English Translation

+t+Funkbetrieb geht weiter! Long ago the radio station had had to dismantle its equipment in the miserable Panjehütte. Heavy enemy artillery fire and splinter of bombs, which caused Soviet pilots to rush down, had sifted through the fragile hut. The bunkers down here were the last ones that could still maintain the connection with the leadership. They had pulled out a few floor boards and had moved with their radios into the narrow potato cellar of the Panjehaus. With a layer of strong beams, some straw and piled-up clay soil they got splinter protection upwards. Because over their heads the splinters of grenades and bombs already whistled across the house. At the bottom of the cellar, however, the buttons of the radio button clicked. A few grenade hits swept the top of the racks, rafters and walls like chaff. A bomb that hit away then threw together with its enormous air pressure the miserable rest like a house of cards. Simmering fire finally sank the wooden pile of debris to a mountain of black-shining charcoal. At the bottom of the cellar, however, the buttons of the radio continued to click. But over the men on the Morse device, in the village burned and blown through by smoke, the battle raged. House after house, debris for debris were bitterly fought over. Hard and bit the Soviets resisted. They fought for the liberation of their comrades in a cauldron. The men in the pit — no more was the cellar — heard about themselves the rushing rattling of German machine guns, the slower gagbling of the Soviets; they heard the shootings of their own artillery and the beating of enemy grenades and bombs. At each impact, sand and black charcoal dust poured down from the shaky ceiling. The earth trembled. A trembling ran through the narrow space. Black, cold snowwater gushed over the men's bent backs and covered them with black rinds. Dirt, dirt and again dirt! "Pfui Deibel!" Drops by drop fell from the charred bark. "Ta — ta - tata — ta', hummed and clicked the equipment. "Bautz -- bautz —, roars it from the outside. The German pak guns bark. Knatternd swells the rifle fire. The machine weapons fire in frantic fire sequence. "Bautz - bautze —  there is roaring again through the fighting noise, and again " — bauts - baitz - bautz - , a detector comes down the narrow basement neck. The man squats down for a few moments. With a tired movement he wipes sweat and dirt from his stubble face. A radioman ignites a cigarette and pushes it between his lips to the comrade. He thanks with a silent nod. The radio operator has taken the report sheet from the detector and, with a calm and secure hand, gives the message in a hurry. — "Ta --tata - ta - , click the button. There — over the men a dull hum and roar! — And again the hacking "Bautz — bautz! , - mute the radio operators look over to their comrade. A question hangs on their lips. The detector pulls the blue smoke through his mouth and nose in deep movements, his face relaxes, then he says in an equanimous manner: "Soviet tank!" Suddenly he jumps up and disappears with a jump through the narrow loophole of the radio station upwards. The roaring noise that swells from above. Rattle-sounding noise of caterpillar chains interferes. The walls of the narrow cellar tremble. Closer and closer, almost above them, the enemy tank seems to make its way. Suddenly the whole bunker wags. Above the men a heavy roaring, bursting, crackling and crackling of breaking wood. The ceiling presses down. Sand, snow, ashes and wooden splinters pour down from the ceiling. In 75