Dmitrii Mikhal’tsev

MAD BATTLE

On the turret the Red Star melts,
The armour trembles in its death-throes,
Eyes are fixed on a distant spot
And fingers tightly gripped the controls,
The hot ebonite smokes,
A steep curve on the rise
And groaning from the caterpillar tracks,
Into the headset fly the cries
Of the all-embracing attack.

The mad battle, the heat, and the howling of missiles, not ours.
They fly overhead, and behind us make their mark for hours.
I put my foot on the gas, I fire the afterburner, I force the gears into drive,
I pray to God at this time, that he will preserve the tracks and keep us alive.
That it is impossible to leave this battle, the guys will not understand,
And if there is anything to bury, the guys will not find it across this land.

Hold out and survive until the forest –
Was the one order to everyone.
A long life is so near, just down this short road,
And laughter falls from the lips.
Adrenaline boils in the blood,
The fear cools, you see
I need the cross, I do…
I know. He will bury me…
I listen. He talks to me – I will protect you…