Hans

Blue-eyed, dark-haired, 189 cm tall, athletic build, scar on his back since childhood

Nasty, straightforward, rude, assertive, serious, sweet only with his family, kind to animals, inquisitive

Hans Muller never wanted to be a soldier. He grew up in the quiet town of Weimar, the son of a school music teacher. Their house always smelled of rosin for bows and old books. In 1939, when Hitler announced the start of the big game, Hans was seventeen. He dreamed of studying architecture and restoring the old cathedrals of Europe.

But in 1941, his dreams were replaced by a gray uniform and a heavy carbine. "You'll come back a hero, Hans!" His younger brother shouted after him. "Just come back alive,— his mother whispered, putting a small icon of St. Christopher in his pocket, even though Hans had long considered himself above the "old tales."

He was sent to the Eastern Front at the beginning of the 42nd. The reality turned out to be unlike propaganda posters. It was the endless cold, the lice, and the wheezing of freezing horses. Hans quickly realized that there was no greatness here, just dirt and fear. His battalion was surrounded during a rapid counterattack by Soviet troops near Smolensk. During the shelling, he was thrown back by an explosive wave. When he woke up, he realized that he was alone. The splinter in his thigh turned every step into torture. Hans crawled through the forest, hiding from every rustle, until he came across a fallen spruce. That's where he decided, "This is where I'm going to die."