his men, bossing people around, overseeing the disbursement of rations, tending to his own injuries, and dealing with any problems that arose. Thankfully the camp had been adequately supplied and fairly drama-free so far, so he hadn’t had too much to worry about apart from making decisions and making sure everyone was doing their jobs, especially the sentries. The Italians were receiving the best care 4th Panzer had to offer, and while food and supplies would start to run short the longer they stayed, with careful rationing they had another two weeks or so before that would start to become a serious problem. Ludwig had already sent for more supplies; hopefully the enemy, freezing weather, and/or his boss would not hold up delivery.

Now it was lunchtime.

He wasn’t hungry, although he knew he should be ravenous — he’d had the total equivalent of maybe one good meal in the past four or five days.

I’m probably just overly stressed, he reasoned,[/i] Still, I had better eat something. I need my strength.

Best to check on Feliciano first though. That way, if the Italian was awake, he could grab something for him as well.

That settled, Ludwig turned away from the massive roofed tent structure where he had just finished a conference with several of his highest-ranking officers and started for his own tent.

Today was warmer than yesterday had been, but only a little, and even though the sun was shining brightly in an almost cloudless sky he was very, very thankful for his warm winter clothing. The black color was terrible for camouflage, but at least most of his men had white or light gray — there had apparently been a lack of communication between the supply teams, intelligence, and 4th Panzer. Either that, or they were out of winter-colors at the moment, which was an unfortunate-but-highly-possible scenario given that the Stalingrad forces weren’t the only German forces that regularly suffered from a lack of appropriate supplies thanks to circumstances and der Führer’s crazy, impractical military planning and provisioning.

Feet crunching heavily over well-trampled snow, he made his way past rows of neatly-arranged tents, offering a steely gaze or an abrupt nod here and there to anyone who made eye-contact with him. He recognized the quiet, revered awe on the faces of a few of his soldiers — not only had he been the sole free survivor of 6th Army, he’d survived another encounter with the dreaded “Ghost General”. Although he had done his best to make his story of survival and subsequent escape sound noble and believable, and the fearsome Ivan Braginski sound human and mortal, he knew he had not completely dispelled everyone’s doubts. There were still those who suspected — proof they may lack — that neither he nor Ivan were entirely human. Thankfully the majority of the small fraction of his men who were vaguely aware of how many times he and/or and the so-called Ghost General had overcome all odds, defied death, healed too rapidly, or achieved any other seemingly inhuman feat usually attributed it to luck, skill, and privileged treatment.

He had barely reached his tent and was just starting to open the flap when he heard Feliciano call his name.

The Nazi winced: his friend sounded pained. Quickly, he made his way in.

There was Italy, lying in an odd position on his small bed and looking very uncomfortable.

Ludwig approached and put one gloved hand on his shoulder, frowning, but with a gentle concern shining through his eyes. “Feliciano? How are you feeling?”

Sensing that his touch may have only hurt the other man more, he drew back and removed his earmuffs, setting them down on a nearby box. “I heard about what happened to the Alpini Corps.” he said in a note of disappointment, averting his eyes to the right wall of the tent, “I’m sorry for your loss.” He lowered his head and dropped his gaze to the ground, his expression hardening. When he next spoke, his voice was deadly-serious — almost a low growl. “My entire 6th Army got wiped out in Stalingrad. I’m the last free survivor.”

[venecianovargas]

Feliciano had been so caught up in just keeping his breath even that he did not hear the German enter the tent or the loud crunching footsteps of a tall six foot something blond until a hand had landed on his shoulder. He whimpered. Ludwig had barely touched him and yet it had felt as if the man had leaned on him. At first, he did not respond as he took in deep breaths trying hard to hold in the tears that he knew would spill either way.

He turned his head to look up at his friend, his brown eyes already watering with unshed tears. He gently bit his lip as he took comfort in Ludwig’s presence. It felt like forever since he had seen the tall man. At the man’s words he could only shake his head in a wordless reply.

