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Bryaxis

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This thread is the first of a small serie I intend to do with the best completed AAR I read these last 2 years on the forums. The objective is to allow new comers to discover thoses jewells. If you think an AAR should be added then just contact me. If you don't want me to post your AAR then just tell me too please.


The present AAR is 103 pages long ( MS Word Time New Roman size 12 ) and some 250 000 caracters long. It was seen about 54 000 time.

You will find the original thread here
 
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To Stand Against The Night- Prologue

In the last days of 1935, as the world struggled to leave the mire of the Great Depression, it lost a visionary leader.

Franklin Roosevelt, President of the United States, suffered a stroke which incapacitated him for nearly a month. While he recovered, and was soon firmly back in control, the hospitalization gave America its first real picture of the President's health. In shock, America learned of Roosevelt's confinement to a wheelchair, previously unreported... and they learned of his mistress, Lucy Mercer. Roosevelt's popularity tumbled, and with it the stock market. Magnates and businessmen began a vicious whispering campaign, smelling blood in the water. Roosevelt's audacious court-packing plan was shot down amid public turmoil, and a newly emboldened Supreme Court gutted Roosevelt's New Deal.

For the first time in his life, Roosevelt was truly crippled. Roosevelt turned on his spellbinding charm and roared back in the autumn, nearly winning the election of 1936... but while Alf Landon lost the popular vote, he won a resounding 60% of the Electoral College.

Landon and the Republican Party lost no time in declaring their faith in isolationism... but the European powers had already prepared themselves accordingly.

-From A History of the Second World War, by Prof. Henry Kissinger

January, 1936

Pierre Laval detested London.

It was a savage ruin of a city, lurid, overblown, with foul air and the Thames a filthy sewer draining the refuse of English industry. In a sane world, he would not be dragged from his beloved Paris to talk with the protocol-obsessed Prime Minister, Stanley Baldwin. But the world was not sane.

As his limousine approached No. 10 Downing Street, Laval took a deep breath, stubbing out his cigar. The door opened, he stepped into the street, and Laval waved jovially to the cluster of shouting reporters. And where, ah, there Baldwin was, walking from the front stoop to shake his hand. Baldwin's valet stumbled, allowing an umbrella to drip onto Laval's new homburg. This was not an auspicious day.

The two men went inside, and here there were more photographs and a few questions from the press. As ever in Britain, the tea was excellent and the biscuits abysmal. Finally, with the pleasantries over, the two men were alone with their advisers, and the work could begin.

"Baldwin." Laval grunted as he settled into his seat. "You've been following the dispatches from Washington." Baldwin nodded in dismay.

"To my dismay. Landon's popularity is growing daily. He thinks small. Roosevelt, say what you will about his crypto-socialism, sees the larger picture." Laval grunted again.

"Merde! And our unofficial contacts will falter. The cronies Landon will appoint as ambassadors... so much for the age of quiet assurances. Landon is a bull in a china shop. We won't be able to deal with America without every move being telegraphed to Berlin." Laval sighed. "Stalin is growing more difficult to deal with. I fear, M'sieur Baldwin, that it is you and I." Baldwin raised his eyebrow imperceptibly.

"And the Commonwealth." Laval waved his hand and nodded absent-mindedly. "Well. We must redouble our diplomatic efforts." Laval narrowed his eyes.

"Diplomacy is no longer enough. We must rearm." Baldwin widened his eyes.

"We can't afford that! Our budget is strapped as it is!" Laval nodded.

"France can ill afford a major conscription either. I propose this, then. We must pour our efforts into modernizing our armed forces, to make the most of what we have. I have already issued orders to the military; I've disbanded our cavalry corps and distributed the men among our understrength infantry units. I've stolen some wind from Blum's Socialists, too- I've ordered work begun on extending the Maginot Line to the Channel coast." Baldwin gaped. "It's cheaper than building tanks, and putting people to work won't hurt in the elections."

Baldwin cleared his throat. "I might be able to accomplish some work along this line as well in Parliament. But I don't think that-" Laval cut him off sharply.

"Do what you can, Stanley. But that's not the main reason I'm here. You've got those proving grounds in Australia, in the Northern Territory. I need your data. We haven't held war games in nearly a decade." Baldwin scratched uncomfortably at his neck. "I've got people in Saint-Etienne working on new designs for our infantry ordnance, and we're already collaborating on tank designs. I say that we, and the Commonwealth, should pool our efforts... pour everything into modernization. We have too much catching up to do for individual efforts." Baldwin nodded.

"Excellent. Yes, I can send out the cables today. A military exchange will help immensely. And we'll need to extend our net diplomatically." Baldwin stared intensely at his globe. "I'll focus on the Low Countries. You, Poland and Scandinavia." Baldwin arched an eyebrow again. "We are talking about Germany, aren't we?"

Laval grunted and stood. "I have the feeling that's all we'll be talking about for some time to come."

July 12, 1936

Franco's forces were already surrounding Madrid by the time the first French shipments arrived. French advisers fanned out from Barcelona, preparing to train the Republican forces in the use of the MAS service rifle. France had enough to equip the entire Republican army; the new MAS Trefoil submachine guns were pouring out of the arms factories at Saint-Etienne. Help flooded in from Britain and the Soviet Union as well, matched against the modern equipment supplied by the fascist powers.

In Paris, Laval was chairing another meeting of the Allied Coordination Council. These meetings had become a regular part of Laval's schedule, as he oversaw the coordinated military development effort. The main focus today was the exchange of rifle technology to South Africa in exchange for an attache who would train France's naval aviators. Laval sighed as he entered the room; this endless shuffle of technical papers was not exactly what he had wanted. Still, he couldn't complain; his personal investments had bloomed gloriously under a shower of government expenditures.

Baldwin and the Commonwealth ambassadors rose as he entered, as well as a dapper man he didn't recognize at first.

"Ah... Ambassador Kennedy. To what do we owe your presence here?" Joseph Kennedy nodded and spoke in his atrociously nasal French.

"Prime Minister Baldwin invited me to discuss the intervention in Spain." Laval nodded. "The United States are concerned that the French and Italian troops deployed could meet. I hardly need remind you of the consequences there." Laval grunted in a sort of chuckle.

"Don't patronize me, Ambassador. You and the President both want a war desperately. It might be the only thing which would keep your appointment safe. You're simply concerned over the timing. Another couple of weeks and you might have sold the Nationalists arms yourself." Kennedy managed to simultaneously look shocked and pretend he hadn't heard anything. Laval admired the man's slick duplicity.

"Well. I appear to have my answer." Kennedy rose, bowed, and left the room. Laval sighed and met Baldwin's questioning stare. He shrugged. Baldwin coughed.

"Well, Pierre. Do you think a few rifles will really turn back the Nationalists?" Laval grunted.

"Of course not. But our men need battlefield experience, and maybe we'll capture some German materiel. Besides, I need to gain time for a little surprise I'm planning." Baldwin raised his eyebrow. "Put your eyebrow down, Stanley. I said it was a surprise."

August 11, 1936

Sergeant Jean Gaspard crept down the trench, shifting the weight of his grease-blackened combat knife. The Spanish countryside was eerily familiar; Gaspard had fought Berber rebels in terrain like this when he first joined the service. His men were hand-picked, veterans like Gaspard of a dozen colonial campaigns; men prepared to fight anywhere in the world. Tonight, they were dressed in the uniforms of Spain's Republican Army, mere feet from sleeping Germans; the sentries had died some time before, quietly and quickly.

Gaspard held up his hand, gesturing in the moonlight. His men came to a halt and fanned out. There were six of them.

A owl's hoot sounded out, and fifteen seconds later they were surrounded by fourteen German corpses. One man missed his mark, and a German cried out before dying. The sound of shouting sounded from the other end of the camp. Gaspard and his men unslung their rifles and formed a firing line. As Germans began pouring out of the tents, a murderous fire rained down on them. Gaspard fired high, clipping the wire on the camp's radio set. With two of his men, Gaspard charged, lobbing two grenades into each tent. The smoke cleared, and silence descended. An owl hooted in the distance. Gaspard chuckled.

"Good thing he kept quiet earlier or we'd have gotten our timing off." His face fell into a scowl. "And that was damn sloppy knifework, Luc. Now let's check out the communications tent." The French commandos sidled into the tent, carbines ready. The radioman sat slackly against a pole, watching them. Thick, dark blood pumped from the hole in his chest. The radioman regarded them silently, then closed his eyes and nodded. Gaspard fired a single round into his brain and turned to the table.

"Standard issue stuff. Why did Intelligence send us out here for a radio kit and..." Gaspard trailed off. He peered at the unfamiliar machine sitting by the radio.

"That's not a cipher machine. What the devil is this?" Gaspard peered at the typewritten sheets lying beside it; they appeared to be artillery coordinates. Gaspard typed in a new set experimentally. The machine clattered and a sort of typewritter spat out a firing solution. Gaspard raised his eyebrow.

"Well! I suppose that's why." Gaspard motioned to two of his men, who lifted the machine carefully. "Now. Let's find one of those excellent German trucks and get back to camp."

January 10, 1937

"An absolute disaster!" Baldwin's voice sounded even more nasal over the telephone than in person. "It's the worst possible news!" Laval grunted and lit a cigar. "There are rumours that they're shooting the volunteers!" Laval snuck a bite of cheese from his lunch. "Pierre, are you even listening?" Laval grunted.

"Stanley, you really do take these things too hard."

"Franco's Nationalists have massacred thousands and set up a new Fascist state on your border, and you- are you eating? How can you be so bloody calm?" Laval sighed.

"One- I've persuaded President-Elect Landon to do something very interesting. Two- Leon Blum, that Red bastard, was just in here being very obsequious, which is all to the good since I beat him in the elections last month. I guess that jobs program extending our fortifications was worthwhile. And three, Franco won't be a problem for long."

"What are you talking about, Laval?"

"As a matter of fact, it should be just about now."

"Oh God. What have you done, Pierre?"

"Stanley, I haven't done anything. However, several of Spain's brightest young staff officers have."

"A coup?"

"I think so. Of course, you know, I can't be certain." Baldwin snorted in dismay.

"What in blazes are you- if you had contacts in Franco's camp, why didn't you do something before the Nationalists overran the country?"

"You won't like the answer, Stanley." Baldwin paused for a moment and sighed. Laval knew that meant he was preparing for an answer. "Very well, then. The Republicans were a rabble- Stalinists and anarchists duking it out, and who do you cheer for in that contest? Franco mopped up a lot of issues that the Republic couldn't. And now we have a stable and friendly power in our rear."

"If not exactly a democratic one." Laval sighed.

"Don't lecture me, Baldwin. French democracy is more important to me than Spanish democracy. Now you need to play host to the Dutch royal family, and I need to call the President of Poland about a military aid package. This is going to be a busy year. Oh, and Stanley- leave the 19th open. I'm planning on hosting a reception for President Quiropa." Baldwin sighed in a temper.

"Who?"

"Well, he should be President of Spain by now. Which reminds me, I need to get down to the shortwave room. I'll talk to you later, Stanley."

"Very well, Pierre. But you had damned well better inform me before you involve the alliance in this sort of adventure again." Laval grunted and hung up. Damned priggish Brits.

January 11, 1937

Jean Denel was not a swearing man, usually. But on special occasions, he could hold his own. He'd been fighting with the Volunteers in Catalonia for five months now, and he couldn't count the number of times he'd been shelled. But this was the first time he'd been shelled from front and behind.

"Merde! God damn their eyes, those sheep-buggering pieces of stinking-" He stopped when his head was jarred by an impact to his helmet. His hands flew up and he checked himself for blood. Slowly, he realized it was just Blair smacking him on the head.

"Dammit, Denel, be quiet. I'm trying to figure something out." Denel rolled his eyes.

"You're a prisoner of war and you're being shelled by two Nationalist factions in the middle of a coup attempt. If you had anything figured out, you'd be swearing louder than me." The lanky Englishman peered at Denel icily and burrowed deeper into their makeshift foxhole.

"I'm just trying to- ah, there." A loud explosion rolled over Barcelona from the rear. "That's Franco's men." Blair took out his ever-present notebook (Denel still had no idea how he'd smuggled it into the camp) and muttered a couple of phrases to himself. When militiamen wearing the emblem of Quiropa's Liberal Conservative Junta entered the camp, Blair shouted "!VIVA QUIROPA!" They laughed and tossed him a loaf of bread and a pack of cigarettes. Trotting east, the militiamen brandished their MAS rifles. One young militiaman, the shadow of a mustache feebly sprouting, waved and shouted.

"Sit tight, Comunistas! We'll have you on a boat for home tonight!"

"AND GOOD RIDDANCE!" bellowed his sergeant, to hearty laughter. Blair offered Denel a cigarette.

"Well, there we are, then. So what are you going to do when you get back to France?" Denel spat.

"Go to work on the Wall, I suppose. If Blum had won the election, I might have gotten my old newspaper job back. But the National Front's disintegrated, as rumor has it. Laval's got the whole country under his thumb, and he's making a pretty penny off it as well. You, Eric?" Blair frowned.

"I said to call me George. I'm working." Blair took a deeg drag off his cigarette. "I'm going back to writing myself, I suppose. Baldwin's been a bit easier on our Socialist papers." Blair sighed. "God, am I going to be glad to see the end of Catalonia..."

Laval’s initiatives continued briskly through 1937, with the Allied Military Exchange providing invaluable assistance to the Netherlands, Belgium and Poland. The hidebound French Army was revitalized by the Gamelin Report of October 1937, which summed up the experience of French ‘volunteers’ during the Spanish Civil War and spurred a major rethinking of French military doctrine. Belated efforts to shore up the Chinese Nationalists also began after the Japanese declared war and moved from Manchuria to take Peking. In December of 1937, the French began work on the prototype of the Hotchkiss medium tank, an advanced design superior to anything else on the battlefield. Confidence in Laval’s government surged after the 1936 elections, and Leon Blum’s National Front disintegrated in factional sniping after the narrow loss. Laval played the Socialist splinter groups off one another, and his public works initiatives (centered around the “Little Maginot” along the Belgian border) kept public opinion favorable.

Yet France was still unready to chance a war; its military was woefully understrength. Laval’s decommissioning of the French cavalry units had left the Maginot Line guarded by sixteen divisions, backed by a single armored corps in reserve. While this deficiency in numbers was made up in part by a new doctrinal flexibility and weapons which had effectively tripled the striking power of the French soldier since 1935, the Wehrmacht had enough manpower to punch through the Maginot Line, or to swing through the Low Countries to strike at France’s still-unmanned Belgian defenses. This imbalance encouraged Hitler to take risks which agonized his underlings and moved the world inexorably towards the maelstrom of war…

-From A History of the Second World War, by Prof. Henry Kissinger

March 13, 1938

Joint Allied Headquarters had, until the month before, been an unremarkable quiet warehouse on the outskirts of Paris, chosen for its proximity to several rail lines. Now, it was seething with chaos. Junior officers raced from desk to desk, carrying sheafs of paper. Ambassadors and heads of state were arriving, their entourages milling in the way, and over everything the roar of men on the edge of exhaustion. Laval gritted his teeth. This undisciplined mob, skittering about and mopping their brows... these men hoped to oppose Hitler? Angrily he gestured to Marshal Gamelin, who had come to inform Laval of the disaster. Gamelin stepped forward and caught the eye of a lieutenant. The lieutenant caught himself and snapped to attention. At the lieutenant's shout of "ATTENTION!", the room suddenly went still, except for the chatter of telegraphs and the shrill ring of telephones. Laval stepped forward.

"I am here. And the Commonwealth ministers are arriving as well. The situation is in hand. Focus on your assignments, and we'll be able to focus better on ours. Now calm down and simply get the facts. Back to your work." Laval waved his hand and the spell was broken. The French commanders breathed deep and went back to their stations, the urgency now grimness.

Laval went to the map of Europe on the wall, the markers of German divisions driving into Austria. Seyss-Inquart, that toadying fool... he had delivered his country into unimaginable slavery. Laval thought back to a summit he'd had with the former Chancellor of Austria, Schussnigg... Seyss-Inquart had lurked in the background. There'd been something unsettling in the man's cold beady stare. Laval suddenly realized what that look was- the look of the midly intelligent businessman who had gotten in above his head by sheer stubbornness. The man driven to succeed, who had found himself out of his depth and yet determined to hold on to the power he'd stumbled on to.

In short, the man who'd sold Austria reminded Laval too much of himself. Laval lit a cigar, taking care to hide the tremor in his hand.

An aide stepped forward and saluted. "The Commonwealth Ambassadors are here, Your Excellency, but..." The aide furrowed his brow and ground out his next words. "Prime Minister Chamberlain has convened a Cabinet meeting. He has informed our Ambassador that a unified Allied response would be unseemly. He wants to wait for the results of the plebiscite." Laval's blood surged.

"GOD DAMN THAT FOOL! You get to the telegraph and you tell the Ambassador to pass this on- this is not about the will of the Austrian people. This is about halting the career of a man bent on a war that will ruin us all. I don't give a flying damn if the Austrian people think Hitler walks on water and heals lepers. And tell Chamberlain if he doesn't see that, he's a bigger fool than Seyss-Inquart!" The aide blinked and stood quietly for a moment. Laval finally sighed and slumped into a chair.

"On second thought, let me work on that statement a little." The aide saluted crisply and departed.

June 12, 1938

Neville Chamberlain was a fool. Laval glowered in a plume of cigar smoke, watching the new Hotchkiss tanks go through their drills. The Assembly had refused his request for funding, and so these six prototypes were the only modern tanks in France's arsenal. And Chamberlain... holding a perfumed handkerchief to his nose against the diesel fume. Laval suppressed a juvenile urge to trip him in the mud of the proving grounds.

The tanks rolled over a hill and Chamberlain applauded distantly, as he might for children playing a tennis match for charity. The Prime Minister of Britain turned to Laval.

"I say, they make a dreadful racket, don't they?" Laval puffed on his cigar and grunted sourly. Chamberlain nattered on obliviously. "Well, these new machines are all well and good. But we must speak of more practical matters. The Germans in the Sudetenland are agitating for annexation now. Our agents say the first public announcements are coming soon."

"June 18th, our agents inform us. Nine in the morning, Berlin time."

"Hm. Yes. Well, we-"

"And it's hardly the Sudeten Germans agitating. It's those shiny new printing presses in the Sudetenland marked 'Made in Hamburg.' For God's sake, Chamberlain, Hitler doesn't carry Robert's Rules of Order in his back pocket like you. This is dirty business and the sooner you get that through your head, the better." Chamberlain sniffed.

"Come now, Pierre. We both know that for all Mr. Hitler's histrionics, it's the better class of people really running things in Berlin. The old school boys, who funded him in the first place. They simply backed a winning horse. Behind every minister in my Cabinet, there's a bureaucrat covered in dust pulling the strings. It's the same in Berlin. They're playing hardball, but trust me. Nothing that can't be settled in the club over a nip of sherry." Laval groaned.

"Dammit, Chamberlain, Hitler didn't go to the right schools like you. I know this man, because I was him. I came up from the ranks. My gut churned like his, seeing the 'old school boys' sail through life while he scraped for everything he got. I worked for money. He worked for power. But we come from the same place." Laval lit a fresh cigar, spitting the end on the ground. "The aristocrats who funded Hitler for a tax break or a contract are gone. It's Hitler's party men in charge now. Have you read Hitler's book? It's not a piece of shrewd calculation, no matter how badly you want Hitler to be a man you can talk to on your blinkered terms. There's something deeply wrong inside his head. He wants to remake the world, Chamberlain. He wants a Crusade, an apocalypse. You can't reason with him. He'll smile and shake your hand and then he'll turn around and follow his madman's script just the same." Chamberlain sighed.

"Oratory aside, Pierre, I really do think you're following the wrong tack, fortifying and bullying when Hitler's forces outnumber yours two to one. He doesn't want a war. He wants to go down in history, perhaps, but who doesn't? Trust me." Laval glowered.

"I trust you, Neville. You're too damned priggish to break your word. I don't trust Hitler."

September 29, 1938

Munich.

Laval's gut churned as his limousine drove through Munich to the old castle where the negotiations were taking place. Chamberlain, the fool, had already met twice with Hitler, at Berchtesgaden and Bad Godesburg. Twice, Hitler had erupted in fury, pounding the table and storming out.

You would think, Laval muttered to himself, that twice would be enough. But Chamberlain had still insisted on another round of meetings. Blum's Socialists were reorganizing in the Assembly, blocking attempts at a new callup of forces. France's army needed another year to rearm. The most he'd been able to squeeze out of them was a program of wargames, to test the army's new weapons and tactical thinking. So Laval had finally gone along, grudgingly. He was here to play a delaying game. Gambling with Hitler. This was madness.

The limousine drove silently down the newly scrubbed streets of Munich, concrete pillars holding the red banners of Hitler's New Order. Everywhere, ugly concrete monstrosities were rising out of the ground, testaments to Hitler's tone-deaf sense of grandeur. Laval closed his eyes and concentrated on the task ahead.

He was the last to arrive, ostentatiously ignoring the heel-clicking German attache sent to assist him. As the massive oaken doors to the conference room began to swing open, Laval turned around and solemnly handed the man his spit-soaked cigar butt.

The doors swung shut, and for the first time Laval looked into the eyes of Adolf Hitler.

September 29, 1938

Laval was used to men of power. They were mostly diffident, casual. They took their position for granted; men who'd never had to question their luck. And he was used as well to men of wealth and ambition. There was always a darting in their eyes, a calculation and assessment.

Hitler was a different kind of man. There was no calculation behind his eyes, no questioning; simply concentration. Hitler had thought ahead; he had already reached his conclusions. And his passion was evident in his stare; this was no dilettante serving the public good out of noblesse oblige. This was a man not just determined to get his way; this was a man who knew he would get his way.

Laval immediately saw the futility of talking with Hitler. Despite his cynical posture, his heart sank. It would come down to a race; who would be ready first? That was the only question left.

Hitler stepped forward, attended by a translator.

"Good morning, President Laval. I hope you've enjoyed the hospitality of Munich." Laval nodded, lighting a cigar.

"Your people have spared no effort to make me feel at home." Hitler nodded simply. He'd caught the hidden insult in Laval's tone. There was no anger, no annoyance, no emotional response at all; simply an acknowledgement of Laval's jibe. Despite himself, Laval flushed. This was not a man to play games with. Hitler swept crisply around and took his seat. Mussolini and Chamberlain raced to seat themselves as well. Laval took the time to light a cigar before moving to the table.

As the aides settled into their positions behind the statesmen, the silence grew. Chamberlain, oblivious, shuffled his papers and began.

"I think we can all agree that the principal issue is to resolve this peacefully, and the details have been hammered out. I've been in contact via telegraph with President Laval, and he has agreed with the proposal so far. Today's meeting should therefore be fairly simple-" Mussolini broke in, waving a cigarette.

"Today's meeting is in fact a rubber stamp. Everything is settled. Let us therefore just get this overwith and get on with our business! I do not see why every trifle..." Laval drifted into his thoughts. To waste fifteen minutes talking about a waste of time... vintage Mussolini. In the unlikely event Mussolini said anything important, his staff would take a note. Laval simply gripped his pen and waited. He caught Hitler's gaze, fixed on him from across the table, and noted the pen in Hitler's hand as well.

The Fuhrer was watching him. Laval was used to taking people apart with a glance, dissecting them and judging them. To be on the other end of the stick was distinctly uncomfortable.

The meeting droned on, with Mussolini and Chamberlain trading details back and forth. A crisp word from Hitler or a grunt from Laval; this was all they contributed. The work was done. While the Italian and the Englishman didn't seem to realize it, the true purpose of today's meeting was to size up the other side. And Hitler saw that purpose, and watched Laval.

Laval despised this man. His gut churned and his palms sweated. The grim purpose, the shameless dissection of those eyes... Laval knew what Hitler was doing. He could return that basilisk stare. But both men knew Laval had a core of conscience. Hitler wasn't like Laval, angered by the battle of wills. He wasn't sick to his stomach with fury. He was just watching. Sizing Laval up. Laval could barely bring himself to remain calm.

He was sitting quietly across a table from a killer. How could the others not see the sickness in this man? How could they not realize what they were dealing with?

Finally, the torture ended. The meeting stumbled to a close, Chamberlain and Mussolini satisfied over what they saw as a job well done. Laval knew the words were meaningless. But he couldn't simply stand up and scream that Hitler was a madman. He couldn't explain in words all this to someone who couldn't see it with their own eyes. He felt tired. He felt weary beyond belief, and yet the true struggle was just beginning.

The signature was firm and the writing bold, but Laval's hand was trembling. And there was Hitler, obeying the forms of protocol, offering his hand to shake. Laval shook it and looked up again into those eyes. The look said it all; Hitler had seen everything he was thinking. Laval had been judged, and dismissed. Not even a hint of triumph in his face. Just acknowledgement.

"Thank you very much, President Laval."

"Thank you."

It was a long ride back to Paris.

