[ WP ] At the end of your life , the Grim Reaper sends the necessary equivalent force needed to claim your soul , the more dangerous you are , the more force they send . As you look out your house , you see the German 6th Army staring back at you .

Fuck Me. 
 
 
 Fuck taunting death. 
 
 
 Fuck my stupid-ass mouth. 
 
 
 Fuck this frozen hell called the Eastern Front. 
 
 
 And most of all, Fuck Me. 
 
 
 
 I did n't expect to have a second chance at life. I certainly did n't expect to see that my apartment had moved 2000 miles and 70 years in the past. And I sure as shit did n't expect the Heer to be right on my doorstep. 
 
 
 Right now, if the sound of howitzers were correct, the year is 1942. If the urban concrete buildings around me were an indication, I'm somewhere in the Soviet Union. And if the ridiculous cold was any indication, it's winter. 
 
 God Fucking Dammit. That means Stalingrad. 
 
 
 First things first; Winter gear. That means warm stuff and hiding food. I grab any and all non-perishables I could get my hands on and ran as quickly as I could down to the basement. Up and down, Up and down, as the sounds of guns and shouting got nearer and nearer. 
 
 
 Finally satisfied that the food is stored away, I need to obtain the second-most important thing right now: clothes. 
 
 Ramming my door, I made my way into the cabinet. Thick coats and lined trousers awaited me, the result of spending either too much time skiing or in the mud of Western Russia digging for valuables for museums. Placing as many thick items as I could, I halfheartedly threw in a ushanka and leather boots in the large box. 
 
 Hurrying in down onto the basement for the last time, I could hear more voices about to enter my house. Hopefully, they're thinking of checking up on the upper levels instead of the basement. With luck, I might have time to get ready. 
 
 Rushing to put my boots and coat on, I looked around to find the tools I needed to survive. I spotted it on the adjacent side of the room, all piled up on one corner. I ran as quickly as I could to the open crate, throwing out as many old memorabilia and nick-knacks as they deemed useful. At the bottom, I breathed out a sigh. 
 
 Found by an old Polish man who survived the Warsaw Uprising, I grabbed what might be the best chance of survival I had. The walnut grip of the PPSH shined in what little lighting I had left, and I rummaged around to find what I needed to complete it. Discovering it, I checked that there were adequate rounds in the brand-new drum magazine I had bought for it, and quickly scrounged up another. 
 
 A couple of grenades later, and I was ready to meet my fate. The shouting sounded like it was only a few rooms away, so I quietly tried to hide in the darkest hiding spot I could find. 
 
 Going behind a few crates, ( not explosives, mostly just odd bits and ends ), I crouched, attempting to cover my body with the greatcoat. Looking down with what feeble equipment I had, I tried to insert the drum magazine into the PPSH. While the shouting was wracking my nerves, the difficulty in inserting the drum into the magazine well in the darkness made me elbow the crate I was taking cover behind. A round cylinder on top of the box dropped onto my side. Or more specifically, my head. Against my better judgement, I swore, as I dropped what I was doing to massage my head. On quick inspection of the malicious device that attacked me, my eyes widened as I saw what was hit me. A Panzerfaust. With its warhead attached. They were n't even supposed to have come out yet, at this point in time. 
 
 Knowing whoever managed to wield this weapon might make or break the war at this point in time, I placed it between my feet. With the anti-tank weapon silent, at last, I listened out to hear the progress that the Nazis had made. I swore a second time, as I noticed the sound of boots becoming louder and louder, probably after the panzerfaust made contact with my cranium. 
 
 The silver lining was that the space between the crate gave me enough light to see the magazine and the submachine gun. Lining up both and attempting to connect them a second time, the sound of a satisfying click helped steady my nerves. The shouting outside indicating that the soldiers were mere meters away, I pulled back the bolt on my device and prayed to anyone and anything that was listening. So this is how I was gon na end. Fighting Nazis. Perhaps someone could dig up my possessions when I'm gone.
