Salzburg, Austria – Early April 1938
The unit had been relocated. New town, new streets, same uniforms. In Salzburg, the air was cleaner, but the tension remained. More civilians watched. More officers passed by with rigid posture and clipped words.
Falk's Panzer and others were parked in the courtyard of a former military academy. Locals passed by cautiously, some waving, others just staring.
In the evenings, the crew wandered the outer districts. Not on duty—just stretching legs.
That afternoon, they crossed paths with a group of Wehrmacht soldiers drinking at a roadside tavern. Conversations quieted. A few eyes lingered too long on the black SS uniforms.
—"Looks like the parade troops are on walkabout," one infantryman muttered loudly.
Falk ignored it, but Lukas didn't.
—"You want to test that theory?" Lukas said, stepping forward.
Falk raised a hand to stop him.
—"We're not here to fight shadows."
But the tension was real. The regular army didn't trust the Leibstandarte. The SS didn't trust anyone.
Back at the barracks, Helmut cleaned his radio with a cloth that had more patches than fabric.
—"You think they'll ever see us as comrades?" he asked.
—"Some will," Ernst replied. "The smart ones."
Later, as the sun fell behind the mountains, the five crew members gathered around the tank. Lukas handed out cigarettes. Konrad accepted one. Falk didn't.
They stood in silence, smoke curling upward, boots planted firm on stone. Different in many ways, but alike in one: when the next order came, they would move as one.
Even if no one else understood them, they understood each other.
And that, Falk knew, was what made them dangerous.