Germany — August 1940
Konrad was walking again—Clumsily, with pain in his side and fresh bandages beneath his uniform, but walking nonetheless.
"Told you that tank wouldn't kill me," he joked as he stepped into the barracks where the others were playing cards.
Lukas exhaled. Ernst managed a faint smile. Helmut stood without a word and gave him a firm pat on the shoulder.
"We've got our gun back," he said.
For weeks, the unit was put through intensive training.Mixed-terrain maneuvers. Live-fire exercises. Night operations.It wasn't just preparation—it was cleansing. As if Berlin wanted to scrub away the stains of France and the Sudetenland before the next move.
"They're not training us," Ernst said one night. "They're purifying us."
Falk didn't argue. He thought the same.
It was during a firing drill that they summoned him.An officer from the armored corps. Dry voice. Spotless uniform.
"SS-Oberscharführer Ritter. We've reviewed your file. Your performance. Your decisions under pressure. We'd like to offer you a temporary transfer to the training corps. Instructing new crewmen. You'd remain in Germany."
Falk didn't answer immediately.
"Off the front?"
"Yes. Here. Practice tanks. Fixed schedules. Safety."
"No."
"Reason?"
Falk met his gaze without anger.
"I don't teach anything I haven't lived through with my men.And they're still alive."
The officer nodded. Closed the file. Didn't insist.
That night, Falk didn't sleep.He ran his fingers along the inside of the Panzer IV.Every scratch. Every weld. Every hand-painted mark.
It wasn't nostalgia.
It was memory.It was proof of who he was…and why he wasn't built to stay behind.