“Obedience ends where injustice begins.” – Colonel Claus Schenk, Count von Stauffenberg
Part One: The Tunnel
The air tasted of smoke and soot, mixed with the stench of burning oil and cold metal. Inside the railway tunnel, an eerie silence hung heavy, broken only by the occasional cough and hushed whispers of soldiers. Somewhere above, water dripped onto rusted rails—tak-tak-tak—always the same rhythm, always indifferent. The monotonous sound echoed through the darkness, gnawing at the nerves.
Before the tunnel portal stood motionless a Panzerkampfwagen VI Tiger. Its massive silhouette loomed menacingly against the gray sky. The rear faced dense scrubland that resembled a theater backdrop, behind which isolated birds stirred cautiously. Once a symbol of German supremacy—now it was nothing more than a useless hunk of steel. The engine had been dead for weeks. At least the turret and cannon still worked—theoretically, anyway. The ammunition had dwindled to a single, final crate of shells sitting forlornly beside the tank.
In the tank’s shadow crouched two men in filthy uniforms. Dust clung to their shoulders. Blood—not their own—stained their sleeves. The older one, Sergeant Major Heinrich Keller—everyone just called him “Heinz”—pulled on a cigarette. His eyes were empty. Not empty from fear, but empty from hope.
“Well, Otto, I guess that’s it then,” Heinz muttered, exhaling smoke as if trying to expel the last six years from his lungs. The smoke was thin—one of his last cigarettes.
“Really? Funny, I don’t hear the angels singing yet,” replied young radioman Otto Wagner with a crooked grin. His hands trembled slightly as he checked the radio equipment. It had been spitting nothing but static for hours—shhhhh-shhhhh—a sound that was driving Otto mad.
“The war is officially over, you idiot,” Heinz said drily. He flicked the cigarette butt away and crushed it under his muddy boot. “They announced it on the radio. But I’d bet there’s someone out there who hasn’t heard yet.”
Otto laughed bitterly. “The war’s over. Tell that to the old beast here. You think it knows?” He tapped a wrench against the tank’s heavy armor. The sound was dull—dunk-dunk—like a heartbeat made of steel.
Heinz smirked. “That thing knew it was over long before we did. Why else would it refuse to get us out of here for weeks? I’m telling you, that beast has a mind of its own. And that mind is sick of this.”
A distant rumble cut them off abruptly. Heinz snapped upright and instinctively grabbed his pistol—a Luger P08, black, cold. Otto peered nervously into the distance. His radio operator’s ear was tuned to engine sounds. This one was wrong.
“Engine noise. Getting closer,” Otto whispered tensely. “But not ours. New engine. Hot engine.”
“Americans?” Heinz squinted.
“Yeah, but… something about this sounds damn wrong,” Otto said uncertainly. His stomach twisted. After four years of war, he knew this feeling—the body knew before the mind understood.
Then, like a scene from some absurd play, an American Sherman tank rolled slowly into view. The M4A1 was relatively unscathed from combat—you could see it in the smoother armor, the clean front. Its turret swiveled slowly, like the nose of some curious creature sniffing around. The tank moved in zigzag patterns, as if the driver wasn’t sure where he was. It stopped abruptly, and the hatch squealed open.
An American soldier carefully poked his head out—young, sun-tanned skin, blonde hair under his helmet. He was maybe twenty-five, and his gaze wasn’t hostile—it was curious.
He looked over at the motionless Tiger and called out in a typical American accent: “Morning, fellas! Is this the right address for surrender, or are you waiting for a formal invitation?”
Otto glanced bewildered at Heinz, who just offered a dry grin and called back: “This is Germany, you got that right! But if you want a beer, you’ll have to bring it yourself.”
A brief moment of awkward silence followed. Then the American burst into relieved laughter. His tension fell away like armor.
“Aw hell, wish I’d known that earlier. We thought you guys were buying!”
Otto couldn’t help himself—he broke into genuine laughter, the first real laugh in days. The sound echoed through the tunnel opening. All the tension dissolved in an instant. Heinz rolled his eyes and slowly holstered his pistol. His finger had still been on the trigger.
“Very funny,” he muttered to himself.
He looked back toward the tunnel portal. Deep in the darkness lay a cargo that was meant to protect them—or destroy them. Heinz sighed heavily. The war might be officially over, but for him, there was still one final task.
And it might be worse than anything he’d experienced so far.
Heinz pulled out his cigarette packet again and stared pensively at the last remaining cigarette. After four years of war, he’d learned: you smoke the last cigarette before someone else takes it. He stuck it between his lips and lit it with cold fingers.
