Czechoslovakia – March 1939
It happened fast.
Rumors had been swirling for weeks. Then, suddenly, columns were moving again—toward Prague. Falk's unit was among them.
Officially, it was a "protective measure." Unofficially, it was a message. The Reich now held the heart of Czechoslovakia.
No resistance. No gunfire. Just quiet streets, flags lowered, and foreign eyes watching from windows.
Falk and his crew rolled into the capital behind a motorized column. The streets were clean. Too clean. Silent. Too silent.
They were assigned to a checkpoint near a bridge. Strategic, but symbolically obvious.
That afternoon, a group of civilians gathered—some curious, some angry. A child threw a rock that bounced harmlessly off the Panzer's tracks.
Ernst climbed out, ready to shout, but Falk stopped him.
—"Let them. As long as it's stones and not fire."
That night, the unit stayed in a confiscated warehouse. The concrete walls echoed with the sound of distant engines and whispered Czech.
Helmut tuned into BBC radio. The announcer's tone was grim.
—"London is watching. Paris is silent. Warsaw is alert."
Lukas muttered under his breath.
—"Feels like we just walked into someone else's storm."
Konrad polished the optics again.
—"We'll be the ones caught in it," he said.
Falk lay on his cot, staring at the ceiling.
They had taken the city. But peace had not come with it.
It was just a longer shadow before the storm.