February of 1939 marked the true beginning of France's military preparations, as Field Marshal Juin's Armored Corps received Hotchkiss tanks to replace their WWI-vintage machines. Additionally, President Laval authorized the recruitment of nine divisions of infantry with engineering brigades. Work continued on the "Little Maginot". The "Roland" military exercises stretched into a six-month simulated campaign, and it became blatantly obvious that the question of war had now become merely "when". Taking their cue from Chamberlain's infamous "peace in our time" speech, Blum's Socialist coalition called for a national strike. The results were less than spectacular, but a loud minority began agitating for peace at any cost. The Bourse stumbled, and the French economy dipped. It was in this gloomy atmosphere that news arrived from Berlin. Simultaneously, Hitler announced the
 
annexation of Memel and the dismemberment of Czechoslovakia. Shortly thereafter, Italy invaded Albania, annexing it after a month of desultory fighting. Poland officially joined the Anglo-French alliance.

Archival records clearly show that Laval expected war sometime in 1941, but his sense of urgency did not relent. In June, the new engineer divisions were deployed along the French border and began entrenching.

On August 17, 1939, the "Roland" exercises were formally halted and Field Marshal Gamelin issued a revised version of his 1937 report, a remarkable document that uncannily predicted the shape of the 1942 Eindhoven campaign. Backed by Field Marshal Juin and the freshly promoted Field Marshal de Gaulle, Gamelin began a major overhaul of the General Staff's plan of operations.

As events would prove, Gamelin had ended Roland just in time.

-From A History of the Second World War by Prof. Henry Kissinger

August 30, 1939. 4:50 AM.

Allied Headquarters was a mad chaos. Laval sat grimly, tapping his cigar in the ashtray. He hadn’t taken more than the first puff, and he took no notice of the smoldering butt until it nearly seared his fingers. The Poles wouldn’t give in. The Germans would move forward. It would be war.

Laval was dizzy with fatigue; he’d been awake for nearly three days now. His knees trembled when he stood and his gut was eating itself alive, despite the antacids he was chewing. His eyes were raw and his skin itched in waves that drove him mad. It was too much… too much. Chamberlain was probably tucked warmly in his featherbed, with his butler just now getting up to start coffee. Damn that feeble snuff-pinching idiot.

A squawk of static sounded from a nearby radio set. The operator bolted up and ran over to Laval.

”Sir! We’re picking up heavy encoded traffic on German military frequencies. It could be spoofing- this is the third burst tonight… but Decasse says Berlin’s central transmitters are putting out more power.”

“The civilian stations?” The operator nodded. “Propaganda.” Laval roused himself, leaning heavily on the table. He walked over to the radio, and the bustle died as the staff turned to listen. A burst of martial music came over the air… Wagner. Laval cursed. A voice began speaking in a clipped Prussian accent, and the translator spoke over the broadcast.

“People of Germany… this morning at 4:10 am, Polish forces launched an attack on a military communications center on the Silesian border. The attackers have been repulsed, but two German soldiers were killed. The mad Polish generals have, without provocation or dignity, attacked the sacred soil of our Fatherland. The Fuhrer, now at his headquarters, has summoned the Reichstag to emergency session. He will ask for a declaration of war against Poland. This aggression will not stand-“ Laval gestured angrily, and the operator shut his radio off.

“Wake Chamberlain up. It’s finally time.”

September 19, 1939

“ITALY DECLARES WAR!” Jean Denel stared numbly at the headline. Like so many other Frenchmen, Denel was still in a state of shock. He was barely old enough to remember the Great War, the one that had killed his brother. He’d had his fill of war with the Volunteers in Spain. The government had conscripted another twelve divisions since the war’s start, but the frontier was woefully undermanned. Luckily, there wasn’t much action there, just shelling. The papers said the Germans were tied up in nasty fighting around Warsaw, and there were rumors that Laval had sent de Gaulle and Juin to help coordinate the defense, but who knew? The papers were full of propaganda on both sides. What was it that American senator had said? “The first casualty of war is truth.” There it was.

“Hey, Jean! Get your ass moving!” Shaughnessy slapped his shoulder. “You haul the papers. The papers go on the truck. The truck delivers the paper, the paper delivers the truth, and-“

“And the truth will set you free, yes, alright, Pierre.” Denel got his cart rolling up the ramp. “Pierre, aren’t you the least bit frightened by this war?” Shaughnessy grunted.

“If I were my great-whatever-grandfather, who came here to fight Englishmen with Napoleon, then maybe I’d be disgruntled by fighting alongside the redcoats. But that would be a bourgeois nationalist response. I’m just frightened that this war will set back the proletarian revolution.” Denel raised his eyebrow.

“But the Nazis outlawed the Communist Party. They’re a worse threat to our ideals than Laval.” Shaughnessy grunted, hefting a bundle of papers.

“Well, the Worker’s Daily here might be backing the war, but Pierre Shaughnessy doesn’t. I tell you, one of two things will happen. Either France will hold its own, or France will get steamrolled. And if either of those things happen, Hitler will go after the Soviets, and that sure as hell won’t be good for the proletariat.” Shaughnessy lit a cigarette. “Good thing I got myself shot back in ’17. I don’t want any part of this nonsense.” Denel chuckled.

“Well, I’m 27 and I’m not married. The only thing keeping me out of the draft is my record with the Volunteers in Spain.” Shaughnessy grunted.

“Don’t count on that, Jean. It won’t be very damn long before the fact you can heft a rifle means more than your politics.”

Denel got his notice that evening. In the morning, he was a private, on a train for a camp east of Toulon. Staring out the window, he thought over the last thing Shaughnessy had told him.

“Well now, at least you’re not going to the Maginot Line. The shelling there’s picking up, I hear. Now the Italian border, that’ll be nice and safe. Mussolini’s clowns couldn’t organize a poker game, let alone an invasion.” Denel chuckled. At least his war would be quiet.

September 30, 1939

Field Marshal Bernard Montgomery was the first man on the transports and now he was the first man off. Cherbourg was a sea of uniforms, as French dockworkers prepared to unload thirty thousand British soldiers and their equipment. Spitfires roared overhead, racing to join the sparring over Sedan and Koln. Montgomery nodded grimly- the Polish were giving the Jerries a hell of a time, but he had no illusions that the Western Front would stay a sideshow of dogfights and artillery duels.

Field Marshal Gamelin trotted up. The two men shook hands and entered a car for Allied Headquarters.

"Well, Maurice. Looks like your fortifications are holding up." Gamelin snorted.

"They haven't exactly been tested yet. And you've read my plans. I don't expect to use them if I can help it." Montgomery nodded.

"Even if you've spent the last three years getting the Belgian Army up to speed, I'm still hesitant about making them our last line of defense."

"Well, Bernard, that's why your boys are moving up to Caen. Until we get the Sixth Corps trained, you British are our last line." Montgomery nodded again.

"So you've really done it? You're going on the offensive in the south?" Gamelin nodded.

"Our forces are moving along the entire Italian border. The Alpine Corps is moving to Torino and Juin's Armored Corps is backing up an attack on Genoa. And General Duval's Corps d'Afrique should be at the Italian lines outside Tripoli just now." Montgomery blinked.

"But the Italians are on the offensive in Libya! They've got four divisions moving out of Tobruk and there's something like four full corps in Ethiopia!" Gamelin smiled.

"Well. Then that's forty-four divisions that aren't in Genoa." Gamelin checked his pocketwatch. "We'll be at Allied Headquarters in just over an hour. I wager we'll have news from Tripoli by then."

September 30, 1939

"Damn, do I hate Africa."

Pierre Gaspard wiped sweat from his forehead. He and his sergeant, Luc Godenot, were camouflaged as a desert rock. As an extremely hot, heavy, piss-stinking desert rock.

"Goddamn cavalry and their goddamn horses." Gaspard grunted in agreement, lifting his binoculars to peer at the Italian fortifications.

"They're playing cards. Those lazy bastards." Gaspard shifted to look at Godenot. "Anything on the radio yet?" Godenot shook his head. "4th Infantry's forward observers were supposed to be out here by now. If we get killed because the artillery doesn't get the right coordinates, then I'm going to file a formal complaint." Godenot nodded. As if on cue, a distant whistling sounded from the rear, and an artillery shell landed three hundred yards short of the Italian lines. Dust blew into the shelter, and the wind hit hard enough to knock the camouflage tarp backwards. As Gaspard and Godenot scrambled to get back under cover, the Italians started firing randomly into the desert, and machine gun bullets began kicking up dust. Gaspard swore.

"What the hell do they think they're going to hit? Do they think the artillery's going to be in machine gun range?" A huge explosion sounded behind the shelter and another artillery shell fell to earth just short of the Italians. Gaspard swore again and looked out of the shelter- to see three French artillery teams moving over the crest of the ridge.

"This is too much." In wordless agreement, Gaspard and Godenot burst out of the shelter and ran blindly for the French position. Italian tracers smacked into the ridge and Gaspard felt one bullet nick his elbow. After two interminable minutes, they reached the artillerists.

"WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING THIS FAR FORWARD?" Gaspard screamed. The artillery sergeant shrugged as he helped his men lug another shell.

"I'M HALF A MILE BEHIND THE 4TH INFANTRY!" He gestured and Gaspard and Godenot clapped hands over their ears, opening their mouths. Another shell lobbed off, leaving Gaspard's head ringing.

"IF YOU'RE BEHIND THE FRONT LINES, THEN WHO THE HELL ARE YOU SHOOTING AT?" The artillerist shrugged again.

"THEY SURE ACT LIKE THEY'RE THE ITALIANS, DON'T THEY?" Another explosion, this time an Italian shell off to the right.

"SHOULDN'T WE GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE?" The artillerist paused and nodded.

"AS LONG AS I'M HERE, I'M GOING TO GET ONE MORE SHOT IN! FIIIRE!" A gun went off, the shell arcing into the Italian lines. A tremendous fireball leapt up, and chaos rippled out across the Italian front. Suddenly, white flags began appearing. The artillerist grinned, wiping grime on his pants. He raised an eyebrow at Gaspard, who was covering his ears and desperately trying to stay on his feet.

"Captain's bars. Well, you're ranking officer." Gaspard nodded and tried to regain his composure. His head ringing, he walked over to the Italians in what he hoped was a straight line. Godenot trotted beside him, submachine gun at his hip. An Italian major with a waxed mustache vaulted over the berm of the Italian fortifications and trotted jauntily down to meet them.

"Good morning! I am Major Umberto Giavaldi of the 18th Regiment's 2nd Battalion. I have the honor of presenting you with my sword." Gaspard blinked and looked back at the Frenchmen on the ridge. All twelve of them. He then looked back at the hundreds of Italians dutifully piling their rifles. He paused for a second.

"Captain Pierre Gaspard, French Headquarters Intelligence. You will forgive me, Major, but..." The major burst out laughing.

"Oh, no no! Please give us some credit! Your General Duval struck at our eastern flank and our division was ordered to pull back just now. But of course, I couldn't order my boys to retreat from three field guns." Gaspard blinked.

"But you just surrendered to three field guns." Giavaldi grinned.

"I surrendered to the Fourth Infantry."

"The Fourth Infantry are lost. They're nowhere near here."

"Ah. Well, would you mind terribly adding an hour or so of fighting to your report? It would make things much easier for me. And may I invite you and your men to share the last of our wine?"

It was, all in all, an excellent battle.

November 17, 1939

Jean Denel huddled in a cellar, watching the boots run down the street through a window. Three weeks ago, his unit had marched into Genoa with a military band at their head, strutting proudly down the street and winking at girls. No sooner had they gotten into the city than a hundred thousand Italians poured into the eastern suburbs. De Gaulle’s mountaineers were pinned down in the Alps. Every available reinforcement was sitting on the Line. Denel’s 2nd Corps, spread across a fifty-mile front, had been massacred. As far as he knew, he was the only man left in his battalion.

“Alright, Brevet Major. Another raw potato? Don’t mind if I do.” Denel bit into the potato, checking his supplies. Three potatoes and half a clip of ammunition. If he weren’t Acting Quartermaster as well, he’d fire himself.

Two days in this stinking cellar. Time for a plan. Denel roused himself and crept to the stairs. As far as he could tell, he was three hundred yards behind the front lines, the last remnant of his battalion’s defensive line. There’d been a lot more boots the last few days, and a few armored trucks, all going forward. It was get out now or never.

By some miracle, the house he was in had been abandoned. There was a pile of shit in one room, and a platoon’s worth of cigarette butts. Denel snuck into the pantry. Nothing there except some peach rinds, maybe a few days old. Denel sniffed them halfheartedly. He tossed it back in the garbage- he still had his potatoes.

From the pantry, he had a view of the street through a hole in the front wall. It was noon, but the sky was jet black with smoke roiling up from the west. Genoa had been called the City of Marble, but now it was a ruined husk. Denel almost sobbed. What had happened to the people? The city had been trapped between the two onrushing armies… how many had died? Oh God. Oh, God. Denel got on his belly and crawled to the front room. This was crazy. He should just go back down to the cellar. How could he get back to the French lines? The Italian army was between him and there. This was crazy. He turned around and froze.

There was a submachine gun leaning in the pantry window, held by a scrawny teenager in a uniform black with soot and grime.

“ARRESTO!” The teenager cocked his rifle. “MANI SU!” Denel slowly raised his hands. The teenager ducked out of the window and reappeared at the back door, his submachine gun still raised. A… submachine gun. Denel laughed.

“That’s a Renault Arms D-22. I used to have one just like it.” The teenager blinked.

“My God, you’re French… what the hell are you doing here?”

“2nd Corps. I’m with the 18th Division.” The teenager gawked.

“You’ve been here since the first day. There’s nothing left of the 18th, man. It’s an understrength regiment now.” Denel closed his eyes.

“But you’re lost too. The front line’s-“ The teenager guffawed.

“Man, you have been out of it! 5th Division got around the north, cut off the Italians. They were withdrawing west to get on a bridge to the port. They’re evacuating. We won.” Denel sighed in relief. The teenager frowned. “Of course, we lost sixty thousand dead and wounded. And the city’s a damn rubble heap. Maybe ten thousand civilians dead too. This isn’t what I signed up for.” Denel grunted.

“Tell me about it. You don’t happen to have any food, do you?”

“Your luck’s not that good. We’re still a mile from the depot.” Denel got to his feet.

“Walking a mile is hardly the worst thing I’ve had happen to me lately.”

January 26, 1940

Field Marshal Montgomery looked out on the miserable huts. He dabbed at his forehead- he thought Libya was insufferable. But this was just as hot. And humid. The reek of rotting corpses and feces was overpowering. Most of the Italian prisoners didn't even have a canvas lean-to. This was appalling. Montgomery whirled around to face Emperor Haile Selassie.

"You- Your Highness. This is appalling! These conditions are- they're inhuman!" Selassie shrugged, munching a date.

"In the first place, Field Marshal, there are almost two hundred thousand prisoners out there. I'm doing the absolute best I can, despite the fact that those men raped and pillaged my nation. In the second place, this was the Italian headquarters. Their men were stationed in our villages in stolen houses. So the criminals in charge never bothered to erect barracks." Selassie stifled a yawn. "They're yours now. I wash my hands of them." Montgomery grimaced. The grand "Sahara" offensive had sputtered, and the French had pushed all the way to Tobruk before the British had even left their lines. Laval was building a new line of fortifications from La Spezia to Milan, deep inside Italy itself.

Now the British were saddled with 40 divisions of Italian prisoners. If only they'd sent a professional army down here, instead of wave after wave of miserable conscripts... the French got all the glory and he got an unending police detail. And speaking of glory...

Charles de Gaulle's car came roaring down the road from Addis Ababa. Technically, de Gaulle was seconded to Montgomery for this campaign, but Montgomery had no illusions that de Gaulle would stick around for the thankless task of shipping out 200,000 Italian prisoners. He'd gotten addicted to the spotlight after his daring flight out of Warsaw when Poland fell. And after his "Avalanche" campaign through the Italian Alps. And after the rescue of Genoa...

"The devil's own piss, it smells out here! How can you stand it, Bernard?" Montgomery grunted sourly.

"It appears we'll have to stand it." De Gaulle nodded, seeming to fully agree.

"Yes. I'll be on the next plane back to Djibouti. I must report the campaign's outcome to the Cabinet. And I'll be needed in Europe, now that Germany's entered the Netherlands." De Gaulle actually clapped in excitement. "The real war's started now!" Montgomery stared in bewilderment.

"How in God's name can you be excited over that? And with Japan in it now too?" De Gaulle shrugged in dismissal.

"What of Japan? The Chinese have Renault SMGs. Our guns and Chinese numbers... Japan's sorely out of its league." The wind shifted and de Gaulle made a gagging noise. "God's wounds. That's it. I'm going back to Addis Ababa. See you on the Line!" De Gaulle stalked back to his car. Montgomery turned back around, to face the endless sea of starved, despairing faces. He wiped his forehead and called for his aides. Sooner started, sooner done...

March 2, 1940

Bernard Henry loved his Hotchkiss. He and his crew had been in the Anne-Marie for two years, and he still couldn't stop admiring it. After seven years in that stinking antique Schneider... from a machine gun to a 30 mm cannon... and now Anne-Marie had new optical sights and an intercom. Henry kissed the periscope.

"You're going to get lots of Germans for me, aren't you, darling? Yes you are." His driver Georges Bacquard snorted and shouted over his shoulder.

"PLEASE TELL ME YOU'RE NOT KISSING THE DAMN TANK AGAIN!"

"I'M TALKING TO YOU, DARLING! NOW DRIVE, DAMMIT! TWO HOURS TO BRUSSELS!" The Germans had finally punched a hole in the Allied lines, and overrun Brussels. But they were exhausted, at the tail end of a hundred-mile advance, fighting all the way. Juin's Armored Corps was fresh and rested. It was payback time for Henry- the Germans had blown up his father's tank back in '18.

Bacquard hooted. "FOUR O'CLOCK, LIEUTENANT!" Henry slammed the periscope up and swiveled around. He brayed out a laugh too- German cavalry! Well, that might have scared the Belgians, but Henry was driving one of the best tanks in the world. And there were a thousand more behind him. He kissed his St. Christopher medallion. Thank you, Lord, for letting Juin assign my company to scout duty.

"RADIO BATTALION! WE'RE GOING IN!" Bacquard cackled in glee and shifted down. The tank lurched, and slammed forward, the revving engine the growl of a demon. Henry started shouting solutions to his gunner Delacorte. God, he loved his tank.

The Germans had spotted him now. The cavalry, God bless them, were mounting up and trying to surround him. Single-shot carbines. Maybe some light mortars at that ammo dump ahead. Henry grinned savagely.

Anne-Marie came to a screeching halt, tearing parallel lines out of the highway. Henry shouted the range and the first shell went away. It landed squarely in the middle of a forming column, and horses and men went flying. Henry watched one man gallop away with his bandolier on fire. His ammo cooked off, and he fell off his horse, riddled by his own bullets. The second shell went straight through a line of ten horses. The cavalry were taking all this with admirable sangfroid, forming into two columns and flanking Henry's tank. Henry slammed open the hatch, priming his machine gun. The Germans were hesitating now, as the third shell went off and a regimental color-bearer disappeared into Nazi vapor. To encourage them, Henry put on a look of panic and fiddled with his machine gun, pretending it was jammed. The German officers rallied their men, and the cavalry charged forward, carbines unlimbered, a few swords glinting. Henry let them get almost- but not quite- within range before he clicked off his safety.

The Renault M-20 kicked into action, hosing down two companies. Henry swung around to his left, laying down a withering fire. Men and horses dropped screaming. Hm. They were starting to get into his rear. Henry sprayed both flanks with some more fire and jumped back down into the tank, slamming his hatch shut. A few carbine shells pinged feebly off Anne-Marie's armor. Bacquard leaned back.

"THEY BEHIND US?" Henry cackled.

"YES! FORWARD! FORWARD!" Bacquard hooted and slammed through the gears, kicking the tank back into motion. Henry swiveled the turret around and gave the pursuing cavalry two more shells. Humming to himself, he brought the turret back around to the front. A couple of potato-mashers went off nearby, and some shrapnel clanged off the rear. Henry frowned. He'd have to repaint that. The storage depot ahead was coming up, and Henry stared into his periscope.

"Almost there... stay on target..." He muttered a few calculations to himself and shouted out an angle to his gunner.

"NOW! NOW! FIRE!" Delacorte pulled the lanyard, and a shell arced beautifully into the ammo tent. A huge fireball went up, and flames sprung up on a tent nearby, which apparently held diesel fuel, because a second, even stronger fireball leapt into the sky. The Germans had apparently had enough. They scrambled out of the smoke, running and galloping back to Brussels in total panic. Bacquard leaned around.

"SHOULD WE WAIT FOR THE COMPANY?" Henry laughed maniacally in response.

"ARE YOU SHITTING ME? THAT BATTALION'S STILL GOT HALF ITS STRENGTH! FORWARD! FORWARD!"

Thirty miles north of Brussels, Anne-Marie finally came to a halt when Henry ran out of ammunition. Juin's Armored Corps had killed 20,000 Germans and lost just sixty tanks.

March 2, 1940

Hans Dieder stared at the Gruppenfuhrer in amazement.

"Charge the tank?" Gruppenfuhrer von Riesewalt stared back icily.

"It's one tank. If we surround him, he'll attack. We need to distract him while we set up the Panzerfausts. We'll lose some men, but in five minutes this road will be completely impassable. Not even those French Hotchkiss monsters can stand up to a 70mm anti-tank shell." As if in defiance, the Hotchkiss fired off its first shot, hitting the Third Company. Half the horses went down in agony, carrying the corpses of their riders. Dieder gritted his teeth. This was supposed to be an escort job while the infantrymen set up their anti-tank traps. Now he was going to get killed. Dieder yelled furiously at his bucking horse as his First Company lined up for the charge.

The tank was stopped, smoke from the tortured asphalt seeping from under its treads. The turret was rolling lazily back and forth, looking for a new target. Von Riesewalt drew his saber, nodding to his counterpart on the right flank. With a high yell, Von Riesewalt dropped the saber, and the First Company charged.

Dieder rode furiously with one hand on the rein, gripping his carbine tightly. This was good cavalry terrain, open fields by a major road, but it was damned awful for fighting a tank. The company galloped pell-mell, the men and horses panting in unison in terror and exhiliration. Dieder stole a glance backward at the infantry frantically unpacking the Panzerfausts from their crates. Stupid dumb luck... if only the French had gotten here ten minutes later...

Von Riesewalt cried out in triumph, pointing his saber at the tank. The commander was shaking his machine gun in panic- it was jammed! What had been a noble sacrifice was suddenly looking like a coup- the first Hotchkiss captured in combat! The cavalry wheeled and charged toward the tank, two lines on either flank. Almost in carbine range... just pick off the commander and the tank was dead. Dieder got close enough to see the commander casually flip a switch on his gun... and grin ghoulishly.

The first sweep of the machine gun caught his horse in the throat, and Dieder was flung down under her. He cracked his head on the ground and groaned. Screams came from all around him as wounded men and horses thrashed. That damned Frenchman... unsporting bastard... Dieder tried to pull his leg out from under the horse and everything went white. He heard screaming and then, mercifully, passed out.

He woke up a few moments later. His leg was broken. He was trapped. Dieder glanced to both sides. There was a severed hand holding von Riesewalt's saber, but no sign of the Gruppenfuhrer. Dieder swept up his carbine and fired a few shots at the tank's rear. A couple of enterprising cavalrymen, one with a bloody hole in the back of his uniform, lobbed grenades at the Hotchkiss. They barely scratched it. He saw the explosion a moment before he heard it, but he screamed in pain anyway. The Panzerfausts... a whole anti-tank regiment rendered useless. The French tank rolled away, firing into the wall of smoke that should have been the impregnable front line of the German defenses. Ten more minutes... Dieder passed out again.

He woke up to the splash of water against his face. A broad dark face over him, a red cross on a helmet. The man grinned, exposing perfect white teeth. Dieder was distracted by this, and missed the beginning of his sentence.

"...be fixed in no time, comrade. Sit still. The truck will collect you in a second. Now relax! Your war's over!" Dieder blinked. He croaked out a question. The man laughed.

"No, I'm not exactly French. I'm from Cameroon. I learned German from a missionary in my village. And you, my extremely lucky friend, are going to get an opportunity to learn French." Dieder closed his eyes. Ten more minutes.

April 23, 1940

“Three queens!”

“Merde!”

“Looks like your luck doesn’t hold up at the card table, Denel.” Nicoletti swept up the pile of cash at the center of the table. Jean Denel groaned.

“Why did you have to join the French Army, Nicoletti? Wouldn’t you be happier fleecing someone on the other side of the barricades?” Nicoletti snorted.

“I’m not Italian, I’m Corsican. And anyway, the food’s better over here. Say, would you hand me…” Nicoletti trailed off. He and Denel looked at each other.

“You feel it too?” Denel nodded and stood. A split second later, the klaxon alarm ground into life. Denel and Nicoletti rushed for their rifles, joining the rest of the camp outside. Their lieutenant was rushing back and forth, gathering up the men. Denel flagged him down.

“What’s happening?” The lieutenant spat.

“The Italians are shelling the garrison at Treviglio, and there are bomber raids all along our line. It looks like Laval’s new fortifications are getting put to the test.”

“The Italians are going on the offensive?” The lieutenant nodded.

