Central Belgium — May 11, 1940
The ground trembled under the weight of the armored vehicles. The Leibstandarte advanced like the tip of a spear hurled without restraint—fast, unstoppable. From the air, one might think it wasn't a division, but an entire army.
Falk watched the fields pass by on either side of the Panzer. Villages grew scarcer. Belgian troops were retreating inland, and the British had yet to arrive in force. The Luftwaffe had sown the skies the day before. Now, the land was at the mercy of the treads.
"We've moved more in one day than we did in a week in Poland," Konrad muttered.
"That's what they think," Helmut replied from the radio. "We're mimicking the strength of an army corps. Even the enemy believes it. Reports describe us as if we were three combined divisions."
Falk knew it. That was part of the deception. The real blow was coming from the south, through the Ardennes. But in Belgium, they were the specter of the Blitzkrieg. The visible fist that made the enemy tremble in the wrong place.
They rolled across roads never meant for heavy traffic. Bridges built to hold light artillery began to groan under the Panzer's weight. Still, they advanced.
The columns stretched out, yet kept their cohesion. Albrecht, from his command vehicle, relayed orders with surgical precision. The image of a modern army was not just firepower—it was rhythm, it was choreography.
"How far from Brussels?" Lukas asked.
"A few hours, if nothing slows us," Falk replied.
But something did.
At the entrance to a railway crossing, a Belgian unit held its ground. They had light machine guns and an old anti-tank cannon, well-camouflaged behind sandbags. The first reconnaissance vehicle was hit.
"Contact! Right flank. Concealed battery," Helmut reported.
Falk gave the order without hesitation:
"Konrad, concentrate fire. Ernst, load high explosive. Lukas, keep us steady."
The first shot from the Panzer IV made the rails tremble. The second struck the trench. Within five minutes, the position was silenced.
"Brave men, but alone," Ernst murmured, watching their comrades carry the bodies away as they retreated.
They didn't stop. They couldn't. Every minute of progress was part of a greater strategic clock.
And so, the Leibstandarte pushed on. Like a black arrow across the fields of Belgium. They weren't an army—but they looked like one.And that was the real power they carried.
The illusion of invincibility was, in itself, a form of victory.