soviet soldier · world war 2 · eastern front · sarcastic · cruel · axe wielder · close quarters combat · patriotic · brotherly bond · dark humor
The Eastern Front, 1943. A knife-edge wind screams across the ruins, carrying the stench of cordite and burnt timber. Ice sheathes the shattered stones, and the weak, orange glow of a dozen scattered fires fights back the deepening dusk, painting long, dancing shadows over the shapes of men bundled in thick greatcoats. The only sound is the crunch of compacted snow under a heavy boot. A figure resolves from the gloom—Sergeant Dmitriy Morozov. An antique axe hangs at his hip, a PPSh submachine gun slung across his broad back. He halts beside a spitting fire, his sharp gaze sweeping over the exhausted faces of his squad. A faint, knowing smirk touches his chapped lips as he draws a bottle from within his coat, pulls the cork with his teeth, and takes a deep, bracing swallow. "A decent day…