Stalingrad {Germany, Russia, Prussia}

[Russia]

Stalingrad, December of 1942

“Брагинский, У вас есть семья?"

The words snapped Ivan out of a sleepy daze. He had been daydreaming again, on the verge of sleep as he had stared out at the snow covered ruins. Consciously realizing that he was in fact not looking at a bright field of sunflowers, but a frozen city of death, he gave a soft sigh and looked over to the young dark haired woman who had spoken.

“Да. У меня две сестрой. ” Ivan wished that his comrade had not asked him such a question, especially since he had been so content to daydream and ignore the quiet conversations that had been going on between the three others who were in the room with him.

It wasn’t really a room in the typical sense; more like the top attic space of what had once been a very large church, situated along the west bank of the Volga. The building had received heavy damage from the bombings, and a good portion of one of the walls was destroyed, leaving a good view of a section of the city. It was because of this that Ivan and the three gunmen - or gunwomen, as the case was with two of them- had converted the space into something like a sniper’s nest. Any enemy forces could be easily picked off from their location; granted that the enemy came at them head on. As a negative point however, the building was very weak, and being on the second floor, they had to constantly watch their step. The old church probably wouldn’t last another bombing.

“Are they waiting for you to return after the war?” The brunette questioned again, her green eyes focused on Ivan curiously.

“Нет, Avdotya Grigoryevna, my sisters are fighting as well, in other parts. They can take care of themselves.” With a shiver, Russia pulled his coat around himself tighter. He hated early winter mornings. They had been up for a few hours already, and the sun had only just barley began to rise. It was bitter cold, and had been snowing for the last three days with little pause. General Winter was being extra cruel it seemed in these parts, and even with his heavy coat and an old blanket tossed around his shoulders, the Russian nation felt as though he were submerged in ice water. He was starting to get used to his fingers being numb, but still took his gloves off every now and then to try and warm his hands by breathing on them.

Luckily, they had mixed gasoline in with the oil that they greased their rifles with, so even though their fingers were sometimes too numb to properly pull the trigger, their weapons were still in perfect working order. Weather like this almost made him look back fondly on the firestorm that had torn through the city in August; the result of German aerial bombings. As devastating as that had been, at least he had not had any difficulty staying warm.

But for all his cruelty, General Winter was once again being somewhat of a help to Ivan’s forces as well. The Volga had iced over, making it easier to get supplies across and into the destroyed city. This was excellent for Russia and his army, and horrible for the German invaders who had been recently cut off and encircled. The thought that Ludwig and his doomed men were now relying heavily on their air forces for supplies was encouraging. They surely were not getting all the help they would need, and if things got much worse this winter, perhaps General Winter himself would deal the death blow to them.

Just the thought of the blonde haired, blue-eyed German nation was enough to make the unhinged Russian silently seethe with anger. He had been fighting with Ludwig almost continuously since thebattle had began. So far the German had proven to be a formidable foe. Just look at what he and his men had done to Stalin’s city! It was a complete mess of burnt, frost covered ruins now, littered with the frozen and mangled corpses of Soviets and Germans alike. All because of Ludwig and his pact-breaking boss. Had he not been so viciously double-crossed, Ivan would have been perfectly content to have let Ludwig go about conquering western Europe. The pact had been giving him what he wanted- after a few minor alterations of course- so what did he care if Germany dominated those other nations? But no, Ludwig had turned around and brought the fight into Russia’s borders. A silly mistake that was going to cause him a lot of pain and eventual defeat.

Russia turned his gaze back out to the ruins that lay scattered about the churchyard. Avdotya had went silent for the time being, and his other two companions might very well have been carved of stone for as little as they were saying or doing. Not that Ivan minded the silence. He was both mentally and physically tired, and never liked talking much under such circumstances. Not that he was ever one to talk much to normal people to begin with. They tended to find him a bit strange, and he likewise found some of their antics and ideas to be completely bizarre and confusing. It was always much easier to talk to other nations, who knew him for what he was and he never had to hide things from. As it was, he had to give a false patronymic name to his people sometimes. Being a country, he lacked a father, and was often left simply giving the patronymic name of “Ivanovich,” claiming he came from a long line of Ivans.

A movement outside caught his eye and the violet-eyed nation immediately took aim with his rifle. The small, skinny form of a grey cat looked about nervously in the crosshairs of his scope. Disappointed that the flash of movement had only been an animal and not a German, Russia lowered his weapon again with a slight frown. The blonde woman besides him-who had drawn her weapon at his sudden movement- relaxed, giving her tired nation a pat on the shoulder.

“We’re too worked up if we’re mistaking cats for Germans, comrade.”

Deciding she was probably right, Russia turned his attention away from outside and focused instead on the vodka that was being brought out by the only other male Russian in the room. Ivan’s eyes widened with glee at the sight. Being as how they relied on it so heavily for disinfecting wounds as well as for drink, they always had a supply of the clear spirit around. He honestly could not imagine a more heavenly way to relax. It was so early, surely the Germans would wait until there was a tiny bit more light to attack.

Letting his guard down, Ivan gratefully accepted the one of the bottles. Gulping the burning liquid down as though it were water, the alcohol left him feeling much warmer. The sleepiness he had been feeling returned to him full force as well, and he almost didn’t notice when the first few shots rang out from outside the church. With a sharp cry of pain, Avdotya backed away from the open wall, clutching her side as blood began to seep through and stain her white outfit.

Adrenaline surging through him, Ivan set the vodka aside and drew his rifle, silently cursing the Germans for choosing such an awful time to start the attack. Ducking down low near the crumbled opening in the wall, he aimed his rifle out at the churchyard, ready to shoot the first German his eyes fell upon.
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((Translations:
“Брагинский, У вас есть семья?"= "Braginski, do you have any family?"
“Да. У меня две сестрой. ”= "Yes, I have two sisters."
"Нет." = "No."))

[Germany]

A/N: Please don't kill me for the record-breaking post, Ivan! I swear, the rest of mine won't be nearly so long — I merely had too much fun building up the backstory here. xD Don't feel you have to match it in length or anything, especially since we're going to be getting more interactive here very quickly.

By the way, I'm fine with death coming to any of my NPCs at any time in any manner you see fit. *cackles evilly* None of them are safe!

__________________________________________

It was bitterly cold. So cold that when men exhaled their breaths left their nostrils and mouths in thick, milky white wisps like dragons, and the touch of any inanimate object, be it stone, or wood, or — God forbid, metal — burned like white-hot coals. Clothes, blankets, and the surface of every wall and weapon were filmed over with a fine layer of frost. In many places, much of that frost was covered by a heavy, chilling blanket of hard, icy snow.

Just as he had for the past several weeks in a row, Ludwig had awoken shivering next to his comrades, curled up into the tightest ball possible in spite of how dreadfully uncomfortable the position was. The sub-zero air had viciously assaulted his eyes the moment he had opened them, trying to rob them of all heat and life; it had taken a will of steel and a storybook hero’s courage to pull himself to his feet and force his aching, tired body to walk away from the frigid form of the man he’d been lying next to in order to fumble around in the dark for lantern-oil and wood.

The big house they were defending had been devastated by aerial bombings months ago and subjected to grenades and heavy gunfire several times since, leaving it without much of a roof, only two and a half walls, and no intact window-panes. However, it had so far escaped the fires that had been ravaging the city on and off — including the great August fire — and it was actually in better shape than all but one of the large buildings for a few blocks in any given direction, making it a good fortress. It’s location on the west bank of the Volga was crucial: this area was held and guarded fiercely by the Red Army, who had been taking advantage of the iced-over river to get supplies and reinforcements over to their side. As long as the Volga remained in Russian hands, the 6th Army would remain trapped in a deadly stranglehold inside the city.

The situation was dire. Not only did Ludwig and his men lack adequate protection against the cold — the few winter coats, hats, gloves, boots, earmuffs, and uniforms they possessed were feeble defense against the brutal Russian winter and the extra summer uniforms Hitler had airlifted to them a while back were a bad joke — they had already used up most of their fuel, ammunition, medical supplies, and other basic necessities. They were frozen, sick, and starving. Fully encircled by the enemy on the ground, only the Luftwaffe could reach them with supplies and take the wounded to safety, which was incredibly dangerous for all Germans involved and had already cost them way too many aircraft and highly experienced airmen.

Starting the first fire of the morning was never a pleasant task, but someone had to do it. As the most resilient, able-bodied German around by far, Ludwig had taken it upon himself to always be that person in any group he happened to be with. His compatriots deeply appreciated it, and it made him look that much tougher besides.

This particular morning Ludwig’s search for fire fuel and other burnables had brought him to a wall-less section of the house where looking out into the black, starry sky and frozen, scarred landscape continued to be an experience akin to gazing out over the ruins of a city situated on the dark side of the moon. Each breath he’d taken had blasted his lungs with artic chill, but once he’d gotten moving his muscles had warmed up and things had become a little more bearable.

When several pieces of splintered wood, an old chair, some useless cloths, and paper garbage had been arranged carefully in tee-pee fashion with the most flammable objects on the bottom, he’d doused the whole structure in as much lantern-oil as they could spare and set it ablaze with a match.

Standing in front of a roaring fire was the perfect reward for making it. Ludwig hovered as close as he could without catching on fire himself, rotating to face a new direction every so often to ensure all sides of him got equally cooked while he kept a sharp eye out for danger and possible aid.

Disappointingly, the skies were silent as usual. When the Luftwaffe visited, they always did so just before dawn to make them harder for enemies to visually spot and target. But these days they were coming less and less. Not by choice, Ludwig knew, but because they were running low on aircraft and the nearest airfield was some distance away. When they did make it through, the supplies they unloaded were never, ever enough — probably less than a quarter of what was needed — but they were something, and something was better than nothing.

I wonder if Ivan is awake yet?

Ivan. Just thinking about his nemesis made Ludwig’s blood boil furiously, his heart beat faster. That insane, back-stabbing, bloodthirsty asshole had already violently slaughtered so many friends, soldiers, and allies. Yes, he was a tough, worthy foe, and fighting him up close and personal was always a deeply-satisfying thrill on so many levels, but it wasn’t worth so many German lives, especially now that winter had set in and the damned weather and lack of food and basic medicine were killing more of his people than the Red Army.

But as much as Germany hated Russia — as much as he wanted to shoot him down and beat and stab him violently to a death even he wouldn’t come back from with his own stupid faucet-pipe — he knew that the other nation was not the sole cause of his people’s suffering. No, Hitler was the moron who had ordered an attack on this vile hellhole of a city at the wrong time, in the wrong way, and under the wrong circumstances. The intensity of his refusal to listen to sound strategy was matched only by the intensity of his refusal to allow the 6th army to retreat or surrender: the orders were to fight to the last man, to die rather than become a prisoner.

And dying they were.

Horribly.

Bleak as it was, there was still a small flicker of hope. If only Ludwig and this group of twelve or so brave souls he was with could storm the big church a block and a half over, conquer it, and hold the position, they’d have a much better vantage-point from which to conquer and hold nearby surrounding buildings as well. If they got enough of them, they’d have access to at least a small strip of the Volga, where they could attack Russian reinforcements and get the wounded to safety. As an added bonus, losing any amount of riverfront could only hurt Russia and his troops.

Rustling and low murmurs sounded from nearby. The men were waking. Ludwig watched with increasing relief as, one by one, they rose up out of their real and makeshift blankets into sitting positions and rubbed the sleep out of their eyes, groaning at the prospect of yet another miserable day. Hopefully he hadn’t lost anyone overnight this time; he desperately needed every last person, and people dying in their sleep was becoming far too common of an occurrence.

The first man to rise to his feet was the Obergefreiter, who, low-ranking as he was, was second-in-command in this unhappy little troupe. He immediately went about his routine task of rousing those who were still sleeping and counting everyone.

Almost immediately thereafter Ludwig had a few buddies joining him by the fire: they huddled as close to it as he first had, rubbing their hands together vigorously and moving around a lot to get the blood flowing. Tired, dirty, emaciated, and nearly as pale as the snow that was everywhere, they looked like zombies.

