Every Nation Has Its Wars: Names
Every nation has its wars, every war has its soldiers, and every soldier has a price that they pay for their country. This is a true story, with some embellishment, of one such soldier and the price he paid. Unlike most soldiers though, he was not forgotten by the turning pages of history. His rifle remains on display in the Stalingrad History Museum as one of the key symbols of Germany's defeat. This story is in memory of his sacrifice.
(All personal names have been changed, the names of the places remain the same. Also, apologies for the lack of yiff in this story. Don't worry, it's coming.)
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Chapter 1
Names
A black and battered car swerved through broken-backed streets, littered with the bodies of hundreds of unfortunate soldiers. Not fifty yards distant, a Panzer tank coughed and rattled as its main gun belched fire. Dirt and bits of long dead flesh lifted into the air and pattered down across the windows of the car. Veering sharply to the side in an attempt to avoid further shots, it lifted up onto two of its wheels before bouncing back to all fours. Protesting and cursing at the rough treatment, the engine battled gamely on. Its final profanity was lost in the echoing roar of another shot from the Panzer's cannon. The resulting blast flipped the car end over end and slammed it back to earth upside-down.
The car's rear trunk burst open under impact and a thousand leaflets cascaded out to drift along the alleyways and burned out husks of buildings. The leaflets, written in Russian, proclaimed the Mother Land's imminent victory over its Nazi invaders. The last blast had thrown a large amount of dirt into the air but it was slowly clearing. Before it was entirely gone, a battered and bruised looking red fox struggled out of one of the car's windows. Wasting no time he dashed off into the quickly settling dust.
A walled in monument loomed up in front of him and he leapt the wall and scrabbled helplessly at the foot-paws of the statue, perhaps seeking some aid or courage from its battered stone. But the granite remained cold and lifeless, immune to his pleas. Eyes wide and bloodshot, he glanced around for some means of escape but from all around him came voices speaking German. He started to raise his paws in surrender, but an idea sprang fully formed into his mind and he quickly dropped flat on the ground. Partially lifting a dead body he scooted partway under it, and then dropped it back down on himself. Relaxing, he tried to appear as dead as possible.
The voices came closer and closer and the fox had to fight hard not to run. His glasses had caught on the shoulder of the dead man and were digging painfully into the bridge of his muzzle but he ignored the pain as best as he could. Soft tremors ran through his body and he worried that they might give him away. The coughing sound of a diesel powered truck approached and, as it passed by, a commanding voice barked an order. Several automatic weapons opened fire into the bodies around him. He twitched and trembled with each shot, but none struck him and the dancing of the other bodies as they were struck by the metal rain mimicked his own.
When the shots finally stopped and the sound of voices and the truck faded away, the red fox slowly pushed the dead body off of him. Part of his mind recognized it as a Doberman but it didn't seem all the important. His paws patted down his body, disbelieving fingers seeking for some sign that he had been shot. Finding no wounds he made as if to stand up. Before he was fully erect, however, he spotted a pair of officers preparing to shower in a burst pipe. Their uniforms marked them unmistakably as German, and the fox dropped onto his stomach. Once more among the muck and dead bodies the shock of his near death finally hit him. What little he had in his stomach emptied to mix with the blood, dirt, and offal.
Snatching a fallen rifle from the bloody paws of a raccoon he crawled to a gap in the two foot high wall that surrounded the monument. Balancing the gun in the shattered crevice he took aim at the fattest of the two officers. The gun's sight jumped and dodged all his attempts to use it with ease. Finally deciding that he would take the shot with or without a steady hand he touched his finger to the trigger.
"Wait for the next explosion," whispered the corpse to his right. He jerked and almost fired the gun into the ground. His head automatically whipped around to watch the Rotweiler he had thought dead. "Wait, comrade commissar." The fox swallowed the bile that had risen in his throat and turned back to the gun. Sighting at the fat officer, who had now gotten undressed and was preparing to shower, his hand was a little steadier. Now that he wasn't feeling so stunned he noticed that the officer was a Panda. Easing his finger down on the trigger he held his breath. The hammer eased back, the trigger moved smoothly with his finger, he trembled and almost panicked, the trigger clicked, the hammer swung down, and struck the butt of an already spend cartridge.
"Comrade commissar," the Rotweiler motioned for the fox to give him the gun. Quickly and happily complying the fox sighed quietly as though a burden had been removed from his shoulders. A couple swift clicks later and the gun was returned with a live bullet in the chamber. Flinching away from the unexpected return of the rifle he reached out to take it and placed the barrel back in the notch in the wall. The gun shook even harder this time and the fox couldn't help glancing back at the Rotweiler ever few seconds. He seemed so calm, almost relaxed, but attentive to everything around him. Finally the fox found the nerve to speak.
"Comrade, do you know how to shoot?" The foxes voice was a whisper barely loud enough for him to hear, but the Rotweiler could either read lips or had very good hearing. He shrugged his shoulders and then nodded.
"A bit," he stated it like a fact, a fact which belied his earlier shrug. With relief the commissar handed the gun to his comrade. Being careful not give their position away, the Rotweiler crawled along the wall until his reached a small hole. Steadying the gun he aimed carefully at the head of the Panda that was now taking his shower. The other officer stood near the Panda but remained dressed. He was a Deer and quite severe looking, thin and straight-backed. Two more soldiers stood ten feet to the Deer's left and the Rotweiler's right. They were smoking and laughing about something. A third soldier was cautiously approaching the two Russians as though he might have seen them. His gun was out and ready for use.
The fox whisper frantically to his comrade, "He's seen us, shoot him!" The Rotweiler ignored him and focused on the Panda. A bomb dropped in the near distance, a spot of blood appeared on the Panda's forehead and he dropped to the ground. By the time the other officer noticed, the Rotweiler had already reloaded and aimed. His first shot went through the Deer's eye before he could say anything. Another bomb dropped at the same time and the two soldiers continued to talk and smoke. A wall blocked their view of the officers, but the third soldier had seen the gunshots clearly. With jerky and panicked motions he pulled a grenade from his pack, a tank fired a few blocks over and the Rotweiler put a hole in his forehead. Now the other two soldiers noticed, but before they could figure where the sniper was they both lay dead with steaming bloody trickles running down their faces.
Calmly the Rotweiler handed the gun back to the Fox. "Thank you comrade commissar." The fox took the gun and stared sort of numbly at his rescuer. A bit, a bit. The words kept echoing in his mind. The Rotweiler could shoot a bit... Without thinking he held out his paw for the fox to shake. A thankfulness showed in the gleam of his face and the light in his eyes.
"Jerrin Dietrich." Said the Fox. For a moment the Rotweiler just stared at his hand, as though not sure what to do with it. Then, with a genuine smile, he clasped the Fox's paw and shook it.
"Piete Muskovitch." And so it began.