He stumbles through the building, the pistol clenched tightly in one hand. He can barely think through the ringing in his ears, the horror he just witnessed. He is no stranger to war, but a whole platoon, gone in an instant, lost to a single artillery shell... He doesn't quite notice the movement through the windows, and it's only when he steps out into the streets and hears yelling that he turns to look. A column of infantry have leveled their rifles at him, all of them yelling, screaming in their strange tongue. He surveys them at first with surprise, then calm detachment, before lifting the pistol towards them. He only manages one wild shot before he's cut down in a hail of bullets, punching holes in his dusty black uniform. The SS officer falls, as does one of the Americans standing across the road from him. He stares up at the sky, eyes glassy, blood slowly pooling around his body like a halo. The infantrymen sweep through the buildings, a couple taking a moment to stare down at the body, before moving on. They try not to dwell on why these men keep doing this, or why the cause they fight for seems to be worth seeing death before defeat.