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!attack south
When you, at the whistle, at the sign,
Standing on the trampled snow,
Preparing to rush into the attack,
Raised your rifle on the run,
How cozy the cold earth seemed to you,
How everything on it was remembered:
The frozen stem of feather grass,
Barely noticeable hillocks,
Smoky traces of explosions,
A pinch of scattered tobacco
And ice floes of spilled water. 1 reply
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