The softness of his words arrived
as if their eagerness could ever matter,
upon repatriation they would die, of course
give way to fresher blood and the banality
of things like honour and the Fatherland.

There would be, as a matter of consideration,
the French who never had attracted glory
their word for dusk was what they'd need to hear
it is the time between the wolf and then, the dog.

It was the pleasure of the company of self
that made their final minutes what they were to be.
It was a teamwork of eight Walthers, one command,
their war was over then, his words did matter not.

Herbert Nehrlich

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/von-heidecker/