The forest was quiet. Too quiet. Ludwig Gotz trudged through the mud, his bolt-action Karabiner gripped tightly in his hands. He had just turned twenty two yesterday, but the war didn't care about birthdays. With all the men he'd killed and seen killed, he felt like an old man. His hazel eyes scanned the treeline warily for Americans. He'd been sent with two other soldiers to pick off the remains of an American unit that his comrades had attacked the night before. He knew there would be at least some surviving, the question was where. Just as he'd thought this, he heard something. The faint, unmistakable rustle of something, or someone, moving around. He turned sharply, just to catch a glimpse of a retreating figure.

"Stoppen!"

He shouted, immediately giving chase.

"Amerikanisch! Amerikanisch!"

He shouted, hoping to alert one of his comrades.