Gefreiter Hartman
Name; Hartman
Born; 1909, Essen
Civilian Occupation; Reichsbahn (Deutsches Railway)
It’s funny how the cold clear mornings here deep inside mother
Russia, reminds me of another lifetime, long before all this slaughter
when I worked on the railways firing up the locomotives ready for their
first passengers of the day, during those crisp clear mornings of spring.
I see rusting steel hulks everywhere I turn here and I remember the goods
yard back home with the old disused rolling stock, rotting in the still
air. Strange, that I’m so many miles from home, yet this place
seems strangely familiar, maybe it’s because these people don’t
seem so backward after all, least that’s what I was told, but they
are my enemy and the enemy must die.
I’ve fought here since late 42, almost got myself caught in hell
itself, Stalingrad. But I was wounded in the drive for the Don and so
the angels took me far away to tend my flesh. But my respite was short
and the demons sent me back to the chaos of the front. Fighting with
my bare hands seems a way of life here amongst my comrades now, no different
really to using a spanner on the loco’s, except it’s a man
head I bury my shovel into, the demon’s demand and the demon’s
get what they usually want. We’re off to stop another breakthrough
again now; the demons demand our undying loyalty to the leader, but for
me it’s to late, I’m pass caring anymore. I fight not for
our leader, but for myself, my own survival consumes my desire to return
home and back to those black steel steeds, waiting in the cold morning
ray of light for the fire of life to burn deep in there iron hearts.
