In some jungle on some God forsaken spit of land, Ernst Röhm stood alone, rifle in hand, firing off shots into the thicket. The humidity stripped the last hydration he had left in his body.
A tourniquet was tied around his leg. His body armor was peppered with bullet holes that had failed to fully penetrate through the combined aramid fiber and ceramic-composite plates beneath.
His withered and old body threatened to give out with each ragged breath he took. But there was not a look of fear or defeat on his face. Only the primal sneer of a predator who refused to let Death take him without a fight.
By his side, weaker men had fallen, their faces and names lost to time. Ghosts of prior wars that had finally met their end without remembrance.
Ernst didn't care, he continued to engage the locals firing at him, hollering in their native and savage language. All the while he mocked them with the tongue of an unstained Prussian banner.
