Each time we tried to retreat there came bombardment all around as if entire Russian 62nd army had no interest apart from the destruction of a small, outgunned unit of Romanian villagers. Each morning in fox-hole more dead bodies, Panzer divisions of lice; by December 18 only four left from a corps of forty. Me, plus three guys I don’t even like. To keep angry and generate heat we curse Molotov, Ribbentrop and above all Antonescu whose direct orders we received before entering city and use as shit-paper. All is liquid. There is no magic here. Only thanks too cold for putrefaction.