The plane hummed beneath them, all metal and engines, a container of men with faces drawn tight by duty and fatigue. General Sperrle stood at the front, the weight of his authority filling the narrow aisle; the officers sat in silence, arms crossed, jaws set. The briefing began short, sharp, just like an operation ought to.
"The purpose of the Condor Legion is twofold," Sperrle said, his voice a hard mixture of command and explanation. "First: we support the national forces in Spain. Second—and this is no secret, we use this conflict to test new tactics, new weapons, new equipment. Above all, the Panzer arm. Industry wants data. The army wants experience and new Tank commanders, that is why you are here. The Legion has already arrived by train yesterday, so we are the last ones to come."
Paul was appointed as a platoon leader, four brand new "Panzer I" under his command, light and temperamental, but his to maneuver and train into something more than a training vehicle.
Panzer I, Paul thought. No mighty beast, no invincible spearhead, too light, too thinly armored, little more than a training vehicle. But it was fast, easy to produce, and perfect for practicing doctrine. In the wrong hands it was a coffin; in the right, a weapon. For him, it was a chance. A chance to lead, to climb, to prove himself...
After a long while of discussing and making himself familiar with his fellow officers, the plane began to descend slowly, engine straining as the Spanish countryside unfolded below, Paul lokked out of the window, seeying broken fields and clusters of red-roofed houses.
Their escort fighters were flying peace fully next to them, until the sky tore open. At first only distant thunder, too close to be harmless. But then Sperrle's head snapped up. Engines screamed.
Paul too, looked into the direction of the sound, squinting his eyes until they tore open, there were dots on the horizon, countless. Their Escort fighters dived in, German markings, but they weren't alone. Spanish aircraft cut across the sky, and within seconds the air was alive with fire and steel.
The transport jolted violently. A Crate flipped over with a loud a bang, the carefully sorted stacks of paper flew everywhere littering the floor .
Then, the Ju-52 lurched, nose dipping suddenly. Men were thrown from their benches, hands clawing at straps and bulkheads. Paul slammed into the fuselage wall, his ribs aching, as the whole transport groaned like a wounded beast.
"Are we hit!?" someone shouted.
Paul didn't wait for an answer. He pushed past panicked officers, boots skidding across the vibrating floor, and stormed toward the cockpit. He tore the hatch open...
only to be blasted in the face by a violent gust of wind.
The glass canopy was shattered. Cold air howled through the cabin, stinging his eyes. For a heartbeat he saw only chaos, controls shuddering, papers flying like frightened birds. Then his gaze locked on the pilot.
The man slumped forward over the yoke, head lolling, blood soaking his tunic. Below the ribs his body was a mangled ruin, torn open where his stomach had been. One stray salve from the fight outside had ripped through him, snatching away his lifeline in an instant.
Paul stared at the slumped pilot, heart pounding. The Ju-52 pitched again, throwing him against the bulkhead. The roar of engines and tracer fire outside filled the cabin, deafening. His hands went to the yoke one last time, twisting, pushing, anything to keep the plane from spinning. For a few precious seconds, it obeyed, steadying just enough.
Then, through the smoke and chaos, Sperrle appeared. The general's coat flapped, his face grim but controlled. He pushed past officers and debris straight to the cockpit.
"Jeager!" Sperrle barked over the roar. "That's enough! There's no saving this bird! Everyone to the doors! Parachutes on! "
Paul nodded, letting go. The plane lurched again, now hopeless.
He grabbed a parachute, strapping it awkwardly to his back. Knowledge from Heinrich had been one thing; actually doing it was another. He tightened the straps, heart hammering, and sprinted toward the plane's door, the wind tearing at his coat and the roar of engines filling his ears.
Before he could reach the now-open hatch, Paul bumped into someone. He caught the terrified officer just in time. The man opened his mouth, stuttering something, but the roar of the engines swallowed his words. Paul's eyes flicked to the officer's parachute, quickly he adjusted the straps, tightening them.
Most of the officers had already jumped; only a few remained. Paul's gaze darted to the door, carying a determined look.
" Ahh, Scheisse!" he screamed, shoving the other officer out into the rushing wind, then leaping himself immediately after.
The wind ripped past Paul's face, violent and cold, as he and the officer plummeted. The sentation of falling freely was shocking, but Paul quickly tried to steady himself, falling controlled.
Paul glanced at the officer from earlier, fumbling desperately with his parachute, struggling to get it open. Fuck this amateur, Paul cursed silently.
The man's eyes were wider than before, sheer terror written across his face. Paul pointed sharply to the red pull line on his own parachute, near his chest. Fortunately, the officer understood, yanking his own line just in time.
Paul followed suit, pulling his cord. The parachute snapped open violently, jerking him upward, only a few hundred meters above the ground.
The sudden jerk of the parachute nearly knocked the wind out of Paul, but it held. 1936 Parachute, what a pleasure. Below, the earth rushed up, trees and ruins looming closer with every second. The officer who had nearly panicked barely managed to stabilize himself, flailing slightly as he descended. Flying towards a big gras plain.
Paul followed and landed first, rolling instinctively to absorb the impact. He coughed from the dust but was unharmed. The officer followed, his boots hitting dirt and stones, rolling into a crouch as his parachute snapped taut above him. Both grunting as they scrambled to their feet.
All around them, the land was silent, save for the faint crackle of distant gunfire and the rustle of wind through the olive trees.
What the hell just happend?, Paul pondered angrily, this is not how it was supposed to be. The plane should have never crashed...Have I changed history already this much?
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