0900 Hours, 4 September 1939
Location: Villa Doria Pamphili, Rome, Italy
The convoy rolled through the quiet, winding streets of Rome, the Italian capital wrapped in the gentle warmth of early autumn. The bright sun bounced off the marble buildings, casting long, lazy shadows as they made their way toward the villa. The streets, usually filled with the hustle and bustle of the city, seemed almost eerily still today. The roar of distant traffic mixed with the hum of the convoy's engines, and Erich couldn't help but notice the stark contrast between the calm Italian atmosphere and the violence they had left behind in Poland.
As they pulled into the grand villa's grounds, the expansive gardens and fountains reflected a sense of serenity that felt foreign to Erich. He had become accustomed to the brutal and chaotic nature of war, not the polished elegance of diplomacy.
The villa itself was imposing yet beautiful, with columns rising from the entrance and the delicate scent of blooming flowers mixing with the earthy scent of the surrounding greenery. A few Italian officials stood near the entrance, awaiting Müller's arrival. There was no sign of conflict here, only the quiet hum of a world untouched by the chaos of battle.
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0930 Hours, 4 September 1939
Location: Villa Doria Pamphili, Conference Room
Inside the villa, the meeting room was grand but understated, with long, polished tables and high windows that allowed natural light to pour in. The diplomat, Müller, was already deep in conversation with several Italian dignitaries. Their voices were soft, polite, with an occasional, rapid exchange in Italian that Erich couldn't follow. His "Language Master" ability had not yet been fully activated, and it made the situation more alien to him, though he knew it wouldn't be long before he could pick up the conversation.
The room's atmosphere was thick with formality. The Italians, while polite, held themselves with a distinct air of detachment. They were well-dressed, their uniforms sharply pressed, and they spoke with the kind of diplomatic patience that came from years of practice in high-stakes negotiations.
Erich, along with his squad, stood at the back of the room, acting as silent guards for the diplomat. They were no longer soldiers on the frontlines; here, they were a distant, almost invisible presence.
Müller turned toward them briefly and gave them a subtle nod of acknowledgment, his expression impassive. The conversation between him and the Italian officials was calm, measured. It was hard to imagine that just days ago, he had been on the frontlines of a war, with lives at stake. But in this room, it seemed almost as though the war had not yet reached Italy.
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1000 Hours, 4 September 1939
Location: Villa Doria Pamphili, Courtyard
After the conference concluded, Müller and the Italian diplomats led the group to the villa's courtyard, where they were served tea. The air was warm and dry, and the only sounds were the quiet chatter of diplomats and the occasional clink of porcelain cups against saucers. Erich had never been one for these kinds of social affairs, and as he stood to the side, he felt out of place.
The soldiers were given the opportunity to relax, though they remained alert. There were no immediate threats, but the duty to protect was always present. Helmut leaned against a stone pillar, his eyes scanning the area, while Jonas and Meissner exchanged quiet words, their voices barely audible over the soft rustling of leaves.
One of the Italian officers approached Erich, offering a polite but formal salute. "A fine day, isn't it, Sergeant?" he said in halting German.
Erich nodded curtly, maintaining the formalities. "Yes, a fine day," he replied, though his mind was still far away—back on the frontlines, where every day felt like a fight for survival.
---
1200 Hours, 4 September 1939
Location: Villa Doria Pamphili, Dining Room
Lunch was served in the villa's grand dining room. The long table was laden with fruits, breads, cheeses, and meats, all accompanied by fine Italian wines. The diplomats and military officers sat at the head of the table, while Erich and his squad were seated further down, still within earshot but far enough away to avoid becoming part of the formal conversation.
Erich watched as Müller and the Italians spoke about trade, strategy, and alliances. It felt like a far cry from the thunder of tanks and the cries of soldiers in battle. There was an air of detachment in the room, a calm that seemed almost wrong in the face of the war raging to the north.
He couldn't help but notice the contrast between the soldiers at the table, dressed in their formal uniforms, and the ones outside, standing guard. They were here to protect men who spoke of grand plans and power, but their actions—fighting on the frontlines—would ultimately decide the outcome of this war.
As lunch went on, Erich allowed his thoughts to drift. There was little to do but wait for the next leg of the journey. Even though this moment of respite was necessary, he couldn't shake the feeling that it was a distraction from the reality of war. And while he might be able to escape the frontlines for a short time, the war was never far from his mind.