“It looks that way. Ah, if only I’d signed up for that Algerian posting. I’d be lapping up promotions with Duval’s bright boys in Libya… Get your men together, Sergeant.” Denel saluted crisply. He turned to Nicoletti.

“Corporal Nicoletti. Ready for your first taste of battle?” Nicoletti guffawed.

“Shit, no! Sir!” Denel nodded grimly.

“You’re smarter than you look.”

May 8, 1940

Genoa. Again.
 
Denel marched silently through the rubble of the ancient buildings. This time, both armies had pledged to leave the downtown an open city, but a man under fire didn’t care much about an imaginary line. And accidents will happen. The first time the French had pushed through, Genoa had been scarred. Now it was levelled. Denel kicked at a piece of marble.

”Goddamn waste, Sergeant.” Nicoletti lit a fresh cigarette. Denel nodded. He lifted his hand and gestured the squad forward. By twos, his men trotted up. The Italian offensive had petered out before the fortifications on the French border, and now Denel’s Second Corps was rolling the Italians up before them. There was something big in the air back at HQ, but mere sergeants didn’t rate high on the “need to know” list. His orders were just to hold the line here.

“Jacques, Roland, on that roof. Bernard, Patrice, Henri, you take position in that building. Giacomo, you’re with me.” Nicoletti went into a crouch as he followed Denel through the maze of fallen bricks and burnt frames. Suddenly, Nicoletti grunted and a wet smacking noise came from him, a second before a report echoed through the streets. Denel threw himself to the ground and screamed.

“SNIPER! SNIPER!” Nicoletti groaned.

“Goddammit, my arm! Goddammit!” Denel glanced back.

”Quiet, for God’s sake. That won’t even get you off the front line.” Denel took the safety off his Renault and scanned the nearby buildings. Too much smoke, too many echoes… no way to know where the bastard was. Denel slapped Nicoletti on his good shoulder and started backing up. A bullet kicked up dust next to him, and in unspoken agreement both men got up and ran back to the squad. Denel shouted up to Jacques Revalle.

“Any sign?” Revalle grunted, sweeping his sniper rifle back and forth.

“You’ll know.” Two minutes passed. Suddenly, Revalle whipped his rifle up and snapped off two shots. “That’s got it.” Denel stood.

“Henri, Bernard.” The two men vaulted out of their position and ran, Revalle shouting the position. Six minutes later, they returned, carrying a hunting rifle.

“Couldn’t have been more than sixteen, seventeen. Militia.” Denel nodded. The radio squawked, and Denel picked up the handset.

“Yes. Acknowledged. Yes. One injured. Yes.” Denel hung the handset back up and grinned. “That bastard De Gaulle! That beautiful bastard!” Nicoletti gave in first.

“What?”

“De Gaulle broke the Italian line in the Alps and he’s back in Milan. There’s 150,000 Italian troops surrounded here in Genoa, and their commander’s talking surrender. All we have to do is sit tight.” Denel dug into his pocket and fished out a cigarette. “God, I love sitting tight.”

July 12, 1940

Laval studied the map, pulling on his cigar in satisfaction. The Italians had been pushed back out of Milan and La Spezia, and they’d lost another field army to surrender. They were practically out of the war. The French had suffered grim losses, especially in the recent naval battle in the harbor outside Naples, but the Italian losses were totally irrecoverable. And Duval, God bless him, had taken Sicily with the loss of just two hundred men. Another campaign like the recently concluded Second Alpine, with another hundred thousand dead and wounded… Laval shuddered. And six weeks to the election. Lucky, lucky…

Verdillac came up and saluted. Laval snapped the salute back.

“Congratulations, Field Marshal.” Verdillac blushed with pleasure. His promotion had been unexpected, but he was an able general and he was already mastering his new duties.

“Thank you, sir. I won’t let you down.” Verdillac held out a freshly typed report. “My new Seventh Armee will be ready for battle and at the Italian lines by the end of October. Operation Bonaparte is on schedule. My boys will do the job.” Laval grinned and shook Verdillac’s hand. A secretary burst in, palefaced and shaken. Laval frowned.

“Will you excuse us, Field Marshal? I’ve been expecting a report.” Verdillac saluted crisply and left the room. Laval leaned forward.

“I’m not going to like your news, am I?” The secretary shook his head.

“I’m afraid not, M’sieur President. Agent Bourchard was caught red-handed with the gold.” Laval groaned.

“Any response yet?” The secretary shook his head.

“No, sir. Although we’ve received news that martial law was declared this afternoon. It looks like they’re gearing up for war.” Laval slammed his fist on the desk.

“I should have known my luck wouldn’t hold forever.”

July 13, 1940

Marie Bourchard sobbed pitifully, turning her head away from the blazing light. Her head was yanked back and she looked into the Major’s furious eyes again.

“Madame Bourchard, I hate this more than you. It deeply offends my sense of honor that we should resort to these tactics.” The chair in the corner, covered by a blood-soaked tarp, was wheeled out by two uniformed men. “I swear to you that neither your husband nor you need to die. All you have to do is confess.” Marie held out her hands, chained by handcuffs.

“I tell you, I don’t know anything! And Pierre doesn’t know-“ The Major kicked Marie’s chair over, knocking her head against the floor. She gasped for breath while he ranted.

“Your husband DOES know! He was caught red-handed trying to pass a suitcase full of gold to an undercover agent! The whole country is under martial law, dozens have been shot, and the rioting in the streets has claimed hundreds, thousands of lives! Your husband is a murderer who attempted to topple the government! He is a monster and a criminal-“ the Major stooped low to her face- “but I know you are not. I know you are a decent person, and I’m sure you’re as disgusted by the deaths as I am. It is for your sake I am prepared to save your husband’s life. I am certain he will be sentenced to life, but you will at least be able to visit him. You will know he lives. If you do not cooperate, I can make no guarantees for either of you.” The Major got up and walked back to his desk, lighting a cigar. He leafed absently through a thick file.

“You say he is a chemist.”

“He IS a chemist, please…”

“He is more than simply a chemist, and I am certain you know his contacts back in Paris.”

“I don’t!”

“You know his contacts here.”

“Just his legitimate business partners, and I’ve given you those names…” The Major leaned forward.

“Think carefully, Madame. For your husband’s sake, you must remember something. I need his accomplices, before the entire weight of this heinous crime is laid upon his shoulders and he is killed.” Marie sobbed.

“Only…”

“Yes?”

“Only Mario. At Sao Paulo, he runs a supply warehouse. Mario Pereires. They talked on the phone, and my husband always seemed to spend more time talking with him than the other suppliers.” The Major nodded.

“That is excellent. That is absolutely excellent. Can you think of anyone else, Madame?” Marie shook her head, sobbing bitterly.

“No, no. Please- let me see my husband again. He’s so terribly hurt, let me help him.” The Major nodded.

“You can join him now.”

Two shots rang out from the house on the outskirts of Rio de Janeiro. The next morning, Brazil joined the Axis and declared war on the Allies. Militiamen streamed across the border into Guiana, and the Allied commanders steeled themselves to meet the onslaught of a new foe.

September 1, 1940

"Congratulations, Pierre."

"Thank you, Winston." The two men shook hands solemnly, projecting grim determination for the newsreel cameras. They exchanged some niceties for the cameras. Finally, the newsmen were ushered from the room. Stanley Baldwin, now Britain's ambassador to France, whispered briefly in Churchill's ear before shaking Laval's hand and leaving. Laval offered Churchill a cigar, and both men sat for a moment, smoking in quiet contemplation.

"It was an excellent election." Churchill nodded.

"Quite well handled, Pierre. If you'll accept political praise from a backbencher has-been." Laval chuckled.

"War has a way of bringing the cream to the top." Churchill grunted.

"Or the scum." Churchill gestured at the map on the wall. "The front's been static now for months. The Germans don't have the manpower to force a breach against our fortifications. I'm worried they might declare war on the Netherlands. They'd be able to roll up our defenses on the Channel." Laval waved his hand.

"They learned their lesson at Brussels. Once we finish off Italy, the Germans will cave." Churchill's eyes glinted with barely repressed fury.

"Hitler will never cave. He is a wild dog and he knows no law but the cane." Laval nodded.

"You will note that I said the Germans, not Hitler. I met the man. I remember him well. Our agents report that the General Staff has long been uneasy over the war. When we roll into Munich, they will surely topple him." Churchill snorted.

"Your agents also thought Brazil was corrupt and tottering, ripe for the plucking. By now, surely, they would be locked in combat with the Argentines." Laval winced.

"I have admitted my mistake there. After Franco, I thought I could handle the Brazilians." Churchill raised his glass of sherry.

"And admirably you did, Pierre, admirably. You turned the whole election into a vote of confidence on that issue, and no one cared anymore about the Alpine campaign's losses. You are a brilliant politician, and that is praise I do not hand out lightly." Laval raised his glass in return. "Have you heard any word of congratulation from the Americans?" Laval snorted, draining his glass.

"No one hears anything from the Americans. They're obsessed with their 'Homeland Defense' idiocy. Ninety divisions they've raised, and not a single transport squadron? Worse than useless. Landon will win re-election in November, by all accounts. I can't even get decent rates on a loan from an American bank. They ban the Nazi Party from running in elections in Wisconsin or New York, and they say they've done their part." Churchill shook his head.

"So is Bonaparte on time?" Laval nodded.

"Ahead of schedule. October 24th." Churchill refilled his glass and raised it high.

"To the final stroke." Laval touched his glass to his forehead.

"To the end."

October 15, 1940

Bernard Henry lounged atop Anne-Marie, sunning himself and smoking a fine cigar. The port town of La Spezia was alive with preparations for the upcoming invasion, but Henry’s crew had been unloaded and ready for nearly a week. They’d spent the time catching up on correspondence, playing poker, and repainting the fourteen kill markers on Anne-Marie’s flank. The boys were having a picnic, along with a thermos filled with “coffee” that Delacorte had found God-knows-where. But Henry wasn’t hungry. He wanted to be back in the thick of it, rolling and stomping. Anne-Marie was invincible, and by extension, so was he. Henry saw himself as a chevalier, but he was at a loss for chivalry. All he knew was blowing things up. And he was damned restless with all this sitting around, soaking up the Mediterranean sun.

A car rolled up and his captain shot out of it as if fired from a cannon. Henry and his men came to attention, although Delacorte was gently swaying a bit. The captain saluted.

“At ease. Especially you, Delacorte. Are you drunk?” Delacorte saluted.

“Not at all, SIR! I only see one of you, SIR!” The captain grunted.

“You’d better sober up fast, Delacorte. We’re moving.” Henry blinked.

“But the main offensive’s scheduled for next week, isn’t it?” The captain nodded.

“Exactly. That’s why we’re moving out now. Verdillac’s whipped the Seventh Armee into the best goddamn fighting unit in the war. And now we’re going to roll all the way to Sicily and meet Duval’s glory hogs when they land across the Channel.” Henry’s men whooped. “That’s right, boys. Operation Bonaparte is on, and this war is half over. Now get in your goddamn tank and get into position.” The captain grinned ferociously. “We’ll be in Munich by Christmas and home for the New Year. As long as you get going now and MOVE MOVE MOVE!”

Henry’s crew didn’t need the encouragement. They were scrambling for the hatch already.

November 24, 1940

Adolf Hitler stared at the map in intense concentration. Von Beck, Goering, Von Leeb, Von Brausitsch… the nattering fools in the background faded out. Von Leeb was saying something. Unimportant. The 12th Army, the SS motorized divisions in Vienna. Rail lines insufficient to ferry needed petroleum… the autobahns could carry… fourteen thousand… hm. The Eighth, that was Savoy. Savoy, aristocratic trash. Proud enough to fight. How long? The Julians… two weeks.

Enough time.

But the Dutch. They would… yes, they would. And then, Von Leeb’s, yes…

Hitler’s eyes widened as he stared into the map, darting back and forth as he watched the war unfold. He had it. That was it, he had it. His fist curled. He knew how to win the war. And then he could finally turn east. He stood and turned to give orders. As he focused his attention back on the worthless scum cluttering his headquarters, he noticed Von Leeb still nattering. Chattering like a squirrel, like some damn vermin. When he was about to announce how the war would be won. Hitler began to tremble with fury, his fists clenching. Von Leeb, you fool, be quiet. Be quiet. Can’t you see I’m about to speak? You fool.

“You FOOL!” Hitler screamed, his head shaking with the force of his bellow. Hitler flipped over the table, sending the map and papers to the floor. “BE QUIET BE QUIET! I AM TO SPEAK! I AM THE FUHRER! YOU INSOLENT FOOL! I HAVE THE ANSWER, AND YOU NATTER AND NATTER! DO YOU NOT SEE ME? AM I INVISIBLE? WITHOUT ME, YOU ARE LOST! LOST!” By now, Hitler was an inch from Von Leeb’s face, purple with rage. Von Leeb stood trembling, his face drained of blood, afraid even to wipe Hitler’s spittle off his nose. And yet… despite all his fear, Hitler could see the contempt. The aristocrat’s contempt, that Von Leeb was trying to swallow down.

This insane little corporal… this amateur. This flailing peasant.

Hitler whirled around, shaking and shaking. Nothing he did would ever be enough. He was a great man, and these fools would never see it. Not even when he handed them the entire world. The fools. Hitler cleared his throat and drank a glass of water. He turned and fixed Von Leeb with a steely gaze that belied his calm tone.

“Now then, Field Marshal Von Leeb. What is so important?” Von Leeb blinked.

“My… my Fuhrer, the Greeks have joined the Axis as you predicted, but I continue to insist that the Vienna garrison be moved forward. The French have swept all opposition aside in Italy, and now they will surely move for the Bolzano-Venice line-“

“Let them.”

“But- but, my Fuhrer-“

“I said LET THEM.” The steel re-entered Hitler’s voice. “I have no interest in the French advance on Venice as of now. Let them come.” Von Leeb swallowed hard.

“But, then, what are your orders?” Hitler’s gut churned in disgust. These damned fools.

“You will receive orders when the time comes. For now, let the French advance on Venice. I have a plan.”

“My Fuhrer, I must insist. What is your plan?” You snivelling worm. You aristocratic, encrusted fool. You will never see. Not until I show you. I must take everything into my hands. You are the past. You are already dead. I will throw all of you into the maw of war, and let you be chewed up. The children I have raised. They know me. They fear me, because they respect me. I will never have your respect. And you will never have mine, you fools.

“No. You will receive orders when the time comes.” Hitler turned on his heel and left the room.

February 15, 1941

Sergeant Denel stomped his feet. The camp was damn cold, with the winter air roaring down over the Alps. As usual, the bastard brass were having fun down in Venice while his unit was on the front lines. Still, he couldn't complain. After all, he'd spent most of the winter being carried by train around Italy... the pace of conquest went too fast for a march.

Denel grinned. Here he was, after a year and a half, after God knows how many scrapes and near-misses. He was alive. And on the other side of those mountains was Austria. The Netherlands had finally joined the war, with twenty-five fresh divisions. And behind him in the plains of Venetia, almost 200,000 French soldiers waited for the first thaw to move forward and begin the offensive. Denel's heart soared. He was going to live. His men were going to live. He could feel it, an omen borne on the Alpine winds.

An omen... that smell.

Denel unshouldered his Renault submachine gun. He pounded on the tent flap. Nicoletti was first out.

"Out! Everybody!" His men knew better than to complain when Denel took that tone. He'd gotten them out of too many close calls. "Radio HQ. Any intercepts? Any radar contacts?" Nicoletti ducked back in. A few minutes later, he was back.

"They say there's lots of traffic, but it's probably spoofing. The Germans have been testing us about once a week since we ran over Venice. And there's nothing on the channels the Italian government-in-exile uses. And the British radarmen say they can't get any readings with the storm cover." Denel nodded uneasily.

"I don't like this. Pack up. Be ready to retreat the second I say so." Nicoletti nodded and barked a couple of orders. He paused and leaned closer.

"What's this about, Jean?" Denel frowned.

"I smell something, Paolo. I don't like it." Nicoletti sniffed the wind coming off the Alps. Suddenly, he jumped.

"I smell it too! Jesus! That's... is that fuel?" Before Denel could answer, a low droning began to echo through the mountains. Denel blew his whistle and his men redoubled their packing.

"LEAVE IT! LEAVE IT! BOMBERS! RUN, GO GO GO! THOSE TREES, NOT THE HILLS! NOW!" Denel gestured to Nicoletti, and they stayed behind to camouflage their gear. The drone grew ever louder, rolling back and forth through the mountains. There was another, deeper rumbling swelling beneath the sound of the bombers. Denel and Nicoletti looked at each other and nodded.

The Germans were coming in low to fool radar. Low enough for their engine vibrations to set off an avalanche.

"Jean, get going. I've got to radio HQ." Denel snarled and jerked on Nicoletti's sleeve.

"Like hell. The tent's covered. You get to those trees, now." Nicoletti slapped Denel's hand away.

"I don't have your instinct, Jean, and I didn't go skiing when I was a kid. I'm a fuckup in the snow, and you have to get these men back. Now go, because I'm not going." They stared into each other's eyes for a moment. Nicoletti yanked off his necklace and handed it to Denel. It was a good luck charm from Nicoletti's mother. Denel swallowed back a sob and grabbed Nicoletti's shoulder fiercely. Then he ran.

If he'd turned back, he would have seen the aircraft spat out of the Alpine mist. He would have seen the fighters shooting out first, leading two hundred bombers. He would have seen the wall of snow that erupted out of the passes.

He would have seen the snow roll over Nicoletti and the camp.

Denel ran. February 27, 1941

The German artillery was landing closer now. Montgomery paced in his tent. He’d already pulled back his HQ twice, as the Germans rolled over first the Dutch lines and then his British reserves. The country was flat and open. He’d tried flooding the plains and turning them into a marsh, the way the Dutch had stopped so many invasions. The Germans just laid down bridges and kept coming. Glider troops had seized a few keypoints, the same way the Germans had infiltrated commandos into Venetia during their winter offensive. Half a million men over the Alps in the dead of winter, just when the French were starting to dig in.

But that wasn’t his concern right now, any more than the Brazilian flotilla marauding at will in the Antilles. Right now he had to keep the Germans from rolling up the left flank of the Allied defenses. If he couldn’t make a stand, then the Germans would pour through the gap. They’d punch straight through to Lille. They’d punch straight through to Paris. Montgomery looked at the situation maps. He was facing four fresh armies with his British Expeditionary Force. The Dutch Army had been mauled to the point of disappearance. He set his jaw grimly and studied the map. Where. Where.

There. Eindhoven.

Montgomery called his adjutant.

“Sound the retreat. We’re pulling back to Amsterdam. Call on the French- the Armored Corps to rendezvous. They need to provide cover while we pull back to a defensible line. Inform the Dutch authorities that they must relocate to Eindhoven immediately.” The adjutant gaped.

”We’re going to abandon half the Netherlands?” Montgomery looked at the map wearily. A German artillery shell landed close enough to rattle the windows in their panes.

“It’s that or abandon the war.”

March 7, 1941

Gaspard and his men crept through the hills. The spring rain was covering the sound of their movement, but a flash of lightning could give away their position. And that, twenty miles behind the German lines, was not a good thing.

Gaspard went back to the map he'd memorized. The German position should have been behind that last hill. Godenot came up and patted his shoulder. In urgent sign language, he indicated the position of a German sentry. Gaspard nodded and told Godenot to take care of it. Gaspard peered through the dead branches, watching through a sniper scope. Godenot got up behind him and clapped a hand over the sentry's mouth, another hand flashing a knife into his throat.

Gaspard gave the signal.

His commandos burst out of the muddy brush, charging the main gate. The Germans there whipped up their guns, but they were too late. Godenot and Gaspard flanked to the west, wire cutters out. The Germans were pouring more reinforcements to the main gate, but they were helpless under the deadly accurate fire from the darkness. Godenot and Gaspard worked the wire cutters, and soon had enough room to slip in to the camp. The Germans had been here for less than a week, and everything was still packed. Gaspard paused to set a couple of dynamite bombs. Then he joined Godenot.

The two of them burst into the camp's flank, tossing grenades into tents and taking down Germans with burst after burst of submachine gun fire. The Germans behind makeshift barricades at the main tent whipped around, but they had no cover from this angle. Godenot mowed them down with a single pass of his Renault.

The German company was neutralized three minutes after the first shot. Gaspard detailed two men to track down the stragglers.

"No survivors." Gaspard knelt to rifle the pocket of a major. He glanced at his watch.

"We have an hour. The rest of you fan out and search the camp for intelligence." The commandos saluted and fanned out. Godenot nudged him.

"You've been shot." Gaspard glanced at his sleeve.

"My uniform's been shot. Get to work." The men rifled the camp. Suddenly, a shot rang out from the perimeter. Gaspard whipped up his Renault. His hand shot up and he signed to the commandos, who fanned out and rushed to the scene. One of Gaspard's men had his rifle out and was scanning the hillsides.

"Two men. Not wearing German uniform." Gaspard grunted.

"Locals, probably. Bring them in. Can't take a chance they'll inform." Two of Gaspard's men dashed off into the rain. Gaspard heard shouting. He glanced at his watch. This was really screwing with his timetable. One of the men trotted back.

"They're French. They're giving Second Corps passphrases and one's wounded." Gaspard swore. This was really, really screwing with his timetable. He trotted out, Renault at his hip. A commando flagged him down and he looked down on two men in bloodstained French uniforms, hiding in a ditch. One of them waved.

"Bonjour. Sergeant Jean Denel, Private Philippe Cassel. We're with Second Corps. Trapped in the Alps when the Germans came over." Gaspard looked them over grimly. The sergeant had a broken leg. He chewed it over briefly and unslung his pack.

"This is three day's rations for one man. You can split it. We can't take you. Stay away from the camp. It'll blow sky-high in forty minutes." The Frenchmen stared, uncomprehending. Finally, Denel nodded.

Gaspard and his men rifled the camp for papers and slipped back towards the French lines. Sitting at a desk in Milan, Gaspard paused briefly before he put an extra line on his report.

"DENEL, JEAN, SERGEANT 2 CORPS. CASSEL, PHILIPPE, PRIVATE 2 CORPS. CONFIRMED MISSING IN ACTION."

That day, he and his men were on a plane for Sedan. Gaspard forgot the incident shortly.

March 14, 1941

Field Marshal Verdillac leafed impatiently through the reports. In a fit of temper, he tossed the papers down on his endtable, tipping them over and spilling them across the floor. He sighed, his jaw knotted with frustration. His adjutant Casson knocked and entered.

“Field Marshal, I…” Casson took in the spilled papers and the tension boiling behind Verdillac’s eyes. He knelt without a word and started gathering the papers.

“Leave them, Roland. I’ll get them in a bit.”

“Nonsense. You need your strength. You’ll be out of bed inside of a week, sir. The doctors-“ Verdillac cursed.

“I’ll listen to their advice when they can grow me some new toes.” Verdillac gazed ruefully at his left foot, mangled by a piece of German shrapnel. De Gaulle had almost lost his command during the Alpine campaigns for losing 80,000 men. Half a million German soldiers had poured into Venetia over the last month… and he’d lost 140,000 men in the first two weeks. In just two weeks, his battle-hardened and high-spirited Seventh Army had become little more than a mob of frightened, bloodied children. And he was stuck here in Genoa, in a hospital bed. At least the Germans hadn’t pressed forward- their losses had been awful, too. But Operation Bonaparte was over, cancelled. And the French army had retreated almost two hundred kilometers. He should be disgraced, sacked. It was only this damnable mutilation that made him a hero. He was only a soldier because he could no longer fight.

Verdillac sagged back against the pillow, listening to Casson patiently cleaning up his mess. His ears burned with his shame and helplessness. He remembered the phone call that morning from Laval. He’d been told to “heal up and get back to work.” Not a hint of sympathy or humor. Simply the tone one would take with an employee who’d injured himself mopping the floor. A pathetic incompetent not worth the time to replace.

Verdillac closed his eyes and listened to the birds outside the hospital window, chirping in hope at the first blossoms of spring, listened to the incessant bulldozers clearing away the
 
rubble of four ruined centuries. There was a message of hope in the sound, if he chose to reach out for it. He did not.

March 19, 1941

"THEY'RE ACROSS! THEY'RE ACROSS!" Henry wheeled the turret back around. Montgomery's British Expeditionary Force was across the Maas, along with the last of the civilian refugee convoys. The defeated, shattered remnants of the Dutch Army had preceded them, completely demoralized. They had broken and fled at the first sight of the German Panzers. But Juin's Armored Corps hadn't run yet. They'd smashed the Germans at Brussels, they'd halted the first advance on Amsterdam. Henry's division hadn't lost more than a dozen tanks since the war's start, and they'd been pulled out of Italy before the horror of the Second Battle of Venice. Henry bared his teeth as he radioed in the coordinates for an artillery strike on the Bulgarian division on the left Axis flank. Anne-Marie had thirty kill markers now, and he fully intended to get across the Waal to the rendezvous and paint six fresh markers. He had ten shells left, and the machine gun was fully loaded. These German bastards weren't getting past him. The radio was full of chatter, as British sappers started demolishing the bridges. The Armored Corps hadn't crossed yet, but they had their own bridgelayers. The Armored Corps was undefeated. It was elite. They would get across.

