Egypt — December 27, 1941, nightfall
The camp was little more than a circle of tents and idling engines. The tanks were lined up like sleeping beasts beneath the stars, and the men—still unsure of each other's names—had begun to size one another up.
**
Around a small oil lamp, a few of the new tankers shared a hot ration and some canned coffee. Their jokes were clumsy, as if every word was a test. One tried to mimic another's Bavarian accent. Another teased how slowly they'd loaded the cannon during training.
—You fired in training? We weren't even allowed to touch the trigger.
—Then get ready. Out here, there's no second chance.
**
Jürgen Adler, the idealist, sat with his back straight, observing the others without losing his smile.
—The front will make us equals —he said, like reciting something profound.
One of the drivers chuckled dryly.
—The front makes equals… of those who survive.
The remark landed heavily. No one replied.
**
A few steps away, Falk stood watching, arms crossed, uniform half unbuttoned from the heat. His own men—Konrad, Ernst, Lukas, and Helmut—stood further back, speaking little, observing much.
**
In Falk's mind, thoughts blurred with images: fire in Warsaw, mud in Kyiv, the ambush at El Alamein. But this time, what weighed on him wasn't fear of the enemy.
It was responsibility.
One mistake now wouldn't just cost him his crew.Now he could lose men he didn't even know yet.And worse still: he might have to order them to die… with no time to explain why.
**
Helmut stepped beside him and murmured:
—So? What do you think?
Falk didn't answer right away. He looked at Adler. Then at the one who made the joke. Then at the rest.
—They're still echoes —he said finally.
—Echoes?
—Yes. Voices repeating what they've heard.—When they start speaking with their own… then I'll know what I have on my hands.
**
That night, no one dreamed easily.Because even without gunfire, the war had already begun inside them.