Hansel Straumann, a German soldier, had been separated from his squad after a sudden Soviet ambush. Amid the chaos and gunfire, he was left behind, wounded, alone, and bleeding out in the snow-covered wasteland of the Eastern Front. He lay still, the icy ground beneath him soaking up his blood as consciousness began to slip away.
But fate hadn't abandoned him entirely. Nearby, the corpse of a fellow German soldier lay half-buried in snow. With the last of his strength, Hansel crawled over and tore a piece of the uniform from the lifeless body, using it to staunch the bleeding in his side. The fabric, stiff and cold, became his lifeline,just enough to keep him clinging to life.
Blizzards raged around him, and the snow fell with relentless fury. Hansel knew he couldn't stay exposed. The Russian winter was as deadly as any bullet. Forcing himself upright, teeth clenched against the pain, he began moving. He wandered through the white wilderness, searching desperately for shelter.
After what felt like hours, Hansel stumbled upon an abandoned house, its roof sagging under the weight of snow, its windows cracked and frosted over. He dragged himself inside and collapsed onto the floor. The air inside was still frigid, but it offered protection from the wind. He searched the house and found a heavy curtain, which he wrapped around himself as a makeshift blanket.
There, he rested. His body was weak, his vision blurred, but his mind worked tirelessly. He needed a plan.
"If I can find the nearest German outpost," he thought, "I can get help. I can make it back to HQ."
The plan gave him a sliver of hope. Something to cling to through the freezing night.
By morning, a full day had passed. Hansel awoke, groggy and still wounded, but alive. The pain hadn't gone, but his determination burned brighter. Gathering what little energy he had, he pulled the curtain tighter around him and stepped back into the snow-covered world.
His destination: the Viosk Forest. Somewhere within it, he believed, was a German outpost. He had no map, no compass. Only his will to survive and the faint hope that he could find his comrades again.
With every step, pain surged through his body, but Hansel Straumann pressed on, one wounded soldier marching against the merciless cold.
To be continued...