His gaze drifted to Otto, who was sitting beside him on the ground, still chuckling softly.
Otto Wagner was barely twenty-two. His face was pale, his body exhausted. The strain of the last months had sunk deep into his bones. Before the war, he’d been an apprentice at a small radio repair shop in Nuremberg—a quiet, observant kid who understood electronics before he understood words. He’d never wanted to be a soldier. The Wehrmacht had needed him. Or rather, they’d simply rounded him up and sent him to the front.
Otto had never stopped dreaming of peace. He talked often about home—his mother waiting for him, the warm kitchen, the smell of potato soup. The old workshop he wanted to take over someday. But now all of that seemed as unreachable as the stars in the night sky.
Heinz watched Otto with a fatherly gaze. He felt responsible for the young man—ever since they’d been thrown together in the Tiger two years ago. As commander, Heinz had seen many men die. Good men. Experienced men. Men who shouldn’t have had to die. But Otto was different—too young, too innocent to end up out here. Heinz had sworn to himself that he’d do everything to get Otto home safely.
He also thought of the other members of his crew—Schorsch and Kalle—who were probably lurking somewhere, desperately trying to cobble together a meal from whatever rations remained.
“Stop laughing, you fool,” Heinz rumbled, inhaling the smoke. “Or the Amis will think we’ve actually got something to celebrate.”
Otto wiped away tears of laughter from the corner of his eye and looked at his commander with an expression that was half-apologetic, half-defiant. “Heinz, if we don’t laugh, what then? Crying won’t get us anywhere.”
Heinz nodded slowly. Otto was right. Laughter was the only thing that still worked.
“You’re right. Better we keep our sense of humor. It’s all we’ve got left anyway.”
A brief moment of silence settled. Heinz breathed out the smoke slowly and watched the American Sherman. The soldier—probably a Lieutenant—had climbed out of the tank. He was now talking to his men. They seemed nervous, but not aggressive.
Heinz noticed the Sherman cautiously moving closer—directly toward the loading area beside the track. The Americans had long since spotted what lay behind the narrow opening: a Panzerlok. A BR57. That heavy beast was hard to miss no matter how much concrete the Wehrmacht had hastily piled in front of it.
Part Two: The Decision
Heinz Keller had always been a soldier—since he turned eighteen. Once, he’d believed in victory, worn his uniform with pride, and firmly believed he was doing the right thing. But now, after all the battles, defeats, and losses, he only believed in one thing: somehow staying alive.
And maybe—just maybe—saving at least one of his men.
The faces of dead comrades haunted him at night. Gustav Höfer, his best gunner, with shrapnel wounds that bled him out in minutes. Franz Wagner—no relation to Otto—whose head was torn apart by machine gun fire. And all the others whose names he wanted to forget but couldn’t.
“Damn it, Otto,” he said finally, quietly and thoughtfully, “did you ever imagine it would end like this? Here we sit beside a tin can that won’t run anymore, waiting for the victors to tell us what comes next.”
Otto sighed heavily and scratched his head awkwardly. “To be honest, Heinz, I never thought I’d make it this far. You know I’m bad at shooting, terrible at marching, and no good as a soldier anyway. I should’ve been lying dead in some French mud long ago.”
Heinz shot him a sharp, reproving look. His eyes suddenly intense and alert. “Stop it. You’ve done better than most of the ones who called themselves heroes. Courage isn’t not being afraid, Otto. Courage means being afraid and doing it anyway. And in that, you’re the best I know.”
The words weren’t sentimental—Heinz wasn’t a man for that sort of thing. They were blunt, precise, true. That’s what made them hit so hard.
Otto looked at Heinz in surprise, clearly moved by his words. Then he grinned crookedly again. “Thanks, Heinz. But you know the best of us is right now turning his last bit of tobacco into smoke, right?”
Heinz looked at the glowing tip of his cigarette and took one final drag before flicking it onto the tracks. The ember fell into the darkness.
“Eventually everything stops burning, Otto. Even this damn war.”
Otto was quiet for a moment, stared pensively toward the Sherman, then asked seriously: “What do you think they’ll do with us?”
“What they want,” Heinz replied flatly. “We don’t have much to say anymore. But I know this for certain: I won’t let anything happen to you or the others. War or no war, surrender or not—I’ll look after you until you’re all safely home.”
Otto looked deep into Heinz’s eyes and nodded slowly. He’d never doubted that Heinz meant it. For Otto, Heinz Keller had become more than a commander. He was a friend, almost like the older brother he’d never had.