1400 Hours, 4 September 1939
Location: Villa Doria Pamphili, Courtyard
The afternoon stretched lazily on as the sun continued its descent, casting long shadows across the villa's manicured gardens. Despite the opulence and tranquility of the surroundings, Erich found it increasingly difficult to shake off the feeling of disconnection. The grandeur of the villa only served as a reminder of the distance between the world of diplomacy and the grim reality of the battlefield.
Müller had retreated into a more private conversation with the Italian diplomats, and Erich's squad found themselves once again in the courtyard, the weight of their uniforms pressing on their shoulders in the thick, warm air.
Jonas, ever the idealist, struck up a conversation with a young Italian officer stationed nearby. The two spoke in broken German and Italian, their words light and almost friendly, though Erich noticed the awkwardness in Jonas's manner. He was trying to fit in, to bridge the gap between the soldiers they had once been and the diplomats they had to become.
Helmut, however, stood apart, leaning against a stone fountain, his gaze distant. He had been quiet since their arrival, and Erich knew the young man was struggling with the same unease that had taken root in him. Helmut's expression was unreadable, but Erich could sense the tension in his posture, the unease of a man who had seen the worst of war and now found himself in a place where it was treated as little more than a distant rumor.
It wasn't just the soldiers who had trouble adjusting. One of the Italian officers approached Erich, a tall man with dark eyes and a neatly trimmed beard. His gait was stiff, his uniform impeccable, and he extended his hand in a gesture of formal greeting.
"Sergeant Stahl," the man began, his voice low but steady. "A pleasure to finally meet you. The Italian Army has heard much about the recent campaign in Poland. I must say, we are impressed by the speed and precision of the German forces."
Erich hesitated before taking the man's hand, his grip firm but not overly warm. "Thank you, sir. It was a hard-fought victory, but the war is far from over." He was careful with his words—he had learned long ago that diplomacy was an art of careful balance, a game of gestures and unspoken messages.
The officer smiled, his teeth flashing white in contrast to the dark stubble on his face. "Indeed. The situation in Europe grows more complex by the day. I am sure you and your comrades are well aware of that."
Erich nodded, not fully understanding the direction the conversation was headed but aware that he needed to keep his responses brief. "We are prepared for whatever comes next," he said, his tone clipped.
The Italian officer studied him for a moment, as if evaluating the sincerity of his words. Then, he glanced back toward the villa. "The diplomats are eager to discuss the future of our two nations, but I suspect they may not fully understand the nature of the war you are fighting. It is... very different from the politics of treaties and alliances."
Erich's gaze followed the officer's, watching as the diplomats stood by the large, ornate windows, their gestures slow and deliberate, their words floating across the courtyard like an unknown language. He knew what the officer meant. Politics had little to do with the violence and chaos that had engulfed Poland—and soon, Europe as a whole.
"They'll learn soon enough," Erich said softly, his voice barely above a whisper. He wasn't sure if the officer heard him, but the words felt true all the same.
---
1600 Hours, 4 September 1939
Location: Villa Doria Pamphili, Dining Room
Later that evening, after another round of formalities and pleasantries, the group sat down for another meal. The dining room, with its long, shining table, was filled with chatter in multiple languages—German, Italian, and occasional bursts of French as the diplomats discussed the finer points of the ongoing conflict.
Erich sat at the far end of the table, listening more than speaking. He had become accustomed to the rhythms of the high-level discussions, but they always seemed somewhat foreign to him. He didn't belong in these spaces. He had never wanted to be part of the political machinations that shaped the world—he was just a soldier, a man who followed orders and did his best to survive.
But here, at the table with Italy's finest, he felt like an outsider. His thoughts drifted again to the battlefield. His comrades, the noise of the tanks, the crack of gunfire, the screams of men fighting for their lives—it all seemed so far removed from the careful, measured conversation around him.
---
1900 Hours, 4 September 1939
Location: Villa Doria Pamphili, Private Quarters
The evening grew late, and Erich finally retired to a small, private room arranged for him in the villa. The walls were adorned with tapestries, the furnishings elegant and yet strangely impersonal. He stood for a moment, his hands resting on the cool marble of the window frame, staring out into the garden. The soft light of the setting sun bathed the grounds in a golden hue, and for a moment, Erich let himself forget the war.
