Rzhev, Tver Oblast.

4th December 1941, 11:22 a.m.

German territory.

Winter.

“You will not grasp her with your mind

Or cover with a common label,

For Russia is one of a kind –

Believe in her, if you are able…”

- Russian poem

A jacket, stained with aged traces of mud. Boots worn through the heel. A cloth cap perched atop a grimy, grease-stained head, from beneath which stared dark eyes. A Mosin-Nagant slung over his shoulder, once polished surfaces buried beneath grime.

Oryl slouched on the outskirts of the wood as his feet drew him closer and closer to home. Despite having spent months crossing the lines, dodging patrols, scavenging food, anticipating and worrying about his return more each day, it felt like the buildings had sprung up on him in moments. Rzhev was like that - surrounded by patches of woodland on all sides, especially when approaching from the east like he was now. It was so secluded that sometimes a traveller would approach the walls of a building and only then realise they were approaching a town.

Even more so now that the surrounds were so deserted. As empty as the fields were expected to be in winter, there would be people in the farmhouses, smoke rising above the trees from wood fires, the sound of industry from further into town. Instead, there was an oppressive silence, as if the town had been wallowing in fear for so long that the earth had developed a taste for it.

Not to say that the air was totally clear. If he concentrated, he could taste a hint of petrol and sweat blown from further into the town. The scent of occupation. He shouldered his weapon and moved forward.

Oryl stood in an alley on the north side of town, keeping an eye on the goings-on in the railway station. He stood as far back in the shadow as he was able. His rifle would draw more attention than he wanted if he was seen, but he couldn’t be comfortable with throwing it away.

The station was busier than the outskirts or the residential area had been, but also more rushed. Gaggles of local women and several lone old men hurried somewhere or another, wishing to be done with their errands before they were noticed. Bundles of foreign soldiers, huddled together for warmth and security, stalked the streets on their patrols. The train line itself had been destroyed far earlier, during the German advance, but the area still remained a prominent part of town.

On the far side of the tracks lay the grain sheds and storage yards, and that was where some of the Germans had made their camp. Sandbagged shelters and temporary buildings sprouted out on the ground. Guards against doorways or atop watchtowers spoke of the value of the camp’s contents, but the trial was too dangerous for what he might find inside. Besides, he had other aims here.

He was safe in his alley for the moment, but the longer he was on the streets for the more likely he would be found. He had no papers and was armed - there was little chance he would get away from soldiers without conflict. Instead, he searched the horizon for a vantage point. The top of a building might do in a pinch, but more useful would be a tall, out of the way building where he could rest out of sight and watch for his next opportunity. A building like the belltower, perhaps.

He slipped back into the alley, checking corners and dashing across paths, making sure he wasn’t spotted. He stayed off the streets, running through back gardens out of sight of passersby. He still had a few close calls, lying in the snow below fences as the green-coated policemen and darker-dressed soldiers made their rounds.

He kept a tight grip on his rifle the whole way. If he was discovered, it and his knowledge of the town were the only things which might keep him safe.

In the end, he made it safely there. Just a short dash through the graveyard followed, and he was against the wall of the building. The tower stood just above him, feeling taller now that he was at its base. A mere four stories high but more than large enough of a fall to kill a man.

His plan had been to climb the outside of the tower, but he found the inside of the building run-down and empty. The front door had been broken in and, sneaking a look at the inside of the congregation, much of the beauty of the church had been ransacked. The sole stained-glass window had been cracked, not quite smashed. The altar had been upended. The candlesticks, the books, the artworks, everything small enough to remove had been taken.

Even several pews seemed to be missing. One of the remaining had been broken in half and the remnants of a fire rested in the corner - the only value of the furnishing being how long it could burn.

Oryl stared at this with dead eyes and moved on. Perhaps he should have cared about it, but heavier burdens lay upon him - both mental and physical. This was but a feather compared to that.

The top of the belltower was windy. The bell itself had fallen to the base of the tower where it had cracked with the stone floor. Now the view from the top was clear where the bell would have blocked it, and although the four-storey hole in the floor made him uncomfortable Oryl was fine as long as he didn’t look down.

