Ten kawa³ek jest "s³odzia¶ny":
"Good afternoon. My name is Rob, I am writing from beyond the grave, as I was cruelly murdered at the Battle of the Nations. I cannot quietly look on as people are being tricked with invitations to come have a great time. In truth, that's all a lie. It's all blood, death, and spilled guts over there.
They held us there for 20 hours under the hot sun. When we tried to talk to one of the organizers, he just spat me in the face and hit me in the leg with his marshall's staff. Instead of helping, he brought some dry firewood and started a fire next to us, so that we would be even hotter. But the worst was still to come.
From the tournament field we head screams of death and people begging for help. At first we thought it was playacting, but when a cut off head rolled to my feet, I started feeling nauseous. As we approached the tournament it became clear that something terrible was going to happen. There were so many injured, the local government set up a field hospital. Those who could still scream were carried into tents where they were cut up by nazi surgeons, while those who stopped moving were pulled off with hooks
and dumped into a pile. I saw a raven picking out the eyes of one of the victims. I caught my captain's gaze, and saw sheer terror. Crossing ourselves, we entered the arena. We understood that we will not return alive.
THe arena was covered in blood, guts, and shit. Poles who fought before us completely lost their humanity. They performed wild pagan ritual dances, painted each other with blood of fallen enemies, and howled. The danes who entered the arena to fight us were serious. We knew this when one of them cut off his finger and threw it at our captain. The command "FIGHT" sounded and we rushed at each other like wild enemies.
We tore each other into pieces, cut, raked, smashed, sawed, and sometimes broke off little pieces or sliced each other. I was being beat up by ten Danes, but I held until until the last. Hard hits kept coming, the pain was unbearable. At some point I lost consciousness, and the blessing of death came to me.
Falling on the ground, I saw the fight from the side. Here, our team captain's arm is cut off, but it's still hanging on by strips of sinews, skin, and flesh. It interfered with his fighting, so he bit it off with his teeth. He lost his sword, so he grabbed his cut off arm and used it to batter down his opponent.
Here, Martin pulled out a sword that was thrust through him, and cut off the leg of the Danish captain.
Here, Jim took off his helmet and is finishing off a fallen fighter -- from his own team.
There, Smitty is waving his giant two-handed sword. Around him are three Danes, two judges, and one audience member, all cut in halves. There are also several wounded, but living opponents, who are trying to reach him with their halberds. They are unsuccessful, so they yell filthy curses and spit at him.
And there is Michael. He's completely lost it from the blood and yelling. Having lost hist sanity, he is simply standing there on all fours, and howling.
Moans and screams were everywhere. I saw someone in the audience cutting off his ears just so he wouldn't have to hear the yelling. Finally, the long-awaited command "STOP FIGHT" sounded, and everything was over.
Those who could walk, hobbled towards the camp. Many took off their helmets and poured blood out of them. There was blood everywhere. There was so much of it, the organizers were handing out inflatable boats to all the participants, it was the only way to get to camp. Rowing along the river of blood we watched bodies of our fallen mates floating past us. Some were so mangled they were impossible to recognize.
In the evening one of the Danes came to our camp and gave our team's captain his brother's head, as a token from battle.
That's how it was at the Battle of the Nations. It's Hell. Never go there. All you will find there is pain, blood, and death."