Poetry: Der Kriegsglück, VII-VIII

VII.

Orders are orders.

No civilians.

Tears. Damn Sarge.

Orders. Back across. Go home.

No home. No more.

Go home.

Russians there. Slavic princes.

Poles. Ukraines. Urzaks. Belas.

Revenge. Rape. Knifes.

The torch in the face.

The screams.

Anglos! Protect us!

Orders are orders!

Fight them! Bitte! We fight you.

Opal eyes. Cold faces in spring.

Why not kill the Bolshevik?

Uncle Joe is good. So says FDR.

Who? He is a killer.

Back across the river. Orders are orders.

Too many orders. Not one step back. Die in your boots.

How we obey.

VIII. The Halbe Run

Three lines we will pierce.

May it not be four.

The Russians in front and behind.

To the east and the west.

Ukrainian warriors.

Belarusian warriors.

Quickly—they close the door to our left.

The artillery fires high.

Trees are targets. Tanks our refuge.

How they both explode. Leaves and limbs.

Pine splinters and iron graves.

Hear the drinking of gas. So little left.

Toss the wounded off.

To the turret. They scream.

The Ninth is no more.

Snell! Ich bin müde!

Where are our generals? Wo ist Busse?

On foot with the rest.

Across three lines to the west!

Pray not for four.

Death to those who cannot pierce three lines.