April 1938 – Southern Border of Czechoslovakia
The orders had arrived.
The Leibstandarte would advance—peacefully, they said—into the Sudetenland. Falk wasn't sure anything that rolled in with tanks could be called peaceful.
They assembled near a railway junction, waiting for the column to form. Engineers worked around them. Civilians were absent. Word had spread.
Falk reviewed the route on a folded map. Helmut monitored the radio for signals. Ernst checked the ammo count. Lukas made sure the engine roared like it should. Konrad remained quiet, polishing the optics.
A dispatch rider handed Falk a sealed envelope. He opened it without ceremony.
—"We're leading the second wave," he announced.
—"So they expect the first to be enough?" Lukas joked.
—"No," Falk replied. "They expect the second to finish what the first starts."
Before dawn, they moved.
Through cold air and tense silence, the tanks rolled forward. No gunfire, no resistance. But the eyes from windows and hills told another story.
At the first town, a German flag already flew.
Some greeted them. Some watched. A few spat.
Falk ordered the crew to stay inside unless commanded otherwise.
At night, the town remained quiet, but the air felt loaded. Ernst scribbled in a notebook. Helmut picked up a Czech broadcast. Lukas tried to sleep, muttering about ghosts in the stonework.
Falk stood outside, looking up at a silent window. A young girl stood behind the glass, watching him with a neutral stare.
He didn't wave. Just turned and returned to the Panzer.
Another town ahead. Another line on the map.
But the road was narrowing. And the silence was starting to speak too loud.