The jungle was still that morning, save for the hum of insects and the distant churn of armored engines crawling down the broken road toward Puerto Princesa.
Oberstleutnant Erich von Zehntner walked at the head of the column, his helmet tucked under one arm, the other resting on the grip of his sidearm.
Around him, the men of Der Falke marched in silence, helmets streaked with soot and mud, uniforms torn and sweat-soaked from three days of fighting.
The first phase of the operation was over; an airstrip had been seized in the north of Luzon. Allowing men and materiel to flood the region.
But the true battle had only begun.
He had no illusions about what came next. Armies could crush fortifications, but a guerilla campaign would be a brutal death march into oblivion.
And the Reich had no interest in fighting ghosts in the jungle.
Erich halted the column outside a small fishing village nestled beside the river.
