The Underground Resistance
Location: Prague, Czechoslovakia
Time: 2200 Hours, 16 March 1939
Rank: Schütze Erich Stahl, 2. Zug, 9. Kompanie, Infanterie-Regiment 45, 4. Armee
The city of Prague slept under foreign boots—but not peacefully.
Schütze Erich Stahl stood beneath a crumbling archway, the weight of his Karabiner 98k pressing against his chest, his gloved fingers tapping the bolt with quiet precision. Habit. Not 1939 instinct—2035 muscle memory. The kind drilled into him across two lifetimes.
His helmet sat snug, chinstrap firm, boots caked with a mixture of March slush and urban grit. The night air bit through his wool uniform, but his nerves kept him warmer than the overcoat ever could. He was on second rotation for 2. Zug—freshly assigned, still settling in. Tonight was supposed to be uneventful. A routine watch in a city cowed into silence.
But the silence was wrong.
Not quiet, but hollow.
No barking dogs. No drunks weaving through alleys. No clatter from windows left open too long. It wasn't peace—it was absence. Intentional. Manufactured.
Erich shifted his stance, eyes drawn to the dark windows and higher rooftops. His brain was back in Ukraine—Kharkiv, Donetsk, Mariupol. Places where stillness didn't mean safety. Places where a missing sound meant a waiting trigger.
This city wasn't sleeping. It was holding its breath.
Footsteps approached from the alley. Erich turned, lowering his guard only when he saw the familiar silhouette.
Oberschütze Helmut Krüger. Bunkmate. Squadmate. One of the few who didn't talk like war was a parade. He carried two mess tin cups, one sloshing with company-issued beer, weak and watery.
"You look like you're about to bayonet a drainpipe," Helmut muttered, handing one cup over. "Relax."
Erich didn't smile. "The city's too quiet."
Helmut leaned against the stone wall and took a sip. "You always this jumpy?"
Only since an old man turned a garbage cart into an IED and took out half a squad, Erich thought.
Instead, he nodded across the narrow street. "That bakery's awning—it was red over white yesterday. Now it's white over red."
Helmut squinted. "Okay... and?"
"Czech flag. Inverted. Could be a signal."
"You sure it's not just the owner flipping it for decoration?"
"Coincidences get people killed," Erich said flatly.
Helmut took another drink, slower this time. "They told us this was a peaceful transition. That we're here to stabilize."
"Yeah," Erich muttered, voice low. "They said the same thing in Kyiv."
Helmut blinked. "Where the hell is Kyiv?"
Erich didn't answer.
Across the square, a trio of officers strolled past—two Leutnants and a Feldwebel, judging by the walk and the tabs. Night protocol didn't require salutes unless addressed, so Erich kept still, alert.
But something pulled him back to the bakery.
A shape behind the curtain. A brief flicker. No light, no movement—just presence.
Then, near the base of the steps, he saw it: a chalk mark. Subtle. An "X" with a line through the center. Fresh, deliberate, and hidden unless you knew to look.
Drop point.
In 2035, resistance cells had codes like that. Sometimes QR stickers behind signs, sometimes string or twine on fence posts. In older cities, chalk remained timeless. The medium changed—meaning didn't.
Erich's fingers tightened on his rifle.
"Helmut," he said quietly, "We're not dealing with scared civilians. Someone's organizing."
Helmut straightened, suddenly sober. "You gonna report it?"
Erich hesitated.
Not because of fear—but because of what came next.
"No," he said finally. "Not yet."
Reporting would trigger roundups. House raids. Suspicion falling on anyone too old, too smart, or too unlucky. Without proof, it would just feed the machine.
Better to wait. Watch. Confirm.
A whistle echoed from a few blocks away—shift change. Time to rotate.
They turned, heading back toward the converted schoolhouse serving as temporary barracks. Snow began to drift lightly from the clouds above, swirling beneath streetlamps like ash.
As they passed a stone corner, Erich caught another mark etched just above eye level—three dots arranged in a triangle.
Old as revolution. Universal.
We are watching.
He said nothing. Just walked.
