Austria, March 1938.
The Panzer III rolled steadily down the cobbled streets of Linz. Its armor gleamed under the pale morning sun, not from battle scars, but from polish and pride. Children waved from windows. Women offered flowers. Some men saluted. Others watched in silence.
Inside the turret, Falk Ritter observed the city through his periscope. It wasn't his first parade—but it was the first as part of the Leibstandarte. His face, stoic. His hands, firm on the optics.
—"They're smiling now," muttered Lukas from the driver's seat, "but I doubt they felt the same last week."
—"They weren't asked," Konrad said coldly from his gunner's position.
No one answered.
They weren't occupiers. Not officially. The annexation had been signed. Welcomed, even. But the air smelled of fresh paint and old fear.
At the head of the column, banners fluttered. Behind them, more tanks, half-tracks, troops in formation. It was a show of force wrapped in ceremony.
Helmut, the radio operator, adjusted his headset and received a brief coded message.
—"Continue toward Hauptplatz. Hold formation."
Falk nodded and tapped Lukas' shoulder.
They advanced.
Through cheers, through silence. Through a nation that had changed flags overnight.
The tank stopped in the main square. Falk opened the hatch and emerged. Not to wave. Just to see.
Below, civilians gathered. Some with tears. Others with clenched jaws. A little girl held a rose up toward him. He didn't reach for it.
He simply saluted. Sharp. Clean.
And the camera shutters clicked like distant machine guns.
That was the beginning. Not of a war. Not yet.
But of the long road they would all travel—on asphalt, in steel, and through history.