Delacorte cursed. "The barrel's still overheated!" Henry snarled and looked through the periscope. The Bulgarians were scattering under the artillery barrage, but there were 200,000 Germans pouring across Utrecht towards the Waal and the fragile Allied lines. Not exhausted infantrymen protected by a line of cavalry, this time. Three full corps, armored trucks with artillery and anti-tank support. The Dutch were reporting that new tanks were entering the German line, too... forty-ton monsters that could outrun a Hotchkiss. Henry told himself he wanted a fight... but he also wanted to be across the Maas and into the plains around Eindhoven before the Germans showed up.

They were at the outskirts of Hertogenbosch now. Only five kilometers to the bridge. The Bulgarians had halted their advance, and Henry popped the hatch to check his machine gun. The second he popped his head up, bullets started ricocheting off the tank. Henry cursed and pulled the hatch back down. Bacquard gestured.

"THAT CAME FROM THE RIGHT! AMBUSH! AMBUSH!" Henry screamed in fury and yelled across the radio at headquarters.

"We just heard ourselves! The bridge is under fire, Germans! At least a battalion! And Major Degasse is pinned down on the left flank. Stay put."

"WE'RE UNDER FIRE HERE!" A mortar shell exploded nearby, and Bacquard yanked the throttle on instinct, punching through a garden wall and rolling towards the Maas.

"Stay put! Germans massing on the northern bank! You're driving straight into a regiment!" Henry swore.

"ORDERS, SIR?" Bacquard looked over his shoulder. Henry slammed his fist against the periscope.

"THE GERMANS ARE BEHIND US, IN FRONT OF US, AND ON BOTH SIDES." Henry lit a cigar. "SO WE HEAD FOR WHERE MOST OF THEM ARE! THEN WE PICK OFF THE STRAGGLERS!" Bacquard yelled in triumphant laughter and gunned the tank forward, plowing through an abandoned house. They startled out a squad of German soldiers, who struggled to lug a 90mm gun. Henry grabbed up a Renault and slid open an observation slit, riddling them. Henry thought his crew was screaming at him in pain, but he was too deaf now to be sure. The tank rolled into the town square, and Henry yelled as he saw Germans setting up an anti-tank barrier. He yanked open the hatch and started firing his machine gun. The rounds whistled down and the Germans scattered. He was too far away to have much effect, but at least Anne-Marie would get through the square.

Suddenly, a tremendous explosion kicked up cobblestones to the right. Something smacked into Henry's forehead and his head hit the hatch. He fell back into the tank, blinking. He reached up and slammed the hatch down. Reaching up, he felt blood trickling down from his scalp. Bacquard was screaming something, pointing off to the side and whirling the tank around. Henry shook himself and looked into the periscope. A German tank. A big one. Henry snarled and waved at Delacorte, giving him the hand signals for trajectory. Delacorte rammed the shell home. Henry gave the signal, and Delacorte yanked the lanyard. The shell arced out, and landed squarely on the German's turret.

The explosion knocked off the turret's machine gun, but the panzer barely paused. It was coming straight at Anne-Marie now, with its turret rolling down. Henry cursed and signalled to Bacquard. Bacquard needed no encouragement and he gunned the tank in reverse, racing for a side alley. Henry prayed it led to the bridge.

March 19, 1941

The mortar shell hit in a foxhole next to Trudeau's. Trudeau hadn't known the man well- he was a fresh recruit, hadn't been with the Corps more than a month. Now he was dead, a bloody pulp. The whistle came, and Trudeau yanked himself out of the hole. Ballantine grabbed at his heel, jabbering in English.

"I can't, I can't go out there, they'll kill us, they'll kill us-" Trudeau yanked himself free and ran. He wasn't thinking, he had to save Ballantine, but the bullets were whipping by and he was so afraid. Somehow, everything was curiously quiet. He could distinctly hear the squishing sound from the mess in his pants as he ran.

His squad had lost their truck after a German hit their tires. They'd driven ten kilometers on the rims, but the rear axle had broken. He had to find the sergeant, he'd just blown his whistle, where- there. He was dead now. No- he was alive, he was reaching out, blood pouring out of his ears, keep running. Oh God, run, run.

Trudeau was sobbing for breath. A Hotchkiss rolled by on his left, its commander dangling like a puppet from its turret. German Stukas were strafing something off to his right. He had to get to the bridge, he had to get to the bridge. Here was an old Dutch man, begging, sobbing. He was sitting on the ground, he was holding out a silver teapot. What? What? Trudeau ran past him. This was a nightmare, this was't supposed to happen, this was the Armored Corps. He was with the Third Mechanized Division. The Third didn't lose a fight.

There was an awful roaring sound behind him, the Germans. Flamethrowers, oh God, oh God. Trudeau had reached the outskirts of Hertogenbosch now, he was close to the bridge. He would live, he just had to run. Run. RUN!

Trudeau blinked. There was a French officer, his pistol out. He was screaming at Trudeau to run. There was a radioman there, and a squad of men setting up a howitzer. He could help. Trudeau walked over in a daze, saluting. The officer whipped his head back around to look at Trudeau. The officer snarled and screamed again.

"RUN, GODDAMN YOU!" Trudeau backed away, stumbling. He started to trot, and broke back into his run, the air ripping at his throat, burning his lungs.

He ran for another two kilometers before he finally collapsed, retching and retching. He passed out, he didn't know for how long, but he woke and it was dusk. He was in an alley, and the horizon was glowing with fire and the sound of screaming and gunshots skittered in the darkness around him. Trudeau curled his legs in, hugging the wall. He wanted to disappear. He couldn't be here.

"I can't do this," he whispered to himself. "Mama, I can't do this. Mama, Mama..." Trudeau screwed his eyes shut, sobbing. Suddenly a shoe scraped on pavement nearby. Trudeau jumped, his eyes wide open.

There was a French tank officer, blood crusted across his forehead. The officer looked down at him dully, taking a drag off his cigar. He kicked at a pack by his foot and nodded. Trudeau blinked, and crept forward. He opened the pack and found a canteen and cigarettes. He drank greedily and took out a cigarette with shaking fingers. The officer lit it and grunted.

"I thought you were dead." Trudeau shook his head, shrinking back against the wall. The officer nodded. Trudeau leaned forward.

"Are... we safe?" The officer chuckled ruefully.

"In a manner of speaking. We hold the north bank of the Maas, we kicked the Germans out of Hertogenbosch. But now we're trapped until the Brits get a bridgelayer back out here."

"But the Fifth had bridgelayers-" The officer spat.

"The Fifth is gone. So's the Third."

Trudeau blinked. "I'm... I'm with the Third, " he said. The officer chuckled.

"Quod erat demonstrandum." The officer threw his cigar down and ground it out. "Now that you're alive, go pick up a rifle and make yourself useful. Report to Captain Freschle at the end of this street, he'll assign you a picket." Trudeau nodded. The officer glanced at his watch. "We'll be across by daybreak, they tell us. We'll see." Trudeau nodded hesitantly and cleared his throat.

"Are you going back to your tank now?" The officer whipped his head up to look in Trudeau's eyes, anger and sorrow fighting in his face.

"My tank is gone. The Germans hit a tread. Anne-Marie killed forty German tanks and now she's gone."

"They can get you a new tank-" The officer spat and turned on his heel. Trudeau took a pull miserably off his cigarette and walked the opposite way, to report for duty.

April 1, 1941

It began with artillery, a horrible flash of light, an eerie whistling, a rippling series of explosions from the English Channel to the German border. A single wall of flame, a hundred kilometers wide. Luftwaffe fighters screamed through the smoke, tracers hurtling down to earth, igniting trees and houses and men. Bombers flung themselves through the ack ack fire, raining bombs on the deafened armies gathered below.

Twenty thousand men died in the first five minutes. Some stared numbly at their torn bodies before dying, some simply laid down or blown into a red mist before they could realize what had happened. Some screamed, in pain or defiance or anger. They all died.

Through the roiling smoke, German bridgelayer tanks moved forward with incredible speed, laying down steel paths for the advancing armies, four hundred thousand men streaming forward to meet the four hundred thousand steeling themselves for battle. The artillery was now striking in the rear, chewing up roads, probing for depots and headquarters and telegraph stations. The men at the front, those not immediately killed or wounded, responded admirably. They followed their orders crisply and immediately. Miraculously, not a single headquarters was struck. The orders went out by radio and courier, and now the battle shifted to the waves of the ether, both armies trying to break the codes of the other, to confuse and mystify.

The Germans first struck the British lines at what had been the city of Helmond. Now it was a chaos of rubble, a labyrinth riddled with boobytraps and alleys cleared to create lines of ambush. The German infantry were better organized and better equipped, but the terrain removed many of their advantages. The German tanks could not find targets, the infantry could not find the smoke of rifles in the haze left behind by the artillery barrage. As the day ground on, they gained a kilometer, then two. Germans charged forward over the bodies of their comrades, but by nightfall they had suffered enough. They slipped away from their units, huddling down and finding ways not to move forward. British Gurkhas crept forward as dusk fell, picking off sentries and leaving their mutilated bodies as grisly warnings.

In the center, the Maas had been turned into a swamp three kilometers wide by Dutch engineers. The Germans slogged forward numbly, as the Allied artillery started hitting their bridges along the river. Waist-deep in brackish mud, they were easy pickings for the Dutch militiamen. As the Luftwaffe patrols intensified, the Dutch melted away, retreating and melting away into the plains. The Germans advanced ten kilometers and stopped, exhausted. The infantry could shove their way through the mud no further. Von Leeb ordered his armored units to mass for a breakthrough on his left.

Field Marshal Juin was ready. As the German tanks lined up precisely to cross the Waal, French artillery knocked out trucks, tanks, transports, cars. The Germans that got across found themselves locked in endless duels with the French. The Armored Corps was full of fresh recruits in tanks rushed off the assembly line. In more than one case, the Hotchkiss tanks had to retreat quickly when some crucial component was found to be missing, a firing lanyard, a periscope, a fuel cap cover. But the Armored Corps' anti-tank brigades performed stellarly, and Juin's men scored kill for kill, blood for blood.

Three weeks after the Germans crossed the Waal, the Axis artillery erupted again, a barrage that made the first seem puny by comparison. Under cover of the furious fire, the Germans pulled back, leaving behind 120,000 dead to 45,000 on the Allied side. What had initially seemed a thundering omen of doom had become the parting snarl of a wounded beast. Newspapers in Brussels, Paris, and London trumpeted this as a great victory, the beginning of the end. But the Allied units were too exhausted to do more than numbly rebuild their picket lines along the Waal.

A war of breathtaking manuever had become a stalemate, a slugging match. French units that had rolled triumphantly across five hundred kilometers of desert, that had swept across Italy almost without opposition, were now fighting on terms of a kilometer, a single step forward or back. The fighters of another war were summoned back, and a horrible dread fell over the silent cities of Europe... as the barbed wire and mines and trenches spread like a blight across the Netherlands.

May 19, 1941

Saint-Exupery raised his submachine gun. In five sharp bursts, he emptied his clip into the charging line of infantry. Ducking down behind the barricade, he fumbled in his bag for another clip.

“Shit! I’m dry, I’m dry!” Jesson handed him a bag, “BRANAILLE” stencilled on the side. Branaille wouldn’t need it anymore. Saint-Exupery shot back up, emptying another clip. Jesson chortled.

“Bet you wish your transfer would come down now, don’t you, flyboy?” Saint-Exupery threw him a ragged grin.

“There appear to be more German soldiers than French planes available these days.” Saint-Exupery shot back up and fired off a few more shots. “Poor Himmler. This offensive must really be hurting his political ambitions.” Jesson hooted.

“At least Von Leeb got somewhere. God, I feel sorry for these bastards.” Jesson emphasized this by firing a bazooka into the treads of an armored truck that was rolling up. The Germans were a roiling mob now, simply charging forward into the French guns. The Germans this time had tried massing all their strength into a single column, but Himmler had sent the column through the artificial swamps. The Allies had let them get just far enough so they couldn’t get out. There were all kinds of rumors about… Himmler had been shot, Himmler had been arrested, Himmler had seized power in a coup… but at the moment, Himmler was still pouring troops into his doomed salient. The Allies were killing them as fast as their red-hot gun barrels would allow.

A whistle sounded somewhere behind the German lines and the shouting took on a new character. The Germans slowed, stopped… and started to pull back. Saint-Exupery whooped. Jesson slapped him on the back.

“We’ll make you a real infantryman yet, flyboy.” Saint-Exupery grinned, but stopped suddenly, staring in confusion at his shirt. A red stain was started to seep out of his shoulder, just below his neck. He slipped down, his feet kicking in confusion at the sandbags. Jesson gripped his arm, his face a mask of shock.

“Oh, hell, Antoine… oh, hell, hang on. Medic. MEDIC! Jesus, hang on, Antoine.” Saint-Exupery looked up, his face drained of color.

“Marc, I’m going to die. Oh, I’m going to die.”

“You’re not dying, Antoine.” Saint-Exupery nodded gravely.

“It doesn’t hurt. I thought… oh. Oh. Listen, Marc. Listen, I’ve got to tell… got to tell you something.” Jesson nodded frantically. Saint-Exupery opened his mouth, but couldn’t make a sound. He frowned briefly, and then smiled feebly, raising his eyebrows. Jesson nodded uncertainly.

“Yeah… yeah, Antoine. I got it. Don’t worry, I got it.” Saint-Exupery chuckled and looked away, at the sky. A French plane roared overhead, doing a victory roll as it opened up its guns on the retreating Germans. Saint-Exupery chuckled quietly and closed his eye

In 1972, Saint-Exupery's papers were examined, and an early draft was uncovered, along with a few simple yet touching watercolors. A local art museum displayed them for a few years, an local reporter wrote a series of articles on the history of what became known as "The Little Prince", and in 1985, a small publishing company brought out a small run of 2,000 copies. They sold quickly, but the company went bankrupt and the publication rights disappeared in squabbling among the creditors. While "The Little Prince" has a cult following among certain art aficionados, it remains to be seen whether Saint-Exupery's works will ever garner the audience they deserve.

-From "Antoine Saint-Exupery: A Forgotten Genius," thesis for a Master's Degree in the Fine Arts, 1991. Wolfgang Thiessel, University of Lille.

May 26, 1941

"RAUS! KOMM RAUS!" Bernard Henry bellowed at the shell-riddled farmhouse, firing another stream of bullets from his machine gun. The soldiers of the newly-reconstituted Fifth Mechanized inched around his tank, flamethrowers at the ready. Finally, a white flag was waved from the doorway, and six Germans, their uniforms flecked with sea salt, staggered out, blinking against the sun. Henry grinned from behind his cigar and leaned forward, patting Anne-Marie II's flank. Bacquard peered through the forward observation slit, shouting in his Alsatian German.

"Nice try, boys! Well done! Rifles in a stack there, that's a lad." Henry clambered out of the tank, letting Bacquard pop his head out of the hatch. He nodded to Lieutenant Trevalle, saluting casually.

"You know, I think that's the last of them." Trevalle nodded.

"I think it's the last of Himmler, too. Want to hear the latest numbers from the boys at HQ in Brussels?"

"I love numbers." Henry lit his cigar, grinning. Trevalle chuckled.

"We lost 40,000 killed and wounded. The Germans, though, lost at least 180,000 killed and wounded, and we've got 40,000 prisoners. Not bad for two weeks." Henry grunted, his expression sour.

"The last two months have cost us more than the whole Italian War. For nothing." He spat. "Trench war. Look at the Gamelin Report! We spent twenty years trying to find a way to avoid this, and here we are." Trevalle nodded.

"The Germans did too, Bernard. But they don't want to go through the Line. And they don't want to go through Brussels, either, after the way we whipped 'em there. The Belgians have had a year to fortify. This is still the weakest point in the lines. This is where they have to go through, and you mark my words, one of these days they will." Henry frowned.

"I don't like that kind of talk, Lieutenant." Trevalle straightened sharply.

"My apologies, Captain." The two men glared at each other for a while, and then Trevalle turned to take a report from one of his infantrymen. Henry lit a fresh cigar and looked north, through the scarred and burnt remains of a forest. He could see pillars of smoke rising from the plains of Utrecht, north of the Waal. He shook his head and climbed back up to Anne-Marie II's hatch. Taking a last look at the ragged prisoners, he whirled his hand and Bacquard took the tank back south.

June 7, 1941

Gaspard glided silently through the muck on the north bank of the Waal. His men followed silently in a crescent formation, holding their submachines guns above the water carefully. While the Renaults would fire, water would ruin the silencers. Vanderlaag chuckled, seeing the men struggle to keep their footing in the mud and their rifles above their heads.

"I told you about the condoms."

Gaspard grunted. "And I told you the condoms wouldn't fit over a French silencer. Our guns are too manly." Vanderlaag grinned. Gaspard waved off the retort, signing the need for silence. Vanderlaag nodded and pointed east. Gaspard peered through the night at a dim outline. A machine gun nest. He nodded.

The French commandos eased themselves out of the water into the shadow of a burned-out truck. French bombers had cleared a path through the mines and infantry barriers a few hours before, part of a seemingly random series of raids. Gaspard's team, and Piter Vanderlaag, attached as a guide, were after intelligence. Rumors were filtering in from spies in Brabant that the Germans were preparing a third offensive. Gaspard's job was to find out where and when the Germans would aim their main thrust. There was a headquarters unit stationed somewhere in a two-kilometer radius, according to radio intercepts. But it was mobile, and Gaspard had to find it. In the next twelve hours.

The commandos sidled up into the grass and crept behind the German lines. A call like the chittering of a bat sidled along the river, and a single man on the south bank of the Waal picked up a telephone.

"They're across."

June 8, 1941- 3:00 AM

Gaspard's team huddled in the wheatfield. They were behind German lines with no support, looking for a headquarters unit that was rolling to a rendezvous point somewhere they didn't know, with only nine hours to get back across the Waal. It was a fool's mission, with no chance of success. Gaspard grinned predatorily as he finished buttoning up his German private's uniform. It was so good to finally face a challenge.

An engine gunned in the distance, down the country road. Gaspard nodded to his men and stepped into the road, wearing a look of distress. Headlights speared into the night, growing closer. Gaspard peered at them carefully, listening to the engine- lights round, close to the ground with fog lights below and a few centimeters closer to the grille. Six-cylinder engine. Volkswagen officer's car. Perfect.

The car ground to a stop, and the driver burst out of the car, Luger drawn.

"Who are you? Which unit?" Gaspard cleared his throat.

"Good evening, sir! I'm with the Fourth Infantry."

The officer peered suspiciously. "The Fourth are stationed twelve kilometers east of here." Gaspard laughed ruefully.

"I apologize, sir, but my truck broke down and we stopped for repairs, and... well, sir, I'm in trouble and there's no denying it. Can I ask you to radio Major Stueffel's HQ when you get to your destination and pass on that I'll be back on the road in two hours?" The officer swore.

"You could have walked there by now, Private. Your ass is in serious trouble, and I'm not going to help you get out of it. Where's your truck?"

"Off the road here, in the field. I didn't want some French bastard shooting it." The officer grunted, and Gaspard put on his best desperate face. "The boys and I, we know there's something big coming, and it was the last thing we wanted. Only, our squad's driver got shot in Hertogenbosch last month and HQ hasn't gotten around to giving us a new driver. Me, I don't know mechanics. I'm a potato farmer." The officer sighed and nodded.

"Alright, Private. I will radio Stueffel's HQ. What's your name?" A muffled shot cracked out of the wheat, and the right side of the driver's head skidded across the roof of the car. As his body crumpled, the Germans in the car struggled to draw their pistols. Three more shots shattered the windows, and the barrels of silenced Renaults were suddenly poking into the car. Gaspard walked forward, his German now the clipped Prussian of a Sorbonne-educated linguist.

"My name is Captain Jean Henri Paul-Baptiste Gaspard. Gentlemen, please step out of the car." The doors yanked outward, and the Germans found themselves staring into the grim black-painted faces of seven commandos. They were ushered to the side of the road, while Gaspard perused the papers in the car. He found two very interesting maps.

"You boys came all the way from Dordrecht? That's ten kilometers off the frontline and fifty west. Now where were you headed, Major?" The German major stiffened and looked forward.

"My name is Franz Jederer, Major of the SS Third Mechanized Division. That is all I will give you." Gaspard nodded. He gestured to Godenot and Rele, who slit the throats of the Major's aides. Gaspard paced back and forth. He cleared his throat and spoke.

"Major, this road connects with the main road to Hertogenbosch. The German anti-aircraft guns on the north bank there have kept the area clear of our bombers, so I can only assume you're massing troops there. But I need more than a vague idea of the main crossing point. I need grid references. I need to know who you're reporting to and I need to know..." More engines rumbled in the distance. Gaspard listened closely for a few seconds and frowned. The Major smiled.

"That's correct, Captain. I'm not the only one from Dordrecht reporting. But I still won't tell you where I'm going." Gaspard sighed and pulled out his pistol. The Major crumpled, with a neat hole in the center of his forehead.

"Godenot, Vanderlaag, get this car off the road. Relle, Germain, the bodies. Chevel, du Main, Allard, mines." Godenot started to the car and blinked.

"Captain, that's at least a battalion moving. Three hundred men." Gaspard nodded.

"Then you'd better get moving, Lieutenant." The commandos rushed to their tasks. Gaspard tucked the maps into a pocket and stared grimly down the road. After a few seconds, he trotted down the road and started laying mines.

"Two minutes."

June 8, 1941- 3:17 AM

The truck was loud and it smelled of diesel and Heinrich Giedl hated it. The idiot Gerber was loving it, though, grinning like an idiot under his helmet, which was tilted sloppily. The idiot Gerber thought it was rakish. Giedl checked his watch- they were still an hour out. Gerber slapped him on the shoulder.

"Hey, little Heinrich! Cheer up! This time tomorrow, we'll be back in the fighting again!"

Giedl rolled his eyes. "I'm trying to sleep, Gerber." Gerber brayed out a laugh.

"You were staring at the moon again, is what you were doing! Our little astrologer!" Giedl summoned up his best withering gaze.

"I was going to study astronomy, Gerber."

Gerber burped out another obscene chuckle and slapped Giedl again. "Well, excuse me, sir! You can't have been that good or you wouldn't be a private." Giedl sighed.

"I told you, I just decided this spring. I was going to study math at the University of Leipzig before I entered the astronomy program. I'm sorry that you don't appreciate the poetry of Schiller or you'd understand why-" Giedl was cut off by a loud explosion and shrieking from the front of the convoy. The truck slammed to a stop, and the entire squad was flung forward, the sleeping men tumbling in a shouting mass of limbs and bruised heads. Giedl struggled to his feet and jumped out of the cab. Gerber was right behind him, Mauser out and teeth bared. Giedl slapped the muzzle away.

"For heaven's sake! Don't shoot my shoulder off, Gerber." The inchoate shouting was organizing, as the men fell silent, preparing for ambush. Officers' voices spilled out of the trucks, and a lieutenant ran down the line.

"Out of the trucks! Fifty meter perimeter around the road, go!" He pointed to Giedl and Gerber.

"You're out already, good. Forward to the search party." They saluted and trotted up to the flaming wreck of the lead truck. A dozen men were there with rifles out, while another dozen dragged bodies out of the wreckage. A sergeant ran up.

"You two, to the east. You two, over there. I can't tell, but it looks like vehicle tracks-" A bullet snapped out of the darkness and landed in the sergeant's throat. Gerber started firing at random, and Giedl snapped up his rifle and fired as well. The panic spread down the line and bullets whipped through the fields in all directions. Officers screamed to cease fire, and the fire slowly faltered. Another bullet whistled in, blowing the kneecap off a captain. The Germans fired again. The process repeated itself three more times- an officer would get the firing under control when a silent gun would pick him off from the fields. Giedl and the rest of the battalion had thrown themselves flat, but Gerber was standing there like the idiot he was, snapping off round after round uselessly. Giedl hissed at him.

"You fucking fool, get down!" He registered dimly that he would be shocked to hear that word coming from anyone, let alone himself. Gerber laughed again, the same annoying bugle.

"It's just a couple of partisans, and we have to keep on schedule. You'll see, they'll just put us back in the trucks and get out of here." As if by magic, at that moment the order came to get back in the trucks and speed out. As the Germans ran back to their vehicles, a voice screamed out at them in a Dutch accent.

"Go to hell, Germans! Germans die! Go home! Go home!" Gerber smiled smugly.

"Told you so."

Another mine went off at the front of the line, and a truck blossomed into fire. A piece of shrapnel shattered the windshield of the truck behind it, landing in the chest of the driver. The second truck careened over, and the men inside screamed as they were flung about by the impact. The convoy screeched to a halt again, but a commander at the rear screamed to keep moving. While the trucks inched around the wrecks, another mine went off. The road was blocked, and the men climbing out of the toppled truck were spattered with burning gasoline. Giedl huddled down against the truck's bed, sweat pouring down his face as he listened to the awful screaming. Somewhere down the line, two officers were yelling at each other, when they both fell silent and the panicked fire began again.
 
