Central Poland, September 12th, 1939
The improvised camp smelled of scorched earth, oil, and cheap coffee. After securing the crossing and pulling back the battered company, the battalion received an unusual order: stop. Resupply. Breathe.
The Panzer IV rested under a canvas tarp. Around it, the five crew members moved with mechanical routine. They didn't speak much. But the silence wasn't the same as in the training days. Now it weighed more.
Lukas had taken off his shirt and was inspecting the running gear with a grease-stained wrench.
"How many more times do you think we'll do this?" he asked, not looking at anyone.
"Until there's no one left standing against us," Ernst replied, leaning on an ammo crate.
"Or until we're the ones gone," Helmut added quietly, lighting a cigarette.
Falk watched them from a folding chair, going over maps. Konrad was cleaning the turret's sight with his usual obsessive precision.
"We're not cannon fodder," Falk said calmly. "We're the spearhead."
"And that comforts you?" Lukas replied.
Falk didn't answer.
Later, as night fell, they shared a watery stew cooked by quartermaster troops. Helmut told a ridiculous story about a sergeant who mistook a Polish horse for a civilian in disguise. Ernst laughed for the first time in days. Konrad scowled. Lukas raised his tin cup.
"To those who crossed the bridge," he toasted.
"And to those who didn't," Helmut added, solemnly.
Falk looked up. The stars were barely visible. But the calm was real—even if only for a moment.
"Tomorrow, we move again," he said, standing up.
And they all knew it. But that night, for a moment, they weren't soldiers in an ideological war.They were just five living men, gathered around a smoking Panzer,trying not to think too much.