Czechoslovakia – April 1938
The town was called Znojmo. Brick buildings, narrow streets, old statues. Falk had memorized the layout. Not because he expected combat—but because something felt off.
Their tank sat parked near the central square. Soldiers patrolled. Some from the Wehrmacht, others from the SS. Civilians avoided eye contact.
Falk walked through the market with Konrad and Helmut, their uniforms drawing glances. A group of Czechoslovakian policemen stood across the street, arms crossed. No guns. Just presence.
—"They're not happy," Helmut whispered.
—"Neither are we," Konrad said.
Later that day, a cart carrying supplies was blocked by a small group of locals. A shouting match erupted. One man threw a stone. Another raised a stick. Tension flared.
Falk intervened quickly, placing himself between the two sides. He didn't draw his weapon.
—"This isn't the fight you want," he said, slowly, in broken Czech.
The men hesitated. A policeman finally stepped in and dispersed the group. No violence. This time.
That evening, Albrecht arrived to inspect the position.
—"You handled it well," he told Falk.
—"Barely," Falk replied. "One spark away."
Albrecht nodded. Then, offhandedly:
—"When war begins, we won't always have the luxury of holding back."
Falk said nothing.
That night, the streets emptied early. The crew remained inside. Helmut listened to foreign radio. Ernst sharpened a knife. Lukas cleaned mud off his boots. Konrad stared at the window.
Falk stood near the door, arms folded.
The silence no longer spoke—it warned.