Central Ukraine — February 6, 1942
The road to Kursk was a sequence of mud, distant smoke columns, and empty villages. The sky remained still, heavy, as if the world itself was holding its breath. Falk's platoon moved slowly in single file, until a motorcycle officer signaled them to halt.
—Link-up point with allied unit —Helmut announced over the radio.
At first, they saw nothing. Just bare trees and sludge. But after a bend, they appeared: armored vehicles with black crosses and a red-and-gold Spanish flag fluttering in the wind.
A Spanish armored battalion. Dust-covered uniforms, Panzer IVs mixed with repainted Italian vehicles, and faces weathered by the southern front.
One of the Spaniards approached the Tiger with a smile:
—You heading to Kursk too?
—Yes —Helmut replied from the hatch—. To say hello to Stalin.
—Then he better be ready. We're coming with you.
Falk climbed down from the Tiger, cap pulled low. The Spanish officer snapped to attention with respect.
—Captain Sánchez Valverde, Blue Division Armored.
—Hauptscharführer Falk Ritter, Leibstandarte.
They shook hands. Firm, brief. Two men who knew they might not see each other again.
While the officers spoke, the crews began trading rations.
Konrad sniffed a German can with suspicion.
—What is this? Pulverized boot?
One of the Spaniards handed him a cardboard box smelling of chorizo and bread.
—Try this, comrades. If we're going to die, at least let's do it with a happy stomach.
Lukas approached, catching the scent. Then he heard it: that accent. That way of speaking—half song, half knife. And he saw her again, like a flash: her smile, sun-dark skin, that sweet and filthy Andalusian voice.
—Oh… what a woman —he muttered.
—Who? —Ernst asked.
—A... Spaniard. In Gibraltar. We... well. None of your business.
Laughter. Even Falk smirked. Human contact was rare at the front. Sometimes, it felt stranger than battle.
One of the Spaniards pulled out a small radio and played a gentle, almost cheerful march. Someone began to sing, and for a moment, the cold felt like warmth.
Before parting ways, Sánchez Valverde looked at Falk:
—If I fall, carry word of our men.If we make it… we go together.
Falk nodded.
—Let Kursk feel what Iberian steel is.
And the engines roared again. Eastward. Always eastward.