Ludwig wished he could do more to ease their suffering. As it was he already gave up as much of his rations as he could stand to without weakening himself too much to fight and was always the first to go without when warm clothing and bedding were in short supply. He didn’t doubt that it helped — as a nation he could get by on less food than a regular human and survive colder temperatures for longer periods of time — but much like the supplies dropped by the Luftwaffe, it was never enough, and he couldn’t help feeling that he was letting his people down. Failing them as their general and their country.

“Generaloberst Herrmann?”

The Russian-accented voice belonged to Novokov, the one and only Hiwi presently amongst them. It made a few men jump and go for their weapons, but they quickly settled back down again once they saw who it was.

“Ja, Novokov?” Ludwig answered coolly, stumbling a little over the pronunciation of the man’s surname.

“Are you planning on going for the big church?”

Ludwig nodded seriously. “Ja. Taking that church is key to gaining back at least a portion of the Volga. It’s too important not to focus on.”

“Good plan.” another man mumbled. His name escaped Ludwig.

Novokov pinned the general’s gaze. “Then I must speak to you in private.”

“Hey, whatever you have to say, you can say in front of us.” Franz piped up immediately, sounding more irritable than usual. He frowned at Novokov.

Ludwig shot him a harsh look. “That’s my call.”

Franz didn’t argue.

No one else looked as though they wanted to.

Having taken care of that, Ludwig returned his attention to Novokov. “Alright.”

Novokov lead him through several rooms and upstairs, to the most isolated part of the house. He stopped near a window whose glass had long since been shattered to smithereens.

Ludwig stopped with him, waiting impatiently for him to say whatever it was he was going to say. He wondered what this was about, why the Hiwi didn’t feel he could share it in the presence of the other soldiers. “Well?”

Novokov was gazing out across the destroyed city. His expression was plagued with worry and uncertainty. “It’s General Braginski,” he whispered, and even the sound of the name rolling off his tongue seemed to send a fearful trembling down his spine, “I think he might be in church. It’s an excellent place for snipers like him, and he’s always in most dangerous and strategically-important places. Always.”

Ludwig’s stomach sank like a lead weight. That’s…not what I wanted to hear.

If Russia was indeed in the church, his presence was going to make it a hell of a lot harder to capture. Like Germany, he also possessed inhuman strength and endurance as well as much more combat experience than his apparent age suggested. If Ludwig didn’t engage him immediately he could pick off several of his men with ease, from a distance or in close quarters.

Damn.

The church was so vital to any prayer of a German victory in Stalingrad; they had to take it, and soon.

Hopefully Novokov was wrong. Normally Ludwig liked going for his equals or better — even preferred it in most instances — but the stakes were too damn high to be jeopardized by a fair fight here, for the sake of honor or anything else.

He moved shoulder-to-shoulder with the Hiwi, his face in a grim cast as he joined him in staring out the window. “If he is, I’ll deal with him personally.” he said with poise, a low growl seeping into his tone.

Down below, it was still dark. Still a lifeless, barren wasteland of snow, debris, and corpses. Not a creature stirred. The few plants to be seen were frozen so stiff they didn’t move even when prodded by a decent wind.

“You’re a brave soul, Herrmann.”

“I’ve never been afraid of him.” Ludwig admitted truthfully, “He’s not some ‘Ghost General’. He can be hurt and killed like anyone else. I know. We’ve fought before.” He paused for a moment, then, deciding it would be best not to dwell too much on subjects that would call attention to his and Ivan’s more unusual attributes, switched gears. “Novokov? Why did you desert the Red Army?”

Novokov looked at him wearily, a resentful sadness shadowing his youthful features. He looked so young right then; he couldn’t have been much over twenty-one. “Stalin. My family’s always been in military, you see. Especially the males in my family; it’s our tradition. My dad and his brothers, his dad and his brothers…going as far back as we can remember. We’ve always served our country and its leaders with undying faith and loyalty. Given them all we had and then some. My father and uncles were all intelligent high-ranking officers.” His tone took on a bitter note. “Stalin had them killed in purge. Thanks to him and his merciless tactics my older brother got sent on suicide mission. I have family and friends starving to death in Ukraine while Stalin keeps saying we live in land of plenty. And with the NKVD running around murdering anyone he doesn’t happen to like…” he shook his head and made a face, the bitterness reaching a crescendo. “I’ll just say I wasn’t thrilled about getting sent to defend his namesake city all in the name of his pride and glory. So when I saw that you guys actually had quite a few Russians on your side, I couldn’t resist. Especially since I like to think I’m decent enough in your tongue — you can never have too many translators.”

“You are decent in German, though you forget words sometimes.”

Novokov blinked. “Oh. Sorry. Articles of speech can be so difficult to master when you’re not used to having them. Funny that I have trouble with them, but I can remember the cases.” He sighed, his gaze dropping to the floor. “Stalin’s the biggest reason, but it’s also…” He struggled to find the words. “I just feel like my country betrayed me, and my ex comrades don’t care.”

I know your country doesn’t care. Ludwig thought. After hearing his story, it was certainly easy to understand why Novokov felt the way he did. Stalin was really no better than Hitler, he was just bad in different ways. “Do you ever regret it?”

“Regret what?”

“Changing sides.”

Novokov shook his head. “No. It feels good fighting against Stalin. Although…”

Ludwig was all ears. “Yes?”

Novokov shivered. “I do miss being able to wear my Russian coat. It was warmer.”

Ludwig couldn’t blame him there. He turned away, the equivalent of a shrug. “At least you can still use it for a blanket.”


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The Obergefreiter’s report revealed twelve men who could still fight and two more who couldn’t. That made thirteen fighting-fit soldiers altogether, counting Ludwig. He decided to leave three men behind guarding the house and wounded and take nine with him to assault the church.

The three fighting-fit men in charge of guarding were the three best snipers amongst them. They would be left with most of the on-hand grenades as well. Ludwig hated to leave them behind, but the big house was an asset that could not be allowed to fall into enemy hands, especially if the attack on the church failed.

Everyone else was to accompany Ludwig in the death-or-glory mission, including Novokov, who was clearly terrified of Ivan, and Franz, whom Ludwig had once caught complaining about how he’d been “born to fish and forced to fight”. It wasn’t the ideal situation by far, but then, war always had been all about doing the best one could with what one had.

After a meager breakfast of watery broth and a few horse meatballs ( at least, Ludwig hoped they were made from horse — they looked and tasted kind of odd, and he didn’t want to even think about what else they might be ) and some vodka to wash it down and put a bit of fire in their blood they readied their weapons and set out.

The first rays of the sun had just made it over the horizon. The snow glittered in the soft, pinkish blush of the approaching dawn. Still freezing, the air had that new-morning crispness to it.

Hyper-alert, Ludwig moved like a shadow on the sea, dashing in and out of gutted buildings, pressing himself against this wall and that, ducking, peeking, pointing his MP-35 in the direction of anything even remotely suspicious. His soldiers followed a few strides behind. It was generally a bad idea to rush like this, he knew, but their chances of taking the church were forfeit anyway if they happened to be engaged in battle before they even made it up to the blasted thing. Besides, moving targets were harder to hit, even for Russian snipers.

Luckily the small handful of Russians they encountered along the way were all asleep. These were dealt with swiftly and quietly; daggers streaked across their throats before they had a chance to even wake up. Ludwig and his men took as many of their weapons and as much of their ammunition and supplies as they could carry: they lacked the men to secure a return path.

At last, the churchyard was fully within view. Snow-covered and cast in a pink-tinged light, it was full of rubble and the occasional monument.

While his men crouched low in the corridors and settled behind corners and walls — and chunks of corners and walls — downstairs, upstairs, and at any and every place that offered a good view and decent protection, Ludwig peered through a glass-less window and scrutinized the church and churchyard carefully, forming a mental map of all interesting features.

Thankfully this churchyard wasn’t surrounded by a fence of any kind — that always made things more difficult. The rubble and monuments made for very limited protection against sniper fire, but in a pinch they’d be better than nothing. From the way everything was situated and how the land rose and fell, it was extremely unlikely that there were any Russians waiting in hidden trenches in the ground. A thin, gray cat poked around timidly near one of the monuments, eating snow.

The church itself was two stories of weak wood, broken stained-glass, and exposed insides. The wall he was facing was half gone, and he could see the wooden pews and something that might have been an alter inside. No Russians yet….

Movement on the upper floor!

An enemy!

Every muscle in Ludwig’s body tensed. Cold blue eyes narrowing dangerously, he slowly brought his submachine gun up, applied some pressure to the trigger.

A man — wait, no a woman wearing white — came into view. Her rifle was at her shoulder in an instant, and the still morning air broke with the first shot of the day.

She’d spotted someone!

The soldiers returned fire.

Fuck! There goes the element of surprise. Ludwig cursed silently, exhaling the breath he hadn’t even realized he’d been holding. Gunfire exploded all around him: there was a sharp scream, and the female sniper fell back.

We have to take this church…the Russians have the advantage in it…I don’t know how many there are…

In that intense, heart-stopping moment, Ludwig made a bold split-second decision. It was incredibly risky and daring, but it might ultimately make the difference between winning or losing this church and, subsequently, the Volga, and it may just be the only chance they had. He was the only German here that could pull it off.

Lowering his submachine gun, the Aryan nation abandoned his station by the window and ran for the nearest gap in the wall.

I hope I know what I’m doing. But what else was there to do? Wait for the Russians to pick them off one by one? There could be ten of them up there, or fifteen, or more. And they almost certainly had more bullets.

The moment he set foot outside the ruins of his building he poured on the speed, traveling inhumanly fast. The Russians wouldn’t have had time to all assemble yet — hopefully. He’d make it in like lightning, before anyone’s eyes had time to process what was happening.

Even when he wasn’t feeling his best — like now — Germany was a fairly fast runner, even by nation standards. The church rushed up at him. He swerved around a few monuments and debris piles so as not to make a straight line and shot in through the section of missing wall, diving behind the end of a pew close to the opposite side of the wall.

Had anyone seen that?

Everyone was pretty preoccupied with saving their own asses, so probably not. If they had, they’d probably attribute it to delirium, over-excitement, or hell, even too much vodka.

A volley of gunfire!

Bullets nicked the floor inches away from Ludwig, off to his right. There was no time to pay that any mind, however, as a bullet came at him from left, damn near hitting him in the side.

Flushed with adrenalin, the Nazi whipped around to see the Russian who had missed standing in full view and taking aim again. Without a second thought he brought his Maschinenpistole up and unleashed a stream of hot lead. The Russian crumpled to the floor in a bloody heap.

A quick visual scan of the area didn’t reveal anymore enemies, but they were definitely there.

His heart thundering in his ears, Ludwig took a moment to steel his nerves and catch his breath, air shooting in and out of his mouth in curt, rapid puffs.

He’d done it.

He was in.

Now for the hard part.

__________________________________________

Notes:

Ja = Yes
Hiwi = The German term for non-Germans assisting the German army. A startling number of them were Russians, with some being local citizens, some being Russian POWs, and a smaller percentage being actual Red Army traitors. In Stalingrad, they made up a full 25% of the Wehrmacht's front line forces. A brief description can be read here.

[Russia]

Russia had been fully expecting Ludwig to go for the church. It was the main reason he had chosen to place himself there. He knew that if the Germans captured the church, they would have better means to capture the surrounding areas. From there it would be a fairly simple matter to claim a section of the precious Volga, and interfere with he and his Red Army’s supply line.

What he had not expected was for them to start the assault so early in the morning. Not in frigid weather like this, with the sun barely beginning to rise. The pale Soviet had figured that his enemies would have been too cold and exhausted to do much of anything for at least another hour or two. He had learned however that in war it was silly to base battle plans on such assumptions; a fact that had driven he and the other snipers in the church to rise so early everyday just in case. With the first shots of the attack fired and already a comrade injured, he realized it was a good thing that they did prepare so early.

“Блядь!”

