Early November 2009

Crawling out from under the wreckage, I rubbed my eyes, looked up at the sky, and winced. The sun was beating down, and it was hot. I stretched, casting about for my rifle; a minute after I found it I realized that I was out of ammunition. No matter; the Americans were stupid enough to be killed with a piece of string and a paperclip. Burned and wrecked buildings lay around me; it suddenly occurred to me that I was considered dead by my army and the Americans, and therefore I would be better able to move around if I looked different. Sprinting to a nearby pile of rubble, I found and lifted a circular piece of shattered concrete, dropping down into the innards of the wreckage. Hitting the floor with a splash, I cursed. It had to be a brewery or something, as the air smelled foul.

Crawling on my hands, rifle over my shoulder on a strap, I crept through the rubble, searching for anything useful for camouflaging myself. The wreckage of my home (I could not bear to call it by the name on the maps) lay around me, the occasional artillery blast or rifle shot echoing in the distance. The Americans were quiet today, I thought, as I scrabbled through the remains of shattered buildings. An aromatic scent reached my nostrils; perfume and hair dye mixed together. Perfect. Realizing that I had reached the basement of the hair-dye building, I discovered a case of something in front of my face. Pushing it out of the way, I heard a crashing sound above me. Sliding back a meter, I waited for the sound to quit. As it quieted, I slipped out of the hole and up into what was left of the shop; casting quick looks around, I noticed rows and rows of hair dye. Rubbing my gloved hands together, I picked up a brown cloth bag (cast to the floor from places unknown) and began stuffing bottles into it. The clink-clink-clink of the bottles alerted me to the fact that it might not be good to have this weight of glass in one bag, so I looked about for something soft. A row of wigs, made largely of various strings, was perfect; they muffled the clinking and also protected the bottles. Looking around for anything else, I noticed a somehow-intact glass case that protected several rows of false eyes in display boxes. Several of these went into the bag too, as I noticed a sound outside; a bottle of some kind came sailing through what was left of the window, and I smelled gasoline.

Running for the hole, I heard several Americans come through the broken window and stand triumphantly in the middle of the room. Gasoline was running downhill towards my position in the basement, and I began feeling around for matches. My luck was good; a half-empty box of matches lay under the rubble near my hand. Striking a single match, I positioned myself next to the hole and tossed the match onto the gasoline trail. I sprinted down the hole, filled with panic as rifle shots cracked around me, and then I heard screams from the store as American looters met an unkind fate.

Hauling myself out of the smashed brewery, my keen hearing picked up the sounds of people running; I immediately slapped one of the wigs on my head and rolled in the dusty ground. I must have looked just like a corpse, as I rolled my eyes back up in my head and closed the right lid. I heard someone run past, and reached for my rifle (it would still serve as a bludgeon, ammunition or not) but I heard them saying something into the radio in German; a friendly, so I let them pass. Then, I heard two Americans walking past, as I recognized English being spoken (I had learned a little of it from other guys on the front lines), one of them with a small bag of powder in his hand. A little bit wafted from his hand as a slight breeze kicked up; sugar. This filled me with anger; sugar had been rationed among my army and people for months now, and these arrogant pigs had it out for all to see, shielded by their guns and uniforms. Rising up with my rifle, I quickly crept up behind them and, drawing the butt end of my rifle back like a woodcutter's axe, a single heavy blow fell against his neck. The American dropped like a sack of potatoes as his compatriot whirled around. An angry snarl and a fierce punch shattered his jaw, as I smashed my elbow into his face. He fell to the ground, screaming in pain, as I kicked him fiercely in the ribs. Vaguely I noted that nobody else was around; they must have been used to the screams here. The American stopped moving as his face took on the appearance of uncooked meat; I reached down and grabbed for the bag of sugar. Nodding as I stuffed it in a pocket somewhere, I froze as I heard angry shouts in English. The American army was beyond the next row of houses, so I ignored their rifles, instead grabbing a combat knife off of one's belt as a trophy, and sprinted back to my hiding place next to the sack. Crawling under the rubble, I held my breath as a half-dozen soldiers ran up, rifles at the ready, making unkind remarks the entire time (vulgar tone is common to all languages, I knew). I laughed to myself as they looked around, panic setting in. The setting sun cast long shadows as they began retreating into an alley, calling "HQ, HQ" into a radio. A few minutes of crawling and I discovered my previous hiding spot; I figured, Why not, it worked before....