The Sherman opened its hatch again. The American called out more seriously now: “Okay, friends. I’m proposing we settle this peacefully. Can we talk officially? And I mean the men tinkering around in that train too—we can see you anyway!”
Heinz struggled to his feet. Every movement announced pain. His legs were stiff. His knee ached—old wound from 1943. Add two weeks without a proper shower, a population of lice that had established colonies in his uniform, and breath so foul he disgusted himself.
This wasn’t regulation. This was war’s end.
He brushed dust off his uniform and looked at Otto. “Stay here and keep an eye on the radio. If things go bad, you can always scream.”
Otto grinned. “Then I’ll scream real loud. Promise.”
Heinz just shook his head and walked toward the American, hands raised. With each movement, he felt every single bone in his body—bruised ribs, bullet wound in the left thigh, sharp pains in his back. He was a tank that didn’t work anymore, just like the Tiger behind him.
The thought made him laugh.
Heinz saw from the corner of his eye how the American commander also climbed down and carefully jumped to the ground. The man was no older than Heinz—mid-thirties—tall, solidly built, and surprisingly calm despite the tense situation. His uniform was clean, his boots gleamed. On his shoulder shone the silver insignia of a Lieutenant.
“Lieutenant James Cooper, 4th Armored Division,” the American introduced himself matter-of-factly and surprisingly offered Heinz a friendly handshake.
The handshake was firm, not excessive. No power play. Heinz recognized a professional when he saw one.
“Sergeant Major Heinz Keller. And until recently, Tiger commander,” Heinz replied and returned the pressure. Their eyes met for a moment. Cooper looked deeper, as if trying to see past Heinz’s eyes into the abyss behind them.
Cooper glanced skeptically toward the motionless Tiger. “Looks like we both have a broken tank on our hands, Keller. Mine can only threaten the sky, and yours seems to have lost interest in the war a while ago.”
Heinz grinned dryly. “Engine’s shot. Probably committed suicide in protest of all the pointless orders.” A trace of genuine humor—dark, but authentic.
Cooper laughed quietly and nodded approvingly. Then his expression turned serious. “Still, we need to talk. There’s a locomotive in that tunnel, and behind it something your guys are desperately trying to hide. What exactly is in there?”
Heinz hesitated briefly. That was the question everything hinged on. His eyes wandered to the tunnel portal—to that dark hole that looked like an open mouth. His face became grave.
He knew he really didn’t have a choice anymore. The war was officially over, and keeping secrets suddenly seemed pointless. Yet deep inside him, he felt an inner resistance—a kind of final sense of duty toward orders he himself barely believed in anymore.
“All I know is: what’s in there was always more important to us than this tank. We were told this cargo must never fall into enemy hands. If it was in danger of being discovered, the order was clear: destroy it. At any cost.”
Cooper’s look turned hard. His jaw clenched. “At any cost usually means nothing good, Keller. Explosives? Poison gas?”
“If it were that simple,” Heinz replied with a dark undertone. “It’s documents. Research results or blueprints—something like that. Something that’s apparently worth more to your brass and ours than our lives.”
Cooper looked at him intently and then spoke with a calm, determined voice. “Listen, Heinz. The war is over. I’m done executing pointless orders, and apparently so are you. Let’s just go in there, take a look at the thing together, and decide what to do with it.”
Heinz regarded the American suspiciously. Suspicion ran deep—after four years of war, suspicion meant survival. At the same time, he felt relief wash over him. Here was someone who understood. Someone who was tired. Someone who was done with the madness.
But suddenly, sharp and explosive, Otto screamed from behind:
“Heinz! Get back here! The Captain’s back! And he does NOT look happy!”
Heinz spun around abruptly. Captain Martin Bergmann came marching toward them with energetic, urgent steps, flanked by two other crew members. Bergmann’s face was red, his eyes gleaming with the madness of those who’d clung too long to senseless orders.
“What the hell is going on here, Keller?” Bergmann bellowed with a cutting voice. His tone wasn’t just loud—it was commanding. “You’re chatting pleasantly with the enemy? I damn well hope you didn’t tell him what’s in there!”
Part Three: The Conflict
Heinz stared at Bergmann. In that moment, he understood intuitively that the future would be decided here—not by weapons or tactics, but by the will to continue or stop.
“Not yet, Captain,” Heinz replied calmly, though his heart was racing wildly. “But the war is over. Maybe we should think about how many of us make it home alive.”
