I don’t know where this bridge is. It is a long way from my humble cobbler’s shop on the outskirts of Ruzayevka. We have seized another nameless bridge, crossed another blood-cloggingly cold river, and are trying to drive the Germans out of our land so that we can go back worthless Five Year Plans, endless speeches from Stalin, and bottomless bottles of vodka. All I seek after a long day of fixing soles on shoes that have never stepped in a pool of blood is some hot sausage and kraut, a stiff drink, and a big bosomed woman willing to share my creaky bed. God I hate this war.