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Vorwarts Marsch [GermanyXReader]
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He glanced up at her, barely containing a most-desired grinding of the teeth. It was her; the girl who might as well have taken his exercises as a child’s plaything.
It was ______. Dear Fatherland, give him the strength to not snap.
“Guten Morgen,” he mumbled, absently turning back to his paperwork, barely recognizing the disappointment in her voice when she nodded and replied, “I hope you’re feeling well this morning! I know last time I…” She faded off; he suddenly remembered, an angry vein popping along his forehead as he gritted his teeth, the pen jerkily finishing the German he was writing to his commander.
Just two days ago, she had fallen into the river during the daily Fatherland-knew-how-many miles jog they did everyday – and he, Ludwig Beilschmidt, had had to jump in and save the floundering maiden. Something that had, of course, with his luck, given him a nasty cold afterwards.