[u]Oberschütze Moritz Greiter[/u] HP:[b] ||||||||||||||||||||[/b] 100% Weapon Slot 1: Mauser Kar 98K | 5/15 8mm Weapon Slot 2: M1884/98 III Bayonet | ∞ Item Slot 1: M24 Grenade | 2 Item Slot 2: -------------------------------------- Moritz fired. The shot was a hit, and the Russian tumbled to the ground. He pulled back the bolt of his rifle, and slammed it forwards again. He fired a second time. Another Russian, running for him with a broken chair, lost his face beneath the nose and came crashing down in an ugly display of bloody gore. Someone shouted something angry to his right, something foreign. Moritz's Mauser swung to take in this new threat; his right hand working the mechanism as it did so. Another Russian soldier, heavy clad in tattered rags pointed a PPSh-41 at him. Moritz closed his eyes, knowing that finally, someone had managed to kill him. A burst of a machine gun thundered behind him. His hearing took a heavy dent by the close proximity of the weapon, and he opened his eyes to find his attacker reduced to nothing but a scarlet mess of red chunks and mist. Looking behind him, Moritz gave a slight nod to Oberschütze Peter Kraft - the platoon's resident machine gunner. Peter smirked at him, and moved forwards to deploy his bulking MG-34 so that he could unleash further death on the Communist scum. A 7.62mm bullet took his temple, opened it up, spewed his brains, and then forcefully threw him against a stack of iron piping. Moritz didn't hear the shot, and knew a Russian sniper had joined the fray. [i]Rest in peace, Peter, you rapist pig piss bastard. [/i] Lowering himself, and barely dodging the sniper's second bullet, Moritz scrambled across the chaos. Men screamed in pain and in fury, machine guns blasted from all directions and the distinct sound of advancing Panzers provided a diesel choked bass line to the hellish inferno. Were they winning? Moritz had no way of telling. He and his penal battalion had been assigned the wonderful task of clearing a wrecked tank factory - the Russians were well entrenched, but thankfully, not well armed. He'd seen at least three dozen of his comrades laying lifeless in the smoke and the rubble, but other than that, it was impossible to gain any situational awareness. Briefly, he poked his head up from behind a leveled partition that once separated the women's rest rooms from the men's, but quickly ducked as another bullet scraped the tip of his helmet. The sniper was still at large, and worse, was apparently tracking him. He looked around for options; he couldn't stay there, sooner or later one of those barbarians would throw a grenade at him, or they'd come in a wave of ten with knives and sticks. He had to find his way back to friendly lines, and focused intently for the familiar sound of a Mauser Kar, dealing her vengeance upon those who threatened her owner. After a few seconds, Moritz decided to try and head back the way his unit had originally approached. There were bound to be friendlies there, and he could definitely hear the surefire sounds of Mausers enmasse about a hundred yards in that direction. A few deep and steadying breaths, and he broke from the safety of the wall. The sniper fired and hit, and Moritz collapsed to the ground with a burning pain in his right shoulder. Without the need of further thought, he rolled sideways, clinging desperately to the strap of his rifle to avoid leaving it behind. The sniper tried to finish the job, but the next shot fell wide by a couple of inches, and then Moritz reached a hole in the floor. He fell through bent girders and brittle plaster, and crashed down upon the desk of a department foreman. The office was empty, but showed signs of recent use by the Russians. Mosin cartridges lay on the floor, some still smoking from recent use, and a few ration tins written in an alien dialect were strewn around the place. There was a singular window, smashed and splintered, at the far side of the room. Even from his prone position on the desk, and in his half dazed mental form, Moritz could see the chaos outside. Buildings were crashing down around an advancing section of Panzer III's, with a whole company of Panzergrenadiers steadily advancing in their wake. Muzzle flashes sparked from every crack and crevice around them; some of the Grenadiers fell - a Panzer exploded. Moritz could have watched the scene forever, it was fascinating and intense, but a too-close-for-comfort cry of Russian shook him from the distraction. There was movement outside of the office door; an old, busted up thing with a smashed window in the upper part. Moritz rolled off the desk, and barely had time to bring his rifle to bare as a Russian soldier, bloodied and terrified, entered the room. Moritz fired, and the Russian flew back against the wall, leaving a blood smear as he slid to the ground. A second Russian soldier entered shortly after, carrying a pilfered MP40 submachine gun. He wasn't bloodied or terrified, but fresh looking and full of rage. Moritz had no time to cock his bolt, and charged the soldier. Luck favored the German, as the Russian's weapon failed to fire. Moritz used the mid-section of his rifle to smash his victim square on the nose, and drove him to the ground. The Russian was dazed, and fought back with clawing fingers, but Moritz was quick to handle the situation. He liberated his M1884/98 III Bayonet from his boot, even as the Russian's head lurched forwards to headbutt him, and drove the blade into the man's ribcage. The Russian screamed, and blood splurted from his lips. The strength in his arms failed, and Moritz withdrew the bayonet and struck again. A few more stabbing motions later, and the Russian was lifeless. There was no obvious sign of nearby Russian activity - apart from the floor above, where a deadly battle still raged in full swing. Moritz crawled away from his victims, and sat himself against a corner. He was exhausted, and the bloody wound in his shoulder had started to lash out at his nerves. The pain was intense, but it wasn't disabling. The wound was clean; the bullet having passed through from the back and exiting in the front. He wasn't sure if it was fatal, but he could breathe, and his arm would move as he willed it. Maybe it was adrenaline, and he was a dead man, but Moritz was certain his part in this war was far from over. Reaching into his chest pocket, he withdrew a pre-rolled cigarillo and brought it to his lips with shaking hands. Then he reached into his trouser pocket, and retrieved a battered box of matches. If he was going to die today, or tomorrow, or next week, then that could all wait. Right now, Moritz Greiter was going to enjoy himself one last time - damn the world.