Marching in the snow, stepping on ice
We can't even tell road from river
The horses are beaten, but we can't leave them
Just what is this place? It's all enemy country
Oh well, if we breath a little bravery
I'll only ask for little: a couple ciggies.

Dried fish that won't cook becomes our half-boiled meals
It's not long before we're living half-boiled days
For this cold that can't be endured, a bonfire
Surely it will smoke, chaps! The green wood smoulders
Putting on a bitter face, a skilful speech:
The "sour" thing here's a pickled plum.

The clothes we wear are our carefree beds
We cover under our overcoats on knapsack pillows
With the warmth of our backs, the snow thaws,
Soaking wet our millet-husk bedding.
In bivouacs that won't tie, there are dreams
That the moon peeks into, coldly.

Because we came here offering our lives,
With a death resolution, even as we charge shouting,
If the fortunes of war so wish, we must die in battle.
The donated padded clothes, entwined in duty,
Slowly, slowly, fasten upon our necks.
Anyhow, the intention wasn't to let us return alive.