Kursk Front — February 11, 1942
For days, the sky had spit fire.
German artillery had pounded the Soviet lines relentlessly.There was no dawn, no dusk. Only barrages, explosions, the thunder of steel striking steel.The ground was trembling mud, churned into a wasteland where trees no longer grew and bodies found no rest. The tank crews slept —when they could— with helmets on, hands on controls, jaws clenched.
Falk's Tiger, motionless between two low hills, looked like a predator waiting to pounce.
That day, for the first time in what felt like forever, the thunder stopped.
There was no command. No warning.Just the last German shell vanishing somewhere beyond the trenches…and then silence fell like a curtain.
No one spoke inside the tanks. No one moved.
Lukas glanced at Falk through the Tiger's rear-view mirror, as if asking for confirmation that the world hadn't cracked. Helmut kept his eyes on the gauges, waiting for the next roar. Ernst, the new radio operator, swallowed hard.
In the Panther, Brunner tightened his gloves slowly. In the Panzer IVs, the men checked their magazines, their sights, the black crosses painted on their flanks—for the fifth time.
Falk climbed halfway out of the hatch.The horizon was smoke and nothingness. Absolute silence.
Then he said it. Quiet, firm, like a Roman general delivering a verdict before crossing the Rubicon:
—Now it's our turn.
He didn't shout. No grand gestures.But the radio came alive. The crews responded with a single, sharp "Jawohl."
The engines roared to life.
The tanks began to roll forward.
For the first time since the start of Kursk, the front would move.And leading the charge... Falk Ritter.