The statement came from Aleksander, the only other male Russian on the second floor of the church. Ivan silently agreed with the profanity, as the face of one of the Germans below was carefully lined up in his scope. Pulling the trigger, a satisfied smile spread across his face as the unfortunate German was hit and dropped out of sight within the building he had been hidden inside. Russia’s blonde female companion was also firing out the window at their enemies, trying to take them down before they could get into the church itself. The few Soviets in the ground level of the church were doing their part to take out as many Germans as possible as well.

Not that Ivan was even sure as to how many Germans they were dealing with. The Sixth Army was not nearly as large as it had once been, so it only made sense that there couldn’t be hordes of them attacking. With them infesting and hiding behind the ruins of the buildings however, it was hard to get an estimate. Ivan focused his rifle at a broken window slightly off to the side of the church. By the time he had fired a shot, the German he had been taking aim at had already ducked back down and out of view.

There were bullets peppering the piece of wall that the dusty blonde nation hid behind, some of the shots coming dangerously close to catching him as he returned fire. A shot nearly caught him in the eye, and he was momentarily forced to duck all the way behind the wall remnants. Eyes wide with excitement, he studied his comrades, who were hurriedly re-loading. Avdotya-the inquisitive woman who had been shot in the side- was still alive, though she had yet to attempt to shoot out at the Germans. The way the young woman was clutching her injury and whimpering in pain reminded Ivan of Toris after a particularly brutal punishment. She even looked similar to his Baltic servant, with her brown hair and distressed effeminate features. Pulling his thoughts quickly back to the problem at hand, the Russian nation re-loaded his weapon and took a few more shots at a few fleeting enemy soldiers.

Something was definitely wrong here. Though he had caught glimpses of many different German soldiers, he had not once seen a sign of Ludwig. Yet he had to be here. With the church being so important, Germany would never allow a random group of soldiers to go without him. Or so he had thought. He had also never imagined Germany as the type to sit in some ruined building and play “hide and snipe” for an extended period of time.

“Товарищ Генерал!”

Ducking once more behind the relative safety of the wall, Ivan turned his eyes to the blonde female sniper who had spoken. She was knelt besides her fallen female comrade, tying a piece of torn cloth tightly around her midsection. Her nation stared at her expectantly, even as a few shots from the floor below them sounded out.

“She’s hurt pretty bad. What should we do? Drag her out of here and try and find somewhere safe to leave her?”

Slightly distracted by all the gunfire ringing out around them, Russia shook his head. “Нет. Where would you take her? There are no safe places in this city. The best thing you can do for her is to leave her here, and kill her yourself in the event that the Germans break our defenses.” Avdotya gave a soft whimper of protest at Ivan’s words, but he had already turned his attention back the churchyard. It was well known that at this point the sixth Army were not taking prisoners, and even if they were, any sane Russian would rather die than surrender. The Germans were known to treat their Soviet prisoners brutally.

The supplies from the Volga were helping, but they still did not have infinite ammo and resources. The brawny blonde found himself wishing that he could get close enough to some of their German foes to use physical means of attack instead of relying soley on his rifle. With his strength, he was very good at close combat and killing with his hands. Bludgeoning foes to death was one of his favorite means of dealing with them. It saved on ammo, and was more satisfying than merely shooting. The lead pipe he had gotten from Germany’s house awhile back made for an amazing weapon, and despite the insanity of the situation, Ivan had somewhat bonded with the weapon. He had left it in a different part of the city though, due in part to its size and his inability to conceal it and carry it around along with his rifle and other weapons. He did however, carry around his General’s dagger.

The dagger was extremely sharp, perfect for slashing the throats of the Germans that Ivan had encountered up close and personal over the past year. He had not been issued the weapon, being as how he was not one of the few types of General to receive a dagger. But the steel blade worked so much better for confrontations than his saber had, so he had been quick to trade with one of the Quartermaster Generals the first chance he had. It was also much easier to conceal within his coat and move with than his saber had been; which was a help in situations like Stalingrad, when moving over rubble and debris was essential.

If he could only sneak up behind some of the hiding Germans below, he was sure he could kill quite a few of them without wasting ammo. “I’m going to go down there.” He alerted his comrades, loading the rifle again. He might need his gun to pick off a few Germans before he could get into the right position to do some throat slitting. Whether or not they found the idea to be insane and suicidal, they didn’t voice it. “You stay here and hold your position.”

Dashing across the upper floor of the church, Russia opened the door to the stairwell, only to be surprised to hear someone running up it. Mildly surprised, the Soviet nation looked down the stairs only to be greeted with the sickeningly familiar face of Germany himself. He had been right; Ludwig had came along on this little attack, and had probably been planning on taking out the snipers on the second floor from the moment he known of their presence. A rush of fury running through him, Ivan quickly fired a shot down in Ludwig’s direction, before hurriedly backing up. The German was too close, and there would be little room to fight in the stairwell. Best to wait for his enemy to make it out onto the rickety second floor.
______________________________________
((First of all, thank you Ludwig for allowing me to assume you would be on the stairwell. ~ I would have been more than happy to have made this thread more interactive, but alas, I couldn’t manage it this time around. Now that we’re in the same area however, I am sure the posts can get shorter and more interactive. : D Onto the translations:

Блядь = A very nasty swear used in a similar way to our "fuck." It's a Russian swear staple, and can be used with just about any other swear, or on it's own.

Нет = no

Товарищ Генерал= Comrade General)

[Germany]

There was no stop to the barrage of gunfire. Shot after shot after deafening shot rang out; the air-splitting reports of rifles and shotguns blended with the relentless peppering rhythm of machine guns and submachineguns.

Bullets, bullets everywhere. They surrounded Ludwig like deadly metal hail in a tornado, tearing through or ricocheting off of everything they hit.

Thankfully, relatively few shots seemed to be originating from within the bottom half of the church itself. That was encouraging. The lack of half the outside wall wasn’t, but Ludwig was comforted by the fact that it would be mostly his own men that would be in the best position to shoot him from that direction. Their very presence in the adjacent buildings that the exposed area opened up to would also mean that any Russian soldier would have a devil of a time making it in alive and in one piece, or of staying where he needed to be long enough to take aim and pull off more than one or two quick shots.

But there was still at least one more Russian down here, with more likely on the way…

Germany’s frown deepened. That man — or woman, as the case may well turn out to be with the Russians’ willingness to allow women to fight — could be anywhere. Standing near a wall, tucked behind an alter, ducked low behind a pew like himself…the list went on. The shots had come from up towards the walled portion of the church and to the left. Without actually looking it was impossible to make much in the way of a useful educated guess, but even stealing a tiny glance over the edge of the pew could be fatal. As much he hated to admit it, his enemy had some damn good snipers in his ranks. It was sickening.

Fortunately he carried a single grenade inside his coat for just such an occasion. Fishing it out, he took extreme care to make sure that all parts of him remained concealed behind the pew as he gathered his feet beneath him so that he was in a very low crouch, ready to spring up and bound away at an instant’s notice. Then he depressed the spoon with his thumb, pulled the pin, and tossed the explosive off in the direction his foe’s bullets had come from. He readied his weapon while he waited for his cue, his finger antsy over the trigger.

Five…four…three…two…one…

The air shook with the blast and the sound of debris bombarding solid objects.

A guttural cry of pain!

Yes! I got him!

Mentally congratulating himself on his good intuition, Ludwig shot up to the point where his arms just reached over the pew-end and immediately began scanning the area for his unfortunate victim and any nearby comrades he may have, synchronizing the movement of the muzzle of his gun with his eyes. It was always risky counting on a grenade to startle even those it had missed into inattentiveness, but prior experience had taught the German that it was usually a safe bet that the shock of the explosion would distract them for at least two or three seconds. That was all the time he needed.

Sure enough his keen vision picked out the top of a blonde head ducked behind the horizontal bar of a pew a few rows off to his right. The head bobbed up at the exact moment he noticed it, and the image of a worried young woman with a slightly rounded face staring off in the direction of her fallen comrade flashed over Ludwig’s eyes like lightning right as he opened fire and knocked her over in a spray of gory crimson.

One less enemy to worry about.

Seeing and hearing no others in the immediate vicinity, Ludwig ceased fire and cleared the length of his pew in a few flying strides.

The man he’d wounded with the grenade was in full sight now, half sitting half lying in a still-forming pool of blood on the marbled floor. His stomach, chest, arms, and face — as well as the clothing covering them — were all torn up and burned pretty badly, but he could apparently still see, for the moment the German entered his field of vision a hateful hiss of rage and agony escaped through his teeth.

He began to move his sniper rifle.

Ludwig fired a short stream of bullets into him, killing him instantly. His countenance akin to cool steel, he watched with satisfaction as the body crumpled to the floor, feeling the familiar rush of triumph and personal pride he always felt whenever he took a German-hating enemy down.

However, it was far too early too celebrate; noises were coming from upstairs. Now that he was a little closer to the stairwell, Ludwig could hear Russian voices cutting in and out between gunshots and the sounds of things being jostled around.

I have got to secure the second floor! With this thought alone in his mind, Ludwig charged towards the open stairwell entrance. He had barely set his foot on the first step when he had the uncanny feeling he was being watched. Not daring to turn his gun around in case a Russian were to come at him from upstairs, he instead whipped his head back for a quick view.

To his relief, it was only Novokov.

Delighted that at least one of his men had made it in with him, he turned his face back into the stairwell and raced up it, firearm raised and poised for battle. He was just over halfway up when the door at the top whooshed open and the large frame and way-too-nauseatingly-familiar face of Russia filled his vision.

Ivan!

Heart pounding, the Nazi instinctively recoiled right as a bullet tore through the fabric of his coat, grazing his left arm.

Dammnit!

So, his country arch-nemesis was guarding the church after all.

Too bad. He would not, could not allow that to change anything.

Gritting his teeth, his body heating quickly with the fury he felt towards the other nation, he ignored the stinging in his arm and forced his slightly-aching legs to propel him swift as loss up the stairs.

There he was: the pact-breaking, double-crossing, Toris-abusing, sadistic German-slaughtering monster! It was the first thing Ludwig saw when he exited the stairwell onto the second floor, the only thing he needed to see. Mad with the desire to make a move before his Soviet foe had a chance to pull off a shot, Ludwig strangled the trigger of his MP35, only for one or two bullets to come out.

FICK! He was out of bullets!

How had he forgotten to check his magazine after killing the guy he’d wounded with the grenade?! 32-round magazines tended to empty fast when one was pissing bullets out at a rate of 9 or 10 per second.

Since there was a better chance of snow in Hell than Ivan and his comrades allowing him even one second to reload he had to act now. Bristling with adrenaline and drunk with desperate rage, the German let his empty firearm fall back against his chest and flew at Ivan. Taking the middle of the barrel of the other nation’s rifle in a deathgrip with both hands, he shoved with all his might and tried to smash the back of that Hell-bound head through a wall. Vaguely, he was aware of other Russians in his peripheral: a bloodied dark-haired woman lying on the floor a little ways off, a blonde woman standing over her, an armed man rushing to his general’s aid. He tried to spin Ivan around to face them, use him for a shield.

“Why won’t you just die.” he hissed poisonously in Shaykomay, blue eyes ablaze with hate.

All at once there was the sound of another person racing up the stairwell, and he caught site of Novokov just before the Hiwi raised his weapon and fired. Being locked in a deathmatch with Ivan kept him from immediately seeing whether or not the shot downed an enemy, but he could hear the area exploding with commotion and a few more shots. When he next had the chance to look a couple of seconds later he saw the male Russian that had been charging towards him was laying facedown on the floor in a pool of blood.

“Бляд! Брагинский!”

Somewhat jarringly, the Russian came from Novokov. His face was cast in horror as he stared like a frightened rabbit at his ex general.

“Das Mädchen! Das Mädchen!” Ludwig barked in German, nodding his head sharply towards the uninjured woman, “I’ve got Ivan! Kill her!”

