Austria – End of March 1938
The barracks were silent except for the occasional thud of boots on wood and the metallic clicking of equipment being checked for the third or fourth time.
Falk sat at a table, reading a report. Not orders—just summaries. Backgrounds. His crew's files.
—"We're more than just uniforms," he thought.
He looked at each page in turn.
**Helmut Krüger** was the youngest. A radio operator from Düsseldorf, fascinated by electronics. He had volunteered immediately when a technical posting opened in the Leibstandarte. Quick-thinking, observant, and loyal.
**Ernst Möller**, the loader, was a farm boy from Saxony. His strength came from years of work, not from the gym. Not the sharpest outside the tank, but inside he moved like clockwork.
**Konrad Weiß**, the gunner. A quiet man with a record from the Great War. Reenlisted by choice. Deadly behind the scope, unreadable beyond it.
**Lukas Hoffmann**, the driver, was city-born. Nervous energy, fast mouth, but golden hands behind the controls. He talked too much, but drove even better.
Falk closed the file. He knew their faces better than their stories. But now, the pieces fit more clearly.
Later that evening, while Helmut tuned the radio and Konrad cleaned the barrel again, Lukas joked:
—"You should see the photo in your file, Falk. You look like someone who already knew he'd survive."
Falk smirked.
—"Let's not tempt fate."
They laughed, even Konrad.
For a moment, they were not just soldiers. They were five men with names, memories, habits. All crammed inside a shell of steel.
Outside, the wind picked up. The orders had not yet come. But they would.
And when they did, this crew would be ready—as one.