Helmut muttered about soup rations and the lice in his collar. Erich barely heard him. His thoughts were elsewhere—on rooftops, alleys, window panes that might open just a little too wide.
The uniforms said the war hadn't started.
But the fight had.
Part 2 – A City Holding Its Breath
Location: Prague, Czechoslovakia
Time: 1800 Hours, 19 March 1939
Rank: Schütze Erich Stahl, 2. Zug, 9. Kompanie, Infanterie-Regiment 45, 4. Armee
It had been three days since Erich saw the chalk mark near the bakery and the shadow behind the curtain. Three days since that quiet confirmation that Prague wasn't as docile as it seemed. And now, the tension had thickened—like smoke before a fire, bitter and slow.
He walked beside Helmut, boots clicking against the cobbled streets, their steps echoing through alleys that felt too narrow, too silent. The city hadn't spoken, but it had changed. The air carried something heavier now. A weight. A warning.
The Czechs weren't afraid anymore. They were watching. Planning. Preparing.
Erich's eyes swept the corners of every building, every second-story window, every alley mouth. His gaze wasn't shaped by 1939 training—it was 2035 intuition. He'd walked occupied zones before. And this one felt ready to explode.
As they turned onto a main avenue, his attention sharpened. Parked across the intersection sat a matte-black Opel. A Gestapo vehicle—engine off, the officers leaning against it as they smoked, eyes sharp and sweeping the crowds like wolves among sheep.
Erich's fingers twitched near his rifle sling, but he forced himself to relax. The Gestapo weren't here for him. Not yet. Just vultures, waiting for the first body to drop.
Helmut muttered under his breath. "Two of them again. Same ones from the checkpoint yesterday."
Erich nodded once. He'd noticed that too. Same posture. Same polished boots. Gestapo didn't believe in coincidences.
They kept walking.
Inside the converted schoolhouse that served as their barracks, the atmosphere was no better. The buzz of soldier life—cards, laughter, boots hitting lockers—was gone. Replaced with low murmurs, furrowed brows, sharpened knives. No one said the word "resistance" out loud. They didn't need to. Everyone felt it. Something was coming.
Their platoon—2. Zug—had been stuck in repetitive patrol cycles. Streets. Courtyards. Back alleys. They were told to "observe and report," but the line between surveillance and suppression was blurring fast.
Erich stepped into the mess hall just as the cooks slammed down another dented tray of boiled potatoes and gray-brown meat. The room was half-full. Conversation was sparse. Soldiers ate quickly and quietly, heads down. But beneath it all was that same vibration in the air—nervous tension, like a wire strung too tight.
Helmut waved him over. "Stahl. Over here."
Erich joined him, setting his mess tin down slowly. The table held a few others—Oberschütze Müller, Gefreiter Dietrich—men from their squad. But the second Erich sat, conversation died.
Helmut leaned in. "We've got new orders."
Erich didn't react outwardly, but his chest tightened. "Go on."
"Routine patrol, tonight. Nothing unusual. But…" Helmut dropped his voice lower. "There's something else. Leutnant Weber briefed the NCOs earlier. Gestapo intercepted chatter. A cell's active in Sector Nine. Could be moving supplies. Weapons."
Dietrich's fork clinked against his tray. "They won't wait long. Not with how cocky they've gotten."
Erich glanced across the room. Shadows of fatigue and doubt played across faces. Young men, some barely out of school, pretending they were here for the glory of the Reich. But the longer they spent in this occupied city, the more that fantasy cracked.
Before Erich could say more, the room shifted.
Leutnant Weber stepped in, and the silence that followed was immediate.
He walked with precision—each step ironed into discipline. His uniform crisp, his face cold and angular. Erich had known officers like him before. Men who believed the rules were truth. That obedience equaled righteousness.
Weber didn't need to raise his voice. The silence carried him.
"Attention."
Every soldier stood, trays forgotten.
"There have been credible reports of insurgent activity in this sector," Weber announced. "Sabotage. Propaganda. Civilian interference. From this point forward, patrols are to be doubled. Civilians out past curfew are to be stopped. Questioned. Arrested if necessary."
He let the words hang, heavy and cold.