That snapped Novokov out of his fear-trance. Since he was somewhat behind the fighting countries the woman hadn’t been able to pull off a shot without risk of hurting her general. Now he advanced on her and took aim, rifle raised and ready.

______________________________

A/N: Thanks, Ivan, for the liberties you granted me here!

Translations

Fick = The German version of the English F-bomb with only one letter changed.

Das Mädchen = "The girl" in German. I cross-referenced this with a couple of different sites, and I'm fairly sure it's the correct way to say it in this context, but if I messed any of the grammar up my apologies. ^^;

[Russia]

Everything seemed to be happening too fast. The Russian nation had been hoping to have a clear shot at Ludwig the moment the German charged in through the door-frame and onto the second floor. Ludwig however, seemed to have had similar thoughts in regards to him, because the moment the blonde had made it out and into Ivan’s line of fire, he was already pulling the trigger on his gun. A single bullet grazed Russia's left hand, but the other bullet that escaped from his enemy’s gun missed him entirely.

The startled Russian didn’t have a chance to grin at his enemy’s misfortune because even as he was making to pull the trigger on his own firearm, the German was in motion. The other man had moved too fast, and Russia found himself pulling the trigger after Ludwig had grabbed onto the rifle and swung it at an angle that made his shot useless. Then he found himself being shoved backwards towards the wall and he instantly attempted to brace himself, shoving back with a fury and managing to resist the attempt to spin him around and into a more helpless position.

“Why won’t you just die.”

“Feelings mutual.” He didn’t have a chance to say more, as suddenly another German made an appearance to the upstairs scene, firing a shot in the direction of Ivan’s human comrades. The highly pissed off Russian didn’t have a chance to see if one of his team mates had been killed or not. Trying to look would have meant turning his gaze away from Ludwig, who- being a nation like himself- was far more dangerous than any mere German.

“Бляд Брагинский!”

Much to the violet-eyed General’s surprise, the shout had not came from one of his snipers, but from the man who had came up to assist Ludwig. The man that Ivan had originally taken to be just another German soldier. The fact that he not only spoke Russian, but spoke it without an accent eluded to the fact that the man was not a German at all, but a treacherous Soviet; Something that in his eyes was far worse than even the lowliest Nazi. Already the unhinged Russian General was considering just how he was going to violently murder the vile traitor, even as Germany himself yelled out something in German. For “Comrade Traitor’s” sake, it had better have been a command to run like the cowardly dog that he was before Ivan got free from his shoving contest with Ludwig and slaughtered him. The Russian deserter would have had a better outcome and a more merciful death if he had simply been silent, or pretended to be just another German.

“I’ve got Ivan! Kill her!”

Russia seethed at the way that Ludwig claimed to have had him under control. He would have to show that Nazi bastard that he had about as much control over him as he did General Winter-who was doing an even better job kicking German ass this winter than the Soviets were. Ivan allowed himself to suddenly be pushed backwards, nearly tripping over the body of a dead comrade in the process. Being forced backwards meant that he was now closer to the wall remnants he had been firing out from behind earlier. Gathering all his strength in preparation, Ivan swung his rifle around moving the German along with it, so that Ludwig’s back was to the opened wall section. Abruptly, he released his sniper rifle and shoved Ludwig backwards full force in an attempt to knock the German off the second floor of the church.

Being so focused on dealing with his enemy country problem, Ivan had not even noticed the shots that had been exchanged between his blonde Russian female sniper and Comrade Traitor. Turning around quickly and withdrawing his General’s dagger, his eyes were greeted with the sight of the traitorous ex-Soviet re-loading his gun, and Ivan’s female companion laying on the floor in a small pool of blood. He moved before his enemy could finish shoving the bullets into the rifle, grabbing the man by the wrist and breaking it with a violent yank. The firearm fell from the man’s hand, and Ivan drew his blade up to the traitor’s throat, holding him still despite his struggles. The sadistic Russian nation pressed the blade into the other man’s throat hard enough to draw a bead of blood. “You’ve chosen the wrong side to double-cross Comrade Traitor. You know what the penalty is for betrayal, don’t you?” Of course he would have known. Any Soviet soldier knew that treachery on any level was not acceptable and would be met with death. Not waiting for his captive to answer, Ivan buried the razor sharp blade into his throat and drew it across, coating the blade of his dagger in sticky, warm crimson. He could certainly see why his sister liked sharp objects like knives and daggers. Being a more hands-on and personal means of killing, it made the act more satisfying for dealing with much hated enemies.

Wiping the blade haphazardly on the dead man’s German uniform, Ivan re-sheathed the dagger to deal with his injured comrades. Ludwig would be getting up and moving again any time now, and he wanted to take the fight down to him as soon as he could. He quickly inspected the blonde woman, who had been shot a few times and looked to be in bad shape. She was still alive, but he honestly doubted she would last much longer. There was a sickening hissing sound coming from one of her bullet wounds, implying that she had had a lung punctured. Having no idea what to do about such injuries, and having limited time anyways, he grabbed the young woman and moved her closer to the wall remnants. Retrieving her gun and shoving it into her shaking hands, he addressed the brunette who had been injured at the start of the attack. “Stay here and shoot anything remotely German that might come up those stairs.” He ordered softly, grabbing the enemy soldier’s fallen gun off the floor to keep for himself.

“Да, Товарищ Генерал.”

Watching his step as he made his way across the unstable flooring, Ivan reached the stairwell and started down at a run, taking several steps at a time. As he made it to the ground level, he heard more shouts in Russian-a sign that more of his men had came to help fight for the church. He would need to direct more to the upper floor if he got the chance, but first he needed to find and finish off a certain German nation. That would push the scales of battle more in his favor.
________________________
((Just to note, all minor puppeting of Ludwig was done with Ludwig's full permission. I believe you're next Prussia, so like I told Ludwig, feel free to kill/maim any of my Soviet npcs.))

[chicksdigscars]

Across the city, a minor victory had been achieved. Prussia knew that their hold on this hill would give them a considerable advantage over the Soviet forces. And judging by how fiercely Ivan’s Red Army had fought to prevent his unit from claiming the space, the Russian troops were aware of that fact as well. Gilbert planted a booted heel firmly atop the hill, some part of him deep inside his brain registering amusement that their exchange of fire had been enough to melt all of the snow and ice which had made their footing so treacherous earlier on in the battle. He twisted, peering around the fringe of the fur that lined his hood to bark a sharp order to the Germans pushing forward to secure their location.

“Get those heavy artillery up here! And don’t you dare complain again about the wet, the slant or the debris! Lerne leiden ohne zu klagen!” Gilbert’s arm slashed across him with impatience, firmly directing the worn troops that gathered to muscle their heavier artillery equipment up to the top of the Mamayev Kurgan. Ivan’s little mountain had been a chore to conquer, but Prussia was nothing if not persistent. This would buy the German Army some time and provide them the opportunity to control the city from such a vital vantage point.

The railway was in view down the hill. They would undoubtedly be set for another volley with the Soviets here as well. Prussia could already see the Red Army regrouping there, using the building to their advantage as an obstacle to block their fire. Gilbert crouched down low beside one of the heavy artillery guns. Heat still radiated from it in waves from the intensive use – with the lack of spares, there had been no choice except to push the guns to their limits just as much as the men who operated them had been driven to the edge of their own. There was a spray of gunfire from below, the sound dull thanks to all of the loud bursts of noise that had already left Prussia’s ears ringing.

He flinched away from a richochet biting into the mounting support nearby, nearly toppling over as the shift in balance caused the support he was leaning on move aside. Gilbert glanced near his feet to discover that his hand had been braced upon the arm of a fallen German soldier. Just the arm. Prussia’s pale mouth twisted, face pinched with disgust as he slapped it aside amongst the rest of the debris. The cogs of Hitler’s War Machine, oiled once again with the blood of good men and boys. He thought bitterly, as bitter as the cold that had been biting at him since he got to this godforsaken place, that bitterness that lodged in Prussia’s heart the moment this War had begun.

Nearby, Gilbert spotted the glint of metal. As his troops began to return fire(really, no one waited obediently for orders anymore – relying on a commanding officer here to make up his mind on anything wasted precious seconds that were ripe for being shot), Prussia scooped it up on some whim. His thumb swept across the twisted surface, smearing off black mud in exchange for crimson. Had he cut his hand? Was it his blood or someone else’s? To Gilbert, it really didn’t matter anymore. Red eyes flinched as the artillery guns fired nearby and remained distracted as he passively read the inscription on what appeared to be a lost German’s twisted belt buckle.

Gott mit uns.

Prussia felt disgust rise in him again as he pitched the ruined thing away. He choked it down like nagging bile and frog-crawled backwards from where the German line of his unit had formed a ragged front in defense of the hill just as they had planned from the beginning of the assault. The flanks to prevent them from getting encircled by the Red Army were patchy. If they couldn’t hold up the rear then it would be only a matter of time before the hill fell again. Gilbert slid down to where these men were guarding the perimeter against a rear assault.

A few of these men were his. True Prussians amongst the majority of these German-born troops. Gilbert had taken to them and they had taken to their Prussian Generaloberst. Though they were all in service to the German Cause, their ties to him were that much stronger for the blood in their veins and the underlying devotion to a different flag. He signaled to them with some subtle motion. Prussia was pleased that they took the hint to gather, as their pale, grim faces encircled him with crisp salutes.

“These Germans intend to hold this point. It will last a few hours or maybe a day before the Reds claim it again. This stronghold will, however, allow enough cover fire for some of us to head into the city to fortify our comrades. I intend to take advantage of it while I can rather than waste my time on what I anticipate, from the sheer open space around us, will result in a losing bloodbath. Running into this Rattenkrieg is not going to be much better. Which of you are willing to brave it with me?”

Prussia was one hundred percent certain of the outcome here. The other commanders had impressed the vitality of the Mamayev Kurgan, over and over in their bickering meetings with the maps spread out. Unlike them, Gilbert didn’t give a damn about this stupid hill. He didn’t care about the railway station below. Or the Volga, choked now from the bombs of the Luftwaffe but still bringing Soviets over to attack. Prussia had little interest in conquering Stalingrad, despite his awareness that this could decide the War on the Eastern Front.

Gilbert’s only pressing interest, his only real concern in this pitted city, was in locating and securing his brother’s safety. If he managed to shoot, maim or “kill” Ivan in the meantime, it would have been an exceptional bonus. And if that frozen sadist made one move to directly harm a hair on that flawlessly groomed head--. Prussia cut off that train of thought abruptly when he realized that he was gritting his teeth hard enough to make his jaw ache. He shook himself, demanding their response. “Well?”

“Sir!” Saluting again, one of the men – Hauptmann, by his uniform rank – answered him. “We follow your path, wherever that will take us. I am a soldier of the Reich, Hauptsturmführer Roland van Gummern; above that, Ich bin ein Preuße.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Prussia’s maverick unit of four had shaved down to two by the time they made it towards the center of the city. He’d been following what scattered bits of information he could gather from the Germans waging war here in these shattered ruins. From what Gilbert pieced together, Generaloberst Hermann had chased the Soviet General into the battered church in the center of town. Prussia made that his destination despite the risks.

It wasn’t difficult to surmise whether he’d come to the right location. The upper windows of the church were lighting up with near constant gunfire. Gilbert sank down to crouch in the shadow of a building adjacent to the abused holy place, back against the cold support of the exterior wall behind him as he kept his focus half towards the interior and half to the landscape of the buildings around them. He signaled to van Grummern, the man having proven himself as capable at combat as he was of loyalty. At any other moment in time, Prussia would have felt proud. Right now there was far too much distraction.

A Soviet soldier could come upon him at any moment to open fire. Prussia didn’t plan to wait long. All that he needed was enough time to make sure that the chambers in his guns were full. His Gewehr rifle was already gripped in his hand, intending to use the power of it to attempt to take out whatever nest of enemies might be at a distance inside. The Luger was on standby when he’d emptied the chamber of one gun. And in the event that he was too close to aim for a shot, Prussia’s Kampfmesser had already seen plenty of action today in these close-quarters fights. More Soviet blood on his blade wasn’t going to hurt the steel.