It was easy to pretend, in a place like this, that the world was still as it had been before the invasion of Poland, before the chaos of war had shattered the illusion of peace. But that peace was nothing more than a fragile mask, and Erich knew it wouldn't last long.
Tomorrow, they would be on the move again. The diplomatic talks had served their purpose, but the war was never far from their thoughts. The wheels of war had already begun turning again, and Erich and his squad would be right in the middle of it.
He let out a long breath and turned away from the window. The night stretched before him, and he couldn't help but feel the weight of what lay ahead.
0800 Hours, 5 September 1939
Location: Villa Doria Pamphili, Dining Room
The following morning was a blur of final handshakes and polite smiles. Erich had learned long ago to navigate such formalities, but the words of the diplomats seemed hollow, distant. They were discussing alliances, trade agreements, and borders, but none of it resonated with him.
The diplomat from Italy, Signor Pietro Marini, a seasoned negotiator, spoke with earnestness as he outlined the terms of the new cooperation between Germany and Italy. His words were clipped and precise, each sentence a calculated step toward strengthening the bond between the two nations.
Erich stood at the back of the room, his mind elsewhere. He had seen enough of the world to know that peace and politics were often just a façade. The true intentions of these nations were hidden beneath layers of diplomatic niceties. The sound of voices faded as Erich's thoughts drifted back to Poland, to the rubble, the smoke, and the destruction of Kraków. It felt strange to be here, amidst this calm, when he knew what awaited them on the battlefield.
The meeting wrapped up shortly before noon. The Italian diplomats nodded their approval, congratulating one another on the successful conclusion of talks. Erich remained in the background, avoiding any unnecessary conversation, though Signor Marini did take a moment to approach him.
"Sergeant Stahl," he said with a slight bow of his head. "Your contributions to this mission have been invaluable. I trust your men are ready for the journey back to Berlin?"
Erich straightened. "Yes, Signor. We are ready. It's been an honor."
Marini's smile was thin but genuine. "Perhaps, one day, we can meet again under more peaceful circumstances."
Erich didn't reply, simply nodding. He wasn't sure what to make of the diplomat's words. Peace seemed like an illusion, something distant and out of reach, especially when the world was in the midst of such chaos.
---
1200 Hours, 5 September 1939
Location: Nearest Airfield, Near Rome
By early afternoon, the squad was gathered near the airstrip. The rumble of engines grew louder as two Heinkel He 111 bombers taxied into position. The sleek planes gleamed under the Italian sun, their engines roaring in preparation for takeoff. Erich and his men had been tasked with escorting the Italian diplomat to Berlin, but the trip was far from a simple diplomatic mission.
The flight would take them back over the Alps, and though it was meant to be a smooth journey, Erich's mind was always on the war. The threat of enemy action lingered in his thoughts. He couldn't shake the feeling that something was about to happen.
Jonas, standing by the plane, looked up at Erich with a faint smile. "Hard to believe we're flying out of here, huh?"
Erich glanced at his young comrade, who had been remarkably silent during their time in Italy. "Yeah," Erich muttered. "It doesn't feel real, does it?"
They both knew the reality of war would catch up to them soon enough. A diplomatic mission was a brief respite, but nothing more.
The two bombers, heavy with their load of soldiers and the diplomat, began to taxi toward the runway. Erich and his squad boarded the second plane, taking their seats in the cargo hold. The engines roared to life as the plane began its ascent, leaving behind the villa and the diplomatic niceties of Italy.
---
1500 Hours, 5 September 1939
Location: En Route to Berlin, Over the Alps
The plane flew smoothly over the towering Alps, their snow-capped peaks visible in the distance as the sun dipped lower in the sky. The mood was quiet, almost peaceful, as the men sat in the cargo hold, trying to rest. Some of them read, others gazed out the small portholes at the sweeping landscape below.
Erich closed his eyes, trying to block out the thoughts of war, but they kept returning—flashes of memories, faces of fallen comrades, the sound of gunfire. The heaviness of it all made it impossible to fully escape, even here, in the relative calm of the skies.
Suddenly, the quiet was broken by the crackle of the radio. A voice, strained and urgent, came through the static.
"All units, this is command. A declaration of war has just been made. France has officially mobilized. Prepare for combat."
Erich's heart skipped a beat. He exchanged a glance with Jonas, who sat across from him. The weight of the announcement settled in the cabin. France had entered the war. It was no longer a question of if—they were already fighting a two-front war.