At the mention of his Alpini Corps tears began to stream down his face. All of them had people at home who cared about them and because of him and his bosses decisions those people will forever have an empty place in their hearts. “Mi dispiace Ludwig....I really did try...” He said his voice hitching in sadness.

The small Italian, although it hurt him, turned on his other side to face his friend. He reached for the German’s un-gloved hand and gently took hold of it, squeezing it lightly. He didn’t like seeing Ludwig like this, although lately he hadn’t seen the other man smile. It made him sad. He really loved Ludwig’s smile especially when it reached his ocean blue eyes. It was sight that was for sure, one that he would love to capture on canvas. He had tried painting the man when he was asleep but he ended up passing out right beside him. Late nights just didn’t work out well with this Italian; he cared too much for his sleep. He wondered if he asked Ludwig, if maybe the man would agree to it.

He wasn’t sure what to tell Ludwig. Losing like that was something he was used to but he found that it was still hard to cope with no matter how many times it happened. Feliciano could imagine for Ludwig this was almost a foreign concept. This was the first time the Germans had lost so badly.

Russia was not easy to conquer....it actually had never been done. The Swedish, the French and now the Germans had all succumbed to the wrath of not only Russian weather but Russian will power. Feliciano had never wanted to come to Russia...then again he had never wanted to fight to begin with.

The way Ludwig had sounded at the mention of his 6th army caused more tears to sting the Italian’s brown eyes. He sniffled as he forced himself up and shakily wrapped his arms around the German’s neck, hugging him. It wasn’t much comfort but it was all he could really offer his friend as he held on to the other as tightly as he could without hurting himself. He would cry for Germany and all the dead soldiers.

-----------------

Mi dispiace = I'm sorry.

[Germany]

Feliciano’s apology was predictable. It seemed the Italian was always apologizing to him for something — for not taking drills seriously enough, for failing to do this or that, for getting on his nerves….the list went on and on. Ludwig could tell that every apology was from the heart, and that his friend and ally really was trying to please and obey him, but his inherent personality was such that he just couldn’t help himself. He was too much of a free spirit, too carefree and happy, a live-in-the-moment kind of guy who hated wars and fighting and couldn’t abide being fettered down by rules and responsibilities.

In many ways, he was Ludwig’s polar opposite.

Yet when they were together, the odd combination somehow worked, with their respective strengths and weaknesses balancing each other out. Their friendship was not without its problems — their personalities frequently did not mesh well enough for them to work together efficiently and Italy tended to grate Germany’s nerves a lot — but at the end of the day the Italian’s unassuming, eager-to-please friendliness, upbeat attitude, and strong heart always won out, and Ludwig was always secretly glad for his company. Feliciano was one of the few people — indeed one of the few nations — who could look past his harsh façade, who always made him feel better somehow in a way he could not fully describe just by being near him. He felt very protective of him, despite technically being quite a bit younger than him.

But being predictable did not make the apology any less sad. It was heart-wrenching to see Feliciano laying there forlorn when he was normally upbeat, his happy-go-lucky smiles replaced with expressions of pain, the joyful luster to his brown eyes lost under a veil of tears.

It was wrong.[/i]

Unnatural.

Frightening.

Damn, we really are in deep.

He’d known that for quite some time now, really. Long before his soldiers ever reached Stalingrad. But seeing his friend — the very heart and soul of Italy — like this only drove the point home deeper. Made their losses that much more devastating.

His eyes still on the floor, the German drew in a sharp breath and flinched at the moderate wave of pain Feliciano’s gentle, shaky embrace sent through his chest.

Not good. His injuries were definitely taking longer to heal this time around. That could only mean one thing — too many of his people were dying; his military was weakening. They could probably still hold out a while longer….maybe.

Maybe not, under Hitler’s increasingly inane, logic lacking, egocentric my-way-or-death brand of leadership.

