The smoke from the fighting of the last two days lingered like over the area like a nagging toothache. Captain Ben Pruitt stood on the rear deck of his Leopard II looking about. The tank was at and angle to a narrow dirt track between two fields. He could see three T72M tanks stretched to the Leopard's front from eleven o'clock to two o'clock.

He sighed, the other two Leopard IIs of his platoon were destroyed. One was still burning several hundred meters to his rear. The other was smoking from several holes in its right hull side fifty meters to his left. It was surrounded by three more knocked out T72Ms and a pair of BMP IIIs. There were over twenty dead Soviet soldiers on the field. Dead or dying, but no longer a threat.

He looked at his tank. It was in rough shape. A Soviet fin-stabilized, armor piercing, discarding-sabot penetrator had came through the driver's vision block without causing catastrophic fragmentation within the tank. It had passed through the driver's head, severed the loader's leg, pierced the bulkhead into the engine bay, and destroyed the engine causing a fire to ignite immediately.

The fire suppression had kicked in, but he and the gunner had been forced to flee the tank in order to breath. He made it out in time. Pruitt could still feel the heat from the engine fire through the soles of his boots. He had managed to grab his half empty rucksack and one of the bail out bags as he evacuated the tank. That didn't leave him with much.

Ben knew he had to leave. He had to leave the armored coffin that held his crew mates behind. The longer he lingered in the area, the less chance there would be for him to survive any further waves or enemy forces. He had stayed near the tank hoping that his gunner would return, but it seemed the man had fled the field entirely and would not rally back on the tank.

They were both lucky to have escaped the penetrator and the subsequent fire inside the tank, but the moment they were clear, Corporal MacDonald fled as fast as he could. The man had been so calm during the battle, doing his part perfectly as they took out three enemy tanks, but the sight of seeing his friends dying so violently had broken him. In the swirl of the aftermath, Benjamin couldn't even be sure where he would have taken off to. Initially he had take off east, but the man was soon lost to the smoke and may as well have been a ghost now.

Captain Pruitt ran a hand over his sweat and blood covered hair before putting his helmet back on and hopping down from the tank. There was nothing he could do for the men inside now aside from  take their dog tags and return home. Their families, if they were still alive, deserved to know what had happened here. He gave himself a quick pat down and made a mental check list of what all he had been able to grab from the tank and his escape bag.

Now it was his turn to head off into the unknown. He would leave the immediate battle zone before settling down to rest and try to get someone in the radio. There was nothing left for him here. He placed his gloved hand on the still warm armor plate of the turret and said a silent prayer before leaving. He too would disappear into the smoke covered battlefield like a ghost.

Moving toward the only small settlement still in the area, Pruitt passed through the remains of a larger community noticing the effects of years back and forth fighting in the area. He was surprised by three things; the lack of NATO radio traffic, the lack of Soviet forces, and the lack of any signs that there was a war on in the area.

After an hour or so he could see what looked like a wagon approaching along the road into the still settled park of town. It moving slowly with several men walking alongside.

Benjamin took one last glance at the wreckage of the tank that he and his crew had affectionaly named the 'Iron Roughneck'. After that last glance, he headed off into the town he had known was nearby from the map he had studied before the battle. He could find refuge there, rest, regroup, and move on as he wished.

The lack of radio contact and Soviet forces in the town put Benjamin on edge slightly. He gripped the MP5 he'd  taken from his tank and began to cast a more wary eye as he moved further into the town. Even the town being quiet, the war having seemingly moved on caused the hairs on the back of his neck to stand up.

His wariness paid off as he saw the wagon off in the distance. Slowly and quietly he moved to get out of sight from the group, choosing the wall of a nearby building to handle behind. A nearby bush would have offered more concealment, but he needed cover more than concealment now.

Pruitt ducked into some foliage, dropping to his knee, and scurried to a nearby depression in the earth that made him think that at some point in the past it had been a burn pit for refuse. But time and nature had turned it into a weed filled low spot big enough for him to lay in while the wagon rolled past.

Watching the group pass by it was obvious that they were actually farmers. The wagon was pulled by a pair of oxen. It held a pile of stack wicker baskets, hoes and shovels, what looked like an old cooler, and there was a single double barrel shotgun laid next to the tools. There was an older woman sitting on the edge of the wagon holding the reins to the oxen while four men and two women walked along talking quietly.

They were smiling and laughing among themselves. One man was carrying a large duffel bag on his back that seemed like it was about ready to burst at the seems. Given the time of day it made him think the farmers had gone into town and done a bit of trading for whatever was in the bag. They, most probably he thought, where headed home. In the distance he could just make out the noise of vehicles. It came from near the river. He didn't hear the whine of gas turbines or the rumble of diesels, so not tanks. Trucks most likely, and smaller ones too.

As Benjamin laid in the depression and watched the civilians go by, there was a moment when he felt calm and confident enough to approach them. He had no clue how to speak German, and his Polish was limited to 'Hello' and 'Fuck off'. He had just began to push himself off the dirt when heard the sound of engines approaching. He paused and eased himself back into his makeshift foxhole and continued to observe.

He though back to his younger years, having spent many autumn's hunting for deer and elk in the dense bush of Northern Alberta. Patience was the key there, and that patience would have to be applied here now. He didn't have layers of tank armor to protect him, and he didn't have his crew to help watch his flanks.

He laid there, like the hunter he had been when he was younger. This time though, he wasn't in a tree stand waiting for the elk or deer. This time, he was hiding in the dirt with an SMG at his side. He would wait for the vehicles to approach and see how that played out before making any sort of move.

