It’s been four days. Morale is shot to hell, we’re all on edge, but are too worn out to do anything about it. Now all we do is sit. Sit, and stare at each other. The food ran out on the second day. Mold ruined nearly everything, and the water is very pungent and disgusting. Yet it is better than nothing. We sit and pass the water to each other. I don’t drink, of course, but pass it on to the next man. We have been sitting for what feels like days, when it has only been hours. We smoke cigarettes and try to keep spirits up, with little success, but anything that keeps us sane is a good thing. The wind blows and howls at us from the outside of our cramped tank. Another day passes, another passing of the water jug, another day in the sandstorm.

On day seven, Hans has a final ultimatum that we should have been shocked about, but we’re all too weak to react to.
“I… I’m going to end it.” He says, in a despondent tone.
“I cannot, no, WILL not die like this. Starving inside of a German armor, waiting for the sand to subside. I will not subject myself to such shame and torture.”
“Hans, think of what you’re saying!” Schmesser says.
“I already have, and I’ve made up my mind. If you’re going to stop me, go ahead. Try.”
No one moves, they only look at him, sadness in their eyes.
Slowly, one by one, the other members of the crew make their decision to kill themselves as well. No one wants to go on living like this, waiting, hoping, dreaming. They’ve lost the will. There’s no bringing them back.
I feel the sadness well up within me. Suddenly I speak up.
“I’m sorry. I cannot bear to see you take your own lives. I may not be a living being like you all, but I can’t stand to see you kill yourselves. I know it’s difficult to understand, but I haven’t the heart…”
I stand, put my cap on, and my goggles. I put on my coat and pants, put on boots, and grab the backup rifle on the side of the cabin.

I take one last look at these men. My friends. They all have their pistols out, their eyes hollow, listless. I open the hatch into the screaming wind, and shut the hatch for the final time. I hop off of the gun, and hunker down near the tread, resting my back on one of the drive wheels of the tank. I put the gun to my chest, and I just sit, in a daze. I hear a thump.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Five.
“I did as best I could, and have no regrets. I’m sorry mother.”
Six.
I put my head between my legs, and wish that I could cry. Oh Lord, how I wished I could cry, let all this sadness escape me. I do the next best thing. I put my rifle against my chest, I pull my legs close to me, pull my cap tight on my head, and shut my eyes. I go into hibernation. I don’t have much power left.

A while passes. I didn’t know how long. I felt a weight on me, a little too much for my taste. I wiggle a little to move it, and that seems to do the trick. I feel it again, and come out of my sleep. The sun must be out, I feel completely recharged, and I shift it again. I hear feet step back on the sand. ‘A person!’ I recall thinking. I quickly try to shift the sand off of me. I was deep in it, completely covered, actually.

He’s a coyote, a Brit, as I’d later find out. His eyes get wide as he sees me, and he spits out the water he was just drinking. I try shifting my head to get up, and look down to the ground to find some sort of hand hold. I stand up easily after that, and brush off most of the sand on my uniform. The coyote yelps out, in fear of me. He struggles to get the pistol out of his belt, with little success.
“Do you speak German?” I ask, or at least try to ask. He successfully pulls the pistol out and fires a shot that hits me dead in the chest. I feel the bullet ricochet off of me, but not without denting me a bit. I stumble a little, and realize I’d just been shot!
“Bloody hell! Get away from me!!” he yells out in English. He looks confusedly at me, his eyes full of fear. He looks to my chest, then I look too. There’s a large hole in my Jacket and shirt, and a bit of paint has been flecked off of my chest, showing the silver metal underneath. I look back up to him.
He utters “Jesus Christ…” and I remember I still carry my rifle. I toss it away, realizing that he thinks I’m going to kill him! I look back, realizing my mistake, step forward and put my hands up to plea with him as I see him begin to step away. In as good of English as I can remember, I say
“I’m not going to hurt you.”
He bellows out “Blooming Christ!”
He backs away even more.
“Please, I’m not going to hurt you!” I plead.
“Then you chose the wrong side to be on, chap!”
He raises his pistol again, and I feel the fear well up in me as I step back again, but I manage to suppress it somehow, and keep looking at him.
“No, no, please! I’m not like them, I don’t believe what they want me to do. Please, I’m not fighting for them anymore.”
“Then how do I know you won’t turn around and kill me once you’re not at gunpoint?” He says as he lowers his pistol a little, a look of distrust in his eyes.
“I’m not armed anymore,” I say as sincerely as possible. “Please, I just need a bit of help.”
I kind of expect him to say something in return, but he doesn’t speak. He just looks at me, breathing heavily. Finally, he holsters the pistol, and I relax. I didn’t realize how tense I was. Then he turns away and begins to walk back towards the desert. I don’t want to be stuck out here again.
“Wait,” I hear myself say. He turns and looks at me while he puts on his own cap.
“I don’t have anywhere to go. May I come with you?” I pray in my mind that he says yes.
He thinks about it for a moment. I feel sadness within me as he begins to get a negative look on his face. Then, to my surprise, he says “If you get caught by my superiors, I can’t help you.”
I smile as I realize that means yes. I walk towards him and he walks towards me. We meet up in the middle and begin walking together.
“My name’s Stürm, by the way.” I tell him.
He looks to me and raises an eyebrow.
“No last name?”
I shake my head, a little embarrassed, though I don’t know why. He looks away, his lips clenched a little.
“Corporal Nick Coltrane.”

Around twenty minutes pass before either of us speaks again.
“What in God’s name is that glare?” He utters, looking towards my tail.
“Are you wearing a metal suit??”
I stop walking, the thought of him not knowing what I was stopping me dead in my tracks. He stops walking too, and I turn to face him. I shut my eyes, slip my goggles down around my neck, and remove my cap. I smile a little, then turn away. A look of confusion washes over his face. There is a moment of silence as he tries to take it all in.
“What are you?” He asks.
Slowly, I say:
“The German’s perfect soldier.” I let that sink in.
“I’m . . . not like you. I’m robotic, if that makes any sense. It’s a lot to swallow, but, it’s the truth. I don’t want to fight for Hitler and I surely don’t want to die for him. I just want to get away from the fighting, find people who don’t want to kill me. I’m not a monster, please understand that.”
He puts his hand up to shield his eye, and rests the other hand on his hip. I can tell he’s confused, but interested at the same time. He suddenly turns and walks down the road he came on. I quickly put my cap back on, but let my goggles dangle about my neck, the aluminum frames clinking against my metal body, and catch up with him.
“Tell me on the way.” He says.
“We need to get moving.”