The quiet after the gunfire was suffocating. Dust hung in the air, mixing with the metallic scent of blood. Paul stood over Hermann, chest heaving, hands and uniform still stained crimson.
Fury burned through him, fury at Hermann's death, fury at having to be there in the first place, fury at himself for not being faster. Just a fraction of a second… that would have been enough.
Fate was truly cruel.
Major Lang knelt beside him, voice low but firm. "We need to move, Oberstleutnant. Staying here is death."
Paul answered coldly, his gaze never leaving Hermann corpse:"Fine. You should take what you can. I will take Hermann, he deserves a burial. "That's the least I can do," he wisphered.
Oberstleutnant Weber and Leutnant Fischer quickly collected maps, a few rounds of ammunition, and the still-working radio from the fallen Spaniards.
Meanwhile Paul dug. He chose a quiet spot overlooking the village. When the hole was deep enough he laid Hermann's body gently inside and lingered, staring at him. Finally he shoveled the earth back in, filling the grave.
"Your death will not be in vain," he mouthed, voice flat. "Those Spaniards will taste the same medicine."
Major Lang stepped up behind him, expression unreadable. He gave a slow, curt nod, no speeches, no false comforts. Weber and Fischer finished packing what they'd taken from the fallen. The radio crackled once, useless for now. They started walking.
Paul turned and followed them, heading northwest, face set and unreadable.
Major Lang fell in beside him, eyes still on the ground. After a few paces he glanced at Paul, his voice low but steady.
"Your first… it never gets easier," he said quietly. "Hermann… he was young, promising. I lost my first man docens of years ago in the Great War. I thought I was ready. I wasn't. You'll carry this one, too. Let it make you sharper, not softer."
Paul swallowed, jaw tight, the fury and grief twisting inside him. "I… I just… I wasn't fast enough," he muttered, voice rough.
Lang nodded, eyes hard but sympathetic. "None of us ever are. But you acted. You saved the rest of us. That counts for something. Let it guide you forward, not drown you in regret."
Paul's hands clenched at his sides. The words sank in, cold and heavy, but somehow grounding. He nodded once, barely perceptibly.
"But now we have to survive ourselves," Lang continued. "Look at this, I found it on one of the Spanish officers."
Paul studied the map, the red cross glaring back at him like a cruel reminder of how far they still had to go. Salamanca, Franco's hub, the Condor Legion's anchor in Spain. Their lifeline.
Lang's finger tapped a spot further south, somewhere between nameless ridges and valleys. "Here. Judging by the terrain and the roads we passed, this should be our current position."
Paul exhaled slowly. 50 kilometers, maybe a bit more. It sounded close, but with Spanish patrols hunting and villages crawling with unknown loyalties, it might as well be a hundred.
"But to be certain," Lang went on, his tone sharp, "we'll need someone who knows these hills. A farmer, a shepherd, anyone alive out here. At the last village we tried… well, we all saw what became of that." His eyes darkened, the weight of Hermann's death hanging heavy between them.
The silence stretched. The map crinkled slightly in Lang's gloved hand as the Major folded it with care, slipping it into his coat. "Next step," he said firmly, "we search for signs of life. A hamlet, a lone house, even smoke on the horizon. Someone will know the way to Salamanca. But we move careful. The Spanish will not give us a second chance."
Paul nodded, he aggreed, after learning his lesson the hard way.
After some time, the sun slipped slowly down behind the ridge. Long shadows pulled the field into a purple hush. Lang ordered them to make camp just off the road, in a small cravine, shielding them somewhat from enemy eyes.
They worked quickly. Weber and Fischer set up two Spanish tents they'd scavenged, ropes snapping in short, efficient motions. Paul dragged over a crate for a table, the radio silent and useless beside it. Someone found a battered kettle; someone else used the single chocolate bar and broke it into small pieces.
For the first time since the crash, they allowed movement that wasn't all survival: boiling water, cups passed, pockets patted for rations. Men moved with small, animal carefulness, relief threaded with exhaustion.
Lang crouched by the kettle, eyes tired but steady. "We take two hours' watch in turns," he said. "Quiet. Small fires. Minimal light."
Paul sat on the crate, his Pistol holstered. He let himself watch the others as they settled. Hermann's absence sat in the circle like a missing chair.
Then Leutnant Fischer pulled a deck of cards from his tunic pocket. Small, worn, and almost absurd given their situation. "Who's in?" he asked.
Lang, Weber, and even Paul raised their hands, eager for anything that might dull the edge of the day.
They played simple rounds, bluff, quick bets, coins clinking softly in the dust. Laughter came strangled at first, then freer. Weber won a hand and whooped like a boy; Fischer cursed and threw himself back on the ground, drawing tired grins. Lang dealt with a measured calm, the cards steady between scarred fingers, the game itself a thread of normalcy stitching them together.
Paul kept his voice low, though every now and then a quiet chuckle slipped out.
After the last hand was played, the men drifted off one by one, some grumbling at their losses, others quietly pleased with their winnings. Yet all carried a faint ease they hadn't felt since the crash.
Only Paul remained, settling into his first watch. The fire crackled low, casting long shadows against the tents. He rested his new Spanish rifle across his knees, eyes scanning the dark, the laughter already fading into memory.
His eyes settled on the small flame flickering before him. It hissed softly, eating at the scraps of wood like time itself. Paul stared into it, and everything from the past months welled up at once, confusion, anger, grief, all threatening to boil over now that silence had returned.
His vision blurred. Faces rose in the firelight, his wife, his daughter. He had been so consumed with surviving, with scheming, with playing the part, that he had almost forgotten them. Forgotten why he was fighting at all. With nothing left to do and nowhere for his thoughts to run for, the emotions pressed harder, threatening to explode.
He loosened his collar, trying to gasp for more air. His hand trembled so much it was hard to undo the button.
He'd always told himself he would return somehow, find a way back to the future. But deep down he knew it was a lie. The chance of seeing them again was fleetingly small, maybe gone already. That lie had kept him running, burying the carnage and despair slowly building inside him every day.
Paul's hand reached into his breast pocket. He pulled out a small box of cigarettes, slipped one out, and lit it from the fire. The tip glowed red, a tiny ember against the darkness. He drew in a long breath, smoke curling past his lips. After a few agonizing minutes his hands began to steady, and, slowly, so did his mind.
If I don't come back, he thought bitterly, then I have to at least make this life mean something. Use what I know for something great. They wouldn't want to see me rot away in despair. None of them would.
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