"Oh, to hell with this! It's just four or five guys!" Gerber launched himself up and vaulted out of the truck, already firing. The sergeant screamed, but the rest of the squad was rushing for the door as well, desperate to shoot back at the unseen enemy. The sergeant swore, jumping out to block the squad's path, when a bullet hit him in the neck. Giedl jumped off the truck and ran past him while he was still kicking. Gerber was screaming at everyone to fan out into the fields. He charged off, and Giedl followed him. He saw Gerber stalking through the fields, hunched over. Suddenly, Gerber fell off his feet and disappeared into the wheat. Giedl stopped.

"Gerber! GERBER!" he hissed. A mine went off past them in the wheat, and Gerber screamed, a scream that was cut off quickly. But it was nowhere near the mine. Giedl took a step back in horror. The others were already screaming that the fields were mined. But Giedl knew the truth. These weren't partisans. This was something different, this was something very bad. Giedl turned to run, when he tripped over something. He whirled around and saw the glint of two eyes in the darkness. A flash of moonlight off metal, and his head exploded in pain and light. He tried to yell, but his voice sounded muffled and far away. A red curtain fell, and he faded away, hearing the sound of his blood pounding in his ears.

He came to in the road, the sound of the convoy's engines fading in the distance. He was looking into the eyes of a dead German soldier, his age, eighteen, maybe nineteen. Something landed between them with a solid thump, and he took a few seconds to realize it was Gerber, his throat cut. Someone was sobbing in pain. Giedl started to sit, and a boot landed roughly on his chest, knocking him back. In the flickering light from the burning trucks, he saw a man dressed in black, his face painted. The man's eyes stood out in the darkness, over the barrel of his submachine gun. The man leaned down, grinning. He whispered in bad German, a Dutch accent.

"Sorry to you, comrade. It won't be longer than much." Giedl blinked, not letting himself understand. A man's voice down the road, French. Gloating over something. The Dutchman grinned over his gun and raised it.

"Told you, comrade. Tell the Devil my name is Vanderlaag."

Giedl raised his shaking hands. "No."

It didn't help.

The third German offensive on the Eindhoven Line was another spectacular failure. French documents declassified after the war indicated that agents behind German lines alerted Allied Headquarters to Field Marshal Von Brausitsch's efforts to build an armored spearhead at Hertogenbosch. While the first armored units, backed by heavy artillery support, were able to cross the Waal and roll through the French/Dutch picket lines, French armored units rushed to the scene managed to cut off the German armor on the south bank of the river. The German armor rallied, managing to push further south despite heavy losses. Artillery and Luftwaffe raids forced the French to pull back from the river despite this early setback for the German plans. Over the next week, almost 500,000 Axis troops pushed forward along the line. Field Marshal Juin admitted after the war that if the Hertogenbosch salient had held, the weight of German numbers would have overwhelmed Allied forces.

A stronger series of trenches might have slowed this advance, but an examination of the tactical recommendations in the Gamelin Report quickly dispel accusations that the Allied commanders were lax in building fortifications. The plan was to let the Germans extend their supply lines over the river before a counter-strike, and then create critical bottlenecks by cutting the bridges. German attempts to run supplies by submarine failed miserably against heavy Royal Navy patrols. After a week of steady advance by Von Brausitsch, the French Air Force and Juin's Armored Corps led a series of daring raids that succeeded in cutting supply lines. This was followed by an intense counter-attack and Dutch partisan raids. By the end of the third week, many German units were out of ammunition and fuel. Another 10 German divisions crossed the Waal in early July, but the Germans were never able to re-establish the critical supply lines. The Allies replaced road signs and renamed entire towns to confuse German supply drivers. By the fifth week of the offensive, it was obvious that the Germans had failed again to break the line. They had, however, exacted a heavy toll.

During the six weeks of the Third Battle of Eindhoven, the Axis lost a total of 388,000 dead, wounded and captured. The Allied forces suffered as well, losing 153,000 dead, wounded, and captured. Civilian losses were surprisingly light, as much of the population of Brabant had already been evacuated south.

It is generally accepted that by this time, Hitler had already decided that he could win a war of attrition against the French, who were hamstrung by the need to maintain long defensive lines along the Alps and Maginot Line. The full fruit of this determination, however, was not yet apparent to the General Staffs on either side.

-From A History of the Second World War, by Prof. Henry Kissinger

The Third Battle of Eindhoven, June 14, 1941

July 14, 1941

Bastille Day.

The crowds roared and waved their tricolors. The new 10th Motorized Division roared by, the soldiers marching bravely off. Marching north to the charnelhouse of Eindhoven. Laval's arm ached as he held the salute, as ten thousand men marched through the Arc de Triomphe to death and destruction. He ignored it. It was the least he could do.

The parade lasted for hours, all drums and bugles and the dull throbbing of feet and engines. Laval gave a speech, written for him by some functionary. He delivered it well, but he did not remember it. There was work, always work. He shook some hands, decorated some wounded veterans. He looked gravely into their eyes. For every soldier that stood ramrod straight, his eyes wet and shining with pride, there were three who simply stared through him. They'd seen hell. They'd seen pain and horror and come back to a world that didn't seem quite real anymore. They stared through Laval, saluting and marching like soulless machines.

Churchill was there as well, decorating a group of British soldiers and giving speeches on Allied unity. Finally, the day was over. Fireworks arced and bloomed over Paris, a defiant echo of the German bombs that had raked the eastern suburbs the week before. Laval and Churchill drove to the Presidential Palace in somber silence.

At eleven o'clock, they were finally alone. A butler poured two glasses of sherry, laid out a box of cigars, and melted into the shadows. The two men raised their glasses and drank.

"Well, Pierre. How many more divisions can you raise?" Laval grunted, staring into his sherry.

"None." Churchill blinked. "None, Winston. Another year like this one on the Eindhoven front and we'll be conscripting fifteen-year-olds. All fit men of military age will be trained for service in the existing units." Churchill nodded somberly. "How many units can you spare for the front?" Churchill grunted.

"None. Parliament's screaming over the Brazilian advance in the Caribbean. I tried to get something out of the Americans, but they won't budge. United Fruit struck some kind of deal with the Brazilian government, and the Americans won't lift a finger to stop them or the Argentines. It'll blow up into a huge scandal. I hear that Willkie's already preparing to resign and run for the Senate." Churchill took a long drag off his cigar. "His wing of the Republican Party will probably ally with the Democrats, but they still won't have the Senate votes to remove any committee chairs. I wouldn't be surprised if this just ends up further delaying any American support." Laval groaned in dismay. "To make a long story short, I've had to redeploy forces to the Caribbean. We'll push the Brazilians back, but it'll take at least three months. I can't spare any troops, Pierre, Christ, I'm sorry." Laval stood, facing the long window along the east wall.

"We can't hold that line forever. The Germans have the numbers, their encryption and equipment are better every month. And I can't strip the Line. They've got three hundred thousand men waiting for the first sign of weakness." Laval rubbed his eyes in exhaustion. "I feel like we're just prolonging the inevitable. Playing with the lives of those men on the lines." Churchill leapt to his feet, betraying a strength and speed his frame seemed to bely.

"Goddammit, Pierre. You know what we're fighting. We can't stop. We can't think of giving in. Never. We're fighting for our homes, our beliefs, Pierre, we're fighting for everything in our souls that makes us human. I won't let that madman win. Ever. You have to be with me, Pierre." Laval's gaze stopped its drift into the distance. His eyes snapped back to Churchill. Churchill could see the resolve pouring back into them, and sighed in relief.

"Yes, Winston. To the end." The two men stared out the window, to the east and the darkness.

September 5, 1941

Captain Joseph Kennedy, Jr. leapt from the jeep, grinning, his hand already out. Bernard Henry looked over at Bacquard. Bacquard rolled his eyes and buried himself in his cards.

Kennedy's hand shot out, his grin disarming. Henry took his feet off the card table and rose before he knew it. Kennedy gripped his hand warmly, his teeth ridiculously white in that infectious grin.

"Captain Henry, so glad to meet you. I'm liason officer for the Lafayette Brigade. I and my crew will be attached to your regiment as observers before they trust us with our own Hotchkiss. I hear you're the best this regiment has, and I look forward to serving with you." Kennedy's grin somehow grew wider. "Under you, actually. I don't plan on getting killed and no matter what the paperwork says, to my mind the best way to accomplish that is by listening to you." Henry actually blushed and stammered. Bacquard and Delacorte coughed on their cigars. Henry scratched his neck, glancing over. Delacorte blew him a kiss. Henry frowned and cleared his throat.

"Well, that's damn right, college boy. You just make sure your shooting's as good as your French." Kennedy's grin never wavered.

"My shooting's fine, in theory. I've never been in battle, no one in the Brigade has. That's why I'm here. To learn from you." Kennedy glanced over at the Anne-Marie II, his eye running across the rows of kill markers. His grin faded, and his eyes grew wide. He looked slowly back at Henry.

"Your crew's killed more than fifty tanks."

"Fifty-four tanks, eighteen armored trucks, seventy-one assorted vehicles and mobile guns." Kennedy nodded gravely.

"Captain Henry, your crew is the best. I wasn't lied to." Kennedy saluted crisply, and Henry drew himself to attention and returned it. "It's an honor to serve with you. I hope I'll prove a tenth as good as any of your men." Henry nodded, swallowing back a lump in his throat as he swelled with pride. Kennedy grinned again and trotted back to his jeep. He waved to his driver and flipped another jaunty salute to Henry, who saluted again and watched Kennedy drive off. Bacquard whistled, laying down a pair of kings.

"The captain's in love."

Delacorte nodded. "Yep. Don't let the tank see those two lovebirds or it'll get jealous." Delacorte laid down his cards. "Three tens, Bacquard. Hey, Captain! What've you got, lovebird?" Henry flipped his hand under his chin casually at Delacorte.

"Three queens, boys. Talk all you want as long as you hand over the cash." Delacorte and Bacquard groaned. "I tell you, though- five card draw- I tell you, there's something about that man." Bacquard grunted.

"Ten to five that something is the smell of his own shit two seconds after he hears his first gunshot." Delacorte snapped his fingers.

"You're on, comrade. I say the college boy's got some backbone to him."

"I say that's just the rod up his ass. Merde." Bacquard threw down his cards. "I fold." Henry chuckled. Sirens cranked up at the edge of the base, and the men stood, gathering up their money and taking drags off their cigars.

"Well," said Henry, "I guess we're about to find out."

September 7, 1941

Frederic Devers hated his post. His father had pulled strings somewhere to keep him off the frontline, where he longed to be. It wasn't as if the Alpine Front was really even that dangerous. All the fighting was up north, in the Netherlands.

"I know that sigh, Devers. Stifle it. I fought the Germans back in the Great War, and you don't want any part of the fighting."

Devers snorted. "Fine for you to say, Shaughnessy, you've had your fun. And besides, it's not because I've got a hardon to get shot myself. I don't want my father pulling strings for me. I want to live my own life, and I want to take the same chances everyone else is taking." Shaughnessy looked up from his paperwork and beamed.

"And that's a fine sentiment, my lad. You're doing extremely well at getting rid of those old bourgeois ideas your father drummed into you."

"Oh, shut up, you old Red." Shaughnessy chuckled.

Two men entered the shelter. They were dressed in filthy rags, one limping on a bad leg. Devers gasped, and Shaughnessy looked up and whistled. He cleared his throat.

"How can I help you?"

"You're the regimental clerks?" Shaughnessy nodded.

"We are." The man with the bad leg scratched his chin and peered at Shaughnessy.

"We were told to report here. We're... we've just managed to get through the German lines, we were trapped. They said you'd give us chits for new uniforms and arrange for travel to our unit." Shaughnessy blinked and looked at the men.

"I can do that, but my God, your war's over. Look at that leg! How long were you on the other side of the lines?" The two men looked at each other dully.

"I... months. I don't know for certain. They kept fortifying the border. We had to go around the long way, through the Alps, to get back into the plains. We flagged a truck and the soldiers brought us here." Shaughnessy whistled.

"Hell of a thing. I bet your people will be glad to hear news of you. Name?"

"We're with the Second Regiment of the Fifth Infantry. This is Private Philippe Cassel. I'm Sergeant Jean Denel."

Shaughnessy's head jerked back up, and he snapped his pencil in two. He stared at the gaunt bearded man in front of him.

"Christ's sake, Denel. For the love of Christ." Denel blinked. "Don't you recognize me?"

Denel frowned, his mouth open to reveal gaps in the teeth. "I've been... I'm so tired. I... oh. Oh, Pierre. Pierre Shaughnessy!" Shaughnessy burst into laughter, and the two men embraced. Denel sobbed bitterly, clinging to Shaughnessy with the last of his strength. Shaughnessy roared and grinned.

"See here, Devers! Living proof of what I told you! You can't kill a true Communist, for his strength is the people's!" Devers waved frantically.

"For Christ's sake, you crazy Red, keep your voice down before you get us both court-martialled!" Shaughnessy snorted.

"No one would dare ruin this day, for I've just found a dear old comrade! Come on, Denel, you're a goddamn hero. We thought you dead months back. Just you wait til I send a telegram back to Paris. I'll get you lads both a hot meal and a bath now." Denel smiled weakly.

"It's good to see you, Pierre." Shaughnessy waved it off.

"Nothing compared to how good it is to see you, Jean. One of these days you'll have to tell me the story. But for now, you just relax. God, it's good to have some good news for once in these days."

September 26, 1941

Joe Kennedy hunkered down in the trench, cleaning his Colt A-5 submachine gun. The French soldiers nearby stared enviously. It was a hell of a gun. They also stared enviously at his rubberized boots, his miraculously tiny radio set, and his flak jacket. The American government had disowned the volunteers of the Lafayette Brigade, but the Republicans weren’t too proud to have the volunteers try out their new toys in combat. Deveraux leaned over.

“Captain, I have watched you for five days now. You fight like you are here for months, but you are green man.”

Kennedy grinned. “Paul, I’ve told you, I don’t mind speaking French.”

Deveraux shrugged. “You need practice, I need practice with English.” Kennedy’s grin grew wider. “Captain, why are you in the front? You can be at headquarters, you can be sleeping with a girl now.” Kennedy roared with laughter.

“Paul, I couldn’t look a French girl in the eyes unless I was defending her against Germans. Only problem is, the Germans are here and all the girls are back there.” Deveraux laughed even louder than Kennedy. A voice screamed across no man’s land in atrocious French.

“LAUGH, FRENCH! WE LAUGH SOON, WE LAUGH LAST!” Deveraux rolled his eyes.

“Crazy Hans. I think he’s getting nervous.” Deveraux leaned up to scream back in German. Kennedy didn’t catch all of it, but it involved a horse and someone’s mother. A single shot cracked back in response, and a few bullets flew back and forth before the excitement died down. Deveraux giggled. His sergeant slapped the back of his helmet.

“Damn you, Deveraux, let Crazy Hans have his fun. Not worth getting anyone shot over.” Deveraux shrugged.

“We get shot today, we get shot tomorrow. It doesn’t matter to the bullet. The bullet comes when it’s time.”

“You’re a fucking philosopher. Now shut up.” Deveraux saluted sloppily and settled back along the trench wall. He looked up at the sergeant.

“Any intelligence? Now that the Germans have a little bit of the swamp south of the Waal, are they moving forward? Do we get to fight soon?” The sergeant stared wearily.

“Deveraux, when I know, I will tell you. I will tell you to go over there and shoot them all yourself. Now shut up.” Kennedy chuckled. The sergeant glared.

“And you, Americain. I thought you were a tank commander. I thought you were going to be driving a Hotchkiss like that crazy bastard Henry.” Kennedy shrugged.

“We Americains are low on the priority list right now. And I think my father is pulling strings somewhere to keep me out of a tank.” Kennedy’s grin reappeared. “He didn’t figure I’d find me a trench.”

The sound of artillery shells rumbled across the plain, and the men flattened themselves. The shells landed to the east, exploding around the front trenches. Men screamed, and the French artillery fired back as parachute flares began falling. Deveraux looked over at Kennedy.

“You’re a damn fool, Joe. This is your first real fight, isn’t it?” Kennedy nodded grimly. Deveraux patted him on the shoulder. “Over before you know it. Just keep your head down.” Kennedy swallowed and looked forward. The machine guns started up as a Panzer rolled up out of the German trenches, and then two more.

“Merde! Panzers! Panzers!” Kennedy and another man rushed back to the depot to haul out the anti-tank guns. They were both swearing, Kennedy’s partner in French and himself in English. How had the Germans gotten those tanks into the frontlines so quietly? It was a question to answer in calmer times. For now, the men just fought.

October 28, 1941

Laval looked grimly at the map of the Netherlands. Gamelin was finishing his report, but the markers told the story just as well.

“…And so this latest offensive has cost us 110,000 dead and wounded, although most of these were sustained by Dutch forces at the Geldrop pocket. The Dutch lost five division HQs there, and it’s not likely they’ll be able to replace the officers. We estimate German losses since September 12th to be around 300,000.” Gamelin drew out an organizational chart, covered in red ink. “From what we can gather, they’ve disbanded or lost 30 divisions since May. It’s hurting us, but it’s killing them. They’re losing officers a lot faster than they can train them.” Laval shuddered.

“So has Von Brausitsch given up? Is this offensive finally over?”

Gamelin shook his head. “No, Your Excellency. The Germans are moving in almost 200,000 fresh troops- Von Brausitsch is within six kilometers of Eindhoven itself, and he doesn’t want to give up before the winter sets in.” Gamelin suppressed a shudder. “Our trenches are holding, and the Germans are having trouble maintaining their supply lines. I think we’ll be able to hold them off again.” Laval peered at the map, at the charts. He took a long pull off his cigar.

“How long can this go on? How much more can the Germans throw at us?” Gamelin stared grimly down.

“Your Excellency… General Staff projects that the Germans have enough manpower to sustain this rate of loss through the end of 1943.”

Laval stared in horror. “How long can we sustain this?”

Gamelin swallowed hard. “Perhaps to the end of 1942. Perhaps not.”

The silence that followed seemed to go on forever. Finally, Laval nodded and waved. Gamelin saluted and left. Laval sat in his stuffed chair, smoking and thinking. He couldn’t sleep these nights. This wouldn’t help.

What would he do? What could he do, when the inevitable happened and the Germans broke the line?

Laval smoked his cigar and thought, his chin bowed to his chest.

December 7, 1941

Cher Mama,

I am writing to tell you that the paperwork has finally cleared, and I am to be decorated for my ‘adventures’ in Italy. They tell me that for a few days, I was actually in the Austrian Alps, which makes Phillippe and I the only French soldiers to invade Germany! You should be very proud of your Jean.

I know you are upset that I’ve gone back into the army. I assure you that I am safe. My [CENSORED] is in the town of [CENSORED], far from the Germans. I do not intend to go missing again. Only twenty-three more months, Mama, which will see the end of this war, I am sure of it. If you read the papers, you know that Von Brausitsch had no more luck last month than he ever has. For every Frenchman and Englishman and Dutch lost, the Germans lost three. Romania and Bolivia have joined the Axis, it is true, but I think you will agree with me that Bolivia does not strike terror into anyone’s heart. And so, Mama, do not worry, and give my love to Papa and little Marie. I will see you very soon. We will all be home very soon.

Love,
Jean.

Anne Denel folded the letter and sighed. Her husband Auguste nodded over his pipe.

“You see, Anne? I told you Jean will be alright. He has been through the worst. You should have faith.” Auguste crossed himself. Anne snorted.

“Don’t be a fool. Our son marched away again limping. Do you think the Army would take him if this war was going so well? I have faith, yes, but not in Laval. Not in this war. This is madness.”

“You would prefer M’sieur Hitler? You would prefer the Germans?”

“I would prefer our only son was home. He has done his part, and he should not be playing dice anymore with his life.” Auguste shuffled his paper.

“It is what he wants, Anne. We will not settle this today, and there is no point to another fight.” Anne jerked to her feet and went angrily to the sink.

“No point at all. None.”

January 16, 1942

Jean Gaspard crept through the snow, grumbling. He hated winter. His head was numb with cold and his mask was wet with his own breath. He couldn’t hear anything through the wool, which scratched unmercifully on his stubble. There was something in his sock.

“Damn you, Himmler. Damn you, Hitler.” Another offensive. The Germans would never stop coming. Some genius on the other side had decided that in this God-forsaken weather, with the swamps frozen, it was time to attack again. So the Germans came. And yet again, Gaspard and his men had to sneak over the lines and find the supply depots. Eight times, he’d done this. Eight times, he’d come back with all his men. Not this time.

This time, a Tiger had appeared at exactly the wrong time. He’d been pinned down in an abandoned trench, unable to poke his head up. Germans kept running down, firing, lobbing grenades… there was nothing to do but cower and hide. The whole squad, dead. He was the only one left. He’d done the job, and the artillery had done theirs. The Germans were pulling back. But that had just sandwiched Gaspard between two lines of the enemy, two lines rolling closer together. His number had finally been called.

Gaspard clutched the precious package in his hand more tightly. Seven nametags. His men.

The wind howled more fiercely, and the sun blinked out for a second before diving back into the clouds. No way to tell which way was south. Gaspard bared his teeth. He would walk in the direction he had been walking. It would take him home or it would take him to a fight. Either way, that was fine.

February 2, 1942

Pierre Laval dropped his cigar on the carpet.

“Are you sure of this, Winston?”

“Absolutely.” Churchill’s voice was tinny and staticky over the connection, but there was no mistaking the tone of his voice. “Absolutely sure. Military intercepts, naval movements in the Baltic, everything. The ambassador’s still playing coy, but it’s a fact. It was this last winter campaign that sealed it. We lost fifty thousand, they lost two hundred thousand. They can’t maintain this fight. They’re done, and it’s obvious now.”

Laval noticed the smell of the cigar, and stomped out the embers. “Shit! Winston, this is the most… I can’t believe it. I just can’t. I’ve been through too much to believe this.”

“Believe it, Pierre. We’re going to win. We will have our victory. The Soviets will declare war on Germany by day’s end.” Churchill paused, and Laval could almost hear him glowering through the phone. “Of course, now we have the Soviets to worry about.”

March 19, 1942

“Bonjour, ‘Fighting Joe.’” Kennedy rolled his eyes.

“For God’s sake, Bernard, don’t call me that.” Henry snorted.

“Why not, Fighting Joe? It is an excellent name. You are a hero! You should enjoy it!”

“I should enjoy it. What I should enjoy is what I’ve done myself with my own hands. I should not enjoy my father threatening newspaper editors unless they worship me as the first American war hero.”

Bernard Henry raised his tin cup, and wine sloshed over the edge. “You ARE the first American war hero! All you need to do now is make sure the Democrats win the elections in November so there will be ten million more!” Kennedy laughed bitterly.

“No chance of that, Bernard. With Stalin in this war, and with us kicking Himmler in the ass back in January, the American people figure this thing’s about over. No point in jumping in now.” Henry waved his arm in dismissal.

“Ahhhh, you have no faith in America. We saved your skin, now it is your turn.”

“I thought we did that in 1917.” Henry genially flipped Kennedy a very American finger. “Ah, the famous Continental wit.”

“Yes, yes.” Henry finished his tin cup and tapped it against the wine bottle. Kennedy poured. “You have excellent wine. Not as good as the Ambassador’s wine, I’m sure.” Kennedy snorted. “Oh, stop pretending I’ve wounded you. Your father is rich, you get to play in Paris, you might as well enjoy it. I’m sure you enjoyed the hospitality of my female compatriots.” Kennedy laughed again.

“You’ve got me confused with my brother John. The middle child needs attention. I have a sweetheart back home, and she’s enough for me.”

“You mean your fist.”

“This one?” Kennedy returned a very French gesture. Henry laughed. “So what did you hear, my well-connected friend? Is my government going to do something about the Portuguese invasion of Morocco?”

“Right after Churchill can get the Canadians to stop farting around and kick the Brazilians out of Jamaica. The Germans will be done soon enough, and then the small fry will fry.”
 
Henry shook his head. “I have little faith in the Soviets, let me tell you. How many soldiers can Hitler have in the East? He’s got those pet Italians of his guarding Poland. And yet Stalin can’t even push out of his little salient in Romania. It’s pathetic, truly.” Kennedy nodded sourly. He arched his eyebrow, more than a little drunk and obviously changing the subject.

“Something I’ve always wanted to ask you, Bernard. Who’s Anne-Marie?” Henry spluttered into his wine.

“Who?”

“The woman your damn tank is named after, that’s who.”

“Ohhhh, Anne-Marie. Someone… someone I used to know.” Henry’s face was beet red.

“A girl?”

“A woman.”

“A sweetheart?”

“Not truly.”

“Tell me!”

“I don’t think I will. It’s been a long time.”

“We’ve been fighting together for months, Bernard. Don’t make me pull rank on you.” Henry burrowed further into his chair.

“I knew her… when I was a child. She was beautiful and happy and I have always loved her.”

“Why haven’t you gone after her, then?”

“I couldn’t.”

“I need more than that, Bernard.”

“She… taught me poetry.”

“A teacher?”

“A nun.” Kennedy stared silently for a full minute before exploding into helpless laughter. Henry frowned fiercely and finished his cup.

“She was beautiful! And young! We all loved her!”

