Austria, outskirts of Linz – March 1938.
The train yard smelled of oil, coal, and something older—like iron that had tasted too much history.
The Leibstandarte detachment had been ordered to secure a secondary depot. Officially, it was routine. Unofficially, it was to show presence.
Falk stood beside the Panzer, arms crossed, while soldiers from the Wehrmacht unloaded crates with mechanical indifference. There was a clear line between the black uniforms of the SS and the field gray of the army.
A lieutenant from the Wehrmacht approached with a clipboard.
—"You boys came to scare civilians or move steel?" he asked.
Falk looked at him, not hostile but unreadable.
—"We do both. Depends on the order."
The officer gave a half-smile and walked away. Konrad watched him go, cleaning his sidearm without looking up.
—"They see us as parade soldiers," he muttered.
—"Let them," Falk replied. "They'll find out soon enough."
Later that day, they received visitors: schoolchildren brought by local authorities to see the "heroes of the Reich." The crew stood in front of their tank while questions rained in, filtered by a nervous teacher.
—"Is it true your tank can destroy a house?"
—"Have you met Hitler?"
—"Will there be war?"
Falk answered only what was allowed. But he noted the fear behind the curiosity. Even in the young.
As evening fell, Helmut tuned the radio to catch foreign signals. Paris, London, Prague. Words they didn't always understand. But tones they could read.
Tension. Doubt. Resistance.
In the barracks, Lukas shared a cigarette with Ernst.
—"Feels like they want to believe we're invincible."
—"We're not," Ernst said. "We're just ready."
And outside, under the pale Austrian moon, the Panzer rested like a beast waiting for its leash to be loosened.