Warsaw — September 27, 1939
Weeks had passed, but they felt like years. Falk could barely recall the last night he had truly slept. The streets of Warsaw were unrecognizable: buildings reduced to rubble, abandoned barricades, burned vehicles, and above all, silence. A heavy silence that signaled defeat.
The Polish resistance, fierce until the last moment, had left indelible marks. Every corner taken had come with casualties. Every street crossed demanded effort and courage. Falk gazed upon the city from his tank's hatch. The towers that had proudly stood days earlier were now broken or blackened by fire.
Helmut listened seriously to the radio before announcing:
"Warsaw has officially surrendered. Ceasefire at 14:00 hours."
No one in the Panzer celebrated. There was nothing to celebrate, only the momentary relief that combat had ceased.
The convoy slowly moved towards the city center, following strict orders. Falk watched civilians emerging from the ruins, carrying improvised white flags and faces devoid of hope. No one spoke.
In the central square, Polish officers formally surrendered their weapons. German soldiers supervised the process silently. Falk stepped down from his vehicle for a closer look. The Polish commander was an older man with a worn uniform and a firm gaze.
"You fought well," Falk said quietly, without thinking.
The Polish officer looked him straight in the eyes.
"And you fought with steel and fire. Warsaw may fall, but Poland does not die here."
His words hung in the air. Falk nodded slightly, fully aware of the historical weight of the moment.
As he returned to the Panzer, Ernst whispered:
"Is this victory, boss?"
Falk didn't respond. He simply climbed slowly into the vehicle.
Warsaw had fallen, but the echoes of its streets, its destroyed buildings, and its defeated inhabitants would stay with them forever.