“Alive?” Bergmann hissed and stepped closer. His voice dropped to a whisper—and that was far more dangerous than the shouting. “Our duty doesn’t end until we’ve either saved or destroyed that cargo. The order is unambiguous! And you will execute it. Understood?”
Heinz pressed his lips together and said nothing. A deep conflict raged within him. The real danger didn’t lurk outside. It waited in the heads of his own people.
Later, deep in the tunnel’s darkness, Captain Martin Bergmann stood alone beside the massive BR57. In the pale light of emergency lamps, the deep creases in his face were visible—each one a scar from years of fighting. He leaned his forehead against the cold locomotive wall.
An order was an order. That was the first law he’d been taught at seventeen. Obedience. Duty. Fatherland.
Back then—back then the Fatherland had been real. There was still hope. There were still victories.
Now it was May 1945. The Russians were coming from the East, already at the Elbe. The Americans from the West. Berlin had fallen. Hitler was dead. Dönitz was Reich President—a U-boat commander! They’d sent a naval officer to lead Germany because there was nobody else left.
And yet—damn it all—the orders still stood.
Bergmann pulled the crumpled directive from his pocket. The paper was thin and worn, but the text was clear:
Panzerlok BR57, Harz Sector Tunnel.
Cargo: Technical documents, highest classification. Must not fall into enemy hands.
If compromised: Destroy.
Command from Wehrmacht High Command.
Bergmann had read this sentence a hundred times. His whole life was this sentence. His entire existence was this cargo.
This chance.
New technologies. New weapons. Blueprints for machines that didn’t yet exist. This war was lost—even Bergmann knew that. But the next war would come. In five years? Ten years? The Russians and the Americans—they didn’t like each other. Everybody knew that.
And when the next war came, Germany would need these plans. These blueprints meant a return to power.
This wasn’t madness. This was strategy.
Bergmann straightened up. His hand didn’t tremble. His resolve was set: this cargo would be saved. No matter how many men had to die for it.
After the unpleasant encounter with Captain Bergmann, an anxious silence settled. Cooper watched as Heinz returned to his radioman with pressed lips. The American wasn’t stupid—he saw the hierarchy, the tension, the quiet rebellion in Heinz’s eyes.
Back at the Tiger, Heinz looked at Otto, who was nervously shifting his weight. The other two crew members—Hans “Schorsch” Gehring, the driver, and Karl “Kalle” Breuer, the gunner—also emerged from the tunnel. Their faces were sunken.
“This Captain is one stubborn bastard,” Kalle muttered quietly, dropping beside Heinz. His face was gray. “He actually wants us to blow the tunnel. Doesn’t matter if we go with it.”
“Like you expected anything different,” Schorsch growled darkly. The Bavarian pulled a small, crushed chocolate bar from his pocket and eyed it skeptically. “Last ration. Anyone interested? Nah, I’ll eat it myself.”
Otto grabbed it lightning-quick. “Thanks, Schorsch! I thought I was starving out here.”
Kalle rolled his eyes. “You ate half of Heinz’s bread ration this morning. If anyone’s starving here, it’s the Sergeant.”
“Let it go,” Heinz interrupted the discussion wearily. “We’ve got bigger problems.”
“What did the Ami say?” Schorsch asked curiously.
Heinz glanced thoughtfully toward Cooper, who was now conferring with his crew.
“The Lieutenant over there seems like a reasonable guy,” Heinz said slowly. “But we mustn’t forget—he’s still the enemy.”
“Enemy?” Otto asked skeptically. “Heinz, I don’t think anyone here is really an enemy anymore.”
“Tell that to Bergmann,” Kalle replied bitterly. “You’d better shoot him in the head first if you come at him with talk of peace.”
“The guy’s completely insane,” Schorsch said, lowering his voice. “Has any of you ever found out what’s really in there?”
Heinz shook his head slowly. “Just that it had to stay secret. Plans, documents—I’m not exactly sure. But valuable enough to blow the tunnel and us along with it.”
Otto glanced worriedly toward the tunnel entrance. “We could just leave. Nobody could blame us now.”
“Aw, Otto,” Heinz smiled sadly. “Where would you go? The war’s over, but where? Home? And if they catch you along the way and find out you deserted, they’ll shoot you anyway. Or the Americans’ll throw you in a POW camp. Who knows how long.”
“Beautiful mess,” Schorsch cursed quietly. “Sounds like we’ve got no choice.”
“We always have a choice,” Heinz said seriously. “We just have to be smart about it.”
