The year is 1942. At night he sleeps under his tank, wrapped in a light blanket. But then it is still only autumn. In the morning he washes in cold icy water, polishes his boots, oils his Mauser, and talks to his men, before they resume their journey, further East.
They worship him. He is a decorated hero, and hates the thugs who rule his country, and have sent them all to war, in this immensity. Yet he is a member of an elite caste: an officer, a knight. He wears his iron cross with pride, as his father has done before him.
He looks at the map. Only 100km from Stalingrad.
A prisoner of war, after Paulus’ s surrender, he will die in Siberia, of cold and starvation.
So doomed knights fade into the night.