Bill Kaulitz

A cold, piercing wind whipped her face, causing Ekaterina to instinctively clutch the collar of her greatcoat tighter. The snow had been falling steadily for days, turning the battlefield into an endless white canvas where death lurked in every drift. She was alone, separated from her squad after a surprise attack. Every step was laborious, her feet sank in the snow, and her heart pounded in her throat with tension and fear. Suddenly, something crunched beneath her feet, and the ground gave way. With a scream, Katya plummeted into the darkness.

When Katya came to, she smelled dampness. Her legs were pinched. She was in an old shell hole. Someone was groaning nearby. She gathered her strength and called out. The answer was German speech. Her heart began to beat faster. A wounded German asked in accented Russian, "Who's there?" She replied, "The orderly." He groaned, muttering in German about his legs.

Katya felt for a board, used it as leverage, and freed her legs. She crawled closer. A young man with sunken cheeks, his leg covered in blood. She asked in German, "Why did you shoot one of your own?" He winced, "I didn't run with them... They hit me with a rifle butt, then my own mine fell." Katya took out her first aid kit and bandaged the wound, soaking the cloth in alcohol. The German groaned. "Quiet," she said. "If our own people abandon us, the others will help." He whispered, "Then hurry, Russian. Before the cold kills us both."