The diplomat, sitting in the front of the plane, looked startled. He turned toward Erich, his face pale. "What does this mean?" he asked, his voice shaking slightly.
Erich's answer was simple. "It means we're going back to war."
---
1600 Hours, 5 September 1939
Location: En Route to Berlin, Over the Alps
Minutes passed, and the announcement still hung in the air, the tension palpable. Erich's squad had grown quiet. No one spoke; they all knew what this meant for them. The reality of war was once again bearing down on them.
Then, as if to break the silence, the air was suddenly alive with the sharp, deafening sound of engines. French fighter planes—six of them—appeared from the clouds. The Heinkel He 111s had been spotted. They were not going to make it to Berlin without a fight.
Erich's instincts kicked in immediately. The alarm was raised, and the crew of the He 111s scrambled to take evasive action. The sky outside turned to chaos, the distant crackle of enemy fire breaking the tense silence.
Jonas, who had been near the rear of the plane, rushed to the front, his face pale. "We're being attacked!" he shouted.
Erich nodded, already reaching for his gear. "Prepare for evasive maneuvers. Hold on!"
The French fighters were closing in fast, their machine guns opening up as they cut through the air. The first burst of gunfire rattled the plane, sending a jolt of adrenaline through Erich's veins.
"Everyone brace!" Erich shouted over the roar of the engines. The plane tilted sharply, narrowly avoiding a stream of tracer rounds from one of the French fighters.
Outside, the sky was a blur of fire and smoke as the French fighters pressed their attack. Erich's thoughts raced—this was no longer a simple transport mission. They were in a fight for survival.
"Prepare to return fire!" Erich barked as the He 111s swerved violently, trying to shake the enemy off their tail.
The air was thick with tension as the German planes attempted to outrun the faster French fighters. Erich felt the world tilt as the bomber performed another wild maneuver. It was no longer a diplomatic mission. It was war.
1700 Hours, 5 September 1939
Location: En Route to Berlin, Over the Alps
The Heinkel He 111 shuddered violently as the French fighters attacked with renewed fury. Erich's heart raced, but he didn't hesitate. His men scrambled, seizing the dead and injured gunners, taking over their positions with a grim sense of urgency. There was no time to lose.
"Erich, we need to do something, or we're dead!" Jonas shouted, his voice shaking with adrenaline.
Erich gritted his teeth, his hand steady on the gunner's controls. He could see the French planes darting around them—nimble, lightning-fast. They were closing in again, but this time, Erich had no intention of going down without a fight. He aimed carefully, pulling the trigger.
The first burst of fire from the front gunners hit one of the French fighters square in the tail. It swerved violently, smoke trailing from its engine, and exploded in a ball of fire. The other fighter immediately broke off its attack, banking to avoid another shot. Erich's breath caught in his chest. One down.
A second fighter, however, wasn't so easily shaken. It turned with devastating precision, aiming directly at their fuselage. The rear gunners, now in position, fired desperately, catching the plane off guard. Another French fighter spiraled downward, its wings trailing smoke as it dove toward the ground.
"Two down!" shouted the rear gunner triumphantly, but there was no time to celebrate. Another fighter was already closing in.
Erich scanned the skies, calculating his next move. The gunners were working frantically, but it was clear the French pilots were skilled. They had them outnumbered, and the He 111's defenses were beginning to show their vulnerabilities.
Then, a third fighter appeared in his peripheral vision, diving straight for them. He felt the plane shake as it opened fire. Bullets hammered into the side of the fuselage, and one of the remaining rear gunners was hit, his screams drowned out by the chaos. Another man fell beside the turret.
"Hang on!" Erich shouted, pulling the controls, yanking the plane to the side in a desperate attempt to break the fighter's lock. The entire plane jolted, but it wasn't enough. The third French fighter fired a sustained burst. The fuselage began to crack and tear under the barrage.
Erich turned sharply, positioning himself to fire back. With a careful aim, he squeezed the trigger once more. The heavy machine gun tore through the fighter's engines, sending it spiraling into the distance in a cloud of smoke.
"Three down!" someone yelled, but there was no relief. A fourth French fighter had closed in on the opposite side.
