France — November 27, 1941
Mist hung low over the training grounds on the outskirts of Angers, where the battered remains of the Leibstandarte SS Adolf Hitler had been sent to regroup. Not as punishment—but as reconstruction. Kiev had left scars: on men, on machines, on memory.
The hangars were filled with gutted tanks, spare treads, fuel drums, and mechanics with hollow eyes. The losses from the Eastern campaign still weighed heavily over every conversation, every footstep, every practice shot.
Falk Ritter walked silently along the line of newly issued tanks. His uniform still smelled faintly of old smoke and engine oil. Behind him, Helmut reviewed signal frequencies in a worn notebook. Ernst organized crates of ammunition with mechanical precision. Konrad, still wrapped in bandages, fine-tuned a scope like it was the only thing in the world that made sense. Lukas, crouched beside the running gear, murmured to the engine as if taming a beast.
In the center of the hangar stood their new machine.
A Panzer IV Ausf. G. Long 75mm gun. Reinforced frontal armor. The turret looked sharper, angrier. The chassis like a spine ready to push forward without flinching.
Konrad was the first to approach.
—If this optic holds up in the desert… I swear I won't complain until 1943, he muttered, without looking up.
Ernst tapped the ammo hatch gently.
—More rounds. Better layout. This isn't just a machine—it's payback.
Helmut tested the new radio.
—Longer range, cleaner signal. If it works, this time we'll actually know who we're killing.
Lukas, grease-stained, glanced at Falk with a half-smile.
—I'm not driving it until it has a name.
Falk didn't answer. He just placed his palm on the cold barrel.It wasn't the same tank. And they weren't the same soldiers anymore.
**
After drills, Falk was summoned to one of the administrative barracks. Albrecht awaited him inside, standing beside a partially covered map on the table.
—How's your crew? he asked, still facing the map.
—Breathing again.
—That won't last long.
Falk said nothing.
Albrecht lifted the edge of the map. Africa. The north. The Nile. Palestine. Syria.
—They're sending us south.
Falk nodded slowly.
—The whole battalion?
—No. Selected units only. The Leibstandarte must remain on the move. Always at the tip of the spear. And this time, it'll be against the British… under the sun.
Falk looked down. A different war. Another front. The same Reich.
—Should I tell the men?
Albrecht shook his head.
—Not yet. Let them think it's just training. Let them breathe. But you… start prepping the tank for sand, heat, and dust.
Falk swallowed. Then squared his shoulders.
—We'll be ready.
—I know you will.
**
That night, the five sat together. Hard bread, weak stew, and the kind of silence that no longer needed to be broken.
—I heard we're heading east again in spring, Helmut said.
—Better than Italy —Konrad scoffed—. All wine and screaming officers who can't shoot straight.
—We'll end up stuck in France, watching the war through newspapers, Ernst muttered.
Falk smiled outwardly. Inside, he could already hear the engines of the ships.And as always, the steel was only resting—never silent.