Near Tomaszów Mazowiecki — September 5, 1939
The morning rose under thick mist and the acrid scent of damp gunpowder. The Leibstandarte moved southeast, dragging with it the scars of the previous day. The surviving tanks bore impacts, scratches, hastily welded seams. Falk's was one of them.
"Everything alright, Lukas?" he asked from the hatch.
"Better than the tank. But we're still rolling," replied the driver, his hands working the controls with practiced ease.
The terrain looked clear, but experience had taught them that calm was never free. Helmut muttered coordinates received over the radio—vague, with interference.
"Command believes there are Polish units retreating along this axis. They ask us to proceed with caution," Helmut reported.
"And if they're not retreating?" Ernst asked, peering through the slit.
There was no immediate answer.
The convoy turned into a narrow valley flanked by woods and low hills. That's when the first shot came—without warning. A light artillery shell hit twenty meters away, kicking up dirt and shrapnel. Then another. And another.
"Ambush! Organized rear guard!" Falk shouted.
From the hills, rifle and machine-gun fire rained down with precision. But this wasn't a ragtag resistance. These were soldiers.
"Konrad, to the east! Locate the artillery!"
Konrad swung the turret with determination. The cannon roared. The first shot missed. The second silenced a position behind a row of trees.
"They're coordinated!" Helmut yelled. "They're holding us while other units regroup."
Falk understood. The Poles knew they couldn't win here—but they were buying time.
"Ernst, get ready to swap magazines. Lukas, hold a straight line until I say. We're going to flank them."
The Panzer turned violently. They surged uphill, engines roaring. To their left, another German tank exploded after a precise hit.
The battle lasted less than half an hour—but it was intense. When the Polish line finally began to collapse, it wasn't out of fear. They had simply fulfilled their mission.
When silence returned, Falk climbed down. One of the fallen Poles had a map in his pocket. It was marked with escape routes, estimated timings, and fallback positions.
"This wasn't random," said Konrad.
"No," Falk replied. "It was a maneuver."
Lukas, paler than usual, sat on a rock.
"How much more?" he asked, not looking at anyone.
Falk didn't answer.
The Blitzkrieg rolled on. But in everyone's eyes, a question was beginning to form—one no war report would answer:
At what cost?