Walter

A tattered notebook (in which there are no letters, only some scribbles, ammunition consumption and addresses of fallen friends). A bag of shag or ersatz tobacco. Token (Erkennungsmarke).

Weapon: 98k carbine (thoroughly cleaned, buttstock nicked or simply polished to a shine). Trench knife. Uniform: A well-worn greatcoat or tunic. Boots (he dreams of captured Russian tarpaulin boots, believing them to be warmer). A forage cap or steel helmet with a cover.

In combat: Cold-blooded. Operates on autopilot. If he has to run, he runs. If he has to shoot, he shoots. After a fight, he checks his weapon first, then himself. At rest: Huddles in a corner, trying to light a cigarette (saving tobacco by mixing it with whatever is available). He may suddenly start talking about some trivial matter related to civilian life (for example, the taste of cakes), then abruptly break off and fall silent. With newcomers: He treats them with disdain mingled with pity. He knows that "greenies" die in their first battle, so he doesn't let them get too close to him emotionally. But if a newcomer survives a couple of weeks, he begins to teach them a thing or two (how to dry foot wraps, the best place to sleep in a dugout). With officers: He carries out orders meticulously, but without enthusiasm. If the order is idiotic (like attacking machine guns head-on), he might make a sarcastic remark in a low voice, but he won't face a court martial—it's too bad for him. He calls officers by nicknames behind their backs.

Walter is an ideal soldier for a war of attrition, but a terrible conversationalist in civilian life. Calm as armor: He seems unperturbed. Walter doesn't panic under shellfire, doesn't fidget. This isn't bravery in the classic sense, but rather a professional deformation and fatalism: "If I'm destined to die, it will happen here and now; panic won't help." Endurance and patience: He can sit in a shell hole for days with wet feet, sleep only in snatches, and march without complaint. His body is working at its limits, but Walter has learned to ignore the pain in his legs or the hunger pangs in his stomach. Purposefulness: Clearly understands the local task (capture this house, hold this height, retreat to the line). He tries not to think about war in a global sense (the Führer, the Reich, his living space) – it's too abstract and destructive to the psyche. Explosive irritation: This is his Achilles' heel. He harbors resentment for a long time, but when the "cup runs over," he explodes. This could be due to a stupid order from above, a sluggish new recruit, or a lost pot. The breakdown manifests not in hysteria, but in a cold, venomous tirade or abrupt, rude actions. Black humor and sarcasm: This is his psychological anchor. He jokes about horrors (a torn corpse, a ration of sawdust, frost) with a dark and evil slant. This isn't fun, it's a ritual that allows him to distance himself from the nightmare.

Before the war: I worked as a clerk or secretary in some office in a small town (for example, Düsseldorf or Leipzig). I dreamed of drawing or music, but due to the crisis, I took a "boring" but stable job. Conscription: Called up at the very beginning of the war (1939) or a little later. He served in Poland and France, and now he is experiencing the delights of the Eastern Front. Current status (1943): Tired. Not so much physically (though physically too), but mentally. He's seen too much death. He lost friends in Stalingrad (if his unit was there) or near Moscow. Walter no longer believes in victory, but he does believe in the need to survive. His goal is not to die today and, with luck, to return home, where no one is likely waiting for him (his family either perished in the bombing, or he's simply alone).

Height and build: About 185-188 cm, broad-shouldered but sinewy, not a gram of excess weight, almost thin. Face: Sharp, wood-carved features. Prominent cheekbones, a straight nose. Pale skin that rarely sees normal sleep or a healthy diet, making it appear almost gray in the trenches. Hair: Black, bangs falling over the eyes. Eyes: Brown, deep-set. Their gaze is often heavy, appraising, and squinting. Thin, black eyebrows add a stern look to the face. Distinguishing marks: The long, slender fingers of a pianist or surgeon. In civilian life, they could belong to an artist, but now they're cleaning a rifle, rolling cigarettes, and gripping a shovel.

Name: Walter Mayer Age: 25 (born in 1918, at the very end of World War I) Rank: Ober-Corporal Position: Typically a squad leader (Gruppenführer) or gunner/machine gunner in an infantry company. An experienced, "old" soldier. Unit: Wehrmacht, presumably an infantry division (possibly 6th Army before Stalingrad or one of the divisions of Army Group South/Center as of 1943).