At that moment, Lieutenant Cooper approached them. His movements were deliberate—not hostile, but with a warning.
“Keller,” Cooper began carefully, “I don’t like the looks of this. Your captain in there seems like a man who wants to keep fighting no matter what. Is he dangerous?”
Heinz looked at his comrades. “Bergmann is more than dangerous. He’s convinced that surrender is betrayal. Men like him fight until their last breath.”
Cooper sighed deeply. “And you? What about you and your men? Are you ready to stop the madness before it breaks loose?”
Otto nodded immediately and vigorously. Schorsch looked equally convinced. Only Kalle gave a reluctant rumble—but that was Kalle’s way.
Heinz looked Cooper in the eye with determination. “We’ve endured this madness long enough, Lieutenant. But you know as well as I do that Bergmann won’t just let us walk away.”
Cooper nodded gravely. “Then we have the same problem. I’m done watching people die for nothing. But we’ll need to work together if we’re going to prevent that.”
Heinz took a deep breath and extended his hand to Cooper again. “Agreed, Cooper. But I want honesty. Whatever’s in that damn train—neither of us can use it to continue the war.”
Cooper shook his hand decisively. His grip was firm. “You have my word.”
Suddenly, a loud sound interrupted the scene. A radio transmission came through. Otto jumped up and held the headset to his ear. His eyes went wide.
“Heinz!” he called out in alarm. “Radio message! Someone’s on the way!”
“Fanatics,” Kalle hissed tensely. “Reinforcements for Bergmann.”
Heinz and Cooper locked eyes and understood each other without words. The decision was imminent.
Only a few minutes later, the rattling sound of a heavy engine tore through the uneasy silence. A different engine than their Sherman. Everyone froze. Heinz saw the dust cloud on the narrow road first—a white mushroom approaching slowly. Then the truck itself: an Opel Blitz, loaded with at least ten armed men on its bed. Volkssturm units, the last loyalists. They held on with one hand, gripping their MP40s with the other.
Their faces weren’t wild. They were empty. That was worse than madness.
“Bergmann’s reinforcements,” Heinz cursed. His voice was quiet, but the hand that drew his pistol trembled slightly. Combat adrenaline. “Everyone to cover! NOW!”
Cooper raced to his Sherman. “Prepare for contact!” he bellowed. The machine gun was loaded.
Schorsch, Kalle, and Otto took cover behind the massive Tiger. Heinz felt the through-frozen metal at his back. A good feeling. Metal would deflect bullets.
The truck braked with a dull roar. Before the wheels even stopped, the soldiers jumped off. Their movements weren’t wild—they were trained.
The first machine gun fire wasn’t quiet. It was precise. Crack-crack-crack—three rounds per second. An MG34. The bullets struck the Tiger—a metallic clang that vibrated through Heinz’s entire body.
“Radio!” Otto screamed. “They’re shooting at the radio!”
The radio was their insurance. If they lost it, they were completely blind.
“Hold on!” Heinz roared and grabbed Otto by the collar, pulled him deeper behind the Tiger. A salvo of bullets whistled over Otto’s head—so close that the pressure wave mussed his hair.
Otto didn’t scream. That would’ve wasted time. Instead, he crawled forward, protected the radio with his own body.
That was courage. That was survival reflex.
Kalle returned fire. His MP40 chattered—a higher, faster sound than the fanatics’ machine gun. Kalle fired in bursts—three rounds, breath, three rounds. Precise. No wasted words. Just the craft.
A soldier on the truck bed fell. He just crumpled, as if losing power.
Cooper in the Sherman shot back—the machine gun was louder, deeper, a rhythmic rattling. Heinz saw the tracer rounds—a red line straight toward the truck.
The soldiers jumped off. Not panicked—tactically. They sought cover behind the truck, behind trees, in ditches.
This was professional. This was damn dangerous.
“They know what they’re doing!” Heinz called over to Cooper. Cooper’s eyes met his—a look full of understanding. Yes, these were soldiers.
A grenade arced through the air. It landed about five meters behind the Tiger.
The explosion wasn’t sharp. It was dull. The pressure wave hit the Tiger like a punch. Heinz was thrown against the armor, his shoulder blade cracking against steel. Pain—sharp, cutting pain—shot through his left side.
For a moment, he couldn’t breathe.
Otto screamed, but not from fear. A cry of pain. A splinter had caught him in the thigh. Blood seeped into his pants.
“Otto!” Heinz called out, but Otto waved him off.
“I’m okay! The radio’s okay!”
The almost comical thing about the situation was his priority. Not the wound. The radio.