In spite of the pain, Ludwig allowed his friend to continue hugging him. Italy meant well, and anyway the gesture was comforting, even if only a little. It felt good to have a friend and ally to confide in a time like this, a close friend and ally who knew the truth about who he was, what he was, and what he had been through. A friend who was suffering as he was, demoralizing as it was.

After a few moments of sentimentalities he carefully drew back and out of Felciano’s arms. “I know,” he said solemnly, his disillusioned gaze trained on the tent wall. “It’s awful. I’ve never lost an entire field army before. Ever.” He shook his head, the frown he wore turning bitter.

“It’s all my boss’s fault!” He exploded suddenly, eyes narrowing, cheeks darkening with rage, “He won’t listen to good advice! The other generals and I — his advisors and battle tacticians — we all told him not to do this, to wait to attack Russia, to not break our forces in half and go in undersupplied.” He clenched his hands into fists, his short fingernails digging painfully into his palms. “Subzero weather! Not enough warm clothing! Frozen-up weapons! Almost no food! Death literally lurking around every corner!” His knuckles whitened. “So much frostbite and starvation…even cannibalism. Does he allow us to retreat, the way a good leader would? No! We have to stay put and fight to the death for his stupid pride. He knew they were all going to die horrible deaths and he didn’t care! Yet that Austrian bastard still has the audacity to claim he loves me, to call himself my savior?!” Blue eyes flashing with anger, he turned back to face Feliciano. “He’s lucky he’s my boss, otherwise I’d —” he stopped himself short.

Feliciano wouldn’t want to hear this. He hated violence, and the imagery wasn’t pretty.

I hope half the encampment didn’t hear me, he thought with a sudden flood of panic, If my boss hears about THIS little outburst it’s the Einsatzgruppen for me.

The prospect sent a chill that was even colder than the Russian winter down his spine. Being forced to be on the Einsatzgruppen would be absolute hell; even worse than watching his men suffer in Stalingrad. He would do anything to avoid it.

Hitler knew this.

He shook his head sadly, still scowling, but with much of the heat leaving his face. “Nevermind.” A resigned sigh escaped his lips as he regarded the Italian in front of him somberly. When he next spoke, his voice was laced with sorrow, and, in spite of his best attempts to keep it hidden, a hint of fear. “We’re going to lose this war, Italy.”

[venecianovargas]

Upon hearing those dreadful words Italy could only sit back and stare. He had seen this coming...actually he had felt such a lose coming. Feliciano had gotten word that Mussolini had been kicked out of office. Not only had he heard about this but he had felt it in his very being. He had felt his people revolt against his regime. The Italian people were angered that the man was only taking them further and further into debt. Mussolini, although at first he had been making fun of Hitler, was following that madman into political and economical suicide.

Everyone had known that the Italian state had not been financially ready to go to war. Yes, the win in Ethiopia had turned many heads away from the truth but that didn’t keep up. It was clear how useless their army had become. They were constantly being saved by the Germans and after a while the people had just become fed up. They had become so fed up that they kicked Mussolini out of power and held him prisoner in a makeshift prison in the far north of Italy, Feliciano’s section.

Of course, his imprisonment didn’t last long since the Germans had overheard of this and not wanting the entirety of Italy to be taken over by the allies. Since operation Husky was already in effect in Sicily the German paratroopers were thrown into action breaking out the revered fascist dictator. Soon North Italy was under fascist rule once again and the Germans hadn’t lost their ally completely. Mussolini was back in power and trying to keep everything under control but after what had happen in Rome and what was happening in South Italy it was a matter of time that things were going to become worse for the axis.

Italy had felt this but had kept quiet. Actually, at first he had no idea what he was feeling. Why he was suddenly feeling so light headed but it all made sense especially after listening to Germany’s thoughts on the war. They were going to lose. Those words had pulled something inside of him. There was a mix of happiness because his men would no longer have to sacrifice themselves but also one of dread because the losers of the war never got out of it with clean hands. They were always punished and quite severely.

