The droning of Panzer engines filled the air above the blackened battlefield of Vladivostok. The smell of cordite filled the night sky as plumes of grey smoke and dust mingled in the cold night air, drifting in between the copses of trees as if searching for a way off the battlefield. Our metal beast rolled through water and mud like a ship – clumsy, laborious and burdened, pitching and rolling in the holes and ruts of the sea of mud and snow, which was overflowing with the decaying bodies of Russian soldiers. The putrid smells of rotten flesh and diesel fumes were gut wrenching, necessitating the use of a flannelette cloth to cover the nostrils and our parched mouths. Through my viewing port, my dull coloured eyes narrowed at the sight of
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Great clumps of mud clung to his boots. Every step produced a smacking suction noise. The night sky was alight with a searing orange glow, and was ripped apart by a series of loud explosions. The deafening noise and intense explosions promoted a greater sense of urgency to my companion’s movements as he scanned the battlefield. He motioned to me to stay with the tank (what else would I do? Members of the SS such as him epitomise Hitler’s master race, that is they are blonde and dumb), before heading toward a shell-hole some metres away. Machine-gun-fire erupted around our position, hitting him in the back. He cried out in agony, his progress now more of a stagger, as if in slow motion, his breathing laboured and gasping. His gnarled hands clawed desperately at the alien objects in his back while copious amounts of blood poured between his fingers and down his sinister black uniform, turning the mud deep red. His progress slowed with each step and he grabbed out at the roots of an approaching tree in front of him. He slid to his knees, his eyes looking through the trees and beyond. Pockets of fire raging elsewhere on the horizon partially lit up the area and for a few seconds he knelt as if frozen. Slowly, he slumped forward landing face down coughing violently, blood splattering the mud with each
Great clumps of mud clung to his boots. Every step produced a smacking suction noise. The night sky was alight with a searing orange glow, and was ripped apart by a series of loud explosions. The deafening noise and intense explosions promoted a greater sense of urgency to my companion’s movements as he scanned the battlefield. He motioned to me to stay with the tank (what else would I do? Members of the SS such as him epitomise Hitler’s master race, that is they are blonde and dumb), before heading toward a shell-hole some metres away. Machine-gun-fire erupted around our position, hitting him in the back. He cried out in agony, his progress now more of a stagger, as if in slow motion, his breathing laboured and gasping. His gnarled hands clawed desperately at the alien objects in his back while copious amounts of blood poured between his fingers and down his sinister black uniform, turning the mud deep red. His progress slowed with each step and he grabbed out at the roots of an approaching tree in front of him. He slid to his knees, his eyes looking through the trees and beyond. Pockets of fire raging elsewhere on the horizon partially lit up the area and for a few seconds he knelt as if frozen. Slowly, he slumped forward landing face down coughing violently, blood splattering the mud with each