Central Poland, September 3rd, 1939.
The sky was clear. The ground was not. After the storm of steel that had been Mokra, the Leibstandarte column didn't stop. No speeches. No announcements. Orders were clear: advance, push, break through. And that's what they did.
Falk's Panzer IV led a small detachment acting as the spearhead along a secondary road. On either side, fields scattered with hidden pits, dead horses, and the sharp stench of spilled gasoline.
"There's no organized resistance, but there's plenty of will to die killing," said Helmut as he cycled through radio channels. "Reports of improvised mines on bridges. Civilians with hunting rifles."
"That's not war. That's desperation," muttered Konrad.
"One doesn't rule out the other," Falk replied.
A crossroads. The Panzer turned without stopping. Behind it, three more tanks held formation. The Wehrmacht was farther back. This was the tip. The blade cutting through the country.
"Where's the Luftwaffe today?" Lukas asked, swerving around the wreck of a truck.
"Bombing Warsaw," Ernst answered from his hatch. "Or so they say. All I see is more and more road."
Half an hour later, an improvised mine exploded beneath a half-track thirty meters behind them. The blast was sharp, dirty. One of the soldiers flew through the air like a puppet with its strings cut.
Falk didn't stop.
"Notify the rear sapper team. We can't halt. Not now."
"Not even to pick up bodies?" Ernst asked.
"If we stop, someone else dies," Falk replied.
The Panzer rolled on. More empty villages. More signs of retreat. On a wall, someone had written in charcoal: "Here we fight. Here we die."
Helmut read it aloud. Konrad lowered his gaze. But the engine didn't stop.
By nightfall, they camped briefly in a clearing beside an abandoned farm. Falk gave five minutes of rest before refueling.
Lukas lay down on the dirt.
"How much longer?"
Falk answered in a low but steady voice:
"Until there's no map left. Or until they fold it."
Ernst pulled the dried flower from his pocket and looked at it. Said nothing. Then tucked it away again.
Helmut wrote a short line in his notebook: "To advance is not to live. It is not to die—yet."
And then, without ceremony, they climbed back into the Panzer.
The engine roared.And the column rolled forward.