Schorsch shot with his rifle—crack-crack—precise shots. A soldier fell like a ripe fruit.
The battle wasn’t chaotic. It was structured. Second-level bravery: don’t see, don’t hear, just act.
Then—and Heinz would never forget this—something happened that changed everything.
Cooper’s man screamed: “Reinforcements from the left!”
Another vehicle. A second truck. From the same direction.
Heinz understood immediately: This was coordinated. A damn ambush.
Heinz forced himself upright. His whole body ached. In his head, only the tactical machine was working.
The last shot. The only grenade in the Tiger. That’s all they had.
“Schorsch!” Heinz bellowed into the tank. “Traverse shot! Turret manually!”
“On it!” Schorsch growled. Heinz heard the scraping of metal—the manual crank. A worn mechanism.
Kalle was already in position. He grabbed the last grenade from the crate. The projectile was about a meter long, heavy. He loaded it into the 88mm cannon’s chamber.
The turret rotated. Slowly. Very slowly.
“Faster!” Heinz screamed, even though he knew faster wasn’t possible.
“Would if I had three arms!” Schorsch screamed back.
Heinz squeezed into the commander’s position and looked through the sight device. The Tiger’s optical system was good—in daylight, very good. He saw the road, the truck, the soldiers in cover.
He also saw: The truck’s radio was active. They were calling for reinforcements.
That changed everything.
“More coming,” Heinz said to himself. “Maybe five minutes. Maybe less.”
The turret was now rotated about ninety degrees. Heinz adjusted the sight. Wind played a role—wind from the north would drift the round about ten centimeters east. Heinz corrected.
He didn’t aim at the truck directly. That would be too close to Cooper’s position. Instead, he aimed at the area behind it—open ground about fifteen meters back.
The idea: an explosion there would force the soldiers to change positions, would confuse them, would buy time.
“Target confirmed?” asked Schorsch.
“Yes,” said Heinz. “Fire!”
The feeling of a Tiger cannon firing is immediate. The recoil is brutal. The entire tank turret reared up—a vertical vibration that shook Heinz’s spine. His stomach jumped. His hearing vanished for a second—not deafness, but white silence.
The round screamed from the barrel.
Through the sight, Heinz didn’t see it—rounds are too fast—but he saw the impact. The explosion hit the earth about fifteen meters behind the truck. The soldiers became confused. Panic broke out.
One jumped up and ran—not tactically, but wildly. Cooper’s machine gun snapped to. The man fell.
But not all withdrew.
Some—three or four—pulled their grenades and threw them. Last-ditch effort—not strategy, but desperation.
The first grenade landed too close. Heinz felt the explosion, not heard it—he was the explosion. The pressure, the force, the vibration. Everything hurt. His vision blurred.
For a moment, he wasn’t Heinz Keller anymore. He was just body, just reflex.
Then: Silence.
Real silence. Not the absence of sound, but the absence of movement.
Heinz blinked. The sight was damaged—the optics were shattered. But that was okay.
The soldiers were retreating.
They ran back into the woods, toward the second truck, which quickly turned around and headed for the road.
They were gone.
Heinz collapsed in on himself. His heart was racing. His breathing came in heavy gasps. The pain came back—everywhere.
“Heinz?” Schorsch called from below. “Heinz, you okay?”
Heinz couldn’t answer immediately. He swallowed. His saliva tasted like blood and dirt.
“Yeah,” he finally managed. “It’s over.”
But that wasn’t true. And Heinz knew it.
Part Four: The Tunnel
After the battle, for a few brief moments, there was real silence. The birds came back. The wind blew softly. Then the men began to breathe.
Kalle looked at Heinz and simply said: “That bad?”
“Worse,” answered Heinz.
Kalle nodded. “Then we’re all damned. Good to know.”
Otto laughed nervously—the laugh of a young man who’d decided that insanity equals comedy. “Aren’t we already long damned?”
“Yeah,” said Schorsch dryly. “But now we don’t even get paid for it.”
Heinz shook his head. Gallows humor. The only thing that still worked.
Cooper hurried over to them, his face tense. “That was damn close. The next reinforcements are probably already on the way.”
Heinz nodded. He knew it. “We need to go in. Get out of this combat zone. The tunnel is the only shelter.”
Cooper looked at him. “And then?”
“Then,” said Heinz slowly, “we decide what happens to the cargo. Not Bergmann. Not the Americans. Us.”
The tunnel wasn’t large. It was narrow. Heinz felt the ceiling above him like a threat. The BR57 locomotive stood motionless in the dark—a black mass on rusted rails.
