[u]Oberschütze Moritz Greiter[/u] HP:[b] |||||||||||[/b]||||||||| 60% Weapon Slot 1: Mauser Kar 98K | 2/15 8mm Weapon Slot 2: M1884/98 III Bayonet | ∞ Item Slot 1: M24 Grenade | 2 Item Slot 2: -------------------------------------- Moritz's shoulder ached, and had started to freeze in place from untold tissue trauma. He tried to lean over and grab his rifle, but it was too painful to grasp it properly in both hands, and so he left it where it was. The battle above was winding down, and he could hear the deranged shouts of his fellow penal battalion comrades as they stormed forwards. It appeared the Russian garrison was in retreat, and with the third and final level of the factory complex taken, the gateway was open for the Sixteenth Panzer Division to press onto the next bloody engagement in the streets beyond. Moritz climbed to his feet, shouldering the rifle awkwardly for later use. His right shoulder was a mess of blood and torn clothing, but the bleeding was slowing. If he made it out of this hell hole alive, he'd join a monastery and devote the rest of his life to God in thanks for sparing his measly existence from a collapsed lung. Nevertheless, the wound needed treatment, and sooner rather than later lest he succumb to infection. With this thought in mind, he carefully moved over to the office door with his bayonet held tightly in his left hand. He crept up to the door frame, leaned against it, and peaked out into the corridor beyond. There were bodies laying around the place. Mostly Russians, but there were some of his countrymen. A detachment of the penal battalion had stormed through here an hour previous, and judging by the two Russians he murdered a few minutes ago, he guessed they either met their end or just plain didn't do a very good job of it. The fighting above had totally subsided now, and aside from the raging battle being fought outside by advancing panzers and their grenadier guardians against the Russians, everything seemed quiet and settled. He advanced, sparing a glance at the MP40 laying on the floor next to the Russian he stabbed to death. He decided against taking it - it'd obviously jammed for a reason, and he didn't care for carrying a useless piece of metal around for later fruition. Not with his shoulder how it was, and not with the enemy possibly still at large. He slowly moved into the corridor, looked left and right to make sure it was clear, and then headed off towards a staircase at the far end. Offices, similar to the one that had offered him safety in his time of greatest need, lined either wall. He was careful to duck beneath the windows in their doors, and to listen out for activity inside. But there was nothing. Moritz reached the stairway, and found the upwards route to have been completely caved in. A few glimmers of light shone through the rubble, and as he leaned forwards to peer through, he could see an open plaza dotted with craters and sandbag entrenchments. A lone red flag with the hammer and sickle floated in the middle of it all, and around it were piled the bodies of dozens of dead Russian soldiers. This was good, the left flank was secure and the Communists had been denied another strong point. Moritz wondered how long the Russians could keep this tenacious defense up - they had surely lost thousands and for what? A house here, a factory there and maybe a grain silo. Why was this place so important? "Fucking Hitler," Moritz cursed under his breath, "the world stands at your feet, and you waste us in this heap of shit. This'll be the end of Germany, as we know it, and millions will curse your name." There were heavy footsteps. Someone was coming up the stairs, and so Moritz threw himself against the rubble and let his body go limp. He closed one eye, but left the other open just a peak. A Russian, wearing baggy combat gear and a badly dented helmet climbed up to the landing. He gave Moritz a quick look, and then moved on down the corridor with a PPSh-41 in hand. Moritz should have made his move to safety, should have go down the stairs and tried his luck with whatever was down there, but for some reason that Russian had to die. It was instinctual. Heighted adrenaline, the combined psychological stress of battle and extreme fatigue drove him forwards. He was quiet, his bayonet held low, and he quickly made ground. The Russian checked one of the offices, and muttered something. Moritz stopped. This wasn't a man, this was a woman. There was no mistaking that pitch - unless the barbarians had resorted to throwing kids into the meat grinder. He hesitated; he'd never struck a woman in anger. He was about to move back towards the stairs when the Russian turned. Moritz had no choice, it was do or die, and he closed the gap in a second. His body struck his victim, and they tumbled to the ground. She tried to get her SMG up to his face, but he pounded her face with his fists until she was still. Feeling like the stuff of sin, Moritz felt a tear roll down his cheek. He felt for her pulse, and found it - he hadn't killed her, but she wouldn't be winning any beauty contests for a while. This was good, Hell could wait a while longer. Curiously, he removed her helmet and was stunned by what he saw. She couldn't have been more than sixteen years old, and his gut sunk a few more inches at the realization. Disgusted, he picked up the PPSh-41 with his good hand, and checked it. The killing machine was heavy to wield, but comfortable to hold. With his shoulder the way it was, he figured he'd at least be able to fire a burst before the strength in his right arm failed him. This seemed to be a better option than trying to keep his rifle steady, let alone cock the bolt, and so he exchanged the weapons. The girl carried no apparent ammo for the thing though, and Moritz, despite the awful things he had done in the service of the Fuhrer, was not about to go rooting through her underclothes. He unclipped the drum magazine, and it seemed to be full - 71 rounds would last him long enough to get himself killed, he was sure. Shoving the magazine back into place, he made for the stairway, hoping beyond hope that the girl would come to and make it out of this Hell, but the dark reality of the situation told him otherwise. Still, he wasn't going to be the man to pull the trigger, not today. As he approached the stairs, he heard more footsteps. He hoped they belonged to his allies, but the fierce shouts of a language he had little understanding of told him otherwise. He doubled back into the nearest office, grabbed hold of a metal filing cabinet, and despite the protest of his shoulder he sent it crashing into the corridor. Not wasting any time, he dived behind it, and poised his PPSh-41 on top of its rusted form. The footsteps had stopped; his attackers no doubt startled by the loud bang of the metal cabinet hitting the floor. He was in for a siege.