The plane lurched again as a sudden barrage of gunfire erupted from the fourth fighter, the plane's fuselage taking a direct hit. Erich's mind raced. There was no way they could keep fighting at this rate. With the last of the rear gunners dead and the others wounded, the He 111 was on the verge of losing its ability to fight back.
The fourth French fighter turned, lining up for one final attack. The Heinkel could barely stay airborne. Erich's pulse quickened, knowing that the fight was all but lost. But then—just as the French fighter was about to open fire—the gunner in the second He 111 swooped in, his machine guns blazing.
The French fighter burst into flames, falling away from the plane in a fiery descent. The other French fighter, having been engaged by the other Heinkel, pulled back, retreating at full speed.
Erich let out a breath, his hands shaking with relief as the immediate threat passed. But the damage had already been done.
"Hold on!" Erich shouted, his voice commanding despite the tension in his chest. The plane lurched violently again, and the force of the crash landing became unavoidable. The remaining two French planes had retreated, but their attacks had left the He 111 critically damaged.
The pilot, still conscious, tried to regain control, but the plane's wings were buckling under the stress. The fuselage creaked under the pressure, and it became clear that a normal landing wasn't an option. The choice was made.
Erich's stomach dropped as the pilot's voice came over the intercom. "Brace for impact! We're going down!"
The entire plane was jolted as the pilot executed a final desperate maneuver. The plane began to plummet toward a body of water below—the closest thing to a safe landing zone in the mountainous region.
1705 Hours, 5 September 1939
Location: Near a Small Lake in the Alps
The He 111 smashed into the water with a violent splash, sending a torrent of waves rising up into the air. The fuselage was battered, but remarkably, the landing was somewhat controlled—no one was thrown from their seats.
Erich's head slammed into the bulkhead, and the world around him went momentarily black. When he regained his senses, the stench of fuel and burning metal filled his nostrils. His ears rang from the blast of the crash, but somehow, the plane remained intact. He reached out to shake Jonas, who was sitting beside him.
"Jonas!" Erich shouted, his voice hoarse.
Jonas groaned, slowly lifting his head. His face was battered, but he was alive. "I'm... I'm okay," he muttered, though the fear in his eyes was undeniable.
Around them, the rest of the squad was pulling themselves together. The diplomat, too, was alive—his eyes wide in shock, but unharmed. A few of the crew members had sustained injuries, some more serious than others. There was no time to linger. They needed to get out of the wreckage before the water completely flooded the cockpit.
The plane began to list, its nose dipping below the water's surface. Erich didn't wait. He grabbed Jonas by the arm and pulled him toward the exit.
"Get to the shore! Now!" Erich barked, leading the way. The water was up to their knees as they moved swiftly toward the wrecked wings. One by one, the survivors made it to safety, stumbling onto the rocky shoreline.
The remains of the French fighters had already disappeared, retreating into the distance. The danger had passed—for now.
But the next challenge was already upon them: a rescue would take time, and the enemy was still close. They would need to move quickly to evade detection and find shelter.
Erich looked around at the group. They had survived the crash, but now their real fight for survival would begin. And the mission was far from over.
1705 Hours, 5 September 1939
Location: On the Shore of the Lake, Alps
Erich's gaze swept over the wreckage, his mind already calculating their next move. The sky was still clear, but he knew it wouldn't be long before the French or their allies found them.
"Get some rest if you can," he said quietly, but there was no time for comfort. The war was still going on, and they had to be ready for whatever came next.
The Crash Landing – POV of the Second He 111 Crew
September 2, 1939 – Late Afternoon
The roar of the engines filled the sky as the second Heinkel He 111 dipped slightly to avoid the incoming fire from the French fighters. The formation had been tight, the two bombers flying in sync, until the hellish encounter with the French fighters tore it apart. Flak burst in the distance, the light of explosions lighting up the sky, as Erich's bomber was struck.
"Take evasive action!" the pilot of the second He 111 barked, his hands gripping the controls tight. He had a sinking feeling in his stomach—Erich's plane was taking hits. The sound of gunfire erupted from below as their rear gunners let loose. Despite their return fire, the French planes were skilled and relentless.
Inside the second bomber, the crew members tensed, ready for the worst. Sergeant Müller, the rear gunner, cursed as a shell streaked past, narrowly missing his station. The radio operator's fingers were twitching over the communication equipment, but the static was deafening. All around them, they could hear the crackle of gunfire and the impact of hits on the fuselage.