"The Gestapo will oversee all high-level interrogations. You are not to intervene unless ordered. However—" he scanned the room "—if you witness suspicious behavior and fail to act, you will answer for it. Understood?"
"Ja, Herr Leutnant," came the chorus, robotic and tired.
Weber nodded once. "Dismissed."
As the room began to clear, Erich stayed seated. His fingers tightened around his mess tin. The orders were simple, but the consequences weren't. He'd seen what happened when a city cracked open from within. What happened when resistance met retaliation, and both bled into the streets.
Helmut watched him for a moment, then said quietly, "You thinking what I'm thinking?"
"That it's already started?" Erich asked.
Helmut nodded.
Erich looked down at his tray. The meat was cold now. Forgotten. His mind was racing—not just with what was coming, but with what he might have to do. What side he was really on.
He wasn't sure anymore if the enemy was outside the walls.
Or sitting beside him, waiting for orders.
The city was holding its breath.
And Erich knew—sooner or later, someone was going to pull the trigger.
Location: 9th Company Barracks, Prague, Czechoslovakia
Time: 2100 Hours, 19 March 1939
Rank: Schütze Erich Stahl, 2. Zug, 9. Kompanie, Infanterie-Regiment 45, 4. Armee
Erich lay in his cot, staring up at the ceiling beams as distant boots echoed down the barracks hall. The clatter of utensils from the mess, the murmured chatter of soldiers, and the weight of Leutnant Weber's voice from the earlier briefing still echoed in his ears.
But his mind was elsewhere—on the chalk marks near the bakery, the unusual patterns in civilian behavior, the narrow glances traded by strangers in back alleys. He had pieced together enough signs to know something was brewing beneath Prague's surface.
He could've stayed quiet. A rifleman like him didn't ask questions, and those who did often vanished. But silence came with its own weight. If this resistance was real—and armed—then ignoring it could mean blood in the streets. Civilian blood.
He sat up. His decision was made.
Erich slung his rifle over his shoulder and crossed the barracks. The officer's building loomed dim under the hallway lamps. At Leutnant Weber's door, he hesitated, then knocked once.
"Enter."
Inside, Weber sat hunched over a map, his tunic half-unbuttoned, sleeves rolled up, a cigarette burning in the ashtray. He didn't look up.
"What is it, Schütze?"
"I have information, Herr Leutnant. Concerning resistance activity."
Weber looked up now, expression unreadable. "Explain."
Erich laid it out—chalk symbols he'd tracked across the district, strange movement patterns after curfew, coded exchanges near a bakery that should've been closed for weeks. Men too fit, too alert to be ordinary laborers. His voice was steady, deliberate, but he could feel his pulse behind his eyes.
When he finished, Weber leaned back, arms crossed. For a long moment, he said nothing.
"You've done your duty," Weber said at last. "This will be escalated."
Erich opened his mouth to speak, but the officer raised a hand.
"The Gestapo handles these matters. Not us. If this is what you say it is, they'll deal with it."
That cold certainty sent a ripple through Erich's chest.
Weber stood and donned his cap. "You report what you see. You do not act. Understood?"
"Jawohl, Herr Leutnant."
He turned and left. Behind him, the door shut with finality.
---
The Gestapo Responds
Time: 2300 Hours, 19 March 1939
They arrived in silence.
Obersturmführer Schwarz, tall and sharp-faced, entered the compound flanked by two subordinates. Their boots barely made a sound on the stone floor, but their presence was deafening. The black insignia, the ironed precision of their coats—they walked like wolves in a den of dogs.
Erich, standing near the corridor's edge, didn't move. Didn't blink.
The three men entered Weber's office. A few short words. Then they left, disappearing into the night with terrifying purpose.
Whatever happened next was no longer in Erich's hands.
---
Orders to the Unit
Time: 0700 Hours, 20 March 1939
Leutnant Weber assembled the platoon in the courtyard. His voice, crisp as ever, cut through the morning haze.
"We have confirmation of resistance activity in the city. Effective immediately, we're on heightened patrol."
He looked each man in the eye, deliberate.
"The Gestapo has jurisdiction. If you see anything suspicious—anything—you report it. You do not act unless ordered."
