The heat had eased, but the air was still thick with fine dust and dry smoke. Falk Ritter's squad had pulled back to a sheltered position beneath a set of rocky formations that offered natural cover and a temporary reprieve. No gunfire. No orders. Just the distant hum of an engine and the whisper of the wind.
The original crew—Helmut, Ernst, and the recently returned Konrad—sat near the Panzer alongside the new members of the platoon: Vogel, Neumann, and the young Udo.
"Is he always like this?" Udo asked quietly, holding a piece of bread between his fingers. "I mean… Ritter. Never talks. Always there… like a shadow with stripes."
Ernst let out a short, humorless laugh.
"Yeah. That's normal. If he ever says more than two sentences in a row, we're probably already dead and don't know it yet."
Vogel shrugged, glancing toward Falk, who was seated alone, writing in a small notebook.
"Anyone know if he's got family? Is he married? Kids?"
"Doubt it," Helmut said without looking up. "Not a word all these months. No letters, no photos, nothing."
Konrad, sitting on a crate of ammo, placed his helmet down and spoke for the first time in a while:
"I think his father was military. From the old empire, maybe. Or police. Or both. There's something in the way he walks, the way he watches, the way he commands… That's not just officer school. That's something you grow up with."
Neumann nodded, thoughtful.
"Could be. He has that… law without emotion feel to him. Like he's wearing an invisible badge."
"What if he's just like that?" Udo asked. "I mean… what if there's no story? What if he's just one of those men born old?"
Helmut chuckled—this time with genuine amusement.
"Maybe. But there's something there. You don't become like him out of nowhere. He doesn't give orders for the sake of it. He gives them like each one costs him something."
Ernst raised an eyebrow.
"Then why do you follow him?"
"Because he's never made me doubt. Not even once," Helmut said without hesitation.
A brief silence fell over the group. They all looked once more at Falk. He was still writing, brow furrowed, hand steady. He didn't seem to notice them, but something in his posture suggested he heard everything—or at least sensed it.
No one asked anything else.
Then Falk closed the notebook calmly. He stood, with the same quiet resolve he used when leading a charge, and without even looking at them, said:
"Break ends in five minutes. If you're not ready, you get left behind."
And he walked off.