The soldier wore black. Silver lightning bolts flashed on his right lapel; the three rosettes of a Hauptsturmführer — or captain of the Schützstaffeln, the SS — shone on the left.

He stood in the hatch of a Tiger I tank, peering with binoculars through the gloom of the battlefield. Arising out of the gloom he saw the rising smoke from the engines of an enemy armored column halted on the road below. The soldier counted twenty-five or so enemy vehicles, mixed half-tracks and tanks. There were likely more, unseen. So much he suspected, in any case. He was unimpressed.

Though he stood alone, and though his tank was alone, the black-uniformed soldier knew no fear. If he had ever known true fear there were no witnesses to tell of it. His comrades had never seen it and few of his enemies could have detected it, even had they lived.

Neither, so far as the soldier could tell, had the enemy detected his tank.

It took him scant moments to reach his decision. With a roar hidden by the mass of the enemy’s idling engines the driver started the engine and headed for a cart track to the left of the enemy column. Already the gunner, Wohl, was swinging his turret to the right.