A pause. Then:
"Is that understood?"
"Ja, Herr Leutnant!"
Erich stood at attention with the others, but inside, something twisted. He had reported the truth. But now the truth had a shadow. And it wore a black coat.
---
Location: Old Warehouse, Rudolfstrasse, Prague
Time: 2330 Hours, 21 March 1939
The city breathed quietly under curfew. Erich's boots tapped down narrow cobblestone streets lined with shuttered windows and fading light. His new patrol route veered east, away from familiar sectors.
Then he saw it—an old warehouse, half-collapsed, with its door ajar and flickering lamplight inside.
He approached carefully, eyes narrowing.
Inside, through the fractured window, he saw them—men crouched over crates, whispering, armed. Rifles, grenades, supplies. Not rumor. Not whispers. Real.
He barely had time to back away before one of them looked up—eyes locking on the faint shape of Erich in the glass.
No time.
He turned and sprinted.
---
Location: 9th Company Barracks, Prague
Time: 0015 Hours, 22 March 1939
Erich burst through the door, soaked in sweat, lungs burning.
"Schütze Stahl?" the duty officer snapped. "You're—"
"Resistance cell," Erich gasped. "Rudolfstrasse. Number 24. They're armed. Crates of weapons—maps—supplies. They saw me."
The officer's face hardened. He picked up the phone and dialed.
Short, clipped words: "Armed cell. Immediate response. Rudolfstrasse."
When he hung up, he pointed at Erich.
"You stay put."
Erich nodded, chest heaving.
He had done what he had to. But in the quiet that followed, a single thought settled in his mind, cold and final.
This wasn't over.
It was just beginning.
Location: Warehouse, Rudolfstrasse, Prague, Czechoslovakia
Time: 0300 Hours, 22 March 1939
Rank: Schütze Erich Stahl, 2. Zug, 9. Kompanie, Infanterie-Regiment 45, 4. Armee
Gestapo Officer: Obersturmführer Schwarz
The warehouse reeked of damp wood, rust, and something far worse: the residue of something unfinished. Crates stood half-open where the resistance had abandoned them. Shell casings gleamed faintly beneath the hanging lights. And yet, it was the silence that disturbed Erich the most. Not the silence of completion—but of interruption.
He stood just outside the office at the back of the warehouse, arms crossed, back against the wall, rifle slung but untouched. Ordered to remain on site, he obeyed. But the stillness gnawed at him. This felt wrong. Too fast, too clean. He'd seen this before—cells that vanish just before the net drops. Not by luck. By intent.
They knew.
He let his gaze drift across the empty floor. Scuff marks. Burnt cigarette ends. No blood. No dead. No haste. They'd left on their terms.
He was supposed to be a quiet cog in the Wehrmacht machine. A Schütze. Meant to follow, not think. But the instincts honed in a different lifetime whispered otherwise. This wasn't a busted cell. This was a withdrawal.
Two hours passed. The Gestapo combed the building, tight-lipped and efficient, their leather coats brushing against crates and dust as they moved. Erich could hear them speaking in low tones—cross-referencing maps, checking serial numbers, comparing handwriting samples.
He recognized the patterns. Counterinsurgency protocol—barely changed over a century. The jargon was older, the uniforms stiffer, but the rhythm was the same.
Then the door creaked open behind him.
Obersturmführer Schwarz entered like a man who owned the oxygen in the room. Tall, sharp-featured, his expression was unreadable, eyes glinting with something colder than ambition. Behind him, two Gestapo officers carried evidence: a sealed crate and a metal file box stacked with papers, sealed maps, and ammunition pouches.
"Schütze Stahl," Schwarz said, voice clipped, eyes landing on him like a targeting reticle. "Your report was accurate. We've recovered more than we anticipated."
Erich straightened. "Jawohl, Herr Obersturmführer."
Schwarz moved past him and set a gloved hand on the crate. "These aren't just local partisans. This was an organized logistics point. Look here—French rifles, British cartridges, Czech explosives. Supply chains. Funding. Coordination."
He opened the lid with practiced ease. Inside lay a set of marked city maps—each one highlighted with German outposts, fuel depots, and known patrol routes. There were notations in Czech, some in German. One map had a red line sketched along Rudolfstrasse to a railway station near Old Town.