Laying his bag down as a cushion and his rifle within easy reach, he settled down. The platform creaked under his weight but stood firm. A loaf of stale bread, one of his last, appeared in his hand as if from nowhere to fill his growling stomach.

He gazed out around town, minding the activity. Besides the setup at the train yard, the Germans were building a sizeable camp in the centre of town. From what Oryl could see through the parts of the wall that were yet to be built, pits were being dug into the earth and sheds were being erected throughout the space. He wondered as he was waiting who was doing the work - perhaps local labour, perhaps some German youth squads. There was no way to tell from this distance. Perhaps some of his old comrades, if the Germans and commissars felt kind enough to spare any of the Red Army.

Down to the south, across the river, the town was still in shock. That was where the Soviet defenders had been stationed, those that hadn’t been marshalled further West to support the rest of the Front, and as such it would have seen the worst of the fighting until their retreat.

Craters from shell impacts still dotted the outside of town in that direction. A scattering of broken rooves indicated that the shelling was not limited to the uninhabited areas. Some had been patched up by tarpaulins and wood scaffolding. Others remained ruined, ominous in their stillness.

The sky was clear and dry, too cold for snow to easily form. A few pale clouds drifted above, and he watched them for a moment before they were broken apart by a surveillance plane. Lyuftvaffe forces keeping watch on the front.

Looking over to the south again, at the still houses between the trees, he felt sick to his stomach. Anxiety drew a rusty chain through his innards, stretching and drawing them together. He forced it down with practiced concentration, but he couldn’t ignore what he already knew. German troops were converging on the centre of town. It was shift change - time for their meal, and that meant time for him too move.

He slipped back down through the stairwell of the belltower as clouds cast a patchwork shadow over his now deserted hiding place.

Oryl stole through the bushland by the northern bank of the Volga river. To his left, houses rose from the top of the hillside like bunkers. Beneath him, packed snow cracked with his tread. To his right, the frozen surface stretched out to the far shore, a hundred odd metres away.

The bushes on the far side welcomed him, but the crossing before then was a hazardous trek. The scrub surrounding the river did not shield the open ice from the eyes amid the houses, making any crossing an exposed affair.

German ingenuity provided a possible answer. Twelve barges stretched across the river, anchor chains and hulls frozen into the ice. Planks of fresh wood, hewn from local trees, stretched between them, forming a safe bridge, if not an even one.

If he crossed there, he would be innocuous at least, and that would be enough for him. With the change of shift, nobody should be watching from nearby, and for anyone watching from further away he donned a German metal helmet, taken from his pack. From a distance, with a helmet and thick cloak obscuring his features, he could pass for any other foreign soldier crossing the bridge. But only from a distance.

The footing on the bridge was treacherous, at best. A handful of light snowfalls, plus the daily tread of dozens of soldiers and civilians, had packed down the once-rough surface of the wood into a glossy sheen of ice. Oryl’s tread was the careful one of a man who knows what he has to lose. Having come so close, he was not going to stumble - literally - on the final stretch of his journey.

At one point, his foot slipped forwards out from under him, bringing him down onto one knee. A woman, of perhaps thirty or forty, chose that moment to cross the head of the bridge. Sliding his knees across the ice, he managed to bring his pose to something approaching checking his shoelaces… but he needn’t have bothered, as the woman had fled upon spotting the lone soldier.

Once he was safe in the concealing shrubbery on the other bank, Oryl slipped out a relieved sigh. At the same time as he dropped the helmet back into his bag. Useful as it was, it made him shiver to wear it. Its visor was too low, its material too hard and its chin strap too tight. It brought him too close to feeling like a soldier.

Now his final obstacle, the river, was out of the way, only a few blocks lay between him and his destination. With hurried steps, he moved on.

The sights here were more familiar, yet somehow more unsettling. The park, with fountain normally drained of water every winter cracked and frozen over. The streets empty of their usual traffic. The houses of his neighbours. And the bakery, home…

His boots ground to a halt.

A caved-in roof. Boarded windows. Dilapidated bricks. Dead, frozen plants. No signs of light or heat. The medieval house that had stood for hundreds of years, reduced to such a sorry state.

