Ukraine — July 1941
The sky had changed. The low clouds didn't bring a storm, but they dulled the landscape. Everything seemed covered in a gray film: the fields, the roads, even the soldiers.
The Panzer IV came to a halt at a crossroads near an abandoned train station. The German convoy took advantage of the pause imposed by high command. Rumors spoke of skirmishes ahead. Falk dismounted without a word. His men followed with well-practiced routine.
—"Radio's quiet. HQ is reassigning sectors," Helmut said, taking off his headset.
—"Then we wait," Falk replied.
Nothing more was needed.
The first truck appeared after a gentle curve, raising a fine layer of dust. Three more followed, all with soldiers seated in the back, armed and alert. Some wore helmets, others blue berets bearing the yoke and arrows of the Falange.
"They're Spanish," Ernst said, squinting. "Take a good look."
"Falangists," Konrad added.
The vehicles braked slowly. Three soldiers jumped down from one of them. One, dark-haired and weathered, freshly shaved, approached with a firm step.
—"Comrades! Leibstandarte?"
Falk nodded.
"Yes."
"Spanish volunteers. First Blue Brigade. Same zone: Uman."
"What are you looking for?"
"Regrouping point. Our officer's ahead. We stayed behind due to a vehicle breakdown."
Falk nodded and pointed east.
"No confirmed contact for five kilometers. After that... there's noise."
"Then we're on the right track."
Another Spaniard jumped down. Younger. Natural smile. He looked at the Panzer IV like one might look at a monument. He gently touched one of the side plates and murmured:
—"Damn… what a beast."
Lukas, crouched by a wheel, heard him. He stood up with greasy hands and a relaxed frown.
—"Like the tank?"
The Spaniard's eyes widened.
—"You speak Spanish?"
"A bit. Learned it in... Gibraltar."
The Spaniard looked surprised. Then he smiled.
—"You were there?"
"Yes. With my unit. Good place… good food," Lukas said, his accent rough but genuine.
"Good wine too," the Spaniard added, laughing. "And good people, if you know how to look."
"I liked it," Lukas admitted. "That's why I learned a little."
Falk watched from a few paces away. He said nothing but paused as he saw them shake hands. Briefly. Like men. Like warriors. Foreigners… and yet not.
"What's your name?" Lukas asked.
"Serrano," said the young man. "José Antonio."
Konrad cracked a half-smile from the tank's side.
"Well, there's a name."
Serrano lifted his chin.
"Here we all know why we're fighting. Not for Germany. For the Falange. Against communism. That war… is ours too."
Falk met his eyes. It wasn't arrogance. It was certainty.
"Then let that certainty keep you going," Falk said.
"And your steel do the same," Serrano replied.
The Spanish trucks resumed their journey. As they disappeared down the dusty road, Lukas climbed back into the Panzer in silence. Before closing the hatch, he murmured:
—"They're not so different."
Falk heard him, but didn't answer.
Sometimes, war took the shape of an encounter.A crossing.A conversation between soldiers.And an unspoken promise:
We'll see each other later. If we survive.