Aboard the transport — Strait of Gibraltar, December 10, 1941
The ship moved slowly over restless waters, leaving the European coast behind. To starboard, the lights of Ceuta were visible, pale beacons announcing another war. In the lower deck, between barrels of gasoline and crates of ammunition, Falk's crew sat in silence.
Lukas Engel rested on a rolled tarp, helmet at his feet, tunic unbuttoned to the chest. In his hands he held a folded letter, with "Lukas Engel" written in neat, rounded handwriting. The ink had smudged slightly in the sea's humidity.
—María? —asked Helmut, settling beside him.
Lukas nodded, uneasy.
—Yes. She gave it to someone before I boarded. But it's in Spanish… I can't make out most of it.
Falk, Konrad, and Ernst drew closer. No one said anything at first. They just gathered around, as if preparing for battle—but this time, around something far more fragile.
—Let's see —Helmut said—. My Spanish isn't great, but I'll give it a shot.
He carefully unfolded the page, as if it might tear. He read softly, clumsily, pausing over certain words:
"Mi querido Lukas, no sé si esta carta llegará antes de que partas, pero quiero que sepas que pienso en ti. Cada noche miro al cielo y me pregunto si tú también ves las mismas estrellas…"
—I got that part —Lukas said, smiling for the first time in days.
Helmut continued, slower now. Konrad helped with a few tricky phrases. Piece by piece, they translated it together:
"…when you set foot on land, carry the medallion with you. It's my heart hanging over your chest. Don't forget it. Don't forget me. Yours, María."
Silence.
Lukas lowered his eyes. From inside his uniform, he pulled a small object wrapped in cloth: a worn silver medallion, engraved with a cross. Simple. Old. Heavy in his hand.
He stared at it for a moment, then fastened it around his neck and buttoned up his tunic.
—What does it say? —Ernst asked quietly.
—That I'm not alone —Lukas replied.
Falk watched him for a moment, then stood.
—Come on. We're almost there.
Landing in Africa — Northern coast, December 11, 1941
The heat hit immediately. Oppressive. Blunt. The air was heavier here. The sun didn't shine—it struck. Onshore, officers from the Afrika Korps and Spanish soldiers waited under wide-brimmed helmets and black sunglasses, arms folded.
The tanks rolled down the ramps one by one. Falk's Panzer IV landed with a jolt. Sand sprayed up around its treads. A Spanish soldier saluted in Falangist fashion. A German officer noted the serial number. War, once again, was neatly documented.
Lukas, standing in the open hatch, scanned the landscape as if searching for something. Among the dunes, the tents, the supply lines—there was nothing that resembled María. Only heat. Only dust.
But beneath his uniform, hanging from his neck, the cross still pressed against his skin. Solid. Present. Alive.
**
Falk looked toward the horizon. The desert. The supply lines. The sky without clouds.The land was different. The war, the same.But something in his men—in Lukas, in all of them—had changed.
And turning slightly, he murmured:
—Let them see us arrive. Let them remember who crossed the sea.