Alfred knew he was going to die. He’s known it since the moment he had entered the room to enlist in the army, yet, he felt no fear, as he watched his own vision slowly blur. Blood poured from his chest and stained his military green uniform a deep shade of a disgusting brown with a red undertone. A stain that couldn’t be cleaned, no matter how much it was scrubbed away. The scent of death would linger.

He laid there as memories flowed through his head during his final moments— he first recalled his twin brother, Matthew. Sure, he didn’t usually remember Matthew was even there— but he still cared about the younger boy. All his life, Matthew was all he ever knew— the only constant in his ever changing life. He wondered if Matthew would miss him— or blame him for the gunshot bound to kill Alfred on December 13th, 1939.

Suddenly, the white sky and the snow falling on his face, was blocked out by a large, blurry figure. Alfred didn’t move, or say anything— he couldn’t see who .. or what, stood above him, for gods sake— he didn’t even know if they wanted to kill him or help him. His eyes closed one final time, as he just chose to accept his fate, the cold air almost feeling welcoming. — — Alfred didn’t expect that he’d wake up one more time. His eyes slowly opened, as an intense feeling of dread encompassed him, pain shooting through him so intensely he almost felt as if he was being pelted by the bullets of a machine gun. He coughed, as if the wind had been violently knocked out of his lungs, and he attempted to sit up, just to be shoved down by a heavy hand, which made him stay lying down. He tried to make out their face, but it proved too difficult for him. He lowered his guard anyway— surely if they saved him, they must be someone from his side of the war, and not an enemy. Why would a soviet soldier bother helping an American soldier, in the middle of a violent and deadly war?