“. . . Life shouted at Raïsaic in the form of a graveyard. The white landscape was stacked with crude shapes and blackened machinery. Frozen corpses lay out in the open, some hugging each other, others leaned up against tanks or holding their machine guns, and others frozen solid as they leaned against the butts of their rifles to make one last attempt at standing. Snow-covered black, brown, and white coats were no more than tombstones that marked a fallen soldier. The snow piled around their bodies and stole their identity, giving them no other title than dead men. The retreating Germans and advancing Russians had no time to bury their dead. Instead they claimed their comrades’s dog tags, letters, journals, and useful resources as substitute for a proper burial, leaving nothing but a nameless graveyard to haunt the countryside. Every man who fought there was defiant till the end. When the tanks ran out of ammunition they took to ramming each other head on. Some tanks were capsized, knocked over by a sideswiping tank from the enemy, and others stood on their hind legs with their tracks lifted off the ground and their broken barrels pointing to the sky. Their structures molded together creating giant triangles, like the tents of some aboriginal culture. The ravaged landscape was a call sign of horror that would be noted by historians, however, to Raïsaic it was a supply dump that could save his life. . .”
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