Erich's stomach twisted slightly.
They'd been tracking them too.
"This isn't the work of a few angry students," Schwarz said. "It's a network. And someone's helping them. Feeding them this information."
He looked at Erich with something that wasn't suspicion—but wasn't trust either.
"What do you make of it, Schütze?"
The question surprised him. Not because he had no opinion—but because Schwarz was asking. Not ordering. Testing.
Erich paused. Years ago, he'd seen villages just like this one, watched from rooftops in Ukraine as organized militias melted into the populace, only to strike again when convoys grew complacent. He remembered watching young soldiers kick in doors without understanding the enemy. He remembered funerals.
"This wasn't their only safehouse," he said carefully. "They left this behind intentionally. Maybe as a distraction. Maybe to make us move faster. But they're still watching. They want to see how we respond."
Schwarz raised an eyebrow, intrigued. He said nothing for a moment, then nodded once.
"You think we've walked into their timing."
"I think," Erich said slowly, "they're already two steps ahead."
The silence stretched. Then one of the other Gestapo officers entered, panting slightly from the cold.
"Herr Obersturmführer. A civilian came forward. Claims they saw movement near the train station in Old Town. Possibly the same individuals. We're mobilizing now."
Schwarz's jaw tightened. "Then move. Take the men from the west patrol. Lock down the rail lines and get dogs out near the eastern tunnel. I want a perimeter in twenty minutes."
The officer nodded and vanished.
Schwarz turned to Erich again. "You will remain here. If anything changes—any movement, any signs of return—you notify me directly. Understood?"
"Jawohl, Herr Obersturmführer."
But as Schwarz and his team swept back into the night, Erich was left alone again with the crate, the flickering shadows, and the unshakable sense that they had just fallen into someone else's plan.
These weren't amateurs. These were survivors.
And if there was one thing Erich understood—after all the wars, all the mistakes—it was that survivors always came back.
Location: Warehouse, Rudolfstrasse, Prague, Czechoslovakia
Time: 0300 Hours, 22 March 1939
Rank: Schütze Erich Stahl, 2. Zug, 9. Kompanie, Infanterie-Regiment 45, 4. Armee
Gestapo Officer: Obersturmführer Schwarz
The warehouse had fallen silent. The dust still hung in the air, disturbed by the rapid departure of the resistance fighters. Erich stood alone in the office overlooking the main floor, the distant creak of settling beams the only sound. The Gestapo had ordered him to remain put—more likely to keep him isolated than involved.
He didn't need to see their interrogation methods. He already knew too much.
Something about this entire op stank. The resistance hadn't just fled—they had vanished, as if they knew the exact moment the Germans would close in. A crate of munitions, stolen Wehrmacht maps, and civilian identification tags had been left behind. Careless? No. Intentional. A distraction. Or worse—bait.
Erich leaned back in the chair, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the crate now sitting near the doorway. He couldn't shake the feeling that this wasn't just a cache—it was a message. And someone had made sure he was the one to find it.
The door opened sharply. Obersturmführer Schwarz entered, flanked by two Gestapo officers. One carried a crate marked with the Reichsadler insignia—its contents obviously repurposed military gear. The other held a smaller box filled with documents: hand-drawn maps, coded messages, and resistance propaganda.
Schwarz's expression was unreadable. "Schütze Stahl," he said curtly. "Your report was accurate. We found more than we anticipated."
Erich stood, keeping his voice steady. "They didn't try to hide it. They wanted it found."
Schwarz narrowed his eyes. "Explain."
Erich gestured toward the maps. "They left critical intelligence behind—German patrol schedules, garrison positions, timing charts. Too much for a group that had time to run. Either they're reckless... or they've already acted on this data and want us chasing ghosts."
A tense silence followed. Then, Schwarz gave a short nod. "Perhaps you're more than just an observer after all."
Erich said nothing. He'd played this game before—during a different war, under a different flag. The signs were the same: coordinated withdrawals, seeded intel, false trails. Classic insurgent playbook. But the stakes here weren't limited to a single street or patrol. This was Prague.
