Tasche
Here in my pocket, there is a picture. A woman and a young boy in a brightly-lit parlor. They are my wife and my son, so very far away. Somewhere, and some-when, that is bright and warm, untouched by war or winter. He is old enough, my son, that he will have some vague memory of me in his life, after I die here. When this place kills me as it has killed so many others. I am glad that he will have even that slight memory. Better than none at all, I think. I hope they will move on in their lives without me, finding a way to stay in the warm and the bright, leaving only their picture safely folded in my pocket.
Here in the Pocket, we no longer speak of victory. We don't even pretend. It is clear that no one is coming to save us. Der Führer has given up, as well he should, and our continued survival only serves the purpose of tying up Russian forces so they do not plague him elsewhere. We took the city, yet failed to defeat its people. But we continue to fight. Not because we might win; only to make them kill us, because we do not want to be captives. So they press us on all sides, squeezing us ever-tighter in the Pocket.
Here in my pocket, there is a crust of bread and a small flask of vodka. I took both from a Russian that I shot two days ago. He was still half-alive when I took them, but I did not shoot him again. We do not have enough ammunition for second shots. The cold at night finishes the wounded off. Those who are dead enough not to shoot again, too dead to try and save. Left where they lie, on both sides, for the snow to claim.
Here in the Pocket, it has been days since anyone has seen so much as a rat. At night, we dream of birds, dogs, any meat at all that is not our own dead. That is, if we sleep. The Russians have children among them, stealthy, small, who crawl right up to the holes in our walls and throw in grenades. If we ever catch one, we will surely eat it.
Here in my pocket, I keep my hands, to keep them warm. If a Russian soldier were to step into sight directly before me this very moment, I do not think I would take my hand out to use my gun to shoot him. I fear it would shatter into glass if I even tried.
Here in the Pocket, we pull in closer day by day as our numbers go down, and the Russians draw us tighter and tighter, sewing us in with inexorable vengefulness.
Here in my pocket: one last bullet. When the Russians reach in at last, I will use it on myself.
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For consideration: still thinking about Stalingrad
Here in the Pocket, we no longer speak of victory. We don't even pretend. It is clear that no one is coming to save us. Der Führer has given up, as well he should, and our continued survival only serves the purpose of tying up Russian forces so they do not plague him elsewhere. We took the city, yet failed to defeat its people. But we continue to fight. Not because we might win; only to make them kill us, because we do not want to be captives. So they press us on all sides, squeezing us ever-tighter in the Pocket.
Here in my pocket, there is a crust of bread and a small flask of vodka. I took both from a Russian that I shot two days ago. He was still half-alive when I took them, but I did not shoot him again. We do not have enough ammunition for second shots. The cold at night finishes the wounded off. Those who are dead enough not to shoot again, too dead to try and save. Left where they lie, on both sides, for the snow to claim.
Here in the Pocket, it has been days since anyone has seen so much as a rat. At night, we dream of birds, dogs, any meat at all that is not our own dead. That is, if we sleep. The Russians have children among them, stealthy, small, who crawl right up to the holes in our walls and throw in grenades. If we ever catch one, we will surely eat it.
Here in my pocket, I keep my hands, to keep them warm. If a Russian soldier were to step into sight directly before me this very moment, I do not think I would take my hand out to use my gun to shoot him. I fear it would shatter into glass if I even tried.
Here in the Pocket, we pull in closer day by day as our numbers go down, and the Russians draw us tighter and tighter, sewing us in with inexorable vengefulness.
Here in my pocket: one last bullet. When the Russians reach in at last, I will use it on myself.
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For consideration: still thinking about Stalingrad