Ukraine — February 7, 1942
The map spread across the table showed the German lines like veins of steel pushing eastward. Falk traced them with his finger, absorbed. Outside, the Tiger's engine idled softly. Helmut checked inventory. Ernst cleaned his optics. Brunner sharpened his bayonet in silence.
The tent flap opened.
—Hauptscharführer Ritter.
Falk turned. It was Obersturmbannführer Keller, his immediate superior. A clean-cut man, precise, his face hardened by years of command and protocol.
—We have new assignments for the advance —he said, placing a sealed folder on the table—. Your platoon will cover the western flank of the Kursk axis, about fifteen kilometers from the active front.
Falk said nothing at first. He opened the folder, scanned the page… and lifted his gaze with tension in his eyes.
—Quiet zone? —he asked quietly.
—Consolidation zone —Keller replied.
—And who's breaking the line?
—2nd Panzergrenadier Battalion... and 1st Armored Battalion. You're to secure the flanks.
Falk stared at the map.
—This is where the Soviets will be. This is where Kursk will be decided. Are they pulling me away?
Keller sighed.
—It's not my decision, Ritter. There are political concerns. Journalists en route. Berlin wants to preserve certain… assets.
—I'm an asset now? —Falk interrupted—. I'm not a monument. I'm a commander. And my men haven't survived this far just to watch the war from a safe distance.
The silence that followed was heavy.
—With all due respect, sir —Falk added—, pulling me back now dishonors those who've died under my command. We are soldiers. Not parade decoration.
Keller held his gaze. Not as an officer. As a man torn in two.
—If you disobey directly, I'll have to report it —he said.
—I won't —Falk replied—. But you have room to reinterpret the orders. It's your call.
Keller looked at him one last time. Then, he picked up his pen, crossed out a line, and wrote another.
—Central sector. Breakthrough line. Direct front at Kursk.
Falk took the folder, saluted. His voice was firm.
—Thank you, sir.
Outside, the Ukrainian wind lashed his face. Mud clung to his boots like chains. On top of the Tiger, Lukas looked down from the hatch.
—More escort duty?
Falk climbed up without hesitation.
—No. We're going straight to Kursk. The way it's meant to be.