Linz, Austria – March 1938.
After the parade, the tension didn't vanish—it only changed form. The crew of the Panzer dispersed into the surrounding alleys, officially "on rest." In practice, they were ordered to be seen, to mix with the people, to project normalcy.
Falk walked with Helmut and Ernst along a narrow street. Locals nodded at them. Some offered cigarettes or bread. Others whispered behind closed doors.
—"Feels strange," Helmut said, "like we're both welcome and feared."
—"We are," Falk replied. "We carry the Reich's weight on tracks."
In a small plaza, a former soldier from the Great War approached them. He wore a worn-out Austrian uniform and a prosthetic leg.
—"Leibstandarte, eh?" he said in a thick accent. "So young. But your eyes aren't."
He shook Falk's hand. The grip was firm. A salute between soldiers of different wars.
Lukas and Konrad were at a café terrace nearby, pretending to relax. Lukas smiled too easily. Konrad didn't smile at all.
Children ran past, chasing each other with makeshift wooden rifles. Their laughter clashed with the silence of the armored presence still echoing through the streets.
That night, the crew reunited in their assigned quarters. Sparse, cold, but functional.
—"You think this will last?" Ernst asked.
—"Nothing lasts," Falk answered. "But we'll do our part."
Outside, the streets were calm. But the air was already shifting.
Not a war. Not yet.
But the road to it had already begun.