There’s only one hour for the whole bombardment,
There’s only one hour for infantry to rest,
There’s only one hour for main affairs, rather.
Who’s sentenced holding orders, who’s - to death.
At this hour we’re not engaged in writing -
Let’s pray to artillery men - the gods of war!
Because of that we are not mere fighters,
We are the soldiers of the penalty battalion.
We shan’t write ever: "...I’m now a communist".
And we drink vodka before battle - bad!
We’ve drunken all our fate "in civil",
So we don’t cry "Hurra!", we are silent.
The penalized have only one law, one end -
To kill, to pierce the fashist wanders on.
If you’re lucky not to catch in breast the lead -
Then you’ll hold medal there for your valour.
Beat with your bayonet, or better - with your hand:
It’s more reliable, and even quiet.
If you’re able get alive from that -
Then have a good time, with a rouble or higher!
The enemy considers us as weak
In morals - wood and towns after him are burned.
But you should better cut wood for the coffins,
For breach are going the penalty battalions.
Now six o’clock - again the fire -
So, God of war - shoot hard without end!
It’s only one hour for main affairs:
For someone - order, and for someone - death!