"We're transferring the evidence to headquarters," Schwarz said. "You'll accompany me. From now on, you're working with Sturmbannführer Krüger. This is no longer just a local affair—it's a strategic operation now."
Erich swallowed hard, masking his unease with a sharp nod. "Understood, Obersturmführer."
---
Location: Gestapo Headquarters, Prague
Time: 0600 Hours, 22 March 1939
The headquarters buzzed with quiet urgency. Gestapo officers moved between desks with files clutched in their hands, maps unrolled across tables, telephones ringing in bursts. Cigarette smoke curled in the air like a fog of tension.
Erich stood behind Schwarz as they moved into the command room. Krüger, taller and broader than Schwarz, turned as they entered. His uniform was immaculate, his demeanor cold. He glanced briefly at Erich, as if sizing him up and dismissing him all in the same breath.
"This is the one who found the cache?" Krüger asked.
"He has a soldier's instincts," Schwarz replied. "And a head on his shoulders."
Erich said nothing. He knew better than to speak when men like Krüger were circling. In his past life, these were the types who operated in shadows and classified orders, who spoke of necessity while burying truth under protocol.
Krüger gestured to the city map pinned on the wall. Red markers dotted various districts—Old Town, Žižkov, Karlín. "We've seen increased signal traffic across civilian lines. Patterns consistent with coordinated action. The cache confirms it—this isn't just propaganda. It's planning."
Erich stepped closer. "If they were bold enough to operate in Rudolfstrasse, they've likely infiltrated deeper. The gear in that crate—German-issue, well-maintained. Someone in uniform is helping them."
Krüger shot him a look. "Careful with your accusations, Schütze."
Erich met his eyes, unflinching. "It's not an accusation. It's a warning."
Schwarz, standing between them, broke the tension. "Regardless, we need immediate reconnaissance in the Old Town sector. Stahl, you'll return to your barracks for now. Stand by for further orders."
---
Location: 9th Company Barracks, Prague
Time: 0800 Hours, 22 March 1939
The mood in the barracks had changed. Soldiers moved in tighter groups, whispers spreading between bunk rows. No one spoke openly, but everyone knew: something was coming. Even the veterans were uneasy.
Gestapo patrols swept through at random, questioning troops, inspecting footlockers. No one was safe from scrutiny. Erich kept his answers short, his uniform perfect, his demeanor controlled. He could feel the paranoia creeping in like frost.
But it wasn't the Gestapo he feared. It was the enemy no one could see.
The resistance had learned to work in the shadows—something Erich recognized all too well. He'd used those same tactics in the war of the future: blend in, move fast, strike only when the odds favored you. And if they had the discipline to abandon a crate that valuable, then they were preparing for something bigger.
He sat on his cot, inspecting his rifle with slow, methodical movements. The sounds of the city outside were too quiet. It was always like that before things erupted.
---
Location: Prague, Czechoslovakia
Time: 0400 Hours, 23 March 1939
Rank: Schütze Erich Stahl, 2. Zug, 9. Kompanie, Infanterie-Regiment 45, 4. Armee
It began with a single shot.
Then the scream of mortar fire.
Erich was on his feet before he was fully awake, grabbing his helmet, pulling his boots on by instinct. The barracks shook as an explosion tore through a nearby intersection. Smoke billowed through the cracked windows. Gunfire echoed in sharp bursts—close, too close.
Outside, Prague was on fire.
From the window, Erich watched in disbelief. The Old Town district was in chaos—German vehicles burning, civilians running with weapons in hand, resistance fighters coordinating attacks with terrifying efficiency. Sandbags were overturned, German patrols overrun. The resistance wasn't just surviving. They were winning.
He clenched his jaw. The signs had been there. They had warned them. And still, no one had listened.
"Stahl! Move!" Schwarz's voice cut through the panic. The Obersturmführer appeared in the hallway, sidearm drawn, uniform smeared with smoke. "We're mobilizing now. This is a full-scale uprising. The entire city is in play!"
Erich nodded once, grabbed his rifle, and followed him.
This wasn't occupation anymore.
It was war.
And it had just begun..