Exhausted, frozen through, waiting to retreat, in the face of Ivan and his endless inbred cousins. We held the line, with Moscow in sight. We held the line, in the city named for Stalin. We were bled white. Our numbers fell. We wait now, to get out, or remain in this white Hell.Our crusade is over. We cannot win. Keep underestimating the foe, now we have nothing to show, but bodies pale from cold, wafer thin. We haven't slept for a year, haven't felt warm in Autumn, Winter or even Spring. We fought for our cause, and now we are left with nothing.
We wait for the order. But it may never come. All that we have achieved, will be consigned to oblivion.