“Oh… Oh my God, Bernard.” Kennedy could only point, clutching his side with his other hand. “I’m going to be sick from laughing. Oh God, that’s hilarious.” Henry sunk in his chair until he could barely look over the table.

“Sweet merciful Christ,” he muttered. “Let the war start up again right now.”

May 22, 1942

Erwin Rommel studied the maps before him, lost in thought. His little diversionary attack had gone as expected. He’d lost 120,000 irreplaceable men, and the Allies only 30,000. But he held the eastern ridges now, and the railroad junction north of Breda, and he’d finally sealed the exits out of Hertogenbosch. Everything was in position, and his outposts looked only like weak salients, held out of pride. He’d been fastidious in his garrison orders; just enough to hold the line, just enough to look weak. The army was as strong on this front as it had ever been. He stubbed out his cigarette, caressing the line of the map. All his predecessors had marched over the Waal and the Maas, sloshing through the canal swamps and the trenches. Fools, especially Himmler, who had finally been shot. Despite himself, Rommel blinked and looked around the room. He chuckled. No one could hear what he was thinking. Himmler had been decorated for his tragic and heroic end, battling British commandos who’d snuck into his camp. Only Rommel and a few others knew that British commando had been Otto Skorzeny and his SS thugs.

The map. Rommel refocused himself.

This time, only a diversionary attack on the northern flank. The main Panzerarmee would charge up from Arlon, against the weakened eastern flank held by the Dutch and British forces. The French main force would be pinned down by antitank fire, unable to shift position. And then, the main thrust from the east, cutting through the weakened center to divide the Allies. Then, on to Paris. Knock France out of the war and shift forces to push the Soviets back. Not enough to defeat them… enough, perhaps, for an armistice… enough time to put together the transport fleet. Britain.

“Excellent.” Rommel snapped to attention at the voice behind him. He swiveled and saluted.

“Mein Fuhrer!” Hitler returned the salute and nodded, allowing Rommel to lower his arm. “My apologies, I did not-“ Hitler dismissed the apology.

“I talk to myself sometimes as well. I sometimes feel it is the only way to get a sensible reply.” Hitler’s eyes measured Rommel. “Not always, though.”

Rommel nodded. “I thank you, my Fuhrer. The plan is-“

“The plan is excellent. It is the plan I thought of myself. I had given up hope of finding a commander who understood it.” Rommel fought down a surge of professional pride. Hitler had only demanded action on the front. Despite his ability to memorize figures and recite lists, he didn’t really understand the demands of an army. This was his plan, not Hitler’s. It wouldn’t do to say that. He nodded and bowed.

“Thank you, my Fuhrer.” Hitler nodded graciously.

“I will remain at Western HQ until the conclusion of Operation Charlemagne, Feldmarschal Rommel. I intend to be at the vanguard of our victory. I hope that will not be long in coming.” Rommel saluted again.

“I guarantee that it will not, my Fuhrer. The tide will turn, and the Allies shall be washed away.” Hitler nodded and left the room. Rommel sagged, letting out his breath. His eye caught the red date inked at the top of the papers on his desk.

June 10, 1942.

June 13, 1942

The shells were coming down faster now. A Hotchkiss went up on the left, the turret whirling a couple of times in the air before plowing into the ground. Everything seemed remarkably quiet. Henry ruminated on whether this was because he'd finally gone deaf or whether he was in shock. Somehow he was still giving orders, and the tank jerked as the gun fired. The shell landed in a cluster of German troops, knocking out a Panzerfaust and shredding three or four men. Henry looked around the field. Maupant's tank was out, and Villacorte's. The British infantry were folding up on the right, and his own infantry escort was starting to fall back. Henry nodded.

"BACK! BACK!" Bacquard slammed the brake, and the Hotchkiss groaned as it dug in its treads. The tank sank a little, and Henry bared his teeth. This fucking mud. The fighting had turned this whole country into mud. A mortar shell slammed into the tank, and the ringing in Henry's ears turned into a high wail that brought tears into his eyes. Another shell hit the right tread, and the tank jerked as the left tread continued moving. Henry slapped Bacquard on the back and slammed the hatch open. Time to move.

Henry unholstered his pistol and vaulted out of the hatch, tumbling down the side of Anne-Marie II. Bullets began snapping past, and Henry stumbled to the ground. For a second, he thought he was dead. No. Just the ears, just dizzy. Cautiously, he took a couple of steps forward. He grinned, thinking this was like being drunk. Then he grinned at grinning on a battlefield.

Shock, Bernard. You're in shock, and you should get out of here right fucking now. Henry nodded to himself and whipped his head around. His crew was behind him, Delacorte last out of the tank. A German bullet found him, and a spray of blood erupted from his shoulder across the hatch cover. Delacorte turned to look and two more bullets whipped into his back. Delacorte closed his eyes and fell back into Anne-Marie II. The mortar shells were coming down again. Henry moved forward a little. Where was Allegrain? Where was Reveau? Bacquard?

Bacquard was there, screaming something, tugging on his arm. Henry smiled and trotted forward again before falling. He frowned. There was something wrong with his leg. He just had to check his leg. Stop screaming, Bacquard. I can't hear you, I can't, I just need to check my leg. It's not... oh, it's not there. Oh

June 16, 1942

Bernard Montgomery helped his aide carry the papers to the bonfire pit. Shreds of paper floated up off the fire, and a couple of corporals were desperately trying to catch the fragments. The Germans wouldn't have anything when they arrived. Which would be soon.

Taylor ran up and saluted. "Field Marshal, the wireless is dead. Batteries are out and we can't spare any more petrol for the generator. We need to leave now." Montgomery nodded grimly.

"Retreat," he muttered. "All retreat. Fall back to the lines on the Belgian border." Taylor paused for a second, fighting back tears. He saluted and repeated the order, roaring it across the chaos of the disintegrating HQ. Montgomery walked grimly to his waiting car. The drone of airplanes grew on the horizon, and ack-ack began blossoming from the few AA guns left to cover the British retreat. It wasn't enough. Stukas, coming out of the sun. Montgomery threw himself flat.

Ah, that one's close. Yes, that's going to do it

June 23, 1942

Jean Denel ran as fast as his limp would allow, setting down the supplies by Dr. Renard. Renard nodded and turned back to his work. Denel saluted and ran back into the hospital. DeVries flagged him down, waving his good arm.

"Sergeant, there's no more penicillin." Denel swore.

"There has to be, DeVries. There's at least six hundred more coming in this afternoon." DeVries stamped his foot.

"I can't help the truth, Sergeant. This hospital's got two thousand beds and six thousand patients. It's the same all over Lille, hell, it's the same all over Belgium. There... is... no... more." DeVries slumped against the wall, sweat carving channels in the grime on his forehead. Denel sagged, leaning next to him. Shouldn't stop, he thought to himself. He could feel the throbbing in his bad knee again. It felt like someone had shoved a lead weight into his joint, a dull pressure that was growing sharp ends as it crept through his leg. DeVries looked up.

"Do you know, Sergeant? How many?"

Denel shrugged. "You know as much as I do. Too goddamned many." Denel patted DeVries on the shoulder and began limping back to the supply room, ignoring the pain in his leg. He focused on the itching from his arm. He glanced down at the sleeve. There was a telltale dot of blood at his elbow, and a short burst of fear stabbed at his heart.

No more, Jean. A lot of men are suffering worse than you. No more. Denel wiped at the sweat on his lip and closed the door to the supply room. His glance went automatically to the locked cabinet. The door had been swinging open for days. Denel flipped open a cardboard box and closed his hands on a cool glass bottle. He drew it out, looking at the liquid behind the brown glass.
ACTISKENAN morphine
CAUTION medical use ONLY

Denel stared at the bottle. The pain in his leg grew more insistent, scraping in waves up his spine. His knee was swollen, and Denel groaned, slamming his hands down on the desk as the bottle clattered and spun, rolling off the desk. Denel lunged for it, snatching it up. He limped to the door and locked it. Sobbing, he went back to the desk and yanked open a drawer, opening a first aid kit and drawing out a syringe.

Outside, the screams continued. Always, the screams.

July 3, 1942

Field Marshal Gamelin entered the room and saluted. Laval nodded and held up the report.

“You tell me this is useless?” Gamelin nodded grimly.

“The situation is finally calming down, and we’ve managed to reconstitute five divisions from convalescents and the 17-year-old draftees, but we’ve lost a grim number of men. The casualty reports don’t tell the whole story.” Gamelin opened his case and slid out an organizational chart. “We lost a significant number of officers, especially in the Armored Corps. We have the resources to continue producing tanks, but they’re useless without a training cadre. The General Staff recommends dissolution of the Armored Corps and attachment of the remaining two divisions to the 3rd Army.” Laval signed silently. “The General Staff recommends the merger of General Duval’s Corps d’Tripoli with the 2nd Army.” Laval signed. “This leaves France with 140 active divisions. And this…” Gamelin withdrew another chart, written in German and heavily stamped with “SECRET” symbols, “is from Agent Charles. The Germans have disbanded two full corps, and the fighting basically destroyed the Slovak and Hungarian armies.” Gamelin frowned. “Of course, these are not the armies we are worried about. Rommel used up his cannon fodder in this assault, but we lost the cream of our forces. The Armored Corps is gone, and two-thirds of our anti-tank brigades. A third of our engineers. The BEF is basically destroyed, and the remnants of the Dutch Armed Forces are now attached to the Brussels garrison as a reserve.” Gamelin sighed. “We can’t take another hit like this, and Rommel can deliver one.” Laval frowned deeply.

“When?”

Gamelin pulled out more papers. “No way to tell. Perhaps now, the Germans will turn east and push back the Soviets. Soviet propaganda is claiming the surrender of Romania, but that’s unconfirmed for now. All I can tell you is that if Rommel put all of his energy into a forward push, he could bypass the Brussels garrison and be in Lille within two months. And that would be the end.” Laval swallowed hard.

“You are dismissed, Field Marshal. Thank you.”

Gamelin frowned. “With all due respect, Your Excellency, I must ask you to review-“

“I will. Later. Thank you.” Gamelin saluted crisply and marched out. Laval stared at the paper, trembling with exhaustion. He’d lost thirty pounds, his stomach burned constantly. He couldn’t go on much longer. He closed his eyes and his head sank to the desk. He sank into a state that wasn’t exactly sleep, tortured by visions of fire and blood.

August 19, 1942

Churchill and Laval looked grimly at the situation map. Commonwealth troops still bogged down in Angola and the Caribbean against guerrilla forces. Iraqi troops in full retreat in North Africa, smashed between the Portuguese marauding through West Africa and the Brazilian beachhead in Morocco. A Yugoslav raiding force had retaken Taranto and was staging small commando raids from their “National Social Republic” of Corsica. The Royal Navy was fully committed in the Pacific, holding the Japanese to a bloody stalemate. There weren’t enough transports to move British troops to Europe, and dissent in Britain was rising. Every week, the silent ashamed consensus across the Channel grew stronger; abandon France. Look to our own problems.

Churchill sighed. “I’m sorry, Pierre. When Montgomery died… Britain can’t balance all these fights. We need to retrench, to concentrate our strength instead of frittering it away. I can’t spare you the troops.” Laval nodded. “Pierre, there must be something-“

“There is.” Churchill followed Laval’s gaze, scanning the markers on the map. He peered more closely. Those concentrations- it meant-

“An OFFENSIVE? Are you mad, Pierre?” Laval chuckled.

“Hardly. This particular lunacy is the brainchild of our brilliant Field Marshal de Gaulle. Apparently he’s going quite mad with restlessness as the military governor of Italy.” Laval pointed. “Actually, his plan has some merit. The Italian Social Republic only has 40,000 men left; most of its strength is committed on Germany’s eastern front. By taking Bolzano and Venice and driving back to the German border, we can force Hitler to divide his frontline forces. To buy us time. And I’d rather have a defensive line in the Alps anyway.” Churchill nodded, thinking.

“I… I can see it. But what if it fails?” Laval pursed his lips.

“Winston, I’ve considered too much failure lately to care much.”

October 3, 1942

Hubert Pierlot stood, his head bowed and face pale. King Leopold leafed through the photographs, his hands trembling. He dropped them and gripped the mahogany armrests of his chair.

“Oh, sweet Lord. Oh, Jesus. This can’t… it can’t be true.”

“Your Highness, it is. The Soviets found this when they entered Poland two weeks ago. It’s been confirmed by the French. They have a source in the German government-“

“Agent Charles.” Pierlot’s jaw dropped. Leopold waved his hand. “And I have my sources in France, Prime Minister.” The King of Belgium covered his face. “My God, those people. Those poor people…” The King’s eyes widened and he shot to his feet. “Oh my God, Pierlot. Has Hitler done these things in Arlon? Has he done this to my people?” Pierlot shook his head.

“We don’t know, Your Highness. There were too many troops along the line. With Rommel’s new offensive, it’s gotten even harder to get intelligence from the eastern provinces.” King Leopold bowed his head, and a sob wracked his body. He tried to regain control, a regal glint firing in his eye, but it sputtered out and the King surrendered to his impulse. He moaned, and the sobs came again. Sagging in his chair, he wept and trembled. Pierlot’s eyes misted as well, and he sank into a chair, exhausted, forgetting protocol, forgetting everything but the inhuman horror behind that envelope of photographs on the desk.

“I- I wanted to surrender, Hubert, I didn’t want Belgium to be torn to shreds like the Netherlands, but this… how can I surrender my kingdom to… to THIS?” Leopold’s hand shot out and knocked the photographs off the desk. Leopold jerked his hand back as if he’d been poisoned. He sat quietly for a moment and then spoke, so quietly that Pierlot could barely hear him.

“Fight them, Hubert. Fight them with everything we have. Better we all die on the battlefield than… like that.” Pierlot stood gravely.

“Your Highness, we shall fight with everything we have. I swear it to you.”

October 16, 1942

Brussels was a burning ruin. German artillery shells whistled down from the east and the north. Major Gaspard’s plane flew low, fighting the updrafts and eddies from the plumes of smoke. The night and the pall of smoke hid him from the Luftwaffe patrols that roared overhead. The Germans were in the suburbs, but the Intelligence boys insisted he’d have enough time for this mission. He grumbled to himself. The Intelligence boys weren’t his favorite people lately.

The small biplane came in for a landing, roaring down a section of abandoned street. The civilians had streamed out of Brussels for the south weeks ago, leaving the hollow shell for the armies to fight over. Gaspard yanked open the side door. He whipped his head around.

“ALRIGHT! MOVE MOVE MOVE! GO!” His new squad, a mix of impossibly young kids and grizzled veterans, poured into the street. They wore night-vision goggles, an unofficial gift from the Americans. Gaspard hated the things; everything was a ghastly green, and despite the ingenuity of their design, the Americans hadn’t made their batteries any smaller. The last thing a commando needs is another ten pounds of shit to carry. Gaspard left his goggles on the plane.

The house was nestled in the midst of an industrial neighborhood, near a trainyard and a row of warehouses. This was why there’d been enough open space for the plane to land, and enough aerials and traffic to disguise the house’s true purpose. Gaspard trotted across the lawn, his men surrounding him and scanning the surroundings. A light flashed briefly in a front window. Gaspard pulled out an electric torch and flashed a light back, two fast, one slow. The door opened and two men ran out. The larger was carrying what looked like a full machine gun, the smaller a mere French Renault submachine gun.

The big man leveled his twenty-kilogram monster at Gaspard. “It’s a good kind of night.”

“The best kind. Just like the holidays.” The large man nodded and waved. A third man emerged from the house, a tall man in a long military coat. Gaspard straightened despite himself, and forced himself back into a casual slouch. The man nodded and offered his hand. Gaspard shook it.

“Your Highness. Time to go.” Leopold III nodded, his face gaunt with fatigue. Gaspard whipped up his hand and circled it. The French commandos began backing towards the plane.

The plane’s engine sputtered and died. Gaspard paused and then whirled, throwing the King to the ground. Something like coughing popped up from a half-dozen places, and the Belgian guards dropped. Gaspard suddenly wished he’d brought the night-vision goggles. As the French started firing back, shouting started inside the safehouse. An explosion ripped through the building, shattering the windows and engulfing it in a ball of flames. The King wailed and tried to get up, but Gaspard tackled him again. The German snipers were getting nailed: they hadn’t expected such deadly accurate fire from the French. However, they had the benefit of position, and the French were in the open, silhouetted against the burning house. Gaspard stood to bolt, opening his mouth to issue orders, but his men had already scattered, firing carefully and conserving ammo. He nodded as he dragged the King. Good men.

Gaspard and Leopold dropped behind a pile of empty barrels. A couple of bullets thrummed through the metal, and the noise set Gaspard’s head ringing. But the Germans didn’t have an angle on them here.

“Stay here,” he ordered. Leopold nodded, fumbling ineptly with a pistol. Gaspard slapped it down. “You’re better off just staying quiet.” Gaspard drew his knife and slipped around the other side of the barrels. He peered into the street. There were two- no, now there was one, good shooting- one shadow lurking around the plane. Maybe two or three other Germans left, but the sound of Renaults being fired was also dying down. Gaspard gritted his teeth. How had he been ambushed? What was this?

October 16, 1942- continued!

The firing died. A guttural voice shouted in German.

“Report!” He was met with silence. Gaspard moved back behind the barrels and shouted back.

“Looks like you’re alone! You’d better give up!” The German voice barked once in a vicious parody of laughter. The silence stretched out and Gaspard realized he was alone, too. He gritted his teeth. The German was still standing by the plane. A big bastard, too. And he had a rifle pointed right at Gaspard’s head. He let a bullet crack by just to Gaspard’s right, to emphasize the point. The German spoke again, in a thick Austrian accent.

“I know where the King is, too. You might as well come on out here. I’d like to talk with you.” Gaspard measured the situation. He stepped out, his submachine gun held at his hip. The German barked again, and Gaspard decided he definitely did not like this man.

“On three, I’m tossing down the gun. One. Two. Three.” Both men remained motionless. Another bark of laughter. The German tossed his gun down and stood silhouetted in the plane’s doorway, his hands on his hips. Despite his better judgment, Gaspard threw his gun down too and walked forward.

“Major Jean Gaspard.” Gaspard stopped, ice stabbing momentarily at his heart. He forced the shock down.

“And who the hell are you?” The German stepped forward, close enough for Gaspard to see his face by the feeble moonlight, ugly and blocky, a dueling scar across his left cheek.

“Captain Otto Skorzeny, Waffen SS.” Gaspard’s eyes narrowed.

“Well, my God. How about that? It’s not every night you get to kill Hitler’s pet.” Skorzeny barked.

“And it’s not every night you get to kill the best soldier in France.” Gaspard executed a little mock bow.

“You honor me, and I apologize for my uncouth words.” Skorzeny returned the bow without a trace of irony. “So.” Skorzeny nodded.

“I knew about the King. But that’s not why I’m here.” Skorzeny slowly drew a knife from a belt sheath. Gaspard shifted his from his left hand to his right. The two men stood watching each other, and the mocking smile faded from Skorzeny’s face. Gaspard studied him carefully. Skorzeny had four inches on him, and his knife was at least an inch longer, too. He couldn’t get close. He looked back into Skorzeny’s eyes, which hadn’t left his own. Skorzeny had already sized up Gaspard. He already knew who he was dealing with. All he had to do- was-

Gaspard threw himself flat. A bullet flew over his head. That sneaky… another sniper, on the roof of the warehouse. Skorzeny was moving now, fast, his knife reflecting the burning house. He was getting close. Gaspard kicked out but whipped his leg back as the knife whistled through the air where his calf had been. Whirling around, he brought himself to his feet, backing up as Skorzeny advanced, the German’s knife slashing and stabbing. Gaspard’s heel caught in a depression, and he let himself fall backwards. Skorzeny’s arm flashed back and he whipped the knife through the air. Using his dug-in heel for purchase, Gaspard stopped his fall and lunged forward, the blade grazing his back. He jammed his own knife into Skorzeny’s boot, but it skidded off the leather and Skorzeny kicked the blade out of Gaspard’s hand. The two men backed off, breathing a little harder, arms out and fists clenched. Skorzeny grinned.

“Not bad, frog.” Gaspard spat.

“Same to you, lapdog.” Skorzeny’s lip curled back in a grin. He lunged forward, his fists whooshing as they shoved air out of their way. Gaspard dodged and feinted, throwing back a couple of punches that were blocked in turn. Skorzeny was damn fast, but Gaspard was faster. Not fast enough to land a single punch, though. The two men feinted and danced and their hands snapped through the air, never finding purchase. Gaspard swore under his breath. Skorzeny just kept moving, his face blank and his eyes narrowed in concentration. This was a game of patience now, and the German had all the patience in the world. Gaspard listened to his breathing. The bastard wasn’t even tired. This wasn’t going to go his way. A slashing hand came close enough to ruffle Gaspard’s eyebrow, and he snapped back to where he was. As Skorzeny manuevered him around, Gaspard saw King Leopold, jerking his semiautomatic around. No wonder Skorzeny kept moving. He knew the gun was there. And if Gaspard stopped moving; that sniper on the roof. Shit.

“Some days, Otto,” Gaspard grunted, rolling out of a deadly kick’s path, “it is just not worth getting up and going to work.” Skorzeny’s icy bark again, and then the silent whirlwind of fists resumed. Gaspard groaned.

October 16, 1942-concluded!

The duel had pushed back and forth for nearly ten minutes. Neither man had scored more than the slightest hit. They were both starting to slow down, but Skorzeny had more left in him than Gaspard did. But if he won…

“You know, Skorzeny,” Gaspard paused to throw a series of easily blocked punches, “even if you kill me, there’s a gun pointed at you.”

“Likewise.” Skorzeny threw a kick that went high and planted both hands against Gaspard’s returning foot, shoving it away. Gaspard tumbled and rolled into a crouch, returning with another salvo of punches, including one that almost had the correct angle to break Skorzeny’s arm. Not quite, though. The German moved just enough to let the strike skid off.

“Are you prepared to die? As it is, you will either way.”

“I’ll think about that after I kill you.” Skorzeny lashed out with an elbow, trying to force Gaspard back. Gaspard took the blow and moved closer, a thumb jabbing into Skorzeny’s neck. The nail scratched blood along the line of the German’s carotid artery. Skorzeny whipped his head down, smashing Gaspard’s ear as he jerked out of the way. Skorzeny brought his knee up to the Frenchman’s crotch, but Gaspard had already shoved against Skorzeny’s chest, leaping back, and the two men separated, just hurt enough to start getting angry.

The slow feral smile crept onto Skorzeny’s face again as they began circling again.

“You really are good,” he muttered.

“Forgive me if I don’t giggle and blush.” Gaspard scraped up a handful of dirt and threw it at Skorzeny’s face, but Skorzeny dodged low, aiming a sweeping kick at Gaspard’s legs. Gaspard jumped high, a foot aimed to land on Skorzeny’s head. Skorzeny grabbed the foot and yanked Gaspard to the ground. Gaspard flipped and landed on his hands, using the purchase to bring his other foot down on Skorzeny’s wrist. Skorzeny twisted out of the way, trying to knock a fist against Gaspard’s knee, but Gaspard had moved his leg up and backflipped back into a fighting crouch.

“Neither of us is going to win, Skorzeny! And I don’t know about you, but that’s all I give a shit about. I don’t want you to lose if I have to lose too.” Skorzeny laughed.

“That’s where we’re different, Frenchman. Why do you think Hitler is pouring all these men against you? Why do you think the Soviets push us back in the east every day? All he cares about now is punishing you. You WILL lose, even if he loses too.” Skorzeny blocked Gaspard’s punch, grabbing the wrist and twisting, hard. Gaspard could feel the pressure building. “Maybe I don’t give a shit about National Socialism. Maybe I don’t even give a shit about you.” Skorzeny brought his face in close as Gaspard dropped to the ground, trying to twist enough to lessen the pressure on his wrist, a madness dancing behind his eyes. “But I don’t care if I lose as long as you lose too.”
 
Gaspard whipped up his other hand, punching a thumb deep into Skorzeny’s left eye. Skorzeny screamed and Gaspard yanked his hand free, aiming a kick at Skorzeny’s right knee. The bone popped and Skorzeny fell. Gaspard whirled around, placing a careful heel on Skorzeny’s jaw, listening to it snap. The German was unconscious. Gaspard slumped next to him, slipping an arm under his shoulder. He dragged Skorzeny- my God, the man was huge- back towards the plane. Somewhere up there, a German sniper was aiming at him. Make it good, Jean…

“You up there! I don’t suppose you’re going to let me take him prisoner!” The words echoed a little before a reply came back from the dark rooftops.

“No chance in hell.”

“Then why don’t you just shoot?”

“Think I’ll wait until you try something stupid.” Gaspard searched the roofs. He couldn’t see a damn thing.

Suddenly, a shot barked out, from a Renault. The sniper screamed, a scream that turned into a whine before it faded back into silence. Gaspard turned to see King Leopold dropping a bloodied Renault submachine gun in horror. The King took off the night-vision goggles he’d taken from a dead commando, shaking.

“I… you know, I do a lot of hunting, I’m a good shot. I’ve… I’ve never…” Gaspard nodded.

