Drew knew that something was wrong four hours in.
Ben and Karl could clear a camp in the span of two hours, tops. Something must have happened.
He waited. And waited. Fidgeting in the driver's seat, wishing he could get out and do something. Check the tires, check the oil, spit-shine the hood, anything. But if Karl and Ben came blazing through with panzers behind them they needed to make a quick getaway. So he waited.
The sun started going down, and he couldn't take it any longer. Drew shouldered his SMG and hopped out, taking the keys with him.
Kassarine Pass was further in, through the roofless tunnel of rock around him. Because Karl and Ben went ahead, Drew knew that it was doubtful that there'd be any snipers, but he was cautious nonetheless. He clung to the shadows along the rock, getting behind cover wherever possible, and scanning the top of the cliff before each new step.
He was unable to shake the sensation of being in somebody's scope and expected everything to go black and to wake up outside his dead body every second.
But he couldn't leave well enough alone. He'd never been able to.
He froze when he heard the sound of sand crunching under boots.
He crouched behind a wrecked Panzer Mk. III and cocked his SMG. The footsteps grew closer and closer, and Drew was nearly ready to leap out shooting when they stopped.
"Drew?" There was no mistaking Karl's gruff voice.
Drew sighed in relief and got out of cover.
His smile fell off his face when he looked Karl in the eye.
Something was wrong.
Karl's eyes had always been sharp and focused, like an extension of his scope. His cold grey gaze was intimidating; it was like being pinned under a hawk's glare.
But now…
Karl's eyes were distant and unfocused, as if he wasn't completely seeing Drew. There was a look on his face that if Drew was to pinpoint simply appeared…lost.
Karl dug around in his pockets for something. And when he dug it out and showed it to him, Drew recognized it as a round from a Lee-Enfield rifle. Karl held it out, as if it meant something.
"Ben was killed."
That was the first time Drew had ever heard Karl call Brauer by his first name.
Karl felt like he was sinking into the seat of the truck.
That look Brauer had given him before he died.
In hindsight, Karl could see it clearly. Brauer had heard the Tiger, and turned. He'd seen the panzer. He knew what was coming.
And the last thing he ever did was look at Karl.
What was that look? Karl hadn't been close enough to see Brauer's expression. Was it just a reflex? A last look at a friend? …Was it a futile plea for help? An accusation, because Karl should've been watching his back?
"Kirstein."
"Mhm?"
"Can you slow down?"
"Can you speed up?"
A twelve-year old Karl glared impatiently at his mousy-haired older brother grinning down at him. "Odette can't keep up." Karl looked down at his baby sister, who tried to glare at him despite being red-faced from running.
"Okay, okay. But only because Odette's having trouble."
The trio resumed at a slow walk, along the shadowed sidewalk and orange lighting of the October sunset. Red and brown leaves rustled down the streets. Berlin was never silent, even in its up-scale residential parts. There was always some background noise.
"Mutti will be angry. We're late." Odette huffed, short arms crossed.
Kirstein grinned apologetically and tugged at the dark green scarf around his neck. "I know. It's my fault, so I'll tell her." He ruffled Karl and Odette's hair.
Karl glanced at the golden sunset, shielding his eyes with his hand. "Danke."
He should've seen that panzer. He should've been more careful, more observant. He could've prevented this, he could've-
Berlin still wasn't quiet at night, but the noise was hard to fall asleep to.
After the Reichstag fire, after the wave of arrests and firings (including Karl's father), the propaganda films, the Communist Party of Germany was all but extinct.
But tonight the Sturmabteilung must have found some remnants, because the street outside resonated with the sounds of a street brawl. The Red Front Fighters were outnumbered and forced to retreat, and when the sound died down Karl pushed aside the curtains of the bay window facing the street to see the aftermath. There was one person still there, still breathing, and he was no brownshirt.
"Do you see him?" Kirstein whispered as he crouched next to Karl.
"Ja."
"His wounds don't look too bad, but if the brownshirts come back…"
Kirstein's grey-blue eyes' meet Karl's.
"Nein."
"Karl…"
"They might not all be gone! You know what will happen if they find you!"
"Karl," Kirstein's eyes was calm but they were intense. "I have to."
"Doch…"
"You've always had the sharpest eyes, tell me if you see any of them." Karl turned back towards the window and scanned the street, paying special attention to any dark alleys where a brownshirt could be lurking.
"Do you see any of them?"
Karl couldn't lie, so he answered: "Nein."
Kirstein immediately got up, put on a coat and shoes and slipped down the stairs.
Karl kept watch from the window, fearing a knife-wielding man in a brown uniform would leap from the shadows the moment Kirstein set foot on the street. But nobody materialized.
Kirstein helped up the young man and led him back into the house. Karl rushed down the stairs and opened the door. "The basement." Kirstein said, and Karl rushed to open that door.
The RFFL member was about Kirstein's age, seventeen, pale and seemingly terrified of his rescuers despite not making a peep.
He couldn't be more different from the cunning and dastardly communist the Nazi party was always warning the public about, as Kirstein would later remark to Karl.
They did not ask for the teenager's name, nor did he ask for their's. To do so would have been a suicide pact.
They made a space for him behind the stairs and went back to bed. Karl was as anxious that morning as he'd been when Kirstein first rushed out. The man fled before the sun came up, but that was no guarantee that nobody had seen anything.
That day Karl dreaded the idea of leaving the house to attend school, and even considered feigning illness to avoid it. But Kirstein discouraged him, and they left, and later walked a different route home.
Nothing happened, so Karl relaxed slightly. If one of the neighbors had seen them that night, the police surely would've been pounding their doors down by morning.
The next day Karl stayed after school late and Kirstein was not home when he got there. Karl dropped his book bag and ran back out the door when Mutti told him.
He traced Kirstein's new route through the quieter streets…and found him.
He found the knife that killed him too.
Karl buried his nose in the scarf that had been his brother's.
He could've stopped Kirstein from leaving the house.
He could've spotted the panzer that killed Brauer.
He didn't.
Entschuldigung, entschuldigung, dies war mein Fehler.