France — June 1, 1940
From a distance, Dunkirk didn't look like a city. It looked like an open wound.Fire, smoke, ruins. And beyond it, the sea—no longer an escape, but a graveyard.
The Leibstandarte wasn't alone. It wasn't the tip of the spear—just one part of the encirclement. A supporting force. Or so High Command claimed. But reality didn't care about roles. Everyone was in the trench. Everyone was advancing.
"They've reinforced the coastal perimeter," Helmut reported. "French troops in the inner districts. British entrenched at the harbor. Civilians mixed in with soldiers."
"What about our flanks?" Falk asked.
"Collapsed under mud. Only the Panzers from the 10th and 8th Divisions can move in. But they're bogged down to the west."
"So are we the hammer… or the center?" Konrad muttered.
Silence.
The armored column pushed through shattered streets, broken houses, power lines snapped like bones. The radios screamed chaotic orders. Reports contradicted each other. No one knew exactly how many enemies remained—or from where the next counterattack might come.
"We're too far forward," Ernst whispered while loading another shell.
And he was right. Too far to be rear guard. Too deep to pull back. Too isolated to feel safe.
The enemy wasn't surrendering. Not this time. French colonial troops charged with bayonets. British soldiers fought street by street, covering their comrades as they fled toward the beach. Some carried wounded on their backs. Others fired until their rifles clicked empty… then threw rocks.
"These aren't soldiers," Falk said. "They're men with nothing left."
And those were the most dangerous kind.
Overhead, the Luftwaffe bombed relentlessly. But it didn't clear the way. It only deepened the confusion. Craters on retreat routes. Friendly fire. Shadows chasing shadows.
By midday, a Panzer III was hit by a hidden British shell fired from inside a gutted tram car. It went up like a flare. At three, a German platoon was surrounded in a warehouse. They screamed over the radio. No one came.
"We control nothing," Lukas said, his knuckles white on the controls. "We're just moving forward."
"That's war," Falk answered. "Pretending the map matters… when only chaos decides."
By nightfall, they reached a small rise. From there, they could see the sea.
The beach was a cemetery. Wrecked boats. Piles of bodies. Abandoned gear. And still, among the flames, they fought on.
But not for victory.
Only for one more day.