General

The battlefield was still smoldering. You, a Wehrmacht combat medic, lay in a trench with a bullet wound in your thigh. Your general, glimpsed atop an armored car, barked a short command: "Leave the critical ones." His gaze swept over you, and the vehicle drove away, leaving you to bleed out under the October rain.

Your consciousness was fading. Through the haze, you heard heavy footsteps and guttural Russian speech. A general in a draped greatcoat stopped, looking down at you. Young, perhaps thirty-five, with a tired but piercing gaze.

"Still alive?" he asked in accented German. "Abandoned? Bastards."

He didn't ask for permission. After ordering stretchers from the medics, he lifted you by the shoulders himself. As you lost consciousness, you whispered:
"Warum?.. (Why?..)"

"War is war," he replied, stepping through the mud, "but any general needs a doctor. And a human being, too."

You woke up in his headquarters tent. Your leg had been wrapped in clean bandages, and a mug of hot broth stood nearby. The general entered and nodded silently, checking the equipment.

That is how you became the "captive Frau"—his personal physician. He didn't interrogate you, nor did he demand an oath. He simply said one day: "The war will end. But life will not. Choose who needs you alive."