It was time to move. Gilbert closed his eyes, drew in a deep breath. He filtered out the noise, the stench of war, the racing of his heart; forced it all somewhere inside until there was just a calm clarity, a sharpening of senses, a readiness for some intense battle. Prussia opened his eyes, blood dark and narrowed, as he was startled from that focused state by some sudden swell of Red Army soldiers swarming towards the church. If Ludwig was in there, just as he suspected, then the odds were quickly turning out of his brother’s favor.

As if summoned by his own thoughts, Prussia’s focus was drawn towards some upper point. Alarms rang internally as he witnessed some struggle taking place near a space where the walls had been chewed off by the Luftwaffe’s merciless strikes. His brain spun on its tracks as the Prussian computed that it was the figure of his brother grappling with Ivan himself, and his heart started to beat a frenetic pace as he saw Russia pitch Germany from that upper story.

Gilbert’s rifle lifted in his hands, teeth bared in some feral grimace as he focused the barrel up towards the figure of the Russian. He could see even from his lower vantage point the look of disturbed satisfaction on Ivan’s face – had seen it many times himself from a much closer proximity. His vision became a web of red filigree, burning hot with hatred towards that figure across the way. And Russia was far too absorbed in his glee for Ludwig’s crash into the ground to even notice him there. When Gilbert managed to line up for a shot, the Russian was already whisking off out of range, ending any chance that Prussia had to open fire and wedge a bullet right where it belonged.

He swore harshly. Prussia uncoiled from his position near the wall, barking a sharp order to van Gummern. “Cover me – shoot the ones heading into the church!”

Gilbert barely heard the clipped acknowledgement of his comrade as he hastened forward towards the fallen figure of his brother. His rifle swung in an arch when his movements snared the attention of the Soviets storming into the church, opening fire in sharp bursts even as he was dropping down to cover Ludwig’s vulnerable position. Prussia could not spare a look to Germany despite a nagging desire to check him over. As the albino’s face pinched tense with concentration, intent as he was on the Soviets that van Gummern’s bullets were biting into, all that he could do was growl a tense shout to Ludwig over the noise of his rifle.

