Bill Meilen
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THE ARMORER

 

“Hmm. You may be useful.”

Geisenfelder had been following all this with craned neck. “Karl May!” he declared incredulously. “Who the hell is this Karl May? Which unit?”

Rudi looked innocent. “Karl May is the Führer’s favourite author, sir.”

Kassner had reached the steps and stopped, chuckling. “Of course, Scharführer—Karl May. Everyone knows that! Thank you, er—”

“Kristl, sir. Afrika Korps.”

“Good work, soldier. Keep it up.”

“Alright, Jerry, inside!” shouted a guard, and they were clambering aboard.

Within minutes, the train was rolling west again, as light grew across the vast fields of growing grain. With a shuffle and hiss of pistons the great steel wheels began to drag the legion of prisoners along silver rails arrowing into dark distance across a world flat as a table, chasing the tail of night. Dawn, with a palette of softest pastels, followed in hot pursuit.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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