The farmers paused, looking back in the direction of town or the river. But minutes later the sound of the vehicles stopped. At a guess, and knowing something of the local terrain, Pruitt was sure that the vehicles were still near the river crossing. As he recalled, that old bridge had been through a series of intense battles, but it was the only bridge over the Oder River for tens of miles in either direction. If not more.

His stomach growled and reminded him of the long day's effects. He would need to find a place to camp or shelter for the night soon. He also needed to eat, and hydrate, his throat was dry. The extinguishers, it occurred to him just rough those fire suppression units really were. Well, at least there wasn't anyone immediately shooting at him.

Looking back to the farmers he saw that they had already begun moving again. Only now they were quieter and moving with more haste. Well, he thought, it was a war zone. Better to be safe than sorry.

Benjamin needed food, water, and rest. He also needed some place safe in order to fully satisfy those three needs, especially the last one. After weighing his options, he chose to stand up from his small patch of minimal safety and make his way towards the civilians.

He made sure the SMG was slung, not held, as he approached them, seeing their haste he moved with a bit more urgency to catch up.

If he is challenged, Benjamin will stop and point to the Canadian flag patch on the shoulder of his uniform.

As Be neared the civilians a man at the back noticed him and spun around in alarm. Then a big smile crossed his face. He shouted to the others in German. All Pruitt caught wre the words 'yes', 'no', 'shit fire', and 'Canada'. Then the rest of the group ran up to him all smiles. A man shook his hand as a woman gave him a warm hug. They seemed more than glad to have met him. It was relieving.

Within an hour a totally linguistically confused Captain Pruitt was sitting at a table in a large house with the adults from at least four families eating fried cabbage and meat that he was reasonably sure was venison. After dinner everyone did their best to communicate with him. The story of the fight with the Soviets seemed to be what they were interested in. At least that was what he thought they were getting at.

After another hour, and mounting frustration at the language barrier, a man entered the kitchen from a back door. He was tall and well built, at least fifty, and resembled a fair approximation to the Terminator, uh, that Sshwartzen-whoever guy. Only he wore clothes that smelled of fresh soil and pine sap.

The man came over, speaking in German to send another man after glasses, and sat at the table. He set a tall, fat bottle of clear liquor on the table and looked Pruitt in the face.

"So, who are you, sir?" The big German asked in damned good English.

Benjamin was taken aback by how readily these people took him in with them. Not only taken in, but given food and welcomed like he wasn't a foreigner. Though that feeling began to wane once he realized that the language barrier between himself and his hosts was not being broken down. He did his best to try and communicate, but nothing he did or they did helped to clear things.

He frowned as he realized this was going no where, and while he was thankful for the food and drink, he knew it was only a matter of time before someone got offended at his lack of ability to talk in their language and he was tossed out on his ear. All thought of rejection left entirely when the large man came in and sat down across the table from him.

Benjamin cleared his throat and smoothed out his dirty uniform as best he could.

"Captain Benjamin Pruitt, Canadian Forces Armored Division," he kept it simple to start, speaking plainly. Sure they had welcomed him in and fed him, but he was only hours out of a battle and still well within the enemies reach.

He then asked, "And you? You sound like a English is your first language."

"I am Austrian by birth. My wife, God rest her now, was from here along the Oder." He said. "I live in a small cabin not far from here, nearer to the river. You can stay with me tonight. Take your leave and rest up before reporting back to the war. It's basically over here, you know, Germany is little more than a few thousand political holdouts in or near Berlin these days."

Ben took a long  slow drink of water before he replied, "I'm sorry to hear of your wife having passed on," he spoke softly, "I am appreciative of your hospitality and the chance to try and regroup. I have a feeling I'm going to have a long walk ahead of me before I find anyone higher up the chain than I am."

Benjamin wasn't even sure that there was anything resembling a chain of command left. How much would it matter anyway for him now since his goal now was just to survive and find a way back to Canada. If there was anything left of his home land. A good rest and maybe trying to get someone on the radio might change his outlook, but for now, survival and getting home took priority.

The man's house was nice. It had once been a touristy bungalo near the Oder. Now it was a well stocked loner's survival palace. There were caches all around the house. He spotted a liqor cabinet full of bottles. There was an armoire of various shades of camouflage. A closet was stacked with boxes and boxes of toiletries. The shelves of the kitchen were jars of canned vegetables, plastic bags of dried meat, and stacks of canned goods. In every corner, over every door, next to every window, and even on top of the comode's water tank was a weapon and ammunition.

The drank hard, eating sharp cheddar, onions, and sausage with wine and later moving on to the real stuff; 25 year old single malt whiskey. In the moring. Well, he thought it was moring, Pruitt went out to the well to pump up more fresh water. The first gallon he drank seemed to not quite knock the edge off of his thirst. He held the bucket up at the last moment and doused himself down. And then began pumping again. Looking up he could see down the road and was greeted by a most unexpected site.

Two locals looked to be talking to a pair of soldiers. They were wearing what looked like the last 'deep forest' pattern of camouflage her Majesty's army issued back in 1994. Wow, seven years. Could they still look so green?

He had been impressed not only by the man's preparation for turning his home into a survivalist wet dream, but also by the alcohol on hand. Though to be fair, it could have been bath tub gin for all he cared.

In the morning, after trying to shake off the alcohol induced cobwebs, he went to grab water both to satisfy his thirst and to try and wash the remnants of the battle off. He set the bucket down slowly as he spied the two men in the newer looking British fatigues. He watched in silence, not moving from his position and trying to act casual while he sized up the civilians and the soldiers.

Seeing what appeared to be allied soldiers gave him a bit of relief. Seeing the uniforms in good condition made the hairs raise up on the back of his neck.