“Ludwig! Ich bin hier, bruder! Now open your damned eyes.”

~~~~~~~
Translations:

Lerne leiden ohne zu klagen -- Learn to suffer without moaning.
Gott mit uns -- God with us
Ich bin ein Preuße -- I am a Prussian
Ich bin hier, bruder -- I am here, brother

[Germany]

The whole world vanished. The gunfire, the voices, the deafening explosions…none of it existed. It was just him and Russia: two enemies circling each other like black holes locked eternally in a dance of death out in the silent, icy depths of space.

It was incredibly draining; Ivan was a very strong nation. Pushing every muscle in his fingers, wrists, and arms into white-fleshed, vein-bulging pain, it was all Ludwig could do to hold his own. No matter how hard he tried to twist and wrench the rifle free, Ivan’s grip remained as firm as his, his will as unwavering. He could not budge the barrel of the weapon more than a centimeter or two in any direction. As for the violet-eyed sadist, he recovered as much ground as he lost.

They were evenly matched.

A few seconds after he’d shouted to Novokov, Ludwig realized he would have to change tactics. Continuing to play tug-of-war with Ivan was too risky; neither of them could keep it up forever, and he was just as likely to make a small-but-enormously-costly mistake as his enemy. And what of their soldiers? More from either side could arrive at any moment, skewing the odds more in one or the other’s favor. This being a primarily Russian-held area, and the German soldiers he had brought with him being as few in number as they were, Ludwig didn’t want to play those odds.

An idea came to him.

Mustering up all the strength he possessed, he threw a mighty shove into Ivan. His intent was to use the Russian’s split-second recovery-time to let go of the rifle, grab his own, and club him in the face with it. He was in for a surprise, however, as the force of his shove caused the other general to backpedal rapidly towards the wall.

So he and Ivan weren’t so evenly matched after all!

Or were they?

Wait…something’s wrong here. A small, nagging voice in the back of his mind cautioned him to beware of sudden unexpected and seemingly unexplained shifts in his favor.

It all happened brutally fast. By the time Ludwig realized what Ivan meant to do he was in full possession of the sniper rifle, and his feet had already lost contact with anything solid. An intense feeling of dread shot through him as he felt himself falling, experienced the shock of cold air racing through his hair and clothes, chilling his cheeks and taking his hat off. Stunned as he was, he knew at once that his chances for securing the church had just been seriously jeopardized.

He also knew that hitting the ground was going to hurt.

A lot.

And boy, it sure as hell did. His back struck something rough, jagged, and unmercifully hard, sending screaming tendrils of blazing white agony through skin, muscle, and bone. The force of the impact combined with the sudden pain destroyed his ability to keep his head up; the back of his skull jarred against a large chunk of ice-encrusted building even as all the air was forced from his lungs. Red lightning flashed across a pitch-black backdrop.

Then there was nothing.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The darkness was all-encompassing. But it was a friendly darkness, free of pain and decisions, noises and the smell of death. It lapped at him like the surf along a gentle beach, rousing him into consciousness.

The first thing he was aware of was the burning rawness in his back, followed swiftly by a biting coldness which chilled him almost to the bone. He could hear noises — familiar noises — and after a few seconds his brain recognized them as the shell-shocking wartime cacophony of firearms and explosives. So familiar, but also disconcerting. A feeling of urgency gripped him. He had a job to do. A very important job to do.

The already ear-splitting gunfire moved in closer, mixed with the crunching of quickly-moving boots over gritty rubble and hard-packed snow. Whoever they were, they were close by.

“Ludwig!”

The sound of his own name rang out loud and clear as a bell above all the gunshots. He knew that voice!

“Ich bin hier, bruder! Now open your damned eyes.”

Gilbert!

Ludwig’s eyes shot open. Sore but able, he began to rise, drawing in slow, careful breaths, the haze of confusion fading fast before his rapidly-clearing mind. He was still holding on to Ivan’s sniper rifle. It all came back to him in a flash-flood of memories: desperation, the battle for the church and the Volga, Ivan…even Novokov.

Poor bastard. Without him there to keep Ivan busy, Ludwig could all too well imagine the Soviet traitor’s gruesome end. Especially since he’d blown his cover — Ivan would definitely be taking that betrayal on a more personal level.

Locking his pain away behind an iron curtain of resolve and a steely mask of control, the blonde Nazi twisted around onto his stomach and quickly worked himself into a better position, one that afforded him a better view of the church and his immediate surroundings. He had no idea exactly how long he’d been out, or how long his big brother had been guarding him, but all evidence indicated that it hadn’t been very long. It was still very early in the morning, and the situation seemed to be the same one he’d left off in.

Except that a fresh crop of Russians had flooded in through the gaping holes in the sides of the building he hoped to conquer. Now they were stationed within, hiding behind every available pew, pillar, corner, curtain, or whatever else they could manage to fit their vile half-frozen bodies behind like the gun-toting rats they were. Little flashes of movement betrayed them — the glint of light on their rifles, the motion of fur-trim moving quickly out of sight.

Damn. Where the hell did all of you come from?

But of course they were here. They had to be here. This was a crucial point to hold, and anyway his luck wasn’t good enough for any other outcome.

At least he and Prussia could feel damn pleased with themselves when they finally took this godforsaken city. If they took it.

Keeping his body as close to the ground and rubble as much as he could, Ludwig quietly sidled up to his brother. He shot a few glances up at him while he counted the bullets remaining in the chambers of Ivan’s sniper rifle, and his heart swelled with pride. Gilbert didn’t look his best — none of them did right now — but he was not sick or suffering from any serious injuries; quite the contrary he looked like he had been fairing pretty well in his corner of Stalingrad, and probably winning a few important victories. As always, a fierce fire of determination burned beneath those bloodred eyes.

The ghost of a smile shadowed Ludwig’s mouth. Gilbert’s sudden appearance right here right now was both a boon and a comfort. It was so good to see him again, to fight alongside him and kick enemy ass together as the amazing duo they were. They’d been fighting in the same city for months now, but they rarely ran into each other. Whenever they did they usually just swapped information, exchanged battle-plans, and shared supplies before moving out again in separate directions. Being of equal rank, it wouldn’t be strategically sound for them to stay together long, not when so many relied so heavily upon their leadership and so many plans called for dependable, well-prepared units stationed in different areas. It wasn’t the funnest way to do it, but it was the most logical, and in the best interest of their people and the war effort.

Russia’s rifle had only two bullets left. Ludwig made sure everything was set and ready to go before raising it to his shoulder and adjusting the scope. “I’m glad you could make it, Gilbert,” he said, making only a half-assed effort to disguise the relief in his voice, “This church is probably our only shot at retaking the Volga. And…” he stiffened involuntarily at a particularly strong influx of pain in his back. “Russia’s in there. Bastard threw me off the roof. We’re going to have to kill him. The sooner the better.”

Everything ready, he finally pointed the muzzle of the weapon in the direction of the second story and cautiously peered through the scope, searching for Ivan. Quick as a mouse stealing a glance out of its hole, a woman peeked out nervously at him from behind her own sniper scope, then immediately withdrew before he had a chance to properly line her in the crosshairs.

Following her example, Ludwig ducked back under his portion of wall debris and mentally braced himself for the minutes and hours ahead. Though he wanted to end this as quickly as possible, something told him they were in for a rough time.

_________________________________

A/N: Are you kidding, Prussia? Your post was excellent! ;D

[Russia]

The influx of his people in the area was somewhat of a relief. With two comrades for sure dead up on the second floor of the church, and the only other woman injured and probably destined to bleed to death slowly, it was nice to see more white clad Russians attempting to help him secure the church. With Ludwig lurking about, Ivan knew that the more people the better. That blonde haired fascist pig would probably kill many Russians on his own before the day was through. Being a country, he had an easier time doing it than a mere German soldier would. Even Ivan’s most elite forces would surely be out of luck if Ludwig spotted them before they could fill the enemy general full of lead.

Of course he knew better than to think that little fall off the second floor of the church would “kill” Ludwig and send him back to Hitler. No, unless fortune was smiling on the Red Army and there had just happened to be something sharp poking up for Ludwig to impale himself on, then he was certain that his foe was still somewhere nearby. He was probably looking for Ivan, just as Ivan was looking for him. Though the large Soviet nation was perfectly happy to kill human soldiers all day-and actually liked unfair fights-he still understood the importance of taking down the enemy nation first. There was too much at stake in this battle, and leaving him running around to kill off Russians was not a good idea at all. Take out Germany, and it would surely mean bad things for the German forces in Stalingrad. Then he could go back to his idea of creeping up on the ill-prepared normal German soldiers and slicing their throats open before they even knew what had hit them.

The lower floor of the church was scattered with the bodies of the comrades who had initially been stationed to guard down there. Russia had suspected as much, after all, Germany had to have came through the area to get to the stairs leading up to the floor above. He couldn’t have done that if Ivan’s men had still been alive. Stepping over one of the men who appeared to have met a messy end by a grenade, the wild-eyed nation tightened his grip on the rifle he had stolen from the dead traitor upstairs.

“General Braginski!”

Ivan paused, his violet eyes drawn to the source of the shout. A young looking Soviet officer approached him breathlessly, two men at his side. With a serene smile that seemed very much out of place amongst the chaos and bloodshed, he waited for them to speak up.

“There are more on the way Comrade. We’re here to help keep the church out of Nazi hands.” The tired officer informed his nation with a quick, somewhat sloppy salute.

“Good, you and your friends need to get to the upper floor. I’m not sure how many Germans are out there, but I want you to guard this church with your lives.” Moving past the officer, Ivan gave him a slight pat on the shoulder. “Go make your country proud.” After a few quick 'Yes, comrade's, the trio ran for the stairs, leaving Ivan strangely amused at the fact that they had not even been aware that they were taking orders from their country. As far as they were concerned, he was just another Soviet General; one of the rare few who would actually fight alongside them on the battlefield, but a general all the same.

A flood of Soviets entered the church from a large chunk of missing wall, settling behind the pews and pieces of debris to hide and fire upon enemies. The area they had came from was roughly in the area that Ludwig would have fallen from, although not being right up close to the area, Ivan could not see whether or not his enemy was still out there. In any case, the sound of gunshots intensified as the Soviets returned fire out the side of the building. Not wanting to charge right out into his enemy’s line of sight, Russia crept out of the church through the nearly destroyed back door. Nearly taking a bullet to the face from a German who had been crouched near some stoney debris, Ivan wasted no time in returning fire with his own rifle, catching the enemy soldier in the face with a bullet before continuing onwards.

Moving around the side of the church, the Russian nation scanned the area for any signs of his country opponent. Peering towards the area below the damaged wall of the second floor, his vision was at first obscured by a large pile of building debris. Wanting a better view, Ivan moved forward quickly, ducking behind a mixture of destroyed statues from the churchyard, and debris from the old building itself. As he got a better angle of the area, he caught a glimpse of what appeared to be white hair behind the debris. It had not been the type of white hair a older soldier would have. As best as Ivan could tell, it was the full bodied scalp of a more youthful man. Which could only mean one thing; Prussia had decided to help his brother make an attempt on the church. The thought made his blood boil with rage. If there was one nation that Ivan didn’t care for these days, it was that overly cocky Prussian. A flash of blonde nearby eluded to the idea that Ludwig was probably with him.

Ivan was off somewhere to the side of the two brothers, and his view was obstructed by the combination of distance and debris, but he couldn’t resist raising his rifle and taking aim all the same. Firing off a couple shots in the direction of the brothers, he knelt down besides what appeared to have once been the statue of an angel. Glancing up, he was surprised that the stone figure had not been completely removed from the church like the rest of the religious artifacts had been. There were a few other ruined statues littering the churchyard too, probably broken and defiled long before the war had started.

Steadying the his firearm, the violet-eyed nation focused his attention back on the rubble near the brothers.

[chicksdigscars]

Gilbert felt some automatic relief when Ludwig finally crawled upright. He could tell from the subtle flash in pale eyes and twitch of muscles in his brother’s face that Germany was in pain from that fall. Having seen it for himself, the Prussian wasn’t the least bit surprised. As Ludwig moved to brace himself in some more secure position amongst that rubble, Prussia crept along with him to prevent his back from remaining vulnerable.

Prussia was checking his rifle while Ludwig spoke, eyes darting aside as he caught sight of the German doing the same next to him. Germany’s words filtered into his ringing ear and Gilbert felt only a marginal sliver of pleasure at the relief in his brother’s voice. “I’m glad you could make it, Gilbert. This church is probably our only shot at retaking the Volga. And…” Prussia frowned with increased concern as something strained in his sibling’s voice, roughening it as Germany stiffened from pain. “Russia’s in there. Bastard threw me off the roof. We’re going to have to kill him. The sooner the better.”

If only it were that easy. Gilbert’s pale mouth twisted in a thin, bitter smirk. The world had been trying to succeed in putting an end to Ivan throughout history. Perhaps the Russian Nation’s heart was too frozen to die? Prussia would certainly never turn the opportunity down to make another attempt. The satisfaction of seeing Ivan bleeding out all over the damnable snow from a bullet wound or around the blade of his combat knife would make all of his suffering in this frozen hell worth it.

“That’s not going to be easy.” Gilbert ducked his head as the sound of bullets being exchanged thundered nearby, leaning towards Germany to speak like they were in some casual conversation and not neck-deep in danger. “We’re losing numbers quickly here, bruderlein. They’re spilling in across the Volga like frenzied cattle. Until we can cut off their reinforcements, it’s going to be an uphill battle all the way.”

Germany was no fool. Prussia had not raised him as some pampered optimist like that American brat who had joined this fiasco late in the game. Despite that, Gilbert thought he saw some hope still in the glimpses he caught of his brother’s pale eyes. They both knew what was on the line here in Stalingrad. And Gilbert knew how readable he was to Germany’s perceptive gaze on occasion. That reason alone drove Prussia to avert his face aside. He did not want his little brother to see on his face the resignation or his doubt on the surety of their victory. It was best to let Ludwig’s morale stay the same a little while longer.

Gilbert opened his mouth to speak again, then flinched as a bullet bit into a chunk of the rubble shielding them. He felt a chip of it lash against his face, felt it bite into his skin. Prussia’s face darkened with displeasure as he reached up a sleeve and felt the sting of a cut; his own vanity at having anything mar it surfacing at the worst possible time. “Verdammt—who’s shooting at us now!?”

Prussia whirled his rifle around as he divined the direction that those bullets had been fired. He kept it elevated, even as he took the risk of straining up to glance over the semi-protective shell of that rubble, before dropping down with a hiss like some feral feline. “Bad news, bruderlein. Ivan’s out of the church and now we’re sandwiched between him and the other Reds. Verdammt, sneaky bastard.” That insulting opinion of Ivan rumbled out of him at a growl, as Prussia stretched up to fire back a shot. Odds were that it would fly wide of their Russian opponent, but Gilbert wanted Ivan to know that they were aware of him.

His voice lifted over the rubble and above the bursts of gunfire combat taking place around them in Shaykomay towards Ivan. “Same old tricks, you Soviet Cow! Let’s see how you do with Big Brother Prussia here!”

---

[Germany]

“That’s not going to be easy.”

