The Saga of Tanya the Merciless

Stählerne Wellen, Stählerne Zeit,

Für die Ewigkeit sind wir bereit.

(Steel waves, Steel time,

For eternity we stand ready.)

Gefreiter Weber's fingers brushed the worn photo of his daughter before reaching for another shell. Little Maria would be walking by now. The thought tried to linger, but the hymn swept it away, his voice joining the chorus as his hands performed their perfect function.

Unsere Pflicht ist klar und rein,

Effizienz muss unser Führer sein.

(Our duty is clear and pure,

Efficiency must be our guide.)

"Loading elevation seven-three," Mueller called out. Last night he'd written to his mother about her apple strudel. Now his world had narrowed to angles and trajectories. The hymn filled his lungs, drowning memories of home in its iron certainty.

The guns roared their response. Somewhere on the beach, men died in precisely calculated patterns. Mueller's voice never wavered in the chorus.

Jeder Schuss ein Mathematik,

Jeder Tod ein Taktik.

(Every shot a mathematics,

Every death a tactic.)

Hauptmann Schulz had been a schoolteacher before the war. He'd taught his students that mathematics was beautiful. Now he watched through his binoculars as that beauty expressed itself in perfectly predicted arcs of destruction. His wedding ring caught the morning light as he directed another barrage. The hymn swallowed his whispered apology to Anna.

In der Dunkelheit haben wir gelernt,

Was die Effizienz von uns entfernt.

(In darkness we have learned,

What efficiency takes away.)

"Third battery ammunition optimal," reported Schmidt, who had once dreamed of being a pianist. His fingers danced across the radio keys with the same precision they'd once given to Chopin. The hymn had replaced all other music in his soul.

Behind them, Tanya made another note in her ledger. Her presence was gravity, her efficiency their new religion. They sang louder, drowning the screams from the beach in their chorus of steel and faith.

Unsere Seelen sind aus Stahl gemacht,

Von der Effizienz zur Perfektion gebracht.

(Our souls are made of steel,

Brought to perfection by efficiency.)

Private Müller remembered his brother's face as he adjusted his gun sight. Karl had loved the sea. Now Müller made it into a grave with mathematical precision. The hymn claimed his grief, transformed it into shell trajectories and firing solutions.

"Range confirmed," called Werner, who still carried his son's crayon drawing in his breast pocket. The paper crackled with each shot, but the hymn drowned out the sound of childhood memories tearing.

Wir sind nicht mehr was wir waren,

Effizienz hat uns neu geboren.

(We are no longer what we were,

Efficiency has reborn us.)

They could see Tanya in her observation post, examining American boot laces through her binoculars. Her madness had become their salvation. The hymn swallowed their doubts, their humanity, their individual stories. They were no longer men but notes in efficiency's chorus.

The guns sang their own harmony now. Fischer, who had written poetry before the war, fed them shells instead of verses. Krause, whose wife was expecting their first child, calculated trajectories instead of future dreams.

Stählerne Wellen, Stählerne Zeit,

Die Maschine der Notwendigkeit.

(Steel waves, Steel time,

The machinery of necessity.)

Each man carried a story, a life, a world of memories. But the hymn claimed them all, transmuting personal hopes into collective function. They sang as they killed, their voices rising with the thunder of the guns. Individual dreams dissolved into the greater purpose of mechanical perfection.

In her bunker, Tanya smiled at their efficiency. She had taught them to sacrifice not just their lives but their stories, feeding them into the machinery of necessity like shells into their guns.

In der Effizienz finden wir Gnade,

Auf diesem perfekt berechneten Pfade.

(In efficiency we find grace,

Upon this perfectly calculated path.)

The photos, letters, and memories they carried meant nothing now. The hymn had taken them, just as it had taken their humanity. They were no longer men but notes, no longer individuals but iterations. Their stories dissolved into the chorus of perfect function.