France — Night of June 2, 1940
The roar had faded.
The beach lay under a thick mist of ash, smoke, and silence. The sea was still there, indifferent, licking the shore as if nothing had happened. But on the sand, the war had signed its name—in fire, in bodies, in empty stares.
The Panzer IV stood motionless. Its hatch was open, letting in the damp, salty air. Inside, no one spoke.
Falk had taken off his helmet. His hands were stained with soot. He stared toward the horizon, where columns of smoke still rose like reminders. There was nothing left to conquer. Nothing left to crush.
"You think they'll ever come back?" Lukas asked, sitting on the floor, scraping mud from his boots.
"Who?" Falk replied, without turning.
"The British. The French. Someone."
It took Falk a moment to answer.
"I don't know. Maybe. Maybe they never should've come. Or maybe we never should've followed them this far."
Ernst had picked up a British helmet from the beach. He held it, silently. Konrad was writing something in his notebook. Words no one would ever read.
"They didn't fight like us," Ernst said at last. "It was different. More… desperate."
"Because they already knew they were going to die," Konrad replied. "And when a man knows that, all he has left is dignity."
Falk said nothing. He simply lowered his gaze. Dried blood stained the turret. He didn't know whose. Maybe an ally's. Maybe an enemy's. Maybe someone who had just been in the wrong place.
The silence wasn't peace. It was exhaustion. It was echo.
"They'll call us heroes," Lukas muttered.
"And what will we say?" Falk asked.
No one answered.
Outside the tank, engineers were setting up defensive positions. Anti-aircraft guns still pointed skyward, in case the RAF returned. But there was nothing left to destroy. Only waiting. Only looking back.
Falk closed the hatch.On the outside, they were still steel.On the inside… they weren't so sure anymore.