“It was well done, Your Highness. Now we need to go.” Leopold glanced at Skorzeny’s bleeding, unconscious form. Gaspard dropped him to the ground. “Can’t chance him waking up in the plane.” He went into the plane, taking a pistol from the dead pilot. He cocked it and aimed at the base of Skorzeny’s skull.

“No.” Gaspard blinked. Leopold’s eyes were blazing. “I won’t allow it. It’s barbaric.” Gaspard blinked again.

“Your Highness, he-“

“I have spoken.” Gaspard sighed.

“Fine. Fine. Christ, I look forward to putting this on a report.” Gaspard jerked his head, ushering King Leopold none too gently into the plane. He closed the door and sparked the engine, taking off, banking, and flying west, to France.

October 27, 1942

Field Marshal Erwin Rommel studied the map. The Belgians in disarray, fleeing south to hide in the French fortifications. Only 20,000 men opposing the drive on Antwerp, and they were barely more than a mob with pitchforks. The British and French already fled behind the walls of Maginot du Nord.

Intelligence intercepts and reconnaisance overflights showed the Allies had no inkling of his march on Sedan. Rommel smiled grimly. He glanced briefly at the other fronts; the Russians were still stalled in eastern Poland and probing forces had brought their southern offensive to a halt along an arcing line from Budapest to Varna. Von Kluge had performed masterfully in his Alpine operations; the braggart De Gaulle had been nearly encircled in Bolzano. Of the 90,000 French soldiers, De Gaulle would be lucky to rescue 25,000.

He frowned briefly as he reviewed his manpower estimates. He'd wanted to punch through Antwerp and encircle Brussels, but the Fuhrer had overridden his plans. "They must bleed," he'd said. Bleed they had, but his men had bled too.

Rommel mumbled a quote to himself. "Another victory like this, and we shall have to surrender." He redoubled his concentration. The beginning of the end, for good or bad. Five days, and he would be in France. With a deep breath, Rommel plunged again into the maps...

November 28, 1942

“M’sieurs et madames, bonsoir.” The smooth announcer’s voice, so calm, so unruffled. It barely seemed real. Jean Denel and his unit listened raptly. Their breath combined in a swirl of fog that drifted away from their camp, thirty kilometers west of Paris. The frontline troops were retrenching east of the city, but the government had already relocated to Vichy. A sense of panic was building throughout the country, and rumors had been flying that the government would come to an agreement with the Germans, that the Russians were sending troops, the Americans were sending troops… this unscheduled broadcast couldn’t be a good sign. This time of night, the station always played classical music, to soothe the nerves of a people staring a nightmare in the face.

“I have the great pleasure of presenting our President, His Excellency Pierre Laval.” The soldiers stirred and murmured. Laval had never addressed the nation over the wireless. Denel had heard him speak before, when he received the Legion d’Honneur for his escape from the Alps. The voice from the wireless seemed older, thinner. The voice of a man scraping up his last ounce of strength.

“People of France, my brothers and sisters. Good evening. I will be frank with you. We have suffered great losses in this war, and our travails are not over. Tonight, we have received confirmation that Hitler’s forces march on Paris. The German has summoned up his last reserves and the outcome of the war now stands on a razor’s edge, on one last battle.

“Since the dawn of time, France has looked east in the morning to see the sun rising. One morning, we looked up and saw only darkness in the east. That darkness now threatens to envelop us, and the world. You have seen the reports, the photographs, the movie reels that the Soviets have produced from eastern Poland. There are rumors that this is all propaganda, that not even the Nazis could be capable of such horror. I tell you today, these accusations are true. Agents inform us that the same horrors are being visited on the Dutch, the Belgians, and surely they shall be inflicted on us.

“We have a grave responsibility, therefore. We fight now not simply for the survival of our nation. We fight for the very soul of humanity. Should we fail, should we fall under the German heel, then the darkness will spread unchecked. We cannot falter. We must fight with every ounce of strength, we must fight in the hedgerows, in the fields, in the cities. We must strive and we must prevail. And we will.

“This, then, is our nation’s destiny- to fight, to bleed, and, yes, to triumph.

“All of our struggles are come to this point. Our sacrifices, our blood and our tears, all will be rewarded this day. This day, France will stand against the night.”

The pause seemed to go on forever. Denel did not feel the cold, and he did not feel the need that had coursed through his veins. After an eternity, the radio crackled back into life, and a swell of violins rolled across the camp like a gilded carriage, a beautiful chariot. The voice of Edith Piaf swelled, in a new song.

“Oh, my little soldier boy, oh, how you have grown,
I can’t believe you’re gone.
Oh, my little soldier boy, what times are these?
I can’t believe you’re gone.

I’m looking east now, and I can only see the moon,
I cannot see your face.
I know you’re looking back at me,
But I cannot see your face…”

The song went on, and the soldiers could hear Edith’s heart breaking in every word. Their hearts broke too. Silent tears drifted down more than one face. Suddenly, the pained heartbeat of the rhythm stirred to life, and courage seeped back into Edith’s beautiful voice. Her words swelled into a hymn of hope.

”But I know you’ll be back soon, I know that you’ll be fine,
I know we’ll walk again among the trees.
Those quiet trees in our old path,
You will walk again with me.”

“M’sieurs et madames, merci beacoup.” The radio went silent. Denel switched it off. The soldiers huddled around the fire looked at each other. The speech and Edith Piaf’s beautiful song had given them something they hadn’t had in a long time. A vision of hope. A vision of peace. They went back to their work with a new determination in their hearts. This war wasn’t over yet, Denel thought. It was just getting started.

December 1, 1942

The Battle of Amiens, pt. 1

At the beginning of the Battle of Amiens, 260,000 French soldiers were in the city, barely entrenched and unready for a major offensive. Rommel's original plan called for the encirclement of Amiens, which would have allowed the Wehrmacht to maraud at will through northern France. Hitler personally overrode this, calling for the complete annihilation of the French Army. While Rommel had an incredible opportunity to accomplish this very thing, his forces were spread along a front 200 kilometers wide. His main force under Keitel was sent to attack the French and pin them down.

Field Marshal Juin had overall command, with his 120,000 men along the left and center. Field Marshal Gamelin had 90,000 men on the right, and Field Marshal de Gaulle, recalled to Paris to defend his conduct of the Italian campaign, was relegated to commanding the 50,000 men of the reserve, raw recruits from the Maginot fortifications.

On December 1, Keitel struck the French lines with 210,000 men, including 200 Panzer IIIs. This armored spearhead broke through the French center, inflicting heavy casualties. Keitel immediately moved to follow this up, attempting to separate Gamelin's command and destroy the French in detail. However, the weather slowed his advance and the Panzers were entangled in the northern suburbs of Amiens. Just as quickly as he had seemed to grasp victory, Keitel was now reeling in defeat, as his best forces in the spearhead were isolated from his main army. French saboteurs infiltrated the German lines posing as refugees, cutting lines of communication and attacking depots and field hospitals in the German rear. On December 5, Keitel launched a major thrust against the French center, trying to reestablish contact with his armor forces. The attack was repulsed with heavy losses, and Keitel retreated. The frozen ground prevented Keitel from entrenching, and his forces took further punishment from French artillery.

It was at this juncture that Field Marshal Von Beck arrived from Rouen. Rommel had directed Von Beck to attack the French rear, but Keitel was steadily giving ground, and Von Beck was given new orders to shore up the German right. Von Beck plowed into Juin's left flank, overrunning an entire division. The French pulled back to the outskirts of Amiens, but the Germans were unable to exploit this gain effectively.

On December 13, as the weather grew steadily worse and the opposing forces had gained a small respite, Rommel himself arrived with Armeegruppe B, 140,000 men and a fresh 300 Panzer III tanks. With this overwhelming force, he moved east of the city, hoping to drive a wedge between Gamelin and De Gaulle, and then to isolate Amiens from the rest of France. Rommel succeeded brilliantly, sectioning Gamelin's men into two pockets and driving nearly to the heart of Amiens. The Germans, now outnumbering the French two to one, began the steady process of extending their salients into a fence of steel.

-from A History of the Second World War, by Prof. Henry Kissinger

December 14, 1942

The Battle of Amiens, pt. 2

With Gamelin effectively out of combat, De Gaulle appeared at Juin's headquarters and proceeded to publicly berate the Field Marshal. After a vicious argument, De Gaulle returned to his headquarters and announced that he was abandoning Amiens. His 40,000 remaining men moved south, as Rommel continued to infiltrate the city.

The French situation was now critical. As the German crescent now began extending along the French left flank, Juin called for a fighting retreat. Block by block, he began pulling towards the southwest edge of the city, fighting ferociously. The Germans concentrated forces heavily in the center of Amiens, attempting to push simultaneously against Juin's forces and Gamelin's pockets in the eastern city.

On Christmas Day, the French position was dangerously close to collapse. While Gamelin's forces had fought ferociously, only 27,000 of the original 90,000 men were left, and even this depleted force was running low on supplies. De Gaulle was hors de combat, and Juin was steadily pulling out of the city. The Germans had lost 100,000 men, but they still had 300,000 in and around Amiens. Rommel sent messengers under flags of truce to Juin and Gamelin, both of whom refused to surrender.

That evening, the tide turned. De Gaulle returned, striking hard from the east and backed by another 60,000 fresh men from the Reims garrison. Rommel's forces, surrounding Gamelin, were now attacked savagely from the rear. While Rommel blunted this attack, his supply lines were disrupted. While he was replete with ammunition and fuel, Rommel was critically low on food. De Gaulle pressed his advantage unmercifully, and by New Year's Day he had linked up with Juin. The Germans now held Amiens as a poorly supplied salient. As Rommel shuffled his forces to the east, Gamelin led a breakout of his men, managing despite heavy losses to escape from the city. Rommel now had little choice, and radioed Berlin for permission to withdraw.

This permission was personally denied by Hitler. The only direction Rommel was allowed to go was forward.

However, Rommel's men were now on quarter rations. None of them had the energy to think of renewing the assault. This demoralization was completed when Juin managed to repel a fresh attack from Keitel, and completed the encirclement of Amiens. A month before, the Germans had held a two-to-one advantage. That advantage was now completely lost.

On January 10th, 1943, as the last of the German food supplies ran out, news came that the Soviets had broken the defensive lines in the east and poured into East Prussia. For the first time in the war, German soil was under attack. This proved too much for Rommel. At 8 pm, he gave his fateful Order No. 115, sounding the retreat. The Germans moved north, but the men no longer had the energy to fight. For every man who escaped, one was captured and one killed. Juin followed up the victory by recapturing Lille from the Slovak conscript garrison and surrounding three divisions of German motorized infantry in Caen, who rapidly surrendered.

The Battle of Amiens was over. While 177,000 French soldiers were killed, the Germans lost 410,000 men, and all possibility of an assault in the West was lost. The German panic spread through the thinned garrison ranks, and Juin was able to re-establish defensive lines in the Maginot du Nord. Rommel, summoned to Berlin for court-martial, committed suicide. The Germans had left French soil for good, and the war moved now into its final phase.

-from A History of the Second World War, by Prof. Henry Kissinger


February 1, 1943

Andrei Byezhinsky puffed experimentally on the cigar, but couldn't make it light.

"You're supposed to cut the end off, comrade!" Ryunov led the platoon in laughing at their captain's face as he looked at the cigar.

"And how would you know, Ryunov? Are you some kind of plutocrat capitalist in disguise? Now let's hear your advice on serving a fine wine!" The platoon roared louder, shoving Ryunov about as he grinned sheepishly. Byezhinsky tossed the cigar down and ground it out with his boot. "Feh. It's a filthy habit anyway." He knelt down and looked the German major in the face. "You're in a lot of trouble, you know." He grinned. "You don't speak a single word of Russian, do you? I could tell you right now that I'm going to cut off your balls and you wouldn't know." The platoon laughed again, and the major stared intently at Byezhinsky. The German said something, and Byezhinsky glanced to Abramovich. Abramovich translated.

"He says he is surrendered and he gives his name and serial number again. He says he threw away his rifle after the Pope excommunicated the Nazis last week, he says he was following orders, blah blah blah blah. Same thing he always says." Byezhinsky sighed and stood, dusting off his knee.

"Well, that's touching but I'm not going to carry this pig all the way to Danzig. We're on a schedule." Byezhinsky squinted into the sun and thought for a moment. He sighed, and looked down. The major was looking into his face. Byezhinsky tapped his watch, and held up three fingers. He pointed at the major and made the sign of the cross. The major closed his eyes and nodded.

Four minutes later, the platoon silently resumed its march to the west.

March 10, 1943

Allen Dulles puffed his pipe, his eyebrow arched quizzically. The man in front of him shifted uncomfortably.

"You do realize that I have no instructions in this case? It'll take some time for me to arrange everything. After all, the United States may be neutral, but we cut all our ties with the Axis nations some time ago." Schellendorf squirmed in his seat again.

"Well, Mr. Dulles. I, ah, I just thought that perhaps your good offices..." Schellendorf trailed off. Dulles groaned silently. The man who'd succeeded Himmler as head of the SS was sitting in front of him. He'd snuck out of Germany to meet Dulles here in Geneva and he hadn't even figured out what he was trying to say. Dulles blew a ring of smoke meditatively. Schellendorf twisted his hat around in his hands, huddled inside a huge coat with the collar up.

"You want to negotiate a peace with the Western powers, so you can throw back the Bolsheviks." Schellendorf nodded. "Despite the fact that your entire economy has collapsed and the Soviets are on the Oder. The fact that Bavaria is in open rebellion and the French have crossed the Rhine. The fact that your entire rocket crew has already left their laboratories and surrendered to the British at Amsterdam." Schellendorf winced at this last fact. "Frankly, sir, this war is over. There's nothing I can do for you at this late date. Unless you want to surrender yourself to the Rome Tribunal." Schellendorf squirmed.

"I... no. I still have, I can still bargain-" Dulles laughed unpleasantly.

"You mean to bargain with the lives of your hostages. Too late for that too, you know. Most of the prisoners you sent on your death march to the west were captured by French columns on their way to Stuttgart." The sweat was now dripping off Schellendorf's face. Dulles smiled to himself- he'd set the thermostat to eighty when Schellendorf came in. If he wanted to hide in that ridiculous coat, too bad. Schellendorf stood.

"I... need time to think. Please excuse me, Mr. Dulles." Dulles smiled again.

"Time, Herr Schellendorf, is a luxury you've squandered."

March 19, 1943

Gaspard slammed hard into the concrete wall, wincing. The Germans manning the Bofors gun down the street had turned it on his column, and shell after shell screamed past. Gaspard gestured to his new second, Farhan. The Algerian nodded and dug out a periscope, looking around the wall. The rest of the team huddled miserably.

"Yeah, I can do it. I need a distraction." Farhan readied his rifle. Gaspard pointed to Blanc and Vasseau.

"You two are going to run for it and lay down covering fire from the other side of the street." Vasseau snorted.

"Gee, thanks, Major." Gaspard smiled pleasantly and Vasseau snorted again. He handed Blanc a grenade and the two men braced themselves. Vasseau shouted and they bolted across the street, firing and tossing the grenades. The Bofors swung to meet them and shells began bursting, hurling shrapnel against the walls. The French cursed.

Farhan whipped his rifle up and took aim. He fired once and the Bofors fell silent. Three more shots in quick succession and the rest of the gun crew were down. Another German burst out of nowhere, running for the Bofors.

"HANDE HOCH! HANDE HOCH!" shouted Gaspard. The French team was out from the wall now, running forward with submachine guns aimed. The German stopped, looking at the guns. Finally, he shook his head and yanked off his hat, sitting in the dust. He shouted something in German, and more shouts echoed back from the distance. Gaspard crept forward, scanning the horizon for the German's friends.

Finally, he was within whispering distance. He gestured to the German.

"Where are your friends? Who were you shouting to?" The German looked up, a look of weary bemusement playing across his features. Gaspard realized with a start that he was addressing General Hausser, the head of the German Army Group West. Hausser pointed down the street.

"I was shouting to the 8th Motorized Division, Major. You'll find them waiting patiently to be picked up." Hausser closed his eyes. "I am sick to death of this damned war." He stirred a little and looked Gaspard in the eye. "You realize while you and the other draftees from the Maginot have been trying to take Stuttgart, the Soviets have pushed all the way to Venice? They're poised to envelop Berlin in the north, too. All your sacrifices, all your valor- you French have done nothing but ensure that the Bolsheviks will rule Europe."

Gaspard grinned. "I was about to say the same to you, General." Hausser winced. Gaspard slapped him on the back familiarly and turned back to Blanc.

"Radio back to headquarters. Stuttgart has fallen."

April 3, 1943

Alf Landon glowered at the map. George Marshall, the Army Chief of Staff, and his aide General Frank Andrews, waited patiently.

"This is the final straw. This is it." Landon slammed his fist against the map. "Stalin's annexed Yugoslavia. The resistance leader, Tito, was shipped off to Moscow for 'consultations'. The British sent a coded telegram this morning- Tito never landed in Moscow. The Soviets says that the plane crashed somewhere in eastern Poland." Landon's lip curled up in a snarl. "Mac, you and I know damn well they shot him. And he was a Communist, for Christ's sake." Marshall nodded.

"The Soviets love a plane crash. That's how they got rid of the local leaders in that rebellion in Sinkiang, back in 36."

"This is the final straw. I'm not going to sit back and just shrug while another tyrant takes Hitler's place." Landon chewed his lip. "You get me the Senate leaders in here. I want Wallace, Mead, Conally, Johnson, Guffey, Burton. I want them here by the end of the day, and we're going to hammer out the terms of our joining the Alliance. As soon as Germany falls, I want us in this thing with the British and the French." Landon glowered. "I am not going to sit this one out."

May 28, 1943

The T-35 rumbled through the ruins of Berlin, speeding towards the spot circled and circled again on Byezhinsky's map. Byezhinsky squinted against the evening sun. He shouted and pointed.

Three men burst out from behind a fallen concrete slab. Byezhinsky brought up his machine gun and took them down with a burst. There was distant small arms fire, but resistance here was over. Byezhinsky dismounted and, pistol out, moved towards the Germans. One was alive and moaning in pain.

"German! What were you doing here?" The German snarled, clutching his shoulder in agony.

"What do you care, Bolshevik? You've won. Leave me be." Byezhinsky kicked the German on his back and pointed his pistol at the German's head.

"Answer me!" The German closed his eyes and jerked his head at the building he'd run from. A greasy pillar of smoke was drifting from behind it, carrying a sickly sweet smell.

"Fine, Russian. I was burning the corpse of the Fuhrer." Byezhinsky swore and ran to the fire. It was too late: there two piles of ash, but any hope of identification was gone. He spat in disgust. He turned back to his tank and fired off a flare. A few minutes later, a runner appeared and saluted. Byezhinsky sighed and scratched at his head.

"Radio back to Zhukov. Hitler is dead. Not recovered." The runner grinned and saluted. Byezhinsky sighed and slumped against the turret. His loader left the tank and sat beside him.

"What now, Captain?" Byezhinsky spat and scratched again at his head, the blond hair hidden beneath grime that could have been from Berlin or might have been carried all the way from Danzig. Byezhinsky squinted, pointing at the sun setting in the west.

"Now we roll west to meet the crazy fucking Frenchmen." Byezhinsky sighed. "I'm very glad our political officer was killed last week. It's nice to talk without glancing over our shoulder." The loader grunted.

"Do you think we'll fight the French too? If Stalin can start a war against Germany and win, surely he can win a war against the French now." Byezhinsky grunted.

"Maybe. The Americans are coming now. They say they will enter the Alliance soon. We can beat the French, and we can beat the British. But the Americans too... I don't know, Ladislav. I'm tiring of fighting. I'm tired of being scared." Byezhinsky stood and pulled his helmet back on. "Get back in the tank. Let's get this damn war over with."

June 1, 1943

Gaspard whistled to Blanc. Blanc tossed him a pack of cigarettes, and Gaspard took out a Gaulois and drew on it leisurely. He and his crew were exhausted. There wasn't much fighting anymore, but he'd been pressed into service as an interpreter, helping to deal with the immense flood of refugees rushing west from the Russian tide. The Russians had met up with the French all along the front, from Italy and Bavaria to the Baltic coast. The two armies were racing now to seize as much of the center of Germany as possible. France had won the Saar and the important factories in the west, but there was an unspoken agreement between all of the Western Allies: leave nothing for the Soviets. They'd actually fired on a French column heading for Vienna. There had been apologies and a great deal of diplomatic finger-pointing, but the French had still been forced to pull back with no food or fuel. Gaspard had enough connections in Intelligence to know the score: when the Axis was mopped up in South America, in Africa and Japan, the war in Europe would start up again. The Americans had already quietly sent over a few "observers". It was probably the Alliance's worst kept military secret that the head of the observation team was General Frank Andrews, the chief of America's European Theater, along with his assistant Eisenhower from the Second Army.

The radio burst into life, a list of numbers being rattled off. Blanc swore: it was the code for a high-ranking prisoner. Gaspard threw down his cigarette: he'd need to debrief him. An American-made jeep rode up, and two prisoners was taken from the back, not handcuffed. One was a tall man, who walked with a limp. His jaw had been broken, and he wore an eyepatch.

Gaspard sucked his breath in and his hand went to his holster.

"Skorzeny." The Austrian grinned lopsidedly and his laugh barked out across the camp.

"Hello, Major Gaspard. Fancy meeting you here."

"I'm not in the mood for banter. I've had a very bad day."

"Perhaps I can help improve it." Skorzeny nodded to his fellow prisoner. "This is General Reinhard Gehlen, formerly chief of the Abwehr's Soviet Intelligence section. We have something you may be interested in." Gaspard scratched at his chin and drew out a new Gaulois. He lit it and drew a contemplative breath. Finally, he nodded for Skorzeny to continue.

"Herr General Gehlen took the liberty of microfilming the Wehrmacht's intelligence files on the Soviet Union. They're hidden in the Austrian Alps." Gaspard began to laugh, and Skorzeny frowned. "I'm talking about thirty thousand pages of documents! You and I both know that Stalin will stab you in the back, just as he did Germany! You need this information, and we can give it to you!" Gaspard was doubled up in laughter. Skorzeny clenched his fists, trembling with rage. Gaspard nodded to Farhan, who started clearing the camp. The guards drifted away, until it was just the two Germans, Farhan, and Gaspard. Gaspard tossed Farhan the Gauloises and settled into his camp chair, grinning.

"You damn fool, Skorzeny. And stop looking at Farhan, he can't speak German. You're too late." Gehlen glowered.

"Like hell! There's no way you've found the information, and it's in a dozen caches-"

"Oh, we haven't found your caches. I'm just saying we don't need them. You see, about a week ago we got another displaced person through here. Named Wilhelm Canaris." Skorzeny and Gehlen stared in slowly dawning horror. "Apparently, Herr Canaris has been feeding information to the Allies for months under the name "Charles". A submarine just docked in Kiel. It was carrying all the paperwork that was evacuated from Danzig when it fell." Gaspard's smile grew wider as he delivered the coup de grace. "I seem to recall that including copies of the Abwehr files." Gaspard got up and stretched. He gestured and Farhan barked. Gaspard's commandos reappeared instantly.

"I would like to thank you gentlemen for coming in today. Please escort the Generals to Cell Twelve. The one that used to hold that colonel with dysentery." Gaspard looked up at the clear night sky, ignoring the shouting behind him.

"I love this time of year."

June 10, 1943

Laval peered down on the list. "Skorzeny, Keitel, Bormann, Goering, Speer, Schacht, Seyss-Inquart, Eichmann... the list continues for a long time. The Russians overran the coast and seized Kiel before any of the high-ranking Nazis could activate their escape plans. And we held the roads into Switzerland."

Churchill puffed on his cigar. "So they decided they'd take their chances with us rather than the Soviets." Laval nodded grimly.

"I would too. Our agents behind the Russian lines say they've summarily executed thousands in just the last week and thousands more have been shipped east to the gulags." Churchill grunted grimly.

"Frankly, Pierre, I wouldn't mind having a gulag of our own for these bastards."
 
"There's St. Helena." Churchill snarled.

"I wouldn't desecrate it with this filth." He leaned back, cigar smoke wreathing his head. "I have word that Parliament approved your suggestions for the Rome Tribunal, so a Commonwealth legal team will be heading there shortly with our information on the Germans." Laval nodded in satisfaction.

"Excellent, Winston. I have word myself that Stalin is willing to allow a team to study the German state archives for the arraignment." Churchill scowled.

"In Berlin, you mean, under NKVD scrutiny." Laval nodded resignedly.

"Like it or not, we need that information for the arraignments. And besides, they'll be watching us, but we'll be watching them. I intend to get some of my intelligence people on the French legal team." Churchill nodded, stroking his chin.

"Hm. Yes, that could be useful. In the meantime, how are your preparations for Carpentier's flotilla?"

"We should be back on the offensive in a few months. Our frontlines are still a mess, too many refugees and too much land to cover. But General Carpentier should be starting his mopping up operations by the end of September. In the meantime, you'll redeploy to check Japan?" Churchill nodded.

"I will. And I won't be alone." Churchill's eyes twinkled. "I've got thirty-six fresh divisions for the Pacific Theater." Laval blinked and started out of his seat.

