The night sky and the full moon illuminated the road just enough for Fischer to make out the faint outline of the path. He had to press the brake hard whenever they drove through a forest or anything that blocked the starlight.
When the truck slowed drastically again, because Fischer couldn’t see the road, Paul sighted, adjusting his posture again.
Weber, sitting across from him, wore an annoyed look. "Can you remind me again why we’re driving without lights?"
Paul replied, as if he’d answered the question hundreds of times before:"It’s just common sense. We’d encounter more people, possibly more soldiers. Considering the only Spanish in this truck is our uniform, that wouldn’t be ideal."
From the driver’s cabin, Lang’s voice cut through the tension. "How about taking a break here? I think we all need it, and it’s only ten kilometers to the frontline. Any further, and the number of soldiers will exponentially increase."
The suggestion was met with quiet agreement. Fischer, in particular, seemed relieved, he looked like he might have a heart attack after almost running off the road a dozen times in the past hour.
The group parked in a small clearing, the rumbling of the engine finally dying down. The moonlight spilled across the ground, casting long shadows over the truck and the surrounding trees.
"How about making a small fire, heating up our food and ourselves?" Paul suggested.
Although they knew it was dangerous, the tired and hungry group quickly agreed, considering the conditions and the energy-draining day ahead.
The disciplined soldiers carried out their tasks in coordination and with haste, one person setting up tents, another collecting firewood. Only one man sat helplessly in the middle, not knowing what to do or simply not wanting to do anything.
Guiseppe.
Paul, always keeping an eye on the man, noticed his behavior and shouted for him to gather some firewood too, gesturing at the pile of wood in his hands.
Guiseppe got up pretty quickly, probably still scared of me,
The dry leaves crunched beneath Paul’s leather boots as he made his way further into the forest, his thoughts always racing whenever he was alone and not doing anything major. He walked for some time, the events of the day playing in his mind.
But then a distant laughter woke him from his trance. Who is so loud? Is it Guiseppe, that idiot? Paul thought, annoyed, he will get us all killed.
Paul turned around, having deemed the amount of firewood sufficient, and prepared to scold whoever was making so much noise.
His pace was steady, both arms burdened with firewood. He made his way around the truck, only to find the source of the laughter: Fischer, Weber, Lang—and three other men.
Three others?
The firewood slipped from his grip, tumbling to the ground. Paul’s hand went instinctively to his pistol.
But before he could draw, his eyes locked with Major Lang’s. The major had already seen him. With the faintest shake of his head, deliberate and unmistakable, Lang stopped him cold.
What the hell—does he want to avoid bloodshed? Or what’s his problem? Paul thought. But before he could dwell on it, the three strangers followed Lang’s gaze and turned to face him.
Their uniforms and worn leather belts left no doubt. Spanish soldiers.
Fischer, clearly caught off guard, stepped forward with a nervous grin. Switching into halting Spanish, he made the introductions, his words stumbling and uneven.
Paul straightened, forcing a polite smile. "Encantado," he said carefully, shaping each syllable as best he could, straining to keep any trace of his German accent from slipping through.
The Spanish exchanged glances, measuring him, before offering some nods.
They turned around towards Fischer, the most talkative of their new friends.
Paul made his way towards Lang, his hand always tense, ready to grab his pistol.
He inclined his head, whispering into Lang’s ear with noticible irritation:"What the fuck is this? What is your plan here?"
Lang answered, whispering too:"We had no choice to be frank. No one had their weapons near them when our guest appeared, asking to stay the night here."He gave a sarcastic smile. "But I thought about it, they could get us some valuable insider information, if Fischer plays it nicely, of course. So let’s wait for a bit."
"This can’t possibly end well,"Paul mummbled barely audible.
Both pairs of eyes shifted to Fischer, who let out another awkward laugh, speaking as little as he could.
Paul and Lang stood close, listening, their bodies tense, as if hell itself might erupt at any second.
The fire crackled beside them, giving them some warmth.
But then one of the Spanish soldiers started to laught, talking about something funny.
From the jumble of Spanish words, there was one part clear enough for them to catch: "...General Hugo Sperrle..."
Paul and Lang’s eyes locked, wide with alarm. Before either could react, Fischer, who had clearly caught the same words, probably even more, blurted out in German, far too loudly:
"What?"
"Shit," Fischer hissed, slapping a hand over his mouth. But the damage was done.
The Spaniards exchanged bewildered looks. A heartbeat later, realization struck, what they had heard was no Spanish at all. One by one, their eyes widened, and as if on cue, their hands went for their rifles.
But Paul and Lang were quicker, already braced for this very moment.
Paul’s pistol came up in a blur. The first shot cracked, striking a Spaniard clean in the head. Blood sprayed as the man’s eyes went dull, his body collapsing lifelessly.
The second and third shots slammed into another soldier’s chest. He staggered back, choking, clutching desperately at the wounds.
A fourth round ended him. His body hit the dirt with a heavy, muffled thud.
Paul’s gaze snapped toward the last man, but he was already crumpling, brought down by Lang’s precise shot.
"Well, that was unexpected." Paul shot Lang a sharp look.
"That’s not what matters right now, Heinrich." Lang’s voice was firm, his attention shifting to Fischer, who still had his hand put over his mouth. "What the hell did they say about General Sperrle? And how do they even know his name?"
Fischer exhaled shakily, lowering his hand. "They have him. The General’s in prison. They were bragging about it, said he was intercepted near the front, trying to reach the Legion."
Paul swallowed hard. The thought pressed in on him like a weight. If it could happen to Sperrle... it could just as easily happen to them.
For a moment, no one spoke. The silence hung heavy, broken only by the faint rustle of wind through the trees and the distant crackle of their fire.
Finally, Lang muttered, "If they’ve captured Sperrle... the entire Legion could be blind without his command." His jaw tightened. "We can’t just sit on this."
Fischer rubbed his forehead, eyes darting between them. "You’re not seriously suggesting—"
"What choice do we have?" Paul cut him off, his voice low but firm. He had already run the calculations in his mind. He wanted to survive, of course, but with or without the General, danger stalked them all the same. Rescuing him or not, what real difference would it make to their chances? Perhaps it would even increase them.
If Sperrle stayed in enemy hands, the Legion would falter, command would crumble, and the chaos would swallow them all. But if they pulled him out—if they succeeded—the rewards could be immense.
Paul felt the thought burn through him: this could push him higher up the ladder, bringing him a step closer towards his goals.
A hair’s breadth closer to the Führer. A step nearer the summit.
His mind had already been steeled the night before; tonight was no revelation, only confirmation. He had chosen this path, chosen to embrace the life fate had thrust upon him. Now it was simply a matter of acting on it.
Before they could talk it out further, a sound snapped their attention. As one, the group turned, pistols raised.
But it was only Guiseppe, his arms piled high with firewood. He froze at the sight of their guns trained on him, blinking in surprise. His expression carried no guilt, only the startled look of a man who had stumbled into the wrong moment.
A small chuckle slipped out of Fischer, the absurdity of the moment breaking through his nerves. Paul and Lang, too, felt the corners of their mouths tug upward as well. For just a moment, the weight of gunfire, capture, and impossible plans eased, replaced by the ridiculous sight of Guiseppe, wide-eyed and his hands filled with firewood.
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