"I'm a Gunslinger- not only can I drink a whole lot, but I can command 23 different vehicles too and I don't even know how to -read- a technical manual-- self trained, you know! Couldn't tell though to see me on the field. When I schlepp and galavant about some fucking slaughterhouse to a catchy little marching tune for the film cameras all the girls get hot pants- HOTCHA! Last night was pretty good for a Wednesday: our company got 10 Shermans- or maybe 2 T-34s? And we knocked them all out and only seven of our guys got popped and one died when they pulled him out and carted hm back on an engine deck and they carbon-monoxided his ass to valhalla. Our company commander passed around a box with two small bottles of champagne imported from Paris and looked like he wanted to kiss my platoon and shake the hand of our Grenadier platoon leader. He didn't mind when I pissed on his staff car because I'm IMPORTANT. We've been working on a new drill, been working on it for three weeks now- I pretend I'm knocked out, and later on in the exchange-- this'll kill ya!-- my left hand guide pretends he's knocked out, and all the soviets turn and blow the hell out of any star tank over taking us on the road! When we go... into a fast march- GOD! The generals LOVE IT! Just... wait until they blow our ass back to Berlin!"

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Pz IV commander, Belarus, early 1944.

As always, Nazi scum fuck off.