Italy did not want that at all. He could only imagine what the allies would do to Germany and that was not something he wanted to see. They may even prohibit him from seeing Ludwig. That thought frightened him even more because although Germany lost his patience easily with him Italy still loved being around the man. When they weren’t training things just meshed well together. Would he lose all of that because of an insane Austrian boss who thought he could pull Germany out of his post-WWI glum? What could Feliciano say to Germany? Everything wasn’t going to be okay, nothing was okay.

With the sleeve of his shirt the auburn haired man wiped at the tears brimming his eyes. He needed to toughen up. Although, it didn’t help much that the Russians had an extraordinary medical team and seemed to be coming out of everywhere. They were just too prepared for this weather; they knew how to handle it whereas the axis did not.

It was all a hopeless cause and usually he was more optimistic about things but what he had seen out here did not help him feel better. Not at all. “...I know.” Feliciano finally spoke up. He wasn’t stupid, he had realized. “I was actually scared you were going to say that....but I had a feeling.” He went on inhaling deeply. “I’m not going to lie Germany...I never really liked your boss and I always thought that there was something wrong with him. But, seeing this...I know that for sure. We were never going to win this were we?”

Maybe they did have a chance but was that really what the world needed? Did the world really want the axis to win? No, definitely not, especially not after seeing what Hitler was doing. Italy had always wondered why many of his Jews had been taken away from him. Had been forcefully taken and put somewhere that he wasn’t even aware of. Actually, he was quite certain that not even Germany knew exactly where these Jews were being taken away too....or at least he hoped Germany didn’t know. He hoped that Germany was just in the dark about this phenomenon as he.

“I’m scared Ludwig.” He looked up and into Germany’s blue eyes for comfort but not really receiving what he was looking for. “I’m really scared...”

He grew silent.

“What if they never let us see each other again?” He finally said admitting one of his biggest fears. “But, I think what scares me the most is what if they’re really mean to you because of what your boss made you do...what if they don’t understand that it wasn’t you...but your boss?” He was shaking again. He knew France, he knew England, he knew America and he knew Russia. They didn’t always look at reason especially in a position of power. They won’t even bother to look at the position Germany was put in. They will even ignore their own crimes because right now the axis were the bigger criminals. That was how it was and always will be and that was also something to be scared about. The winners were not always the big saviours they are made out to be especially concerning these very delicate matters.

Italy has lived long enough to have seen many wars. To have also witnessed the politics after the war and usually things don’t really change and in this case this was true and false but considering the fact that this was a new time era and civilization has changed dramatically since those times says a lot. Italy knew his thoughts were contradictory but for him they held a sense of truth. Things would run the same but at the same time different because of the way the world was set up nowadays. Who knew what would soon be awaiting them. Who knew about anything these days now that he thought about it since the world had promised to avoid another World War and look at them now.

Feliciano locked his gaze with that of Ludwig’s desperately waiting for an answer he was not going to like.

[Germany]

A/N: Aaand it's up! Forgive my lack of actual Italian at the end: my character knows Italian, but I don't, and I'd hate to butcher your mother tongue in front of you trying to piece something together with those awful online translators. ^^;

XD But then, I don't actually speak German either, so...we can do a lot of pretending, ey?

EDIT: A little bit of wording changed near the end to leave the post more...open.

_______________________________________

The slow, sad confirmation hit Ludwig like a pebble hitting water. He was both surprised and unsurprised to hear his friend admit that their situation was indeed bad, the future looking bleak. It was so divorced from Italy’s usual cheerful nature. But then, only an idiot or someone deeply in denial would say otherwise in their situation.

Italy continued after a deep breath. “I’m not going to lie Germany...I never really liked your boss and I always thought that there was something wrong with him. But, seeing this...I know that for sure. We were never going to win this were we?”

Ludwig shook his head, the frown he wore deep, his face cast in hatred. “No. My boss is a madman, and that doomed us right from the start. I and several others did all we could to steer him in the right direction, but he will have none of it.” He allowed his fingers to uncoil. A tiny, thin crescent of blood decorated his right palm.

