South of Alexandria – British forward positionJanuary 2, 1943, 17:10 hours
Major Alan Marchant had been watching the horizon through his binoculars for over an hour. The sun was low, blinding. The air shimmered with the residual heat of the day and the smoke of recent impacts. He had seen many attacks in Africa—Italians, Germans, even Spanish infantry. But this was different.
—"Confirmed?" asked Lieutenant Barker, leaning against the side of the Valentine tank.
Marchant nodded grimly.
—"Yes. It's the Leibstandarte."
Barker swallowed hard. Nothing more needed to be said. Even among the Allies, that symbol—the dreaded black key—meant only one thing: an unstoppable advance.
—"They're the ones who took Kiev, right?"
—"And held out at El Alamein. And now they're coming for us."
The sound of the Panzers' engines was like a low drum pounding in the chest. Within minutes, British positions began to burn. The first allied tank was destroyed before it could even fire. The German shots were surgical. This wasn't rage—it was precision.
Marchant gave the order to withdraw with calm. Not out of cowardice, but out of sense. His mission wasn't to die. It was to slow them. To buy time.
And they had done that.
By the time his battalion was cornered in a rocky depression, surrounded, out of ammunition, Marchant raised his hand without hesitation. A white cloth. A clean gesture.
From the other side, a German officer stepped down from his Panzer and walked forward with his hands visible. He was young. A gray uniform with no unnecessary ornaments. He nodded in greeting.
—"Major. No dishonor here," he said in heavily accented but clear English. "You fought like soldiers."
Marchant held his gaze. Then nodded.
—"And you attacked like professionals."
For several moments, only the wind could be heard.
That night, as the British prisoners were escorted away—without insults, without humiliation—someone among them murmured:
—"This wasn't Russia. This… was a different war."
—"The war of gentlemen," Marchant replied.