A Cold Morning in Stalingrad

on the Volga, sun
hidden in swath of
clouds;
I am blowing my nose
all morning long
my feet are
frozen, and
Hans says we attack 
at noon--
a bunch of Ivans around the
corner, holding up
our advance;
we will kill them all
because they do not surrender
the crazy bastards
they die like flies in Winter
and still, still more arrive
each morning--
shipped over from the 
opposite bank of the river
(that fat Herman was suppose to reduce
but has not).
Hans says we should pull out
this Hell hole, what sense, he asks
this slaughter? The swine Shitler, he says
got us into this--the GOFAZ, ha ha, an
Austrian arsehole--"I would give him such a kick,"
Han's says "he would be unable to sit on his
Lebenstraum for a week."
Sergeant Ludwig gives Hans a dark look; the
Nazi prick will probably report him, and
Hans will disappear, like some others.
When we get about twenty yards out. I think
I will shoot Ludwig in the back of the head;
I will save Han's bacon: He is a better man
than me, and deserves saving.