“I’m scared Ludwig.” Feliciano sounded like a child that had just heard a scary bedtime story. Ludwig held his gaze, genuinely upset to see him so upset but not knowing quite what to do. “I’m really scared...”

I am too. Ludwig thought, but it was an admission that he would sooner die than openly admit to anyone, even Feliciano.

For a moment they stood in mutual silence, Ludwig wanting to comfort his friend but unsure how to go about it. Nothing he said would make things better. Nothing he did could change loss into victory, not now when the die had already been cast the moment Hitler seized power. The noose was slipping around his neck now; he could feel it.

“What if they never let us see each other again?”

I’d count on that happening. Ludwig thought miserably, and he almost said it, but something stopped him.

“But, I think what scares me the most is what if they’re really mean to you because of what your boss made you do...what if they don’t understand that it wasn’t you...but your boss?” Feliciano was trembling like a Baltic with horror of the prospect, his innocent face ashen and sick with worry. He appeared to be waiting for an answer, his big amber eyes watery and desperate.

Ludwig inwardly flinched.

That was a very, very valid concern. The Allies were already treating him like some kind of heartless monster, an evil dragon that had to be vanquished before it burnt all land to cinders and destroyed all that was good, precious, moral, and worth fighting for. They viewed themselves as the valiant heroes in this war, fighting the good fight, saving the innocents and undoing the wicked.

Defeat Big Bad Germany. Nevermind that he’s little more than a victim himself, enslaved by an insane, cruel, megalomaniac boss and saddled with a corrupt government in which the most wicked have the most power and the sad pleas of the good, upright Germans are drowned out in a hail of gunfire that ends in a solemn silence.

The hatred lingering on Germany’s countenance cooled to a subtle, hopeless sorrow. “They already think I’m evil,” he said humorlessly, consciously making double-sure he was speaking the language of nations to ensure that this conversation remained confidential, “Me, my boss…we’re the same as far as they’re concerned. Hitler is evil, and because I do as he commands, I’m evil too. It’s that simple to them. It doesn’t help that so many of my Nazis are complete assholes who think nothing of killing innocent, unarmed people. But then, they’ve committed their share of atrocities too, especially the damned Red Army.” Here his face twisted with disgust. “They don’t talk about that though — they’d rather point out the Axis’s brutalities and keep pretending their hands are clean.”

Letting out the ghost of a sigh, he moved around Feliciano and sat down on the bed, deep in dark thoughts. “They’ll definitely punish me.” he said flatly, “They might even kill me, especially if they learn some of my secrets. Japan….he might have it a little easier. I don’t know.” He nodded towards his friend. “You’ll probably be alright. As it is there are jokes about you and whose side you’re really on. They know your heart isn’t in it.” He paused. “Actually, I’m most worried about Prussia. He’s already so much weaker than he used to be…” he let the words hang like an axe waiting to fall, his stomach turning over.

No.

He would not think about that. He couldn’t.

I’ll deal with it if and when it happens, he decided, not before.

He stood up suddenly and straightened. “We should get some lunch,” he said, trying out his Italian, “We’ll need our strength.”

[venecianovargas]

It's all good. Pretending is just as fun. Sorry for the really long delay. Things happened. But it's up!! And I hope you like it!

---

Everything Germany had been saying and hadn’t been saying confirmed his fears. Actually, it was the man’s silent actions that really got to him. The way he clenched his hand, the fact that he refused to look him in the eye when he said certain things and even the darkened expressions that came over the German when he thought the Italian was not looking. Those were the things that spoke louder than words. It also made him wonder how long Germany knew that they were going to lose. He wondered how long the man had known his Führer was completely crazy. These things buzzed through his mind and yet he just didn’t have it in him to voice it out loud. He felt that the German before him already had enough on his plate. He probably had to deal with questions from the men of this division on a daily basis. Everyone was questioning Nazi Germany; everyone could probably tell what was going on.

