Iron Caput | German Girls in Africa!

The scorching desert of Central Africa showed no mercy. You had been wandering under the relentless sun for what felt like an eternity, hope slowly draining away with every step. Just as you were ready to surrender to the heat and exhaustion, something appeared on the horizon. It was enormous — a vast metal structure crawling across the sand on heavy tracks. It moved with painful sluggishness, repeatedly stalling before lurching forward again in a cloud of dust and black smoke.

You approached. The machine was barely faster than a walking man, so closing the distance took little effort. Up close it was even more impressive: not merely a tank, but a colossal fortress on tracks, its armoured flanks rising like the walls of a mobile citadel. Suddenly a periscope on the roof swivelled in your direction. A few seconds later a hatch clanged open.

“Wer bist du?!” barked a middle-aged woman of striking, eccentric appearance. She leaned out of the hatch with a rifle trained on you. She wore the faded uniform of the old Imperial German army — an empire that had ceased to exist several years earlier. “Schmulke! Bring the chains!” she shouted over her shoulder. “We’ve got a strange one here. A spy, that's a spy!”

The lower decks of the tank reeked of old oil, metal, and faintly spoiled canned meat. Dim electric bulbs cast a sickly yellow light over the narrow corridor and the small storage room that now served as a makeshift cell. You sat on the cold steel floor, wrists and ankles bound by heavy chains that were fastened to a thick pipe running along the wall.

Your two guards sat opposite you on a pair of overturned crates, rifles resting casually across their laps. Drankel and Zhrankel were supposed to be watching you. In practice, they were mostly occupied with eating: a growing pile of empty bean cans already littered the floor around them. “Here, eat,” one of them said suddenly, holding out a spoonful. Drankel… or was it Zhrankel? It was impossible to tell them apart.

“What?! Don’t feed the prisoners, you idiot!” the other protested, smacking her companion on the forehead with a spoon. “If you feed them there won’t be enough for us! We already had to skip the evening snack, the bedtime snack and the midnight snack — there’s barely any food left!” The two women locked eyes in a surprisingly stern glare. A moment later they launched into a rapid, increasingly unpleasant exchange of insults. You had no choice but to sit there and listen... Or you could interfere.

The narrow corridor outside the makeshift cell was slightly less oppressive than the storage room itself, though the air still carried the same heavy mix of oil and metal. You watched as Greta Schmulke strode past with a clipboard clutched tightly in one hand and a look of permanent strain on her face. “Out. Now.” Her voice was flat but sharp as she pointed at Drankel and Zhrankel, who had been attempting to open a sealed ration crate with a bayonet. “That crate is inventoried. If I find one more missing tin, you will both be scrubbing the engine deck with toothbrushes until we reach civilisation — assuming it still exists.” The two soldiers muttered something unintelligible and shuffled away, empty-handed and sulking.

A moment later a familiar, high voice echoed down from an upper hatch. “Schmulke! Why is the secondary generator still offline? I specifically ordered it repaired before noon! Are you deliberately sabotaging the mission, or are you simply as incompetent as the rest of this crew?!”

Greta closed her eyes for a second, exhaled slowly through her nose, and answered in the same dry tone, “Working on it, Major.” She waited until the hatch slammed shut, then walked over and sat down heavily on an overturned crate beside you, resting the clipboard on her knees. For a short while she said nothing, merely staring at the opposite bulkhead as if it had personally offended her. “Ugh... Can't even tell who's in worse position now.” She said, giving you a side glance.

The officers’ lounge was the closest thing the tank had to a civilised space. A cracked leather armchair, a dusty Kaiser portrait, and a half-empty bottle of schnapps that had remained untouched for years stood as silent witnesses to better times. Baroness Amalia von Schwalzkopf XII sat rigidly in the armchair, monocle gleaming under the weak electric light, regarding you with open suspicion. You explained, carefully and clearly, that the Great War had ended years ago. The German Empire no longer existed. The world she remembered was gone.

For a long moment the baroness simply stared at you. Then a short, sharp laugh escaped her. ”How delightfully absurd!” she exclaimed, clapping her hands. “A lost traveller appears in the middle of the African savannah and attempts to demoralise an Imperial officer with fairy tales. Truly, the enemy’s propaganda grows more creative by the day!”

She'd been laughing for a whole minute, desperately trying to stop and failing every time. But eventually, the baroness managed to catch her breath. With a sigh, she rose from the chair, hands clasped behind her back, and studied you with renewed interest. “Its been years since I laughed so much… your presence is moderately entertaining. Without you, I suspect this crew would drive me to even greater heights of irritation. Very well.” A thin, almost amused smile touched her lips. “You are hereby attached to the crew as… special consultant!”

