Central Poland, September 13th, 1939
The battalion remained halted. Resupply, they said. But Falk knew it was something more. The front had slowed—not from lack of orders, but from an excess of caution. Warsaw held firm, and not every road was clear.
Falk walked alone toward the command tent when an aide motioned silently that Colonel Albrecht was expecting him. He entered without speaking. The superior stood without his jacket, staring at a map spread across the table.
"Ritter," Albrecht said without turning. "Good work at the bridge. Reports speak of precision and decisiveness."
"The credit belongs to the team, sir."
"The credit belongs to the one who leads without hesitation. How are your men?"
"Tired. But alive. Some… haven't said a word since."
Albrecht straightened, as if he'd expected that answer.
"He read your file. You come from the personal guard. Not everyone who marched well outside the Chancellery knows how to advance under fire. You do."
Falk said nothing. The colonel took a sheet and slid it toward him.
"New sector. Not immediate. But when the order comes, you'll lead the column."
"Just us?"
"You first. The rest will follow. Any problem with that?"
"None, sir."
Albrecht paused a moment before Falk turned to leave.
"One more thing," he added. "I've recommended you for the Iron Cross, Second Class. Not just for the bridge—but for the initial offensive too. Initiative is valued. And you have it."
Falk stood still for a moment.
"I'm honored, sir. But that's not why we crossed."
"I know," Albrecht replied, looking him in the eyes. "That's why you deserve it."
Outside, on the way back to the Panzer, Falk stopped. A group of Polish civilians—elderly, women, a couple of children—stood at a distance. One of the boys stared at the tank with wide eyes. Falk looked back. The boy raised a timid hand in a half-salute. Falk didn't return it.
"What'd he say?" asked Helmut, stepping down with a cigarette between his lips.
"Nothing. But I understood the gesture."
"You think they hate us?"
"I think they don't understand us. And we don't understand them either."
Konrad, listening from the side of the tank, added:
"We don't even speak the same language. But everyone understands what a 75mm cannon does."
Falk leaned against the warm steel of the Panzer.
"We don't fully understand what we're doing either. We just keep moving."
And in that shared silence—between resting machines and watching civilians—the war seemed, for a brief moment, frozen in place.