Andalusia — December 8, 1941
The armored train crossed the border at dawn, leaving behind the cold fog of southern France. As it entered Spanish territory, the convoy slowed. The rails creaked with a solemn rhythm, and the Guardia Civil stood watch along the tracks—silent, stern, boinas pulled low.
Falk Ritter watched the landscape through the narrow slit of the wagon. This was no enemy ground. It was allied. But it felt strange—like they had crossed from a battlefield into a memory.
—Is this still the front? —Helmut asked, his radio turned off for the first time in weeks.
—Not yet —Falk replied—. But any road that leads to war… is already part of it.
**
At the Córdoba station, a group of Falangists greeted the train. Bread, coffee, and a few words in broken German. Some wore the yoke and arrows on their chests; others bore old scars from the Civil War. Some admired the Germans. Others feared them. But all of them recognized them.
—Too much enthusiasm —Ernst muttered.
—Or too much emptiness —Konrad replied, eyes fixed ahead.
**
Near Ronda, the train stopped for a few minutes. In the distance, they could make out the rocky silhouette rising over the sea.
Gibraltar.
The memory hit them without warning.
—Remember that? —Falk asked.
Lukas nodded slowly.
—That night… the sky looked like it was burning.
Konrad leaned against the doorframe of the car.
—It was quick, but not clean. Artillery from the hills. British snipers in the tunnels. Naval fire too, though we got there before they could organize.
Ernst spat on the floor.
—The caves felt like hell. And the sailors who surrendered… didn't speak. They just looked at us like we were ghosts.
Helmut pulled a folded photo from his inner pocket. A blurry shot of the German flag flying over the Rock.
—We thought that would win the war.
Falk said nothing. But he remembered the stench of cordite, the blood on the stones, and the certainty that Gibraltar—more than a victory—had been a warning: no place was truly impenetrable… or eternal.
**
In Algeciras, the tanks were unloaded and mounted onto trucks headed for the port. From there, they would cross the Strait. The Mediterranean was no longer an obstacle. It was a route.
Lukas stepped down from the vehicle, warm wind brushing his face.
—So this is the beginning of the desert.
—No —said Falk—. This is the end of Europe.
**
That night, they camped near the coast. The lights of Ceuta and North Africa flickered across the water. A group of Spanish soldiers shared tobacco and cheap aguardiente with them. One spoke rough German.
—You going back to hell? —he asked.
Falk took his time to reply.
—No. We're going to the next one.
**
And as the ships lined up in the harbor, ready to sail at dawn, the Panzer IV crew sat together beneath the stars.Not in France. Not in Ukraine. Not even in Germany.There, on friendly and foreign soil at once, they understood there was no return anymore.
Only the road ahead.And the sand.