"We've got to take them out, or we won't make it back," muttered Corporal Klaus, the bombardier, leaning forward. His gaze was fixed on the chaotic dogfight unfolding around them.
Erich's plane was already starting to lag behind, smoke trailing from one of the engines. The sight was enough to make any soldier's heart drop. The squad was split between the two planes, and now their survival depended on more than just skill—it was luck.
"Concentrate on those two on Erich's tail!" the pilot shouted, swerving the He 111 to one side to give their rear gunners a better shot. The French fighters darted through the air with precision, peeling away and coming back in tight arcs. They were fast, experienced—there was no denying they had the upper hand in this moment.
The gunners fired relentlessly. Lothar, the tail gunner, fired his twin 7.92mm MGs, the bullets streaking through the air with a sharp chatter. Through the fire and smoke, he spotted one of the French fighters—its wings nearly clipping the tail of Erich's bomber. His shot hit, and the enemy plane wavered, dropping behind in a plume of smoke. One down, but there was still another on their tail.
"Erich's hit!" Klaus shouted. The words seemed to freeze the crew for a split second. The second bomber angled slightly, its wings vibrating as the pilot pushed the throttle, trying to stay ahead of the remaining enemy fighters.
Inside Erich's plane, the crew of the first bomber was in chaos. Through the open radio channel, they could hear Erich's voice, calm and collected despite the gunfire and the smoke. But it was obvious that the damage to their bomber was severe. Their situation was grim.
The second He 111 pressed forward, the adrenaline coursing through the crew's veins as they prepared for another pass at the attacking French fighters. The sky was alive with tracers, smoke trails, and the deafening sounds of aerial combat. Their own bomber's gunners fired back, but they needed more time to give Erich's crew the cover they needed.
Then, it happened.
A loud crack echoed through the cockpit. A hit. The fuselage buckled slightly as one of the French fighters unleashed another volley, tearing into the wing. Lothar's gunfire was sporadic now, his attention divided between maintaining fire and watching for enemy movements.
"Hold on!" the pilot shouted, diving the bomber down in a sharp arc to shake the pursuing fighters. The force of the maneuver slammed the crew members into their seats. One of the French fighters veered off, taking a hit, but the other pressed on, determined.
"Erich's plane!" shouted Klaus as he leaned forward, barely able to focus on anything but the sight of the first Heinkel, now trailing smoke as it veered toward the water below.
"Take it down!" the pilot growled, gripping the controls even harder as he dipped and dived to avoid the remaining enemy aircraft. The second He 111's tail gunner, Lothar, locked eyes with the rear sight and fired again. This time, the French plane went into a steep dive, trailing black smoke as it spun away.
It was too late for Erich's plane, though. With a sickening groan, the first He 111 pitched downward. Through the chaos of explosions and tracer fire, they watched helplessly as it plummeted toward the water, its wings clipped, but the landing wasn't far off. The waters below could be their salvation.
As the remaining French plane retreated, the second He 111 steadied itself, the sound of its own engines filling the cockpit as the crew tried to regain control of the situation. It was then they saw it—the first bomber crashing down into the lake below.
"Quick! We need to go down there and check!" the pilot shouted.
The second bomber banked sharply, heading toward the lake. Onboard, the crew prepared for another landing, but this time, it was to rescue the surviving crew and squad members. Klaus and Lothar checked their weapons, their minds focused now on the mission at hand.
As the second Heinkel descended toward the lake, the scene before them unfolded in a haze of smoke. Erich's bomber was mostly submerged, but it looked like the crash had been survivable. The diplomat was alive, as well as some of Erich's squad members.
Landing in the water was no easy feat, but the pilot handled it with practiced skill, the Heinkel touching down with a soft thud on the water's surface. The remaining gunners from both bombers scrambled to unload their equipment and gear.
Within moments, the crew from the second bomber was preparing to assist Erich's team. The situation was grim, but they still had a chance. Erich's men were alive, though injured. Some had already managed to get to the shore, but the situation was far from secure.
The French fighters were gone, but the danger wasn't over. As the crew and surviving squad members assembled on the shore, Erich's men were quick to regroup. Their mission wasn't complete yet, and now, survival had become the priority.
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This revision is written from the perspective of the second He 111's crew, incorporating the details you requested while keeping the timeline and number of characters in check. Let me know if you'd like further adjustments!