The light came from primitive oil lamps, provisionally hung on the walls. They cast dancing shadows. The air was cold, probably below fifteen degrees Celsius. The smell changed—no longer air, but metal smell, machine oil smell, and beneath it something decayed.
A soldier had died here—weeks ago. The body was probably somewhere in a corner. They hadn’t buried it—just left it.
Heinz could hear his own heartbeat. Fear made that possible.
“Damn dark in here,” Cooper said quietly. One hand on his pistol.
“Yes,” answered Heinz. “It’s supposed to be. They don’t want anyone to see this.”
They walked deeper into the tunnel. The temperature dropped further. Heinz felt the cold in his bones.
Bergmann stood beside the train, waiting for them. His eyes gleamed in the lamp light. His pistol was still holstered, but his hand rested on the grip.
“Captain,” Heinz began, trying to sound calm. “We want to know what’s in there.”
Bergmann laughed. Not a normal laugh—a hollow one. The laugh of a man who’d crossed the boundaries of sanity long ago.
“What’s in there?” Bergmann repeated. “That’s the future, Keller. Germany’s future. Our people’s future.”
Heinz saw the crates behind Bergmann—heavy, metallic, secured with chains. They didn’t look like ordinary cargo. They looked like a secret that would kill people.
“And how many people should die for this future?” Cooper asked quietly.
Bergmann turned to the American. His eyes became narrow slits.
“You have no right to be here,” Bergmann said in German—deliberately. “You’re the enemy. The invader.”
“I’m an American who’s tired of killing people,” Cooper replied in poor but understandable German. “That’s all I am.”
That stopped Bergmann for a second.
Heinz used the moment: “Captain, what’s in the crates?”
Bergmann took a deep breath. His gaze wandered to a sign on the wall—a handwritten list. Heinz could read the words, even in the dim light:
Project Wunderwaffe
Jet-powered aircraft
Technical specifications
Electronic guidance
Designated for future assembly
Heinz understood immediately. These were blueprints. Plans for machines that didn’t yet exist.
Bergmann saw his look: “Now you understand?”
“Yes,” said Heinz. “I understand. Those are dreams. Dreams on paper.”
“Dreams?” Bergmann hissed. “Those are truths! Truths that the enemy will have! And that’s why you can’t leave. That’s why you have to die!”
Bergmann pulled his pistol.
Cooper’s weapon was already raised.
For a moment, everything was completely silent.
Then—long, slow—Bergmann lowered his weapon. Not from fear. But from realization.
He was alone. He was the last loyalist. And everyone else was gone.
“You won’t understand,” Bergmann said quietly. “None of you will. This war is lost. But the next one… the next one will be won. With these plans.”
“No,” said Heinz. “There is no next war. There’s just… peace. Hard-fought, terrible, filthy peace. But peace.”
Bergmann stared at Heinz—as if hearing a foreign language.
Then he fell.
Not dramatically. He just crumpled, as if losing power.
Later they would learn: the heart attack had been quick.
Part Five: After the Storm
The crates were opened. The blueprints were there—Project Wunderwaffe, jet aircraft, technologies Germany might have possessed if the war had lasted longer or gone differently.
Cooper radioed his Division. A higher authority gave new orders: the blueprints were to be confiscated, the rest destroyed, everything was to officially never have existed.
It would take years before the world learned that Germany had been working on advanced weapons systems. And it would take even longer to understand that this war was just a harbinger of the next one.
Heinz, Otto, Schorsch, and Kalle were taken over by Cooper and his unit. They would be registered as “German prisoners of war”—a classification that granted them certain privileges. Within six months, they would be released, sent home to a country that no longer existed.
Otto’s mother was still waiting in Nuremberg. The city was destroyed, but the old radio shop still stood. Otto would rebuild it.
Schorsch would return to Munich and reopen his old roofing tile factory. He would meet Kalle—and the two would remain friends until they were old and gray.
Heinz would never marry again. He would never forget the names of the dead men. But he would live. He would become a teacher, would teach history, would try to show young people where obedience without conscience leads.
And James Cooper? He would never show Tommy that there were other ways. But Tommy would grow up with a father who knew it was right, sometimes, to break orders.
The tunnel was sealed. The blueprints disappeared into archives, would later be negotiated between the victorious powers at the Yalta Conference. The Red Cross would come and find the remains of the unknown soldier—the one who’d died weeks before. They would bury him.
And the locomotive? The BR57 would later be scrapped, its metal flowing into new industries—not war, but reconstruction.
