Fragment #3

Capable de tout he was,
even batting the Russians' head
with his defunct rifle,
but standing on his mudhill,
like an ant incapable of sensing its way back,
his boots heavy with the rasputitsa,
he feels lassitude.
He knows he's going to die –
the Russians aren't known for their shilly-shalliness –
half-buried under a foot of mud,
that which the wind cakes on his uniform,
far from wife and home.
Darn mud.