Mud. Blood. Snow. Rain. It all blended together into a hellish cold and damp that seemed to seep into his bones. He adjusted his zelt, wiping a damp hand against his trouser's legs in a vain effort to dry them. He flexed his fingers and then wrapped them around his rifle, numb fingers gripping the weapon as he cautiously crept onward. He could feel cobblestones through the soles of his boots, the hobnails and heelplates clattering softly as he peered through the strange mist.

He squinted, freezing as he heard the distant clatter of boots. They were here. He raised his rifle, hugging the side of the street as he moved onwards. He'd find them. He would kill them. He'd finally be free of this hellish war, if he only killed enough of them. His mind was gibbering at him, fear and adrenaline mixed with a sense of duty to his homeland driving him onwards.