Part Six: The Last Evening
On the last evening before they left the tunnel, Heinz and Otto sat together on a concrete pedestal, not far from the Tiger.
“Do you think we did the right thing?” Otto asked.
Heinz looked up at the sky. The day was fading. The night was coming.
“I don’t know,” he said. “But we did it. That’s enough.”
Otto nodded. After four years of war, he understood this kind of truth—not the big, philosophical one, but the small, personal one, where you just did what seemed right and hoped it was enough.
They sat silently together as the day died.
Somewhere far away, beyond the mountains, another war was beginning—what would be called the Cold War. Nations would divide. Ideologies would fight. And the blueprints they’d guarded here in the tunnel would play a role in this new battle.
But that wasn’t their war anymore.
For Heinz, Otto, Schorsch, Kalle, and James Cooper, it was finally over.
The Last Order had been fulfilled: they had survived.
And maybe—just maybe—they’d also helped prevent a greater catastrophe.
That had to be enough.
Afterword: History and Fiction
What is real in this story? What is invented?
These are the questions readers should ask after finishing, and I answer them here as honestly as I can.
Historical Accuracy
The setting is real: May 1945 was truly the moment of German surrender. The remnants of the Wehrmacht—splintered units, fanatical Volkssturm brigades, demoralized soldiers—actually existed. The so-called “Werwolf” units were real combat brigades composed of young men and fanatics who continued fighting in some cases into June 1945.
The tanks are accurate: The Tiger I (Panzerkampfwagen VI) was one of the most feared German tanks with its legendary 88mm gun. The Sherman M4A1 was the standard American tank. Both are technically correctly depicted, including their weaknesses and strengths.
The BR57 Panzerlok existed: This powerful German locomotive was real and actually used for military purposes. Using such machines to transport secrets wasn’t unusual.
The ranks and hierarchies are correct: Sergeant Major, Captain, Lieutenant—all military grades are used accurately.
What is Invented?
The story itself. The characters don’t exist. There was no Heinz Keller, no Otto Wagner, no James Cooper in this exact constellation in this exact tunnel.
The “Project Wunderwaffe” with the jet aircraft is a fictional displacement. Germany actually worked on advanced aircraft—the He 162, the Me 262. But the specific plans in this story, this cargo, this tunnel—that’s literary invention.
However: the question it poses was real. After the war, there were actually debates, documents, and blueprints that were contested among the victors. The Soviets and Americans literally fought over German technology and knowledge. German scientists were abducted by both superpowers. This is the real historical foundation.
Literary Intentions
This story doesn’t try to describe history. It tries to create a psychological space—the space of final decisions.
The dark humor, the sensory details, the rawness of war experience—these come from authentic sources. War diaries, historical reports. The tone isn’t invented; it’s reconstructed.
The conflict between Heinz and Bergmann reflects real conflicts that unfolded in the war’s final days. Not all Wehrmacht officers surrendered immediately. Some—like the real figure Martin Bormann—tried to continue the war or save secrets. Others recognized it was over.
The Question of “Wunderwaffe”
After the war, there really were hidden German research results. The Nazi regime had invested millions in weapons projects that would end—or would they? These plans were valuable to the victors. So valuable that secret operations were conducted to recover or destroy them.
In this story, the Wunderwaffe is the object that drives the moral question. What would you do? Who owns knowledge? And may a defeated enemy keep its secrets if someone else could have them?
This question isn’t only historical. It’s timeless.
Why These Questions Matter Today
Obedience without conscience leads to totalitarianism.
Obedience with conscience leads to inner conflict, uncertainty, and personal cost.
We’ve learned little since 1945. All over the world, ordinary people are still confronted with the same question: Order or conscience?
This story offers no answer. It asks the question. The reader must answer themselves.
Acknowledgments
This story wouldn’t be possible without:
The historians and archivists who documented the war’s end
The dead, whose silence is heard on every page
The space for questions that literature provides—the space where no final answer is given
This work is part of the E.G.I.S. universe, but it also stands alone. It can be read as an independent story. The E.G.I.S. connection reveals itself subtly—in the names, the documents, the echo of a story yet untold.
A Final Word
War doesn’t end when the weapons fall silent.
The real war—the war with yourself, with your conscience, with the decisions you make—that war often ends only with the last breath.
Some people die at peace with themselves.
Others—like Heinz Keller, if he existed—carry the questions for a lifetime.
This is a story for those who think. Who question. Who understand that history isn’t over.
That’s all.
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