Ukraine — Rear Area, July 1941
The sun felt softer in the rear.The mud, shallower.And yet, the air was heavier.
Falk walked with his collar unbuttoned, his shirt damp and stained with grease from the Panzer engine that still refused to come back to life. Konrad and Ernst whispered nearby while Helmut fiddled with the radio. Lukas lay beneath the tank, napping as if the steel itself offered shade.
Then they arrived.
A black car, polished. Immaculate.Two men stepped out. SS uniforms—but not like theirs. No dirt, no creases. Crisp caps, gleaming insignia.
—"Gestapo?" Helmut muttered without looking up.
—"Or the SD," Konrad replied. "Doesn't matter. They smell the same."
There were no introductions. Just footsteps. Then glances.One of the officers—young, sharp-featured, untouched by war—began talking with the local logistics officer. Papers, gestures, orders.
And then—a scream.Another, seconds later.
Falk turned his head. Two civilians, a man and a woman, were on their knees. Blood trickled down the man's face. A soldier shoved him with the butt of his rifle. Not Wehrmacht. Not combat SS. They were the ones in black.
—"What are they doing?" Falk asked, already walking toward them.
—"Preventive interrogation," one of the agents said without turning.
Falk stopped a few steps away.
—"Preventive?"
—"Soviet collaborators. Suspected of aiding partisans."
—"Do you have proof?"
—"We don't need proof. We have orders."
Falk looked at the agent. Then at the civilians. Then at the soldier with the rifle.
—"Lower your weapon," he ordered.
—"Excuse me?"
—"I said lower it."
The soldier hesitated. The agent slowly turned, expression unreadable.
—"Your name?"
—"SS-Oberscharführer Falk Ritter. Panzer commander, Leibstandarte."
—"We're SS too, Ritter. Don't mistake us for the enemy."
—"I don't. But I have enough enemies at the front. I don't need new ones."
The silence stretched for seconds. Long enough for Falk's men to appear. Not with weapons raised—but with hands not far from them.
The agent noticed. He stepped back, lifted his hands in mock courtesy.
—"This is none of your concern."
—"If it's in my area of deployment, it is."
The agent gave a small nod. Looked to his comrade. Then to the civilians.
—"Withdraw them."
—"And your report?"
—"There will be others."
When they left, Falk didn't speak.
He didn't have to.
The Ukrainian woman looked at him. Not with gratitude. Not with fear.But with something that resembled respect.
That night, while they checked the Panzer's engine again, Lukas murmured:
—"We all wear the same uniform…"—"But not all of us get it dirty," Falk replied.