Paul looked at the moon, its pale light spilling over the dusty camp. His eyelids grew heavy, his body tilting forward, until a strong hand caught him.
Lang looked down at him, concern in his eyes. "It's my turn now, Oberleutnant."
Paul mumbled something, barely audible, before making his way toward one of the tents. He sank onto the cot, laying down and closing his eyes.
The world around him dissolved. The sounds of the camp, the crackling fires, murmured orders, the distant howl of wind, faded into a deep, enveloping silence.
His mind sank slowly into a deep trance. Shapes began to emerge from the darkness: flickers of light, flashes of color, and shadows moving in ways both familiar and strange.
He saw a golden eagle, its wings stretching wide, majestic and unyielding. Then, as if drawn by some invisible thread, he saw James and himself, hands reaching toward the eagle, touching it simultaneously.
The vision shifted. A grand mansion appeared, walls gleaming, corridors stretching endlessly. A room came into focus, its furnishings opulent yet strangely cold. A mirror stood in the center, and in it reflected a face that looked somehow familiar—BANG!
Paul shot upright, instincts snapping. His hands grabbed his rifle as he hissed, "That was a fucking gunshot!" He flung open the tent flap, eyes scanning the darkness outside.
He raised his rifle, his eyes first going to Weber, who had his weapon trained into the distance, not at him. Then he looked beside him; Lang was also awake, following the line of Weber's aim.
"I got him!" Weber shouted.
"Who? Who did you get, Weber?" Lang called back, stepping cautiously in the direction Weber indicated.
"The enemy, I'm sure of it," Weber replied, a thrill in his voice.
A figure emerged from the shadows, stumbling slightly. Paul's heart skipped a beat, and his grip tightened instinctively, but as the shape drew closer, he realized it was not a soldier. It was a lone man, ordinary and terrified, his eyes wide and watering, trembling under the rifles pointed at him.
Paul lowered his rifle slightly. "He's… not one of them," he muttered.
The man raised his hands and began speaking quickly, Spanish. None of them understood a word.
Lang frowned. "He's saying something… but what?
Paul gestured toward one of the tents. "Weber, get Fischer, he is the only one that can speak some Spanish."
Weber groaned but went to shake Fischer awake, muttering, "How is that guy still sleeping with all this commotion?"
Within moments, Fischer appeared, rubbing his eyes. Paul nodded toward the man. "Help us. He's trying to tell us something."
Fischer crouched beside the wanderer, listening intently. Then he turned to the others, translating quickly: "He… he says he didn't mean to scare us. And he is hurt," Fischer added, pointing at the blood pouring from the man's leg.
Lang looked at Paul, and Paul understood immediately: this man could be their ticket home. Without hesitation, Lang ordered, "Weber, go get the first aid kit we got from the Spaniards. And Fischer, tell the man we are sorry. The German army does not kill innocents."
Paul raised an eyebrow, but the expression vanished as quickly as it appeared.
Weber jogged back to the supply tent and returned moments later with the first aid kit, dropping it carefully near the injured man. Paul and Lang crouched beside him, while Fischer knelt and began to calm the stranger, murmuring reassurances in Spanish.
Paul tore strips from his uniform to improvise bandages, pressing them against the wound while Lang applied antiseptic from the kit. The man flinched but didn't resist, eyes darting nervously into the darkness beyond the camp.
Lang crouched beside the wanderer, studying him carefully. "We are German soldiers, separated from our troop… through an accident," he said, through Fischer, who translated. "We are here to support Franco and we mistook you for a loyalist soldier."
Lang held his breath, knowing everything depended on whether the man was a loyalist or a supporter of Franco. The wanderer's eyes narrowed slightly, but then he slowly nodded, accepting the explanation.
The man spoke quickly to Fischer, whose grin grew wider the longer they talked.
"What did he say?" Paul asked, curiosity sharpening his tone.
"Long live Franco..." Fischer chuckled, patting the man on the back.
Paul and Lang were relieved; it seemed their luck had finally turned around.
Lang spoke with the man a little longer, explaining their situation and their destination. The group also learned the man's name—Guiseppe.
Guiseppe listened carefully, then laughed wholeheartedly and said, "Mi casa"—my home.
He agreed to lead them and even pointed out their current location on the map. It was only forty kilometers to Salamanca.
But the real problem lay in the frontline, cutting directly between them and their destination, a dangerous stretch that could mean death if they were spotted.
Paul looked at the distance, the first small streaks of sunlight crept over the horizon, casting long, golden shadows across the camp.
Paul glanced at Lang, "Looks like we could start moving right away."
Lang nodded, already scanning the area. "Yes. We should pack up and be ready to follow him while the light is still low, it will give us some cover."
The group set out immediatly after packing up their supplies. Guiseppe limped ahead, leaning on a stick Paul had fashioned for him, yet his eyes seemed brighter now, his steps more certain.
Fischer kept close to him, translating pieces of the wanderer's words."He says he's from a small village outside Salamanca. The land here has seen more blood than he ever thought possible. The war caught him off guard and tore him from his family. He says this fate has befallen many across Spain. He had hoped Franco's forces would push further south so he could finally reach Salamanca. Now, after meeting us, he feels the resolve to risk crossing the frontline at last, he can't bear the separation any longer."
"He seems like a good man, worthy of our trust,"Paul answered, happy with their luck.
Fischer opened his mouth to respond, but before he could, another sound cut through the silence—a crackling voice. It came from inside Weber's backpack. Paul quickly pulled out the stolen Spanish radio, the one they had assumed broken, and turned up the volume.
Fischer moved in close, brow furrowed as he strained to catch the words.
Giuseppe stiffened more and more with every sentence that poured from the device.
"They're looking for us," Fischer translated stiffly. "They know what happened in the village yesterday… and they must be close. Otherwise this radio wouldn't even pick up the signal, right?"
Paul exchanged a sharp glance with Lang. The relief moments ago drained away, replaced by the realization that their luck was still hanging by a thread.
"Let's go further away from the road,"Paul suggested.
Lang agreed.
They pushed into the dry, waist-high grass, weaving further from the path. The stalks scratched against their uniforms. Then, up ahead, Paul spotted a dark dot on the horizon. It grew fast, too fast.
He reacted quickly, turning and signaling his comrades to lie down.
The group dropped low into the brittle grass just as the rumble of an engine began to roll next to them.
Dust plumed into the morning air, and the dot on the horizon sharpened into the outline of a truck. Spanish soldiers clung to its sides, rifles slung casually over their shoulders.
Paul pressed his cheek against the dry earth, heart pounding in his ears. Every crunch of the truck's wheels over the stony road felt deafening.
The vehicle roared past. For a terrifying second, one of them turned his head, scanning the fields. Paul's breath caught in his throat, convinced the man's eyes would lock onto the patch of grass concealing them.
But the soldier spat lazily over the side and turned back, shouting something to his comrades.
The truck rattled on, its noise fading into the distance until only the cicadas and the pounding of Paul's heart remained.
Paul slowly lifted his head, exchanging a knowing look with Lang.
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