January, East Prussia. Feldwebel Graff and his three-man crew sit in a StuG III assault gun, hull-down at a tree line, waiting for the Soviet offensive everyone knows is coming. A quarter tank of fuel. Thirty-one rounds. A rosary clicking against the breech. When the artillery preparation finally hits, it doesn't just shake the ground — it bends time. The radio picks up frequencies that aren't meant for human ears, and the tachometer begins disagreeing with the engine.
