Eastern front – March 1945, 22:47 hrs
The night sky was cold and almost silent—only the roar of the engines and the muffled whistling of the wind.
In the night sky, three Messerschmitt Bf 109G fighters flew in tight formation, escorting a grey Junkers Ju 52/3m transport plane in the middle.
Beneath them stretched snow-covered forests, their outlines faintly visible under the dim light of a distant moon.
In the cabin behind the cockpit of the Ju 52, Hauptsturmführer Klaus Ritter sat upright, a dedicated Nazi officer, his gloved hands gripping a black metal box. The aircraft shuddered violently as a snowstorm outside swallowed the horizon. With every jolt, the box swayed slightly, but Ritter's grip did not loosen by even a fraction.
In his eyes burned a strange mixture—duty, fear, and an unfathomable secret. The two German soldiers seated behind him cast curious glances again and again at the mysterious box, but the stern weight of the Hauptsturmführer's expression kept their tongues still.
Suddenly, a sharp voice crackled through the radio—
"Achtung, Roter Adler! Feindliche Jäger im Anflug!" (Attention, Red Eagle! Enemy fighters inbound!)
Far ahead, six Soviet Yakovlev Yak-3 fighters emerged into the moon's pale light. They raced forward in a perfect V-formation, like a pack of hunting wolves closing in on their prey.
The first strike came without warning—the rightmost Bf 109 exploded under a hail of gunfire, becoming a ball of flame that vanished into the snow below. The remaining two fighters desperately returned fire.
The red streaks of tracer rounds cut across the sky, occasionally illuminating the pitch-black night for a moment.
Bang!
A shell hit the left engine of the Ju 52. Flames burst forth with the explosion, and black smoke billowed into the cabin.
The pilot in the cockpit shouted—
"Linker Motor ausgefallen! Treibstoffdruck fällt!" (Left engine out of order! Fuel pressure dropping!)
The plane jolted violently, throwing everyone hard against their seatbelts.
A Yak-3 swooped in alongside and fired a burst—glass shattered, and shards of metal sprayed into the cabin. One soldier was struck in the neck, slumping lifelessly in his seat.
Another shot ripped off the right wingtip. The pilot desperately tried to hold on to the controls—
"Wir verlieren Höhe! Hydraulik ist weg!" (We are losing altitude! The hydraulic system is gone!)
Somewhere, a warning siren wailed.
The Ju 52 began to descend in a shallow, uncontrolled dive. The pilot knew they had no hope of reaching any airfield.
They scanned the ground, searching for an open clearing among the trees—but in the darkness, such a place was almost invisible.
Whump! Splintering crack! Grind
The right wing smashed through the top of a snow-laden pine tree, sending a shower of snow, needles, and splintered wood into the cockpit.
The second impact—Crack!—ripped away one side of the landing gear. Harsh metallic groans echoed through the fuselage.
Thud-thud-thud—screeeech!
The aircraft skidded nose-high across the snowbound ground, scraping its belly instead of wheels. The deep layer of snow and soft ground absorbed most of the impact, but the cockpit was shattered. The passenger section, however, remained relatively intact.
Ritter slowly opened his eyes. Cold, half-clotted blood crusted on his forehead, and every breath came with painful effort. His right leg was trapped beneath the seat, and a twisted metal frame had collapsed across his chest. Still, both his hands gripped the black metal case as if it were the last purpose of his existence.
A young soldier came panting from behind—his uniform was torn, blood streaked his cheeks, but he still had the strength to move. He tried to lift the piece of metal lying on Ritter.
Ritter shook his head painfully, his voice rough and broken—
"Lassen Sie das, Soldat… Nehmen Sie die Kiste." (Leave it, soldier… Take the box)
The soldier looked at him with hesitant eyes—
"Herr Hauptsturmführer… Sie sind verletzt, ich kann Sie—"
(Herr Hauptsturmführer… You are injured, I can—)
Ritter roared, steel hardness in his eyes—
"Das ist ein Befehl! Los, sofort! Die Iwan kommen!"
(That is an order! Go now! The Russians are coming!)
In the darkness of the forest, a faint light flickered—engine noise was approaching from afar. The Soviets were near.
The soldier took the box with trembling hands, looked at Ritter once more, as if wanting to say something.
With his last strength, Ritter whispered—
"Lauf, Junge… und lass es niemals in ihre Hände fallen…"
(Run, boy… and never let it fall into their hands…)
The soldier clenched his jaw, nodded once, and then disappeared into the snow.