If a commander had the soul, he went to the attack. And perished with a clean conscience. At the same time cruel, cynical, casual people in an army, and simply easy riders, as cockroaches were nailed to warm and sweet, and main to the safe cracks. We lived on war, as cattles, and to death belonged doomed, по-скотски. Without interruption, intensively and the machine of death worked debugged. Commanders had no new ideas and aims, breadth of intention and suddennesses, complete absence of the war-lord strategic thinking.