The savannah trembled under the slow, thunderous barrage. Shell after shell arced from the colossal tank and crashed into the outskirts of the Zusul camp, sending up geysers of red earth and panicked shouts. The metal beast crawled forward with the same stubborn, inefficient determination it always showed. “Eat this, filthy barbarians!” Amalia shouted, clearly proud of herself. Finally, for the first time in months, she was winning a battle against you, the Zusuls!

But you were smarter than them.

While the crew remained focused on their clumsy bombardment, you sprinted across the open ground, leapt onto the moving tracks, and climbed the armoured hull with the ease of someone who had scaled steeper things for sport. Reaching the main gun, you simply jammed the nearest solid object — a thick wooden stake — deep into the muzzle.

A second later the whole tank shook from the explosion. Smoke and soot billowed from every vent and hatch. After a long, ringing silence, the top hatch clanged open and Baroness Amalia von Schwalzkopf XII emerged, her face and uniform completely blackened, monocle somehow still in place though askew. She locked eyes with you, standing calmly on her own gun barrel, and gave a single, slow nod of grim respect. “…Good work!” She yelled clumsily, clearly deafened by the explosion. She extended her hand to you. ”...We ask for a truce!”

Night had settled over the savannah. Sitting at the bonfire, Drankel and Zhrankel sat side by side with their rifles across their laps, supposedly protecting the tank. In reality they were sharing a single tin of cold beans and singing old soldiers songs.

A soft scrape of movement in the grass made both of them freeze.

They squinted into the darkness and eventually spotted you — a shadowy figure creeping carefully toward the tank’s tracks. You were a Zulus scout, tasked to watch the ”iron beast”. But it seemed that your mission was doomed. At least, you thought it were.

Drankel (or possibly Zhrankel) raised a hand and whispered loudly enough to be heard across the clearing: “Hey. You there. Quiet.” The other one nodded vigorously. “Yeah. Be careful. There are dangerous savages around here. Zusuls. Very sneaky. If they catch you they’ll probably stick you with spears or something.” She gestured vaguely with her spoon. “So keep your head down and don’t make noise. We’re on duty, but… you know. Just don’t get yourself killed before morning. That would be annoying.” They both returned to their beans, completely satisfied that they had done their duty as vigilant sentries.

The early morning mist still clung to the tall grass when the ground beneath your feet suddenly gave way. You got into a carefully concealed pit, constructed by her: Greta Schmulke. She appeared at the edge of the pit a moment later, holding a clipboard with trembling hands. For several long seconds she simply stared down at you, as if she could not quite believe the trap had actually worked. Then a sharp, almost disbelieving breath escaped her. “It worked,” she whispered. “It actually worked!”

She pressed the heel of her hand against her forehead, eyes closing for a moment. Days of Amalia’s constant insults, endless repairs, sleepless nights spent recalculating the same failing systems — and now, for the first time, something she had built herself had functioned exactly as intended. When she opened her eyes again there was a rare, fierce light in them. “Subject secured,” she said, louder this time, and the usual flatness in her voice cracked with something close to triumph. “I calculated a seventy-eight percent probability you would attempt another approach from the eastern side before midday. And you, idiot, actually fell for it!”

The gigantic tank finally gave up with a long, grinding metallic sigh. The engines fell silent. The lights inside flickered once and died. For the first time in years, the great machine sat completely still under the African sun. You, a Zulus warrior, was watching the scene from the nearest bushes. But as the hours passed and the tank stayed still, you finally approached it.

After a long, reluctant delay, the main hatch opened. One by one the crew climbed out, blinking in the harsh daylight. Drankel and Zhrankel immediately sat down in the shade of the tracks and began arguing over the last piece of hardtack. Baroness Amalia von Schwalzkopf XII emerged next, holding a makeshift white flag. The last one to leave was Greta Schumlke, who was especially embarrassed: the white flag held by the baroness was actually a pair of her undergarments tied to a cleaning rod.

“You there!” Amalia called out in her usual clipped, imperious tone, addressing whoever happened to be watching from a distance. “I, Major Baroness Amalia von Schwalzkopf XII of the Imperial German Army, hereby propose a temporary cessation of hostilities. We require… certain logistical assistance. In return, I am prepared to guarantee that your primitive settlements will not be immediately crushed beneath our tracks once the engines are restored.” She adjusted her monocle with her free hand and waited, as though the offer were the most generous concession imaginable. ”The major wants to say that we offer a truce if you help us.“ Schumlke added.