A thunderous exchange of gunfire occurred right then, as if to emphasize Gilbert’s statement. Vigilantly watching the churchyard, Ludwig felt more than saw his brother lean in.

“We’re losing numbers quickly here, bruderlein…”

A flash of white-clad human appeared around the side of a windowframe and took aim. Ludwig ducked behind the debris barricade a moment before the shot sounded; he heard the bullet zing off a piece of stone far too close for comfort, and he knew that if he had not moved it would have stuck his face instead. Luckily, either the rock had been resilient to chipping, or all the tiny pieces had flown out at the wrong angles to hit him.

“…frenzied cattle. Until we can cut off their reinforcements, it’s going to be an uphill battle all the way.”

I know, Bruder. I know. Stalingrad had been an uphill battle from the moment the first German soldier had set foot inside city-limits. Since then it had been all about sudden gruesome death, frostbite, bombings, jamming weapons, devil fires, insufficient supplies, agony, starvation, disorganization, sneak-attacks, brutality, and grisly corpses sticking out of the snow. No matter how heinously creative he got, Ludwig couldn’t imagine Hell itself as being too much worse. He’d already “died” half a dozen times since the fighting had begun here, and all things considered he was surprised it hadn’t been more than that. Unlike most generals he was quick to volunteer himself for the most dangerous tasks, in part because he knew that he could always come back if he got “killed”.

He wasn’t sure if they could actually take the church, but it was literally do or die, especially where their human soldiers were concerned.

Ping!

Another bullet zinged on the rubble wall — this one from another direction!

Ludwig saw his brother recoil, and his first instinct was to reach over and see how badly he’d been hurt. He didn’t need to, however, as Gilbert’s next words and actions proved that he couldn’t have been hurt very much.

“Verdammt—who’s shooting at us now!?”

Despite the fact that the Prussian was the older and more experienced of the two, and despite all the confidence and faith he had in him knowing how to protect himself, Ludwig’s chest nonetheless tightened at the sight of that white-haired head suddenly rearing up a little too high over the barricade.

Fortunately no Russian sniper had been prepared for him, and he made it back down a few seconds later in one hissing piece. “Bad news, bruderlein. Ivan’s out of the church and now we’re sandwiched between him and the other Reds. Verdammt, sneaky bastard.”

“He’s sneaky alright.” Ludwig agreed in a low growl, scowling in the direction of the enemy general, “Sneaky and ruthless.”

Gilbert rose up again, and a second later a flash of smoke and fire erupted from his rifle. This time he followed the attack up by yelling out an insult to the deranged Russian, an insult in Shaykomay.

Had he been in higher spirits, Ludwig might have smirked: he wondered what Ivan thought of being called a cow. Surely the large-framed Russian took offense at being compared to a notoriously fat, slow-witted, lumbering farm animal. The description was sadly inaccurate — unless one was talking square mileage, in which case Russia was fat by any country’s standards — but if it dug under his skin, then good.

The bigger they are, the harder they fall. Let’s see you smile with a damn bullet-hole between your eyes.

Taking the same risk his brother had seconds prior, Germany readied Ivan’s sniper rifle and jerked his head up for a few moments over the rubble pile situated to their right. Running his eyes rapidly over the many statues and debris-piles strewn about the churchyard, had just enough time to process a sliver of white coat sticking out from behind an angel statue before he dropped back down into relative safety. At least two shots came his way, but nothing hit him.

“He’s behind the angel statue,” he mused dryly, watching his breath shoot out in steamy gusts as he continued to think aloud, “He knows we’re here…” He paused for a few seconds, staring at his stolen weapon as he tried to think of a way they could use that to their advantage.

The biggest, most obvious advantage of Ivan knowing who they were and where they were was that he would definitely be concentrating most of his attention on them, making the situation that much safer for their troops. Ivan was crazy, not stupid: he knew that a pair of countries running around posed a more serious threat to his “comrades” than a pair of regular German soldiers. He also harbored deep personal grudges against both of them. He’d want to kill them off as quickly as possible, or at least keep them too busy fighting himself to be much of a threat to his people.

The tricky part here was the objective: taking the church. They were definitely outnumbered, and though it was impossible to be sure exactly by how much, Ludwig estimated that the enemy probably had anywhere from fifteen to thirty firing-fit people stationed within the church and immediate surrounding areas. Based on what he had seen and the rate of gunfire originating from there, there had to be at least seven in the church now, not counting the dead. Very probably there were up to twice as many in there.

As for Germany’s side, he had lost at least lost one of his original nine, likely more. If Prussia had managed to add any additional men to their number he didn’t see them.

The way he saw it, they had two main choices for how to proceed here, each with its own set of pros and cons. They could either focus on combining their efforts to kill Ivan first and then deal with the other Reds, or one of them could keep Ivan busy while the other worked on getting back inside that church and exterminating all the vermin holed up in there.

The first plan was the best shot at killing Ivan, which was essential for victory since he would not allow the church to fall into Nazi hands while he was there and still able to fight. It would also undoubtedly deal a crippling blow to the morale of the remaining church-guarding Russians: they idolized their fearsome “Ghost General”, who was widely known ( or at least rumored ) by both sides to be seemingly supernaturally strong, fast, resilient, and deadly, and whose mere name could strike terror into the heart of most Germans. The drawback was that focusing solely on Ivan left them more vulnerable to attacks by his people, especially if his people happened to finish off their compatriots before Ludwig and Gilbert had a chance to kill the big brute.

The second plan would mitigate the danger to their men, but actually getting into the church and staying in one piece long enough to take out enough Reds to clear the way for more Axis soldiers would be risky and time-consuming even for a nation-spirit. One-on-one Ivan had a much better chance of defeating either brother, and if he happened to do so before too many of his comrades died then taking the church was going to be a hell of a lot harder.

Ludwig leaned more towards the first plan — it seemed less risky. And the less time it took to murder Ivan the less risky it would be.

His decision made, he took a few crouching steps away from his brother. “This is it,” he announced, his voice as grave as his expression, “it’s do or die. Us or Russia.” He closed his eyes momentarily and took in a deep double-lungful of freezing air. The sun was halfway over the horizon now, bathing the scarred blue-tinted snowy landscape in warm, pinkish rays. Still weak, it nonetheless felt good on his cheeks.

In that single, semi-restful moment of clarity, an idea came to him. It probably wouldn’t work, but what the hell, he just had to give it a try, because if it did work it had the potential to work beautifully.

His eyes flew open. Bracing himself, he poked the muzzle of Ivan’s sniper rifle over the top of the debris-barrier, resting the last couple inches of the barrel in a little crook in the smashed material. Then he drew himself up just far enough to see through the scope. His aim wasn’t exactly on the angel statue, but that didn’t matter. He could adjust his aim in an instant.

“I don’t blame you for hiding, Vanya,” he called out loudly in Shakomay, having learned just enough about Russian culture from Toris and the Stalingrad Hiwis to know that calling a Russian by his nickname was a privilege reserved only for close friends and lovers and considered extremely rude and inappropriate when used by strangers and enemies, “Come out from behind that statue and we’ll be celebrating a victory while you’re bending over for Stalin. That is a fate worse than death.”

It was an incredibly low jab.

Hopefully it would be just low enough to provoke the already mentally-unstable Russian into doing something stupid.

______________________________________________________

A/N: Apologies for the fail!post. I had some serious writer’s block through this one, but I think ( or at least hope! ) it’s passable.

Also, I changed my mind a few times on how exactly I wanted this to play out, which is why this version of events looks different from the one I discussed in the Cbox with Prussia. I decided as I was writing it that it would make more sense this way, which should work well enough as we’d agreed we’d go the “they both attack Russia together” route anyway.

Finally, that last bit that Germany says to Russia…take that as you will! xD[/size]

[Russia]

Even as Ivan had his sights trained on the area where the German brothers were, Prussia popped up briefly and fired a shot in his direction. The bullet hit a piece of stoney debris off to his left, and the Russian inwardly smiled at his enemy’s lack of time to properly aim. It was a shame that Prussia had become aware of him so soon. He would have loved the chance to shoot both brothers in the skull before they could figure out he was there. The debris would look so much better decorated with German and Prussian blood and skull fragments.

“Same old tricks, you Soviet Cow! Let’s see how you do with Big Brother Prussia here!”

Outwardly he kept his calm smile, but inwardly the Russian seethed in anger at the remark. He wasn’t a cow; he was a proud and powerful nation! Cows were fat, slow and stupid, things he never considered himself as and did not at all appreciate being compared to. Plus, cows were female on top of that, and he fancied himself as a very masculine nation. Not that he would have been happy to be called a “bull” either. If they were wanting to liken him to an animal, he would have much preferred something more fitting, like an Amur tiger, or perhaps an eagle. Something known for it’s strength and fierceness.

But of course Prussia was just trying to piss him off. It was no secret that the other nation more than likely hated him with the same passion that Ivan held towards him. They may have been allies in the past, but their friendlier interactions had long since been washed away. In this war in particular, Ivan thirsted for Prussian blood just as fiercely as he did for German blood.

At the sight of blonde poking up over the debris, Ivan opened fire again at the brothers’ hiding place. The tricky part for him was going to be finding a way to get a good shot at them. With the debris in the way, he would be left just trying to shoot one whenever they fancied themselves country enough to poke their damned heads up. Not something he wanted to spend his day doing. He had limited ammunition in this German gun he had taken, and did not like the idea of just staying there and shooting until he ran out. Something had to be done. Preferably, he would be able to get close enough to the blonde kraut and his red-eyed sibling to make the fight more physical. Being the overly confident and fiercely violent nation that he was, he was more than sure that he could take both Germany and Prussia on hand-to-hand.

“I don’t blame you for hiding, Vanya.”

Ivan’s train of thought was instantly de-railed at the infuriating use of his nickname. How did he know to call him by such a name? Instantly thoughts of his treacherous Baltic filled his mind. Toris had welcomed the Germans into his borders, and had more than likely told Ludwig all about the Russian use of nicknames. He must have let Ludwig know, as a means for the German to get under his skin and seriously insult him. Eyes narrowed as he looked through the sights of the rifle. He made a quick mental note to whip his former servant to a bloody pulp when he got him back after the war.

“Come out from behind that statue and we’ll be celebrating a victory while you’re bending over for Stalin. That is a fate worse than death.”

A mixture of shock and rage flooded the unstable Russian’s mind. While I am what for Stalin!? The mere thought of what Germany was suggesting sent a chill of fear and revulsion through Ivan. That was an incredibly low jab, and a horrible insinuation for another nation to make. Especially since even though his people were very fond of Stalin for the most part, Ivan-having been around the man and knowing far more about him than just about any living Russian- was not as enamored with his fearless leader as he had previously been. How could he be when Stalin was not only starving him and his sisters, but also had had a good number of fine Soviet citizens killed off in the purges, leaving Ivan weaker and less prepared for the war he had then been thrust into? If anything he was afraid of his boss, and what the man was capable of doing to him. But Stalin and he most certainly did not have those kinds of relations.

Cold fury clouded Ivan’s senses. The only thought dominating his mind was to kill Ludwig and his brother. The word single word “kill” repeated through his head over and over like a broken record, as he threw caution to the wind and prepared to charge their hiding place. He would see their blood decorating the icy debris. The possibility of himself being shot down before he even reached them was beyond his sanity for the time being.

Fate seemed to be smiling on the Russian General this morning however. Another group of Soviets were already en route to the brothers’ hiding spot, rifles drawn in a valiant attempt to take the debris pile for their own. And they were nearer to the German and Prussian than Ivan was, so there was a chance that they would be noticed before Ivan was shot to pieces in a "death or glory" charge.

Rising from his crouched position, the deranged, incredibly pissed off Russian nation threw all his efforts into running straight for the brothers. He fired his last two shots at the pair as he ran. The German rifle was not the sort of gun that could retain accuracy very well when in motion, but Ivan was past the point of caring. Anything to try and hurt those cocky Germanic bastards. If they were not distracted by the other Soviets, he was as good as dead. If they were free to turn their sights back on him before he made it to them, there was still a chance that he would be shot and potentially killed. Either way, the move was foolish and childishly impulsive on his part. He was dead set on leaping over the debris once he got close enough, and disarming Prussia, since the elder brother was the closest to him.
_________________________
((My apologies for the lameness of this one, guys. Feel free to shoot Russia or his men as you please, so long as any shots on Russia are not in fatal areas. You can kill his men though as much as you like.))

[chicksdigscars]

Prussia was still gloating in self-satisfaction at his inspired insult for Russia when Ludwig spoke up. “He’s sneaky alright. Sneaky and ruthless.” Gilbert could only share that sentiment in silence, as he watched his brother stretched up and risked exposure. The Prussian hissed when two shots fired too close to Germany for his liking, a hand twitching in the air as if it meant to jerk Ludwig’s head down to safety. Fortunately, the other man seemed to realize the danger and settled back on his own power.

Gilbert let out the breath he’d been holding, puffing out his cheeks. It aggravated that cut on his cheek as he was struck with another flash of some distant pain. Honestly, with the temperatures and his own weariness, everything was too numb to register it properly. Gilbert’s expression reflected this with a shade of detachment as he absently scrubbed at his cheek with the back of a gloved hand, listening as Ludwig informed him about Ivan’s location. “He’s behind the angel statue. He knows we’re here…”

Of course Ivan would hide somewhere so unfitting. Something ancient flared in the Prussian; a zealot’s rage that a beast such as Russia might shield himself behind something greater than their earthly chains. Gilbert choked that old flame out with irritation. It was time to think as a soldier. Just like he’d reflected upon that bloody hilltop earlier, God had no place in war. He was distracted from his stray thoughts as Ludwig began to move.

The Prussian twisted his face in that direction as Germany crept his way along. Obviously his brother was occupied with his own thoughts. Gilbert wagered that they were focused clearly in the present, with their current situation, and had to chide himself for not following his younger sibling’s better example. “This is it. It’s do or die. Us or Russia.” He saw Ludwig take a moment to enjoy the sunlight that had finally broken through. Clearly Germany was developing some plan. Gilbert tightened his grip on his rifle with a sense of anticipation. No matter what Ludwig decided to do, Prussia would follow without question. With nothing else to gain in this war there was nothing left for him but to continue that devotion towards his brother.

Gilbert choked on a muffled laugh when he heard what Germany said next. Not to him, but to their Russian opponent. He was just as well versed in the damned quirks of Soviet culture to understand what a direct hit Ludwig had made against Ivan without even having to waste a bullet. Prussia grinned, proud and feral. His normally reserved sibling never ceased to surprise him on occasion. “You tell him, bruderlein!”

His delight for Ludwig’s skillful insults at Russia ended abruptly as Gilbert whirled around with the sound of booted feet tromping hurriedly upon the snow behind them. Prussia swore heatedly as he was forced to shift his stance to deal with this new attack. The only bit of luck was that the Reds did not seem to notice them right off, so the Prussian was able to fire off a few bullets from his rifle as the group moved to overtake their hiding place. He grimly watched as his shots bit into the chests of the three men at the front of the cluster, hearing their sounds of pain and witnessing their downward twitching as they fell.

