Egypt — January 3, 1942
The order arrived without ceremony.A motorcycle courier, engine still hot, handed over the sealed envelope with a sharp nod.He didn't say a word. Just waited for the receipt signature.
Falk opened the document with steady hands. Read it. Didn't read it aloud.
He only murmured:
—We're moving toward Alexandria.
**
Around him, the platoon began to stir. Slowly. With the precise weight of men who knew there would be no more truces, no more pauses.
Ernst stood with a sigh.
—Another name for the map?
Konrad, checking the gun of his Panzer, muttered without looking up:
—Another spot where we shouldn't die, but still might.
Helmut turned on the radio and adjusted the frequencies. Silence. Then a low hum.
—The British haven't collapsed completely. But they're pulling back in order. It won't be a stroll.
**
Falk climbed into his tank. From the hatch, he watched the other vehicles line up, one by one. Some engines roared stronger than others. One needed two tries to start.
It was an advance.But also a risk.Every meter toward Alexandria was one more meter away from return.
**
Adler, the idealist, approached Falk's tank just before departure.
—Do you think if we take Alexandria, the British will surrender?
Falk looked at him calmly.
—No.—But they'll stop laughing.
Adler nodded. He didn't fully understand. But he accepted it.
**
The convoy rolled out just before noon.Tanks, trucks, half-tracks.The Leibstandarte and its allies moved across the Egyptian dust like a shadow of steel.
**
Falk lowered his head briefly inside the tank. Closed his eyes.
—Alexandria —he whispered, just to himself—.Another city. Another risk. Another name for those who won't return.
**
But his voice was firm in the end:
—Start the engine.
And the Panzer IV, with his full platoon, moved out once more.