Western Breach — Sector 9KJanuary 29, 1943, 6:48 p.m.
The Tiger roared one last time.
The shell struck the turret of the lead T-34 in the Soviet wave, splitting it in two and sending its tracks spiraling through the air like twisted metal serpents.
Falk didn't move. He stared ahead. He knew there would be no more shots.
—That was the last one —Konrad said quietly.
—Not a single bullet left —added Ernst, dropping his empty Kar98k.
—And the engine... —Lukas exhaled— ...is dry.
Helmut tore the radio from its mount. Only white noise.
Falk lowered his eyes for a moment. Then his voice rose, steady and clear.
—Everyone out. Grab your weapons. We fight on.
6:51 p.m.
They exited one by one.
Konrad with his MP-40 and two half-spent magazines.Helmut with another MP-40 around his neck, dried blood on his sleeve.Ernst with his empty rifle and a rusted bayonet in hand.Falk with his Walther P38, a grenade, and the eyes of a man who had seen the end... and refused to kneel.
Lukas closed the Tiger's hatch behind them, as if sealing off an era.
—Let's go —he muttered, lighting a shaking cigarette—. We're infantry now.
6:53 p.m.
The Soviets didn't believe it.
From the smoke emerged five silhouettes, armed, blackened with soot and mud, walking among the corpses like they'd been born in this hell.
The Russians hesitated. Fired. The Germans fired back with short, precise bursts.
Falk tossed a grenade that exploded between two makeshift trenches.
Ernst lunged with a bayonet and a roar. Konrad fired as if possessed. Helmut threw his last magazine and swung his weapon like a club. Lukas knelt, grabbed a fallen enemy grenade… and threw it back.
Everything was lost.
Yet still they fought.
6:57 p.m.
Then, from atop the ridge, the impossible happened.
Voices.
But not Russian.
—At them! Kill them all!
Dozens of men charged downhill like shadows: ragged, bare-headed, with battered rifles, some barefoot, others in bloody bandages. Kitchen knives, trench shovels, improvised axes.
They were the encircled. Soldiers from the Sixth Army who no longer expected rescue. Only to die killing.
And they did it because of what they saw: that Tiger still standing, that crew who never gave in, the last spark of honor in the heart of winter.
The Soviets couldn't withstand that madness.They fell back. They died. They vanished.
7:05 p.m.
The breach was covered in bodies. In smoke. In silence.
Falk stood next to the lifeless Tiger, pistol empty in one hand, the other stained with blood—his or someone else's, he didn't know.
One of the encircled approached. Gaunt face. Hollow eyes.
He trembled, a rifle hanging from his shoulder, and asked in a hoarse voice:
—Are you... the ones from outside?
Falk frowned.
—The...?
—The Leibstandarte —the soldier whispered, as if naming something sacred.
Falk looked him in the eye.
He nodded.
The man dropped his rifle. Nearly collapsed to his knees.
—We thought... no one would come.
—We didn't come —Konrad said, leaning against the Tiger's side—. We never left.
Ernst sat on the ground, laughing and crying at once. Helmut removed his helmet and let it fall. Lukas, covered in grime and gunpowder, rested his forehead against the Tiger's hull.
Falk looked up.
No bullets. No fuel. No hope.
Only steel and bone.
But that night… the breach held.