France — June 5, 1940
They were summoned early. No explanation. No courtesy.
A gray, unmarked vehicle brought Falk to the field headquarters of SS-Hauptsturmführer Wilcke, the Reich's political liaison for units in northern France. The place smelled of freshly typed paper, stale coffee, and fear.
Falk entered alone. The order had been clear: "Only the vehicle commander. The rest wait outside."
Wilcke didn't stand. He sifted through papers, a cigarette unlit between his lips.
"SS-Oberscharführer Falk Ritter. Panzer IV unit. Leibstandarte Adolf Hitler. Correct?"
"Correct."
"Did you have an encounter yesterday with the security detachment under SS-Sturmbannführer Rehmann?"
"Yes."
"Did you disobey orders to remain within your perimeter and move into a restricted area?"
"Yes."
Wilcke set the papers down. He looked at Falk for the first time. His eyes were glassy—lifeless, unquestioning.
"You're a combat soldier. Not a judge. Not a philosopher. Not a peacekeeper."
"I'm a soldier. And that's exactly why I know when something isn't war," Falk replied, calmly.
Wilcke tilted his head. Smiled, like a man toying with an insect before crushing it.
"Everyone here has a function, Ritter. Those who think they can decide what's 'right' and what's not… often end up without one."
"My men follow me because they know I won't sell them out for a badly typed order."
"Your men follow you because they've been told to."
Silence.
"You won't be demoted," Wilcke said after a pause. "You're still useful. But from now on, any further deviation from protocol… will be treated as sabotage."
Falk didn't respond. He gave the formal salute. Turned to leave.
"Oberscharführer," Wilcke added, before he reached the door. "This war won't be won by steel alone. It will be won by obedience."
Falk said nothing. He closed the door behind him.
Outside, Konrad, Lukas, and Ernst waited. None of them asked. None of them smiled.
They didn't need to.
They knew now that the enemy wasn't only in front of them.