The Sting of Winter

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"Take him over there!"

The Sanitäter was fairly confident that the wounded soldier would be okay. Though his lower torso was badly torn up, mostly from fragments from the spare barrel container the bullet had hit before going into him, he was certain he'd gotten all the metal fragments out. The bullet had gone completely through the man. He'd patched him up as best as he could, but he needed to get back to a field hospital.

As they started to move the man onto a stretcher, the Sani heard the man groan, "Kurwa, to boli.¹"

"You're Polish?"

One of the stretcher bearers groused at the Sani, "So are we going to stand out in the cold while you two chit-chat?"

The wounded man looked up at the man who had probably saved his life, "Silesian actually. We're an odd bunch of Poles and Germans all intermixed. Name before the Great War was Stellmacher ..."

The Sani chuckled, "Which in Polish is Kołodziej. You lived in Polish occupied Silesia then?"

"Ja, had to learn Polish and German at school," then Kołodziej gripped his side and groaned.

"Yes, that's going to hurt until a surgeon cleans up the wound. Your war might be over."

Nodding to the stretcher bearers, the Sani moved on to the next man.

Mládshiy serzhánt³ Ustin Rodionovich Kazankov wiped his runny nose on the back of his sleeve. His greatcoat was so filthy he doubted anyone would notice. He cocked an eyebrow when two of his three men re-joined the squad.

"Where's Kusma Zakharovich?"

One of the Ukrainians, Efréĭtor Petrenko shook his head. "Poor f**ker took out a German machine gun and its two crewmen, then some more Fascists came up and shot him before he could get away."

"Beriya's dead?" Kazankov was shaken. Beriya had been with him in Finland, now he's dead?

"Damn it, I told you to be f**king careful, Nazar Danylovych!"

"We were, but the Fascists came up very quickly, usually they go to ground and assess the situation before moving. Whoever was leading the other side is either very quick on his feet or very lucky."

Krasnoarmeyets Kyrylo Ihorovych Antonyuk spoke up, "I'd rather be lucky than good."

"Idi na khuy⁴, Antonyuk." Kazankov snapped. Beriya's death hurt.

Leutnant Jürgen von Lüttwitz watched his men closely as they pulled back from the front line. The battalion was going into reserve, division command was trying hard to give the men time off the line, but casualties were high so the respite would be brief.

The men looked bedraggled and exhausted. Winter in Russia will do that, he thought. Most of their casualties were upper respiratory problems and frostbite.

He heard footsteps in the snow behind him, turning he saw his company commander, Oberleutnant Ferdinand Busch.

"How are the boys doing, Jürgen?"

"They're tired, Sir, but game. A few days rest, some hot food, and maybe some fresh clothing and dann will alles in Butter⁵."

Busch chuckled, "That's something my old grandmother liked to say."

Von Lüttwitz smiled, "Mine as well."

¹ F**k,that hurts. (Polish)

² Stellmacher is the German word for "wheelwright," kołodziej in Polish.

³ Junior Sergeant (Russian)

⁴ Go f**k yourself, Antonyuk. (Иди на хуй - Russian)

⁵ German equivalent of "right as rain" - Then everything will be fine.