France — January 1942
The engines roared under the overcast sky of the Mérignac training field. It wasn't a battlefield, but tension hung in the air as if it were. Mud splashed against the treads as Falk's five tanks maneuvered across the terrain prepared for combat drills.
—Panther, right flank, wedge formation —Falk ordered over the radio.
The tanks responded. Metzger's Panther moved first—meticulous and precise, executing the maneuver without flaw. Behind him, Brunner's Panther fell into position half a second late. Just enough for Helmut to notice from the Tiger.
—He's got spirit, but not the rhythm —he muttered.
—What he lacks is time —Falk replied—. And that's what we don't have.
The Panzer IVs followed. Klein drove like he was still in Poland: straight, steady, not losing a single meter. Wegener, on the other hand, was quieter, more restrained—even through the radio. His tank was the least flashy, but the most consistent.
The first phase of the drill ended with a simulated frontal attack. The targets were red-painted wooden posts representing enemy anti-tank positions.
—Controlled fire. Alternate shots —Falk ordered.
Metzger's Panther fired first. A clean hit. Then Klein's, just as accurate. Brunner fired… but his shot landed short, hitting the dirt five meters in front of the target.
—Adjust. Breathe before you squeeze —Falk said over the radio, not harshly.
—Yes, sir.
A pause. Then a second shot. This time it hit. Not perfectly, but enough.
Later, at the rest zone, the tank commanders gathered by the Tiger. Technicians checked oil levels and removed lens covers from Brunner's Panther.
—Is that how the front trains soldiers? —Klein asked, arms crossed, glancing at Brunner— With drawings and autographs?
The comment landed like lead. Brunner looked down.
—That's out of line —Ernst said flatly.
—What's out of line is playing soldier among men who already know what it costs to be one.
Falk appeared just then. He said nothing. Just stepped between them and lit a cigarette. He watched the tanks in silence for several seconds. The wind flapped the canvas hanging from the hangar.
—Klein, how many times did your loader fail in Russia?
—Twice, sir.
—And Brunner, how many times have you had to cover a retreat with your crew?
—None, sir.
—Then we're even. No one here is better than anyone else. Not until we see them bleed together. Or die together.
Klein lowered his head, tense. Brunner breathed through his nose, holding back either anger or shame.
Falk took a slow drag.
—Learn to live with each other. Because the enemy won't give us the luxury of choosing our companions.
He walked off without another word. Helmut caught up with him halfway.
—Too soft?
—No. Sometimes what they need isn't yelling... it's remembering where they are.
That night, in the barracks, Brunner drew again. This time, not a single tank in motion—but five, aligned, covering each other, surrounded by fire.
And in the center turret, the silhouette of a man standing. Still. No words needed.