Instead of the smell of fresh bread, all he could sense on the air was dust and disrepair.

Stepping closer, he rested his hand against the front door. A flapping piece of paper caught his attention, tossed back and forth by the midday wind. Straightening it out, he read from the text - the Latin alphabet, probably German words, with the letters R U S and an eagle stamp at the top. Not that he needed more evidence of who could have done this.

He kicked against the door in a burst of anger, breaking it off its worn hinges. He felt regret for a moment, but pushed it away - there was no future to be had in this house anyway.

Looking around the inside of the house for anything of use, his eyes didn’t chance upon anything important. An old umbrella still inside its stand. The shards of a mirror below where it used to hang, with the frame stolen from the wall. Fragments of glass beneath the boarded windows, probably showing where looters had come through. Anything valuable or useful - all of the food - all missing. The stairs up the second level smashed and broken - there may be something up there but he didn’t want to risk trying.

Closing off his search, he sat down at the base of the stairs, which creaked under his weight. What would he do now? Saving his family would mean coming to a head with the Germans, but he couldn’t manage that alone. Just thinking about the number of soldiers in town, with tanks, halftracks and machine-guns, terrified him. If the army attacked the town, there might be an opportunity, but the front lines were probably pushed back a long way by now. Who knew how long it would be until a counter-attack arrived.

His family still had some friends nearby. If he went to one of them, perhaps he could wait out the occupation for some time until an opportunity came. It wouldn’t be fast or easy, but he could help his family while staying safe. At least he wouldn’t get conscripted by the Germans in the meantime.

His mind set, he forced himself to his feet, ignoring a pang of despair. He needed to keep moving. Keep moving, and then…

He spotted a flash of green through the doorway. He froze, grabbing for his rifle. It was a bottle green, the sort that the German police, the Orpos, wore on duty.

Striding to the doorway and peering out, he spotted the flash again - the edge of a winter coat, flapping around the corner. Looking at head level, he could see the top edge of a helmet like the one in his bag poking around the edge of the same corner.

Shrinking back into the shadows and looking down the roads to the left and right through gaps in the window boards, he could see another Orpo - a policeman - down one of the side streets. This one hadn’t bothered to hide himself, given the tiny angle that he would be visible from from the house. He was clearly not patrolling though, instead standing in the street with his pistol drawn.

Oryl ran upstairs, taking the stairs two at a time. Some boards fell away behind him but he ignored them, sliding into position beneath a hole in the roof on the second layer. Here, with fewer walls to block his ears, he could hear a distant whistle - a call for reinforcements. If it was him the call was after, there would be more police - or perhaps soldiers - on their way.

Reaching down into his bag, he pulled out the few things that could help him. A handaxe, a pair of binoculars he had managed to steal, spare ammunition for his rifle, and a looted German stick grenade. He could probably take out the Orpos with this and make his escape before anyone else was close enough. He had a quick glance for any other green shirts from the holes around the roof, but couldn’t spot any. These two were all he had to face, then.

Crouching into position against the joists, he balanced the end of his rifle against the crumbling edge of the hole in the roof. He aligned his sights with the body of the German policeman as he moved the grenade close to his body with his other hand.

Taking his rifle back into two hands, he steadied his nerves as best he could. His stomach was still churning - worrying about what he would do next. Even if he shook of his pursuers here, nobody in Rzhev would hide him. Nobody was that close to him before he left for the army, and now with the Nazis after him, he didn’t think there was anyone else who would risk their family to protect him.

So where would he head? Off into the wilderness? Back towards Russian lines? Scavenge for another month or two, even as winter set in and he slowly starved and froze, hoping that the Russians would retake the town? He had no idea.

What he did finally realise, though, was that this struggle was distracting him from the real issue at hand - the policeman at the other end of the scope of his rifle. Partly for the fact that he was alive, and partly for the other issue around that. After all, Oryl had never shot anyone before.

Even back in the 98th Rifle Division, he had only fired his gun a handful of times, and most of those were him panicking at shadows or blindly at hidden soldiers. When he did finally meet an enemy, they were tanks that he couldn’t even try to damage with his rifle - he couldn’t call that firing back as much as he could wasting ammunition.

