France — January 24, 1942
The air smelled of diesel, leather, and bitter coffee. In the headquarters briefing room, a leather-bound folder with a red seal waited on the table. Falk stared at it without touching it, as if he already knew what it contained.
Major Albrecht got straight to the point.
—Ritter, you've got your orders. You're heading East again. Destination: Kursk. Direct directive from High Command. Guderian wants a pincer offensive, and you'll be the first fist.
Falk didn't reply immediately. He picked up the folder and opened it. Maps, itineraries, tactical objectives, supply points. All detailed. All too familiar.
Too perfect.
—Comments? —asked Albrecht.
—Not about the plan —Falk said, closing the folder—. Just about the location.
—Kursk?
Falk nodded.
—I don't like it. It looks like a trap. And if I see it, so do the Russians.
—They trust you because you know how to get out of traps —Albrecht replied with half a smile.
—I also know when one has more teeth than exits.
A brief silence.
—It's an order, Ritter.
—I know.
Hours later, in the hangar, the Tiger II gleamed in the low afternoon sun. The crew was doing their checks before departure. Helmut adjusted the radio, Konrad cleaned the optics, Lukas was talking with the mechanics. Everything was routine. Everything was ritual.
Falk climbed onto the side of the Tiger and whistled. Everyone looked up.
—We're moving out.
—Where to? —Ernst asked from inside the hull.
—Kursk.
A heavy silence.
—Is that… what I think? —Helmut said.
—Yes. The salient. They want to strike it as a show of force. A grand display of power.
—And what do you think? —Konrad asked, lowering his tool.
Falk took a few seconds to answer.
—I think it's a terrible idea. That we're heading straight into a mouth full of teeth.But I also think that if anyone can break through it… it's us.
There were no cheers. No smiles. Only determined looks.
And a word from Helmut, barely a whisper:
—Then let's go break some teeth.
That night, the engines started under the moonlight. The column rolled out, heading East. Again. Always East.
And inside the Tiger, Falk closed his eyes for a moment before saying quietly:
—Let this be the last time we march not knowing if we'll return.