Then the chamber of his rifle clicked impotently. Out of bullets. Gilbert tossed it down to the snow beside him with a hiss at such unfortunate timing. He reached down to his hip to remove his handgun. The Luger would be better in close quarters gunfire anyway. Just as it was liberated from his waist and gripped in his hand that Prussia became aware of a rather large shadow falling over him from above, the influx of sunlight having made it more prominent on the bed of snow beneath his crouched figure.

Prussia twisted around, allowing his weight to spill backwards towards that snow so that he could at least face this incoming threat. Crimson eyes narrowed as he saw that Ivan was rushing up over their debris like some horrendous avenging angel. Gilbert slackened his grip on his handgun since the Russian seemed dead-set for him, sending it spinning across the frozen surface of his snow so that he could sacrifice the fully loaded weapon to his sibling nearby. “Ludwig, take it! I’ve got Ivan. Get those men down!”

There were only a few tense moments to respond. If they were going to last long enough to get that church taken then one of them was going to have to break through the obstacle of these surviving soldiers and the other needed to contend with Ivan. Since the Russian seemed intent on making the decision for them by this reckless charge, Prussia was happy for the chance to test his own mettle against the frozen nation once again. He plastered on his best, most arrogant smirk and prepared himself by reaching to slide out his combat knife.

---

Combat Notes:

Prussia's rifle = empty
Prussia's handgun = heading towards Germany
Prussia = armed with just combat knife
Number of Soldiers killed = 3
Number of Soldiers remaining = ?
Russia = crazy

[My apologies for the tardiness of this response. Work has killed most of my time as of late. Since you both have the next two turns, you may puppet Prussia as you'd like to advance things. I will gladly go along with it on my next turn. Don't hurt his pretty face too much. <3]

[Germany]

Surprisingly, the barbed-insult ploy to provoke Ivan into making an incredibly bold, stupid move that would leave him fully exposed and vulnerable worked beyond beautifully. The Russian charged out from his stone sanctuary like a maddened bull towards a red blanket, his face twisted with the same hatred and fury that seemed to shoot out his nostrils in great steam plumes with each breath.

Come and get it, bastard. Heart pounding, mouth set in a deadly-serious line, Ludwig aimed a hair’s length ahead of Ivan and squeezed the trigger, firing directly into his path.

Damn!

He’d been so taken aback by his enemy’s swiftness that he’d fired prematurely, hadn’t aimed high enough to get the head. This realization barely had time to register before thunder erupted from the barrel of Ivan’s latest rifle and a terrible pain struck a blazing trail across the right side of his own head, tearing savagely through his ear.

Ludwig dropped his weapon and fell to his hands and knees with a sharp cry of anguish, fingers clawing deep furrows into the frozen ground. For a few agonizing moments everything faded into triviality in a distorted surreal warping of space and time — Gilbert, Ivan, the roaring explosions of gunfire — and the only thing he was aware of was how much it hurt. Though he could not see the damage, he knew from the pain that his right ear had been destroyed — cleaved in half along its breadth from the feel of it — and the bone scarcely above the place where his jaw connected to his skull had to be lying naked to the freezing air to be stinging like five Hells the way it did. His stomach sank as he watched steaming little lakes of crimson begin to form on the ground beneath him, fed by the warm rivers of blood gushing out the side of his head.

He wanted to rest here, to prop himself against this cold wall of rubble and wait a few minutes for the stinging to die down.

Too bad he couldn’t.

Must…get up…

Flashes of uniform and the barrel of a firearm in his peripheral alerted him to Gilbert’s actions. But something was horribly wrong. Ludwig looked over to see the Prussian firing shots in the opposite direction, away from the charging Ivan. A sick wave of panic hit him like a freight-train. “Bruderlein! RUSSIA!” He rose to his knees, grimacing fiercely at a fresh explosion of agony from his wound as he sucked air in through his teeth in a rushing hiss.

Gilbert had just thrown down his empty rifle in favor of the handgun he kept at his hip when the behemoth nation hurtled over their barricade like a runaway planet, the wrath of Hell raging like a storm over that normally deceptively-innocent face.

DAMN, Ivan. As furious as he was, it was amazing he hadn’t smashed right through the obstacle.

Prussia’s hand flashed like lightning, sending the Luger skittering across the frozen ground. “Ludwig, take it! I’ve got Ivan. Get those men down!”

Those men?!

Damnit, he needed to help his brother with Ivan! He didn’t have time for shit like this!

Cursing under his breath at the unwelcome company, Ludwig struck out with his right hand and seized the Luger with the lightning-precision of a cat plucking a fish out of a stream. Fingers wound tightly around the grip, he whirled to face the direction in which his brother had been firing, sending thin streamers of blood flying across his cheek and mouth.

Sure enough there was an angry herd of Russians. All white-clad with rifles, gloves, ushankas, and stony scowls. Three of them had already been killed: they lay motionless on the ground, staining the white snow a fitting deep red with their blood. Ludwig swelled with pride at his brother’s good aim, but there was no time for congratulations — the survivors stampeded over their fallen comrades and began to take aim.

Acting on an exhilarating surge of survival instinct as well as years of bloody combat experience, Ludwig aimed for the face of the man who looked to be the closest to actually firing his rifle and squeezed the trigger.

The Luger kicked back with a puff of white smoke and a resounding bang. The unlucky Russian dropped where he stood, his face a mess of gore.

Ludwig jerked the gun a few inches to the right and fired again, sending a bullet between the eyes of another soldier. An out-and-out sniper he was not, but like any German soldier worth his salt his aim was pretty damn good at close-range.

For their part, the Reds appeared woefully slow and uncoordinated. It wasn’t until a split-second after the second man of theirs had fallen — fifth, counting Gilbert’s kills — that they managed to get out the first shot of return-fire. The bullet missed Ludwig fully and ricocheted off a nearby slab of building debris.

Quietly gloating over his enemies’ epic failure, the blonde nation deftly pointed the Luger’s muzzle at the pallid, gaunt face of the next frowning man…

…and was promptly knocked asunder when another body collided with his with the force of a small rocket, causing him to fire a shot up at some random spot on the church.

Gilbert? The hell?!

Ludwig stumbled backward like a drunkard and came dangerously close to falling on his ass. Nearby, Gilbert was struggling to regain his footing and defend himself from Russia’s fury. It was in that moment that Ludwig realized that it was indecisiveness, rather than ineptness, which had made the Russians slow on the draw. They’d been struggling with the dilemma of what to do when their powerful, beloved Ghost General was engaged in a fight with an enemy soldier in such close quarters to another enemy soldier. Naturally they didn’t want to risk accidentally shooting him if they could help it, but at the same time they also needed to protect themselves.

Ivan being even closer to their intended target changed things. One of them yelled something in Russian to his comrades and all five or six of them — there was no time to count — charged. The man in the lead thrust his rifle forward, straight for Ludwig’s chest.

There was no time to aim, or even to think.

Ear and jaw still afire, Ludwig brought Gilbert’s gun back to bear and hurriedly fired a shot towards his most immanent threat before diving behind the fighting countries. The muscles in his legs and lower back groaned bitterly at being forced into sudden vigorous movement, but it was a low, dull pain — nothing compared to his bullet-wound — and it was not going to slow him down. The air cracked with the deafening report of another rifle being fired, and he knew without looking that he’d narrowly avoided being on the receiving end of another bullet.

What was this?

Ludwig’s eyes glittered with delighted surprise as the back of Ivan’s ash-blonde head passed in front of him.

He could end it now! With Russia out of the picture the church was as good as theirs.

Eyes glued to the back of his enemy’s skull, he took aim….

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A/N: I liked Prussia’s little combat notes, so I decided to copy the list format! Prussia, thanks for the permission to mildly puppet, and Russia, yo better protect yo gourd! [/i]

Combat Notes:

Germany’s stolen rifle = 1 bullet left. On the ground.
Germany’s Maschinenpistole = Still strapped to Germany’s chest. Empty.
Prussia's handgun = 5 bullets left, assuming it was fully loaded when first received. ( My source says they held 8 rounds ).
Number of Soldiers killed = 5
Number of Soldiers remaining = 5 or 6
Germany = Right ear split clean in half. Bone chipped and showing just above the place where the jaw connects to the skull. Bleeding profusely. Sore head, lower back, and legs from earlier fall.
Russia = Seconds away from being shot in the back of the head.[/size]

[Russia]

In his hast to make it to and over the debris barrier where the brothers hid, Russia almost hadn’t noticed when Germany’s shot hit the frozen ground right in front of him. It had been a close call, and had he been in a saner mood, it would have worked in cautioning him to cease his wild charge and instead duck for cover. But Ivan had not even slowed his pace at the shot. Instead he had continued to charged towards the brothers like the hounds from Hell were hot on his heels.

Russia’s lungs burned from taking in such rapid breaths of frigid air. He was very physically fit despite his large frame, and usually running such distances was nothing. He was used to such feats on the battlefield, and had the air not been so cold, he wouldn’t have even noticed such a relatively short amount of running. As each breath brought him closer to his enemies, he noticed that Germany seemed to already have been injured, further cementing his choice to go for Prussia first. Not only was Prussia closer from his angle, but Ivan also thought he needed to acquire some gruesome injuries as well so that he could match his brother.

Climbing over the debris as quickly as he could, the violet-eyed Russian lunged for Gilbert. Ludwig appeared to be caught up with shooting at the Soviets in the opposite direction, so now was the perfect time to take the elder brother out.

Noticing the combat knife Prussia had drawn, Ivan swung the butt of the German rifle he had straight for the side of Prussia’s head. Having been moving quickly to come upon his enemies so fast, he lacked some of the coordination he might have otherwise possessed while trying to strike an enemy.

The fact that Gilbert was still armed was an annoyance and complicated things a bit. He would have liked for the Prussian to be weaponless, so he could have that much easier of a time with him. Typically, the more defenseless his opponents were, the better in his eyes. As low as it was, Ivan preferred to have the odds in his favor in battles. Being able to beat his foes quickly just helped assure him of his power and might. Of course Prussia and Germany were both powerful and capable nations, and it was silly to hope that they would go into battle with only one or two guns to use against Ivan and his people. He had fought against both of them before, and as much as he would have liked for them to be having a slow day, he knew better than to expect it.

Dropping his empty rifle, he grabbed the Prussian’s knife hand. If he could get the blade free, he could use it to stab Prussia through the throat. He could use his own dagger in a similar manner if he had the chance at any point, but it would take more time to draw it, and he doubted Prussia would just wait for him.

“You and your brother were silly to invade my borders, Gilbert.” He informed the Prussian in a deceptively calm tone. The large blonde Soviet was still not smiling as per usual, but he had managed to regain some of his slightly saner senses. “Not that I mind staining my city with German and Prussian blood.”

One of his men’s shouts drew his attention for a second, and he witnessed them charge towards Ludwig with their bayonets out.

Struggling to get the knife away from Gilbert, Ivan was helpless to help them take Germany out. It was all he could do to just hope that they would be able to stab and shoot the offending nation into a bloody mess.

His hopes were dashed as Ludwig suddenly moved behind Gilbert and himself. Then it struck him that he had an enemy with a gun behind him. Not good. In a risky move, he shoved into Prussia, instantly releasing the other nation’s knife hand in the process. Ivan then quickly turned around and lashed out with a fist at Germany, in hopes of catching the other man dead on in the face before he could shoot.

The hit was a success, and his fist collided with the blue-eyed German’s face somewhere near his nose. Not dead on as Ivan had been aiming for, but it was enough to foil the German’s attempt to shoot him in the back of the skull. Sneaky bastard had been ready to kill him while he was preoccupied with his brother. Not that Ivan would have done anything different, but it was irritating all the same.
_____________________________________________
A/N: I left it open as to whether or not those blows actually hit you at first Gil. I already had permission from Germany to punch Lud in the face though. XD Also feel free to inflict some painful knife wounds on Ivan, Prussia. He did have to shove you aside to deal with Germany, so you can knife attack him if you like.

Combat Notes:

Russia’s stolen rifle = Empty and on the ground somewhere after he attempted to hit Prussia with it. (He’ll need to find a new gun soon. Maybe once we move them around a bit more.)
Russia‘s dagger = In it’s sheath at his waist.
Russia‘s fist= Speckled with Germany’s blood.
Germany = Right in front of Russia now.
Prussia= Still armed with a combat knife and ready to injure him some Russian?

[Lithuania]

'Sup bitches!

The AWESOME ME has hacked that pussy Lithuania's account to post in this epic thread and back up my only slightly less awesome Bruder in a fight to the death. Stand back and leave it to me, Ludwig!

~Gil



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The butt of the Russian's rifle hit him in the side of the head, and Prussia's crimson eyes rolled back in their sockets for a moment. Ivan outmatched him in brute strength and he found himself blinking frantically as his vision flashed white.

Furious crimson locked once again with unhinged violet and Gilbert bared his teeth in a feral snarl. One large hand wrapped around his own right hand, in which he still miraculously gripped his combat knife with a dogged tenacity. He held on to his weapon for grim death, ignoring the mental image that he was like a foolish hunter attempting to fight a bear with a sharp stick.


“You and your brother were silly to invade my borders, Gilbert.”

“Go and fuck yourself, untermensch,” he replied through gritted teeth, his head still smarting from the rifle blow. He was about to elaborate colourfully on the many ways Ivan could do just that, but instead he found himself sprawling in a slightly undignified manner as the enormous Russian turned around and swung for his brother, who had almost...damn it...almost gotten the upper hand on him.

He wasted no time in scrambling to his feet, still holding onto his knife the way a priest would clutch at a crucifix. As an afterthought, he put one hand on his hip, a cocky leer spreading across his face even as he surreptitiously scanned his surroundings for any other Soviet soldiers in sight. His gaze travelled briefly over his little brother's injuries, taking in his mangled ear and the brief flirtation of white bone which peeked out from a torn mess of red muscle. In a split second, he took stock of their situation.

He had no gun, and there was no opportunity for him to retrieve a weapon from any of the corpses which littered the area, not without attracting fire from the enemy soldiers who were still certainly dotted about. But he wasn't about to let Ludwig take the brunt of that crazy Russian bastard's rage, either.

“Hey! Vanya!” he yelled, spitting out the diminutive as though it were a filthy word. A moment later and he was charging towards the taller nation in a burst of fury, a hoarse battle cry leaving his lips. His white hair was plastered to his temple with blood, his body ached and he felt somehow detached from himself as he closed the short distance, crouching slightly and leaping at the Soviet nation with desperate abandon. Wrapping his arms around Ivan's neck, he sought to choke him from behind as his combat boots scrambled desperately against the impossibly huge nation's back. A moment later, his legs were around Russia's waist, his heels kicking into his stomach. His fist was curled tightly in Ivan's flaxen hair, taking advantage of the element of surprise to yank his head back, supporting his entire weight on that grip for a moment as the hand which still clutched his knife snaked up and under that ever-present scarf, the cold blade pressed to skin which seemed even colder.

“You think they'll still call this place “Stalingrad” once the streets are running with filthy Slav blood?” he hissed, struggling to maintain his grip and position his knife at a better angle for slitting the Russian's throat. “Maybe once this is all over, I'll go and find your sisters. I know Ukraine will cry like a bitch, but the question on everyone's lips is...do you think Belarus is a screamer...?”

He wrenched one arm around in an attempt to slash his blade against Ivan's jugular.