So now, with time to think about his actions and consider what he was doing, could he truly pull the trigger?

His target stepped back and forth, switching the pistol between gloved hands. He switched his weight from foot to foot as his breath fogged in the air. Even from this distance, Oryl could tell that he was a living person.

But if he left these policemen alive as he ran, how could he get out…

His finger tightened on the trigger. He held his breath, aligning his focus with the line stretching out from his barrel, bringing it to rest in his mind on the Orpo’s chest. His finger grew closer and closer to the trigger weight. He felt the balance shift, ever so finely, within the weapon as the firing pin drew back.

He jerked in surprise as he heard a crash from downstairs. His shot went wild, ricocheting off the ground a metre away from the policeman. But that was the least of his concerns right now. Thuds of footsteps echoed from down below, furnishings being knocked over and calls in German. Oryl quickly grabbed his gear back together. Stowing most of it in his sack but keeping the axe in his belt, he prepared to dash out.

Grabbing the stick grenade from beside him, originally intended for the Orpo around the corner, he pulled the pin and tossed it down the stairs. Ignoring the shouts from below, he dashed to the back of the building, away from the policemen in the streets and the imminent explosion.

The blast rocked the building to its foundations. The stairs had probably collapsed, sealing the soldiers away from the roof, but Oryl didn’t stay around to make sure. He jumped through the rear window, sliding down the eaves and dropping from the roof into the snow in the backyard.

Without stopping to catch his breath and ignoring the panic from the house behind him, he leaped the fence to his neighbours’ yard and dashed on.

The street beyond was clear of soldiers, so he hastened down it. The past traffic on the road would hide his footprints and his intentions - otherwise, if he ran through fresh snow in the yards, the traces in the snow would give him away too easily. Perhaps that was how the Germans had followed him. Or perhaps he was just spotted.

Circling around the bakery, he ran back north towards the river. That would be his way out, and the brush by the banks would cover him as he left town.

Two blocks away, his first obstacle appeared. Sliding around the corner on the icy ground, Oryl came face-to-face with an Orpo, his attention called to the disturbance. With his rifle shouldered and slow to draw, the Orpo had the advantage in close quarters with his already drawn pistol.

Instead, Oryl charged forwards with his axe as the Orpo tried to cry for help. All the concerns from before were gone - now it was simple. One of them would walk away, and the other one wouldn’t.

The pistol came up, but Oryl dodged the first shot, dropping low. The second went wide as the policeman panicked and tried to adjust, and then Oryl was in and swinging - untrained blows powered by raw ferocity.. He missed a few strikes before managing to separate the pistol from the policeman’s hand with a lucky blow, taking a finger or two with it. The next blow with the butt of the axe came down upon the policeman’s head, stunning him.

Grabbing the pistol from where it had fallen, Oryl kept running. He could have finished off the policeman, but the shouts from back towards his former home convinced him otherwise. Instead he dashed off along the street, dropping the axe back in his belt.

As he was about to round the corner, a few cracks of gunshots sounded from behind him. He saw from a glance over his shoulder that another policeman had come around a corner behind and was taking potshots at him from down the street. The stunned policeman was stumbling to his feet.

A loud smack from behind him, a stinging pain in his right arm and another bullet whizzing by drove Oryl to keep running even after rounding the corner. The gunshots died off, but the chaos behind him did not.

Coming to the river, Oryl spotted the shapes of a few more soldiers crossing the makeshift bridge upstream. None of them spotted him as he hid in the bushes against the bank.

A quick check of his arm indicated a heavy graze around his shoulder. It might not hinder him, but it was bleeding and painful. He pulled a bandage from his bag and loosely tied it with his other hand. It was a patchwork job all up, but it would have to suffice.

Almost worse was the crack in the wood just below the barrel of his rifle. It had deflected a bullet away from the meat of his shoulder, but had taken the force of the shot in the meantime. Potential damage to the rifle wouldn’t matter unless he had a chance to use it in future, though.

Trying to get away before word spread, he stumbled through the bushes beside the bank of the river. As he fled, confusion and fear grew in the town behind him, feeding the hungry air.