Belgium — May 28, 1940
The rain fell fine and steady, as if trying to erase the tracks left by steel. In just two days, the Leibstandarte had cut through Belgium like a blade. Over 200 kilometers covered through smoke, mud, and torn asphalt. It was a pace even they could barely believe.
The radios left no doubt: Belgium had surrendered. King Leopold III had ordered all resistance to cease. For many, it was the end of a desperate defense. For the Leibstandarte, it was merely the next step.
"Confirmed," said Helmut, headset on. "Belgian ceasefire across all fronts. Some British units are retreating toward Dunkirk."
Falk gave no reply. From the Panzer's hatch, he watched a road littered with abandoned vehicles—commandeered civilian trucks, wrecked cars, and disarmed Belgian soldiers walking in formation. Some raised their hands. Others simply bowed their heads.
"There's no pride in this," muttered Konrad.
"No glory either," added Ernst. "Only fatigue."
Lukas maneuvered the Panzer into a clearing beside an intact bridge. The tank halted with a metallic groan. On the horizon, columns of smoke marked villages still burning—some from combat, others from sabotage.
Falk climbed down. He walked through what had once been a fortified position. Sandbags. Ammo crates. Helmets. And dark stains that weren't from the rain.
A Belgian officer approached, flanked by two soldiers, hands clearly visible. He didn't speak German, but he didn't need to. With a gesture, he offered his holstered pistol.
"Do we accept formal surrenders?" asked Lukas, stepping down from the tank.
"We're not the military police," Falk replied. "Just make a note of it. Let them pass."
The officer nodded slowly, as if he understood more than just the words. He turned, and his men followed him in silence.
The surrender hadn't stopped the war's ticking clock. Reports spoke of retreating British forces, isolated pockets of resistance, and a coastline turning into a funnel. Northern France was already preparing for the next act.
"This isn't the end," said Albrecht over the radio. "It's just an interlude. The real pressure starts now."
Falk climbed back into the tank. He looked at the map. Calais. Dunkirk. Lille. All of it lay ahead, waiting.
And though Belgium had gone silent, the echo of its ruins still rumbled beneath their treads.