The Katyushas, Stalin’s organs, have played their merry music since dawn. Müller has been blown to bits. Hans cannot hear them now, for he stands stiff at the sentry post. The engines of the panzers have frozen too. There can be no advance, no retreat. Otto and Carl crouch in our foxhole, the enemy in their rifles’ sights. From the snowy wastes a human wave of white-clad Siberians roars behind a vanguard of T-34s to end our dreams at the very gates of Moscow. This tide will sweep us all away, and our Aryan blood will drain into the steppe.