“They already think I’m evil,”

Italy didn’t. He didn’t think Germany was evil at all. It would be like saying that France was evil for all the territory he took over during the Napoleonic Wars or Spain was evil for all he had done in Latin America. They were not considered evil at all. They were still viewed well and what made this worse was that the death camps. The ones he had found out about secretly from his soldiers…well could they really deem Germany a monster or evil when England’s method of colonization could be considered just as barbaric. This was unjust! It wasn’t fair and Italy did not want Germany to suffer like this. He would have easily taken the man’s place if it were at all possible.

Feliciano didn’t make much of a move when Ludwig took a seat on his bed. He remained quiet and listened. Yes, that was true. There were jokes about him…but there were always jokes about him. No one took him seriously, never. And that was when he remembered Prussia. The man who had helped him gain his independence…the man who had always been there to just cheer him up or protect him when he needed it. Prussia had been looking very ill and it had worried Italy quite a bit. He had asked the older nation if there was anything he could do but the Prussian, being the strong type, always told him that he was alright. That there was nothing wrong.

This just reconfirmed it. Germany was worried too and everything the Prussian had been saying about being okay was a lie. What Hitler had done at the beginning of the war…the dissolution of Prussia into Germany…had hit the red eyed nation hard. It would have hit him hard too if he had been in the others position.

Italy had been so caught up in his thoughts that he didn’t notice the German get up until he heard the thickly accented Italian come from the man beside him. He glanced up and gave him a small smile. There was no point in pretending to be cheerful but at least he would make the most of the time they did have together. Who knew maybe tomorrow the allies would come and tear them apart from each other? Maybe this was the last time he would actually get to share a meal with Germany on good terms.

The small man got up and was quick to shove his feet into his boots before finding his jacket draped over a chair. He grabs it and pulls it on before grasping for the Germans much larger and warmer hand. It was a comfort that Italy was sure to miss in the near future.

“Lunch sounds great.” He replies as he pulls the taller man towards the tent exit. “Do you think they have pasta?” Italy was trying to lighten the mood but it was hard when two hearts were heavy with sorrow and worry. He interlaces their fingers and pats the top of Ludwig's hand comfortingly. "Your Italian is really getting better Ludwig." The auburn haired Italian complimented with a small smile. It was nice to see that he cared enough to at least try and learn his language.

[Germany]

Sure enough, the mention of food perked Feliciano up; a small smile appeared on his face, and his eyes brightened slightly. He hastily put on his boots and jacket, his injuries barely slowing him down.

Had he been in a better mood, Ludwig might have smiled a little. Some things never changed, come Hell or high water. It was nice to see a little of the energy and optimism that characterized Feliciano return to him, especially now when things were bad and the future was this bleak, ominous darkness closing in quickly around them on all sides, eager to smother them. Losing the first World War had killed most of Ludwig’s optimism — not that he’d ever been that optimistic to begin with — but being around other depressed people oddly enough never made him feel much better. Misery loved company, true, but some things were better not shared.

Besides, when the fat lady sung and everything came crashing down around them like a cardhouse, assuming the Allies let him survive he probably wouldn’t get to see Feliciano for a long time. They’d probably lock him, severely wounded and ill, away to rot in some freezing, dark basement somewhere where he wouldn’t see the light of day for decades. Depending on who ended up being his keeper, he might even be tortured. Russia definitely would enjoy that: he could see it in the crazy, violent gleam in the blonde’s eyes, hear it in his creepy, repetitious chant of ‘killkillkill…’. The sadistic nation already took such sick delight in beating and whipping the living hell out of innocent Baltics who only tried to please him — Lithuania even loved him. Ludwig dreaded to think what he’d do to an enemy.

Best to enjoy his time with Feliciano while he still could.

As if sensing his thoughts, the Italian grabbed him by the hand and pulled him towards the exit. His hand was startlingly cold. “Lunch sounds great. Do you think they have pasta?”

“I d- ” Ludwig started, then stopped. Thin, icy fingers were intertwining with his in a very un-masculine, implicative way. His eyes widened a little, his formerly serious expression taking on an awkward quality. Italy…

The other man patted the top of his hand.

