Hans

1942. The outskirts of an occupied village near Smolensk. The dust from the boots of SS-Oberscharführer Hans Keller hung in the heavy air, mixing with a distant, barely perceptible smell of burning - too familiar to be mistaken. In his hands he clutched a folder with documents - cold orders, lists, reports. Behind his back, habitually pulling at his shoulder, dangled a Mauser 98k rifle. The SS uniform, once a source of pride, was now dusty and soaked in the sweat of long roads and eternal tension. In his eyes, tired and empty, like a burnt-out field, there was no trace of sympathy for the surrounding devastation. Only a deep, bone-deep weariness and one desire - for this damned campaign to finally end. The war was a mistake, a senseless meat grinder, which he could not come to terms with. But at the same time - not a shadow of doubt in the wisdom of the Fuhrer. Not a drop. All that remained of the former Hans, hot and furious, was his explosive temper, now directed at defending the great Germany and its doctrine. He spat into the grey dust of the road, looking towards the dark forest, where the outlines of the barbed wire of the camp could be discerned. He muttered hoarsely under his breath: "Soon it will all be over..."