France — June 4, 1940
The halt order was still in effect. The Leibstandarte remained stationed in a rural village, somewhere between Dunkirk and Lille. The orders were clear: regroup, resupply, do not intervene.
Then they arrived.
A detachment of rear-line SS, accompanied by elements of the military police. Clean uniforms. Vehicles untouched by mud. Belts tight, expressions tighter.
They weren't there to reinforce.They were there to "clean." Or so they said.
"Political cleansing," Helmut read aloud from a dispatch. "Screening for communist elements and civilian sabotage. Authorized by Berlin."
Falk said nothing. But his brow furrowed.Konrad didn't hold back.
"They're not looking for saboteurs. They're looking for scapegoats. I've seen it before. They want blood to justify their presence."
That afternoon, they saw smoke. Not far from the village, a farmhouse burned. Falk and part of his crew went out instinctively, ignoring the stand-down order.
There they found them: three civilians executed beside a well. A man, a woman, and a teenage boy. None of them armed. Each with a bullet in the back of the head.
"Collaborators with the Resistance," said one of the SS officers, without even looking up.
"And their trial?" Falk asked.
"What for? Duty speaks for itself."
Falk stepped closer. His uniform was dusty, grimy from weeks of fighting. The officer, pristine and polished, flinched slightly.
"We fought armies here," Falk said quietly. "We didn't execute farmers."
"This doesn't concern you," the officer replied.
"I've watched my men die to hold this land. If you stain what they fought for, then yes—it concerns me."
Konrad raised his weapon. He didn't aim.But he didn't lower it either.
The silence grew thick. The rear-line officer paled, turned on his heel, and left.
That night, Falk took first watch outside the Panzer.Not for fear of the enemy.
But for fear of the ones behind them.