Affectionately.

"Your Italian is really getting better Ludwig."

For a moment Ludwig forgot all about hands and implications. “Thanks,” he continued in the language, a little pride creeping into his voice, “I’ve been practicing.” He studied the Italian amicably, his gaze markedly less intense than usual.

Feliciano wore a small, sad smile. He feared what the future had in store for the both of them too; Ludwig knew he was worried about him, didn’t want to see him suffer and die. He didn’t want that either, naturally, but realistically that’s where things were heading. Germany had always prided himself on his ability to see the writing on the walls, to work facts, patterns, common sense, and logic together to visualize outcomes. Stalingrad had been a crippling loss. Several devastating mistakes on the Axis’s part had already been made. With Adolf Hitler in command, he couldn’t see himself making a turn around and gaining back the ground and vital resources he had lost. No. Italy was his best friend, and Japan was a serious and dedicated fighter, but they were not the firepower he needed to win this war. All he could do was ride it out and do the best he could with what he was given. Maybe he’d get lucky and someone would finally succeed in assassinating his boss.

Or not, he quickly reminded himself.

He’d fantasized about the Führer’s demise many times — sometimes at his own hands, though that would only be possible in the extremely unlikely event that someone else gained power over him while Hitler was still alive — but each time all the wind had been taken out of his sails by the realization of what that would mean for him and his people. He wasn’t going to be winning the war with Göring as his boss, and Goebbels and Himmler would be worse than Hitler. Unless the top four or five in the German High Command got toasted, at least, there would be no competent, experienced, qualified, and above all reasonable boss to step in and get things on the right track.

If only I could do a little house cleaning, he thought sourly, But no. I had to go and fuck that up by arguing with Hitler.

That little fiasco in the conference room had gotten the Führer to very specifically command him never to harm Göring, Goebbels, and Himmler. The order would stay in effect until Hitler either lost his position as the supreme leader of Germany, died, or decided to lift it, whichever came first.

It was frustrating; Ludwig didn’t care much for Göring — though he wouldn’t kill him even if he weren’t protected — and he despised Himmler, but he hated Goebbels so much that he couldn’t even look at the man without getting a strong urge to attack, torture, and murder him. With Goebbels it was personal. For as crazy, ill-tempered, and irrational as Hitler was, at least he really believed he loved his country and was acting in his best interest. Goebbels didn’t even try to pretend that Ludwig didn’t utterly disgust him. It was he who had come up with one of the worst possible punishments for the Aryan nation, and the moment his protection wore off he was going find that revenge was a bitch.

Turning his thoughts back to lunch, Ludwig started forward a step, then stopped abruptly.

Feliciano was still holding his hand.

He began to pry himself free. “Not in public,” he cautioned, abashed, “People will get the wrong idea.”

Once he had his hands free he exited the relative warmth of the tent and stepped outside into the chilly, breezy afternoon.

Happily, no one was standing right outside his tent, and judging from the tracks in the snow he hadn’t attracted an audience with his loud voice. Trampling a path to one of the main foot-trodden walkways, he passed the first row of tents and turned left. With an encampment of this size there were multiple ‘kitchens’ and food-serving areas, the trick was remembering where they were at. The whole two days he had been here Ludwig hadn’t visited one, but he thought he remembered seeing and smelling a new kitchen being set up close the area now being used for the Italian hospital, which was extremely nearby.

“Unless you Italians brought some with you, I doubt there will be pasta,” he said wryly, “Germans are supermen who can live off half a potato a day and a cup of broth so thin it might as well be tea. At least, that’s what my boss believes.” He shook his head a little, then gave Feliciano a more upbeat, almost playful look. “However...” he added, his tone rising in pitch with the good news he was about to share, “This camp seems to be better stocked than most — there will probably be whole baked potatoes, decent soup, toast, and sauerkraut. If we’re really lucky we’ll get schnitzels.” His mouth watered at the thought. “It’s been months since I’ve had one of those.”