San Roque, Cádiz — December 9, 1941
The sun beat down like molten lead on the white rooftops of the south. Just outside the town, in a clearing along the road leading to the port of Algeciras, the column of the Leibstandarte SS Adolf Hitler had paused its march.
The tanks had been unloaded from the trains at dawn. Now they rumbled across the dry ground, slowly aligning with the transport trucks. Among them stood one in particular: the new Panzer IV Ausf. G. Its long barrel, sharp as a promise of death, aimed without intent—but not without effect.
**
The local villagers had gathered to watch. Not out of duty, but out of pure Andalusian curiosity. Barefoot children, weathered fieldworkers, women in dark shawls. Some waved shyly. Others just stared.
—Looks like a devil's beast —an old man murmured, lifting his hat—. Like it could spit lightning.
—That gun isn't like the others… —said a boy, eyes wide—. It's longer. More serious.
**
Lukas climbed down from the turret, clearly proud. He liked being looked at that way—as if he were part of the steel itself.
—It doesn't bite —he said in rough Spanish—. Only when spoken to badly.
The children laughed. One woman offered a tired smile. But the adults kept staring at the tank, not the men.
**
Falk, standing beside Ernst, lit a cigarette he didn't finish.
—They're looking at us like they already know where we're going —Ernst said.
—Maybe they do. Or maybe they just see the size of the gun.
**
An older man, shirt open at the chest, slowly approached. His skin was leathery from years in the sun, his words shaped by decades of silence.
—That one… is that the tank that took Kyiv?
Konrad answered without turning.
—No. That one burned. This one will take whatever comes next.
The man nodded. He asked no more questions.
**
A boy, no more than fifteen, approached with a tattered notebook and pencil. He pointed to the tank and then to Falk.
—Can I draw it?
Falk looked surprised. Then nodded.
—If you can keep up with it.
The boy smiled and knelt in the dirt, sketching the barrel with reverence—as if he were drawing a legend, not a weapon.
**
By mid-afternoon, Lukas stepped away from the group, his mood quieter, tenser. Falk noticed, and then understood.
At the edge of the olive grove, a woman waited. Dark hair. Simple dress. A presence that didn't blend into the dust.
Her name was María, and this wasn't their first meeting.
Lukas approached her with restrained urgency. They didn't hug. They didn't kiss. But their hands brushed with the weight of something real.
—When do you leave? —she asked softly.
—Tomorrow at dawn.
—Will you come back?
—I don't know.
María nodded. Then handed him a small medallion wrapped in cloth.
—So you won't forget the way home.
Lukas said nothing. He held it tightly… and tucked it into the inner pocket of his uniform.
**
That evening, as the tanks were prepped and engines checked, Falk and the crew stayed mostly quiet. In the distance, Lukas still looked toward the hills, though she was no longer there. But the image of María… burned behind his eyes.
—So you made yourself a memory —Konrad said, not turning.
—Not all fires destroy —Lukas replied, starting the engine.
**
By nightfall, the Panzer IV rolled toward the port. The lights of Ceuta flickered across the water. No applause. No shouts. Just eyes watching.As if they were ships sailing off—knowing not all would return.
From atop his tank, Falk took one last look at the white towns, the fields, the faces of his crew.
—At least —he said—, someone will remember what steel looked like… before it sank into the sand.
And with one final roar of the engine,they left the continent behind.