It’s just an hour until the shelling’s over,
It’s just an hour for troops to have their rest,
It’s just an hour until the major chores,
It could mean medals, or a capital offence.

This hour to pass, we’re writing not a word:
We pray for gods of war - the cannoneers!1
Since we are convicts, not your usual sort,
No need to write “if I get killed, consider...”2

Before the fight, a shot of vodka - nay!
We drank enough of this before conscription,
That’s why we don’t intend to yell “Hooray!”
We’re playing silent on our deadly mission.

A convict has a single code, a single end:
To cut, to pierce the fascist dirty scoundrel.
And if you fail to snatch lead with your chest
You sure will catch a medal for your valor3.

So use your knife or, better yet, your hands!
They’re more efficient and produce no sound,
And if you can survive until the end,
Go spend your ruble, throw it all around!

The foe now thinks that our morale is falling:
They left behind the burning streets and forests.
You’d better save this timber for your coffins:
Breakthrough is led by companies of convicts!

It’s six o’clock, the shelling now proceeds.
Well, god of war, it’s not a time for silence!
It’s just an hour until the major deeds:
For some it’s medals, but for the rest - death sentence.