Western outskirts of AlexandriaJanuary 4, 1943
There was no final defense.
No last barricades, no crossfire in the streets, no desperate ambushes. When Falk's platoon entered Alexandria, they did so with their engine idling and the main gun aimed at nothing.
The streets were empty. Only the echo of the tank treads reverberated between dusty colonial buildings. There was smoke, yes. And ruins. But there was no fighting. The city had already fallen.
—"Feels like a trap," Ernst said, tense behind the gunsight.
—"It isn't," Falk replied, eyes forward. "There's no one left to stop us."
As they passed, Italian and Spanish soldiers stood at intersections, watching the Leibstandarte's armored column like it was the hammer that had finished the job. Some saluted quietly. Others simply stepped aside.
Civilians who remained peeked from half-open doors. They said nothing. No cheers. No hatred. Just exhaustion and resignation.
In the city center, a small British detachment formally handed over control to the Italian High Command. The German officers present observed in silence. The map had changed—but the blood had been spilled long before anything was signed.
Falk stopped his Panzer in the main square. The engine went silent.
—"That's it?" Helmut asked, almost in disbelief.
Falk didn't answer. He climbed out of the hatch, looking up at the empty balconies and torn flags.
—"This isn't victory," he said at last. "It's just the end of another battle."
Then, without another word, he lit a cigarette and stood there, in the middle of Alexandria—as if war could be paused with a single breath… if only for a moment.