"Landon did it!" Churchill nodded, grinning.

"He did, Pierre. Franklin telephoned me from New York this morning. Before the day's out, Landon will ask Congress for a declaration of war against the Axis." Churchill grinned. "And another fifty American divisions will be in Europe by year's end." Churchill's grin improbably grew even wider, before he suddenly fell quiet and solemn. "And Pierre, there's something else I need to tell you." Churchill drew out a locked portfolio and handed it to Laval. "The Americans say they'll have this working by the end of 1946." He handed Laval the key. Laval blinked and opened the portfolio. He read the first paragraph and gaped in disbelief. He read the report slowly at first, then devouring words and paragraphs in gasps.

He turned over the final page and sat quietly for two minutes. He looked up.

"Winston. This changes everything." Churchill nodded.

"For good and bad, yes. Everything."

September 14, 1943

Marcel Carpentier grinned at the discomfort of the Portuguese envoy.

"You weren't so consumed with empathy when your men tried to stage that landing in Marseilles, or when you burned the mosques in Algiers. Actually, I should thank you for that. We've announced plans to rebuild it with American dollars and now the Algerians love it. Us." Carpentier cursed himself silently for the slipup. He hadn't spoken Portuguese in years, since he was the attache to Brazil. The envoy didn't even notice.

"But, General!" The envoy wrung his hands in desperation. "We've offered no resistance to the French invasion. President Salazar has fled to Brazil. Surely there's no need for this military occupation! Your confiscation of the trains has caused mass upheaval! We can't get food to the markets!" Carpentier blinked impassively and artfully stifled a yawn, fingering the impressive pile of paperwork on his desk.

"Senhor, I'm a busy man. And my army is busy. I simply don't have the time to negotiate with you over terms." The envoy slumped, a hollow sigh escaping.

"General Carpentier, I am authorized to offer the surrender of the Portuguese government on one condition-"

"We accept no conditions. Only the surrender." The envoy deflated even further, writhing in humiliation. Carpentier nodded to his aide, who silently left the room. Carpentier leaned forward, his face a mask of sympathy.

"I know you must save face. And I want this campaign overwith. I have business elsewhere and I'm on an extremely tight schedule." Carpentier held up a piece of paper and tore it to pieces. "This paper commands me to accept only the unconditional surrender of the Portuguese government and armed forces. I am tearing it up. I hereby guarantee that no reprisals shall be taken against the Portuguese people, no reparations demanded. I will draw up a list of six top officials who must surrender to the Rome Tribunal, although they're looking at life imprisonment at worst. I will then meet with government officials to appoint a new President and draw up a constitution for referendum." Carpentier smiled. "Of course, this new government must be approved by Paris, but I think we can come to an agreement." The envoy blinked in astonishment.

"Can you guarantee this?" Carpentier nodded.

"I guarantee it as a French officer." The envoy thought and nodded.

"I therefore offer the surrender of Portugal. We will cease hostilities and return all seized territory." Carpentier smiled and showed the envoy out. He arranged for an aide to draw up the articles of surrender and beckoned his aide back into the commandeered office, grinning.

The aide blinked. "He agreed to Paris' terms?" Carpentier nodded, his grin threatening to split his face.

"He agreed to Carpentier's terms. He thought Paris' terms meant burning down the cathedrals and selling the first born into slavery." The aide laughed, and Carpentier joined him. "Oh, Pierre, bring me more scratch paper. I tore up my last sheet."


April 8, 1944

Jean Gaspard grinned savagely, peering down the scope of his rifle at the charging Japanese. The French army was still being issued Renault submachine guns, but his unit had Colt M-14 assault rifles. He'd already knocked out half a platoon, and the Japanese weren't even in firing range.

Farhan swore. "CLIP! CLIP! They're still coming!"

Gaspard grunted. "They're not cowards, I'll give them that." A Japanese officer drew his sword and six French bullets hit him at the same time. Gaspard popped in a fresh clip. Blanc hooted- the 3-inch gun was finally ready to fire. Gaspard shouted out coordinates and the shells roared overhead. Explosions blossomed in the Japanese line, bodies flying against the Korean horizon. Still, the Japanese came.

Finally, the Japanese were close enough to open fire. Bullets from their single-shot carbines began whizzing past. At this range, though, the Japanese were sitting ducks for the assault rifles. Gaspard switched to automatic. Whenever a Japanese head popped up to fire, a hail of bullets descended. The American 3-incher continued to pound the Japanese. Finally, they began to pull back. One man drew a sword and grimly marched through the hail of bullets, as the others ran. Gaspard held up his hand.

"Wait, wait! Don't shoot him!" The call rippled down the line, and a stillness fell. Gaspard could hear the footsteps of the Japanese officer as he walked silently forward. He was at a hundred meters now, his face calm and determined. Farhan laughed and began clapping. The other Frenchmen stood and joined in.

Gaspard stood, as the Japanese officer came to a halt.

"Jean Gaspard." He bowed.

The Japanese officer bowed back. "Toyahima Mishiro." Gaspard held out his hands. Toyahima nodded and set down his sword. Farhan whipped his rifle back up and fired a round into Toyahima's head. He collapsed in a heap, dead. Gaspard whirled around.

"What the hell was that, Private?" Farhan shrugged.

"We're on schedule, sir. I apologize." Gaspard glared at him, fuming. Finally, he shrugged.

"Ah, you're right. Let's just get this damn war done." Gaspard lit a cigarette. "Pack up the gun and radio HQ. We've got eighty kilometers before we meet Carpentier's boys at the beachhead. Get at it."

Gaspard sighed. His mission had been to scout out the Japanese positions- French troops were being landed north of Seoul to cut off their retreat. Instead, he'd just wiped out a battalion. Reports were coming in that the Japanese were losing heavily in every encounter. The Brits had bombed the Kwangtung Army's HQ, and now they were a headless mob, standing and fighting over every worthless hill. Carpentier would be weeding out Japanese stragglers all over the damn peninsula for months.

He blinked. Months. He gestured to Blanc.

"Give me that radio. I've got an idea."

April 21, 1944

General Kasahara frowned at the envoy, his brows furrowed in anger.

"What you propose is a dishonorable sham and treason to my Emperor." The envoy smiled.

"On the contrary. I propose the only remaining course of action that will preserve the Kwantung Army." The envoy pointed to the map he had brought. "In a month of fighting, we've pushed you north past Seoul. We haven't lost a single engagement at any scale, and we inflict casualties at a rate of ten to one. The Armee Francaise was the best fighting force in the world before we landed. Now, with American technology and materiel, our advantage only increases. In another month, we will seal your ports. The Kwantung Army will be destroyed utterly." The envoy nodded towards the second map. "Unless you follow our advice."

"Unless I move my troops to the north and fight the Soviets." The envoy nodded.

"Withdraw your troops. France will not advance past the 38th parallel. Your supply lines to the Home Islands will not be attacked. You will be able to fight honorably against the Soviets, who now have a million or more troops in Manchuria. Your troops will meet them in battle sooner or later. Better to do it with some ammunition left, eh?"

Kasahara stood, a withering fury radiating from him. "You dare to dictate terms to me? The Kwantung Army outnumbers your pitiful force six to one. We can crush you and then turn on the Soviets."

The envoy bowed. "With all respect, General, you cannot. Redeploying the forces you would need to expel France from Korea would allow the Soviets to push to the Yellow Sea. You would face the Soviets again, only hundreds of kilometers further south and exhausted from battle." The envoy rapped the maps firmly. "I do not dictate to you. I offer you the only chance you have to stop the Soviet advance."

Kasahara frowned. Sweat beaded on his head. "I... must refuse." The envoy frowned and stood.

"I appreciate that you act honorably. But think on this- protecting your honor denies the thousands of soldiers of the Kwantung Army the chance to fight honorably. To sacrifice your life for thousands is the greatest of gifts. How much more noble, to sacrifice one's honor for the honor of those men who obey you?" Kasahara blinked and his mouth gaped. The envoy bowed and took his leave.

Driving back south, the envoy grinned at his driver. "You know, I think the fool actually bought it. That sort of warped logic really appeals to him. Thank God the Brits killed off the sensible officers." The driver chuckled. "If this works and we secure the Korean border, Gaspard, it'll be your idea that did it. You're looking at another promotion." Gaspard sighed.

"I'm not looking for a promotion, sir. I serve France best on the battlefield." The envoy nodded.

"Well, if we can move troops out of Korea, you'll get that chance." The envoy grinned devilishly. "I need your input on a plan, Gaspard. One that just might mean the end of the war."

"And what's that, sir?"

The envoy told him. Gaspard stared out the windshield at the rolling Korean landscape for a while.

"I think I can do that."

May 10, 1944

Major Joseph Kennedy hugged his brother.

"It's good to see you, Johnny. How's the back?" John grimaced.

"Good as it gets, Joe. I can't believe it took me an hour to get here." Joe Kennedy nodded.

"Can't be helped. They've got Guam stacked ten feet high with munitions." Joe pointed to the paperwork on his desk. "So I understand Dad's pulled some strings to get you anchored to my desk as a secretary." John made a face.

"Yeah, he did. And not that I'm questioning orders, Major Sir, but it's total shit." Joe nodded grimly.

"Johnny, I hate pulling strings. You and I know how much I'd like Dad to butt out of this, that's why I joined the Lafayettes." John lit a cigarette. "But there's something going down up in Korea. The French are moving troops and they haven't told the ACC what they're doing."

John blinked. "That's... that's a treaty violation, isn't it? They can't do that without authorization from the Allies!"

Joe nodded. "Technically, yeah. But we've lost about five thousand men in this war so far and they've lost three million. Without the Brits, we don't have the standing to pressure France. And the Brits just sort of smile and shrug whenever we bring up the subject. So France will do whatever it wants, we'll raise a stink, Churchill wags his finger, and France will apologize, and some commission will issue a report urging closer communication." Joe grinned.

"End of the official story." He pulled out a manila folder. "Here's the truth. Marshall and Andrews are still trying to get the Army bureaucracy into shape to fight a war. We've got a million men under arms and the Joint Chiefs are still organized for a peacetime drill."

John chuckled. "That's what we get for electing a Republican. It's like asking Coolidge to build the Hoover Dam." Joe nodded.

"Right, right. So we're still not ready for a big push, and Churchill's been squabbling with Parliament ever since the BEF got chewed up at Eindhoven. So that leaves France. Laval's got the only government in the ACC that's really geared up for war. Hell, they fought for their lives for four years, they ought to be." Joe pulled on his cigarette. "So when there's an opportunity, France jumps on it while England and us nitpick on details. The ACC knows exactly what's going to happen. And thanks to my Lafayette connections, so do I." Joe pulled out some maps and showed them to John.

John Kennedy studied the maps and gaped. "Jesus... Jesus, Joe, can they pull this off?" Joe nodded.

"They can. They've got crack people on this. So here's the thing, John. I've been invited to send an unofficial observer." He grinned and hit the buzzer. A lean scarred man came in, a French flag on his sleeve. "This is my liaison, Henri Bacquard. We both served in Eindhoven. I'm sending him with you up to Pusan, to meet up with the French Navy. You're going in on this thing."

John grinned. "Nothing to fear but fear itself, Joe. I'm in."

May 14, 1944

George Bush took off from the deck of the Saratoga, climbing into the Pacific sky. His flight was running low off the Japanese coast, the third patrol flight in three days. He was dead tired and he was damned angry. He'd plagued his commanding officer for a week, trying to find out just what in hell he was looking for. Every time, he'd been met with a smile and a shrug. He remembered the last conversation...

"Sorry, George. Need to know only."

"Need to know? My men and I are flying straight into Christ knows what, and you tell me I don't need to know? What the hell, Ed?" Bush had pushed himself forward, his patrician face dark with anger. "You tell me right here and right now what I'm supposed to find out there."

His CO was taken aback momentarily. Bush cultivated a muffly, amiable image which made his flashes of anger that much more shocking. However, Ed Pakenham hadn't gotten where he had by giving in. He glowered right back and pulled himself erect.

"I will tell you, Captain Bush, everything you need to do your job. Right now, you have exactly that. You get your men on that deck and you launch or I'll send you back home to explain a dishonorable discharge to your daddy."

Bush gritted his teeth inside his cockpit. Ever since the Saratoga's battle group had entered Japanese waters, they'd been cruising silent, and their destination was a total mystery. Bush was tired of not being in the know.

About a mile out, a sharp crackle came over the radio.

"Tango patrol, prepare to change course." The radio voice read off a list of coordinates. Bush blinked. That heading would take his flight straight over Hakodate- the main port linking Hokkaido with Honshu. The supply line for the main Japanese army guarding against a Soviet thrust.

"Tango Leader to One-Twelve. This is it?" A chuckle came over the radio.

"This is it, Tango Leader. Good hunting." Suddenly, the radio burst into life, call signs from the Hornet, the Wasp... two battleship groups, destroyers, cruisers. Bush suddenly grasped what was happening. Half of the Pacific Fleet had broken radio silence- and was about to rendezvous and attack the Japanese fleet off Hokkaido. More messages streamed in, and his guess was confirmed- he was to strike at Hakodate, neutralizing the coastal guns and leaving the supply convoys defenseless. In a single bold stroke that matched the French invasion of Korea, the US was about to shut the Imperial Japanese Army out of Honshu. That meant something big was about to happen- maybe the end of the war. And he was finally part of it.

George Herbert Walker Bush issued the orders to his men. They barrelled in hot, and when Hakodate appeared, they loosed their guns on the docks. The big coastal emplacements were barely prepared for an aerial assault, and most of them were out of action after his first run. Huge explosions started blossoming after his last run, battleship rounds arcing in to finish the job. Bush executed a barrel roll and roared back to the Saratoga to reload for the convoys.

The big show was finally starting...

May 14, 1944

John Kennedy ducked, squinting against the surf and smoke. The coastal gun emplacements had opened up a tough barrage at first, but the RAF bombers had quieted them. Pillars of smoke lined the docks, and the signals officer on his landing craft had just announced the destruction on the ground of several Japanese fighter squadrons. This operation would not be interrupted by unwelcome guests. Already, the naval barrage had eliminated the Japanese marines along the docks. Only sporadic small-arms fire greeted the French landing force. Kennedy sniffed- behind the smell of salt and cordite, he could smell the fish market ahead. Almost there.

Kennedy's craft landed at the dock quietly. There were no Japanese soldiers left, just some fishmongers who charged waving their cleavers. The commandos in his boat fired a few rounds, dropping them. As they landed, Kennedy saw the British glider troops drop from their planes. They began circling down, preparing for their landing.

Right in the heart of the Imperial Palace's grounds.

Incendiaries roared off to the west, the RAF again. Kennedy saw the smoke rising before the bone-rattling roar hit him, shattering windows all around. A wall of flame now roared between Tokyo Bay and escape. More bombers roared in, headed for the bridges across the Kandagawa River and to drop more incendiaries in Shibuyaku to the south. Eighty thousand French soldiers, British paratroopers, and a second wave of ANZAC commandos- two square miles of Tokyo were now theirs, guarded by fire from the air and the sea. The Japanese Army was a pitiful remnant. The French had shoved the Kwantung Army into a battle of annihilation against the Soviets on the Yalu River. Right now, Admiral Nimitz's fleet should be isolating the remainder of Japan's main army on Hokkaido. Only a few militiamen and police remained in central Tokyo, along with a few pitiful detachments of Imperial Marines. This surprise strike had caught Japan sleeping, and it looked like the French would succeed in their most ridiculous gambit yet- the capture of Emperor Hirohito.

Kennedy shook his head in admiration. Already, the French commandos were filtering out, linking up with the soldiers pouring out of the other boats. Less than ten minutes from first landing, and the Tsukiji fish market was fully occupied. Other units were pouring ashore, moving block by block. The citizens of Tokyo poured into the street, many fleeing, many more charging in outrage. Only a very few had firearms- their improvised melee weapons stood no chance against submachine guns and mortars.

A French commando slapped Kennedy on the shoulder, and John shook himself out of his reverie. Between his bad French and the commando's bad English, Kennedy understood enough to run forward to a makeshift command post near the Ginza. There, the French forward units were starting to link up with the British glider troops. Already, wounded were starting to stream in. An Indian orderly grabbed Kennedy and set him to work dressing wounds. The fires across Tokyo began to spread, and an angry black shroud fell over the city. The crackle of small arms was joined by the coughing of mortars and the roar of infantry guns. The second wave had landed, Gurkhas and ANZACs rushing forward to the Imperial Palace grounds. French armored trucks began rumbling by, and a few Hotchkiss tanks. The Japanese Navy, already steaming north to meet the American Pacific Fleet, had been totally unable to approach the French landing fleet. Already, the radio was barking orders for the transports to turn back to Taiwan, to pick up more troops to secure the beachhead. As soon as a landing craft disgorged troops and supplies, it was headed back to sea.

By nightfall, Kennedy had been moved into the gardens of the Imperial Palace. The fires along the Kandagawa had spread south, consuming Tokyo's rail station and threatening the field hospital. The British and ANZACs had sealed off the main palace, entrenching against fire from within the palace. The French had advanced forward two kilometers, all the way to the burned-out zone near Shinjuku to the west and Shibuyaku to the south. Mortar fire began creeping closer to the Imperial Palace, chewing up the gazebos and guard stations. Flamethrower troops began emptying out outlying pockets of resistance, while sappers collapsed section after section of the outer wall. John Kennedy stared in awe- the Imperial Palace, still untouched, sat at the center of a growing field of hellish fire, starkly outlined against a night made deeper by the curtains of smoke.

At four in the morning, a cheer rose from the north. Kennedy, trembling and exhausted, dropped the pails of water he was carrying to the first aid station. Shouts in French began filtering back, a "HURRAH!" somewhere from a British unit. Kennedy rushed to the station, handing over the water.

"What's happened? What's happened?" The French doctor seized him and kissed him on his cheeks.

"The Emperor came out! The Emperor has surrendered! It is over! The war is over!"

Kennedy laughed with relief. Soon, the burning Imperial Palace grounds were filled with cheers. From nowhere, champagne appeared. As the sole American, Kennedy was forced to drink toast after toast. Hungry and tired, it didn't take him long to get staggering drunk.

Less than an hour after the celebration began, though, a scream of dismay came from a nearby radio operator. The panic began spreading, and as quickly as joy had overcome the camp, now a chill fear followed it. Again, Kennedy implored the passers-by to explain. This time, however, the officers were barking orders savagely. Drunken and tired as the men were, they turned back into soldiers with a steely precision. No one could spare time for Kennedy, who'd long been separated from his unit.

Finally, Kennedy virtually had to tackle an orderly. "What is it? What's happened, for God's sake?"

The orderly stared through Kennedy hollowly. "The... Soviets." Kennedy stared in horror.

"Oh, God. Oh, God, no."

May 13, 1944

The first Ilyushins roared across the lines at dusk, while the Allies were still following the news of the battle for Tokyo. The radio frequencies lit up with transmissions, too many for the overwhelmed cryptographers to decipher. In Asia, Soviet troops turned from their pursuit of the reeling Kwantung Army, charging against the pickets of the Chinese Nationalists. In the Middle East, Soviet troops were observed marching towards the Persian border. Soviet ships launched in the Baltic and the Arctic, bound for a rendezvous in the North Sea. And in Europe, the Red tide charged west, outnumbering the Allies four to one.

Six million Soviet soldiers were on the march, an inexhaustible war machine launched against the West. At the very moment final victory appeared to be in their grasp, Britain, France, America and China prepared for war against an even greater foe...

May 14, 1944

George Bush blinked back the tears in his eyes. They stung and smarted, from the smell of the fuel and the haze of battle. He was flying his tenth sortie in what was already being called the Battle of the Hokkaido Straits. He'd have to switch planes after this- his tail had been riddled by ack ack, and his plane was handling sluggishly. There'd been a nasty patch earlier when the Japanese carrier Hiryu had arrived, pouring out Zeros. The Japanese pilots stood no chance against the Americans, who could pick them off at twice the speed and twice the range, but they posed a threat to the ships. Luckily, a sub had bottomed the Hiryu, forcing her planes into the drink.

Now, Bush and his fellow pilots owned the air. He'd dropped torpedos and bombs, he'd strafed troop transports. American subs, armed with new homing torpedoes, were rapidly eating through his list of targets. What had been a battle had rapidly devolved into a massacre. Bush was secretly glad this was his last run.

Suddenly, the radio squawked to life. There were massive radar signatures from the north. The Japanese had more planes than we thought, Bush thought.

"Tango Leader, alert! Tango Leader, new signatures from bearing 226, bearing 229, bearing 221, bearing 222, bearing 230, bearing 225! Confirm! Confirm!"

Bush blinked. Those were from the west- there were no Japanese to the west-

"One-Twelve, this is Tango Leader, repeat those bearings."

"Tango Leader, we have confirmation from Pearl. Bearings are correct. Soviet fighters. Repeat, Soviet fighters. Do not fire first, but defend yourself if attacked. All flights back to their carriers immediately."

Bush grimaced. He didn't know what was going on, but he didn't like it one bit.

In the first month of the Soviet War-

Denmark was overrun. The US took control of Greenland and Iceland.

The Swedes and Norwegians, despite heavy losses, held the Soviets to a stalemate on the Finnish border.

Along the European front, the French center held steady despite being outnumbered five to one. Horrible losses were inflicted on the Soviet invaders, but the French Armee was worn down as well. A strategic retreat from Austria was begun, as the French began organizing a more easily defended line. The BEF and the Low Countries waged a fighting retreat, abandoning Koln and Amsterdam as they concentrated their forces for an effective defense. The Brazilians performed surprisingly well on the Italian front, repelling several Soviet thrusts aimed at Venice. Over the skies of Germany, the Soviet Air Force was slowly pushed back. The bombers of the RAF and the USAAF wreaked havoc on Soviet depots and rail junctions throughout occupied Germany, and British contacts with the Yugoslav partisans were reactivated, as submarines began shipping them arms.

In the Middle East, British and Iraqi troops rushed to the defense of Persia, streaming north to Ishafan. It soon became clear that the Soviet thrust into Persia was merely a gambit, as a huge Soviet Army poured out of the Khyber Pass and into Pakistan. As the British prepared to fight off the Soviets, Gandhi's brand of passive resistance began falling out of favor. To the forefront surged Jawaharlal Nehru's Declaration of Calcutta- that India should be defended by Indians, upon the promise of independence. Churchill was faced with a dilemma- he could raise a million volunteers in India, if he gave it up. The decision would not come easily, or soon.

As the world trembled, waiting for the moment when the Soviets would break through in Europe, news came of a stunning reversal in the East. As Soviet troops continued their merciless campaign against the remnants of the Japanese Kwantung Army, vast numbers of Chinese soldiers poured north, slamming into the flank of the Soviets and pushing them back. In a couple of places along the line, Chinese troops actually found themselves fighting alongside Japanese stragglers. The Soviets, expecting a cakewalk, were surprised to find the Chinese (re-equipped and re-trained by Allied advisors) a formidable adversary. The French Expeditionary Force remained in Japan, organizing a new civil government.

In Japan and England, transports full of American soldiers began arriving. With the death toll worldwide approaching 25 million, the Second World War was coming to a boil.

August, 1944

As the Soviet advance across the breadth of Europe continued, a slow grinding down of men and machines, Allied bombers continued their savaging of the Soviet supply lines. Fresh fighters streamed continually out of the USSR's factories, but they were sorely outclassed by
 
British and American machines. The attrition rates were awful, and by the end of the month the Soviet Union had begun dragging former Luftwaffe pilots out of the prison camps to assist in the training of an expanded air corps. As Germany's rail and autobahn networks suffered, the Soviets resorted to hauling supplies by mule and even tunnel. As the frontlines demanded ever more reinforcement and supply, the lifelines of the Soviet Army were being steadily cut.

Just as in the First World War, the dissatisfaction of the Army led to the Bolshevik Revolution, so now dissent against Stalin's rule was growing among those Communist subjects trusted least- those who were armed. Surveillance and martial law were applied brutally, creating unbearable tension at a time when the soldiers were increasingly frustrated by their inability to crack the Allied lines. When the Western armies fell back, it was steadily and in order. The Soviets would advance- only to find fresh lines of defense prepared a mile or two further on. The French Engineering Corps had survived the war with the least casualties of any branch, and American advisors were beginning to take their place in the frontline, bringing fresh doctrines and equipment. The Soviets remained unable to intercept Allied shipping, and the unmolested convoys poured endless amounts of materiel into the defense.

In the north, the Soviets finally managed to break onto Swedish soil, but made little headway in the rough, swampy terrain. In the Aegean, a Soviet attempt to dislodge the French met with miserable failure against the Royal Navy's dogged resistance. Stalin remained convinced that he could break the Allied lines before the arrival of American troops, and the bloody stalemate ground on.

In the Middle East, the Soviet advance into Persia was checked, but the diversionary thrust had served its purpose. Zhukov's Third Army poured across Pakistan, threatening to drive to the Indian Ocean. The British Indian Army, with a strength of nearly half a million, was organizing a reasonable line of defense, but did not have the strength to repel the attack. Field Marshall Wavell built a line of defense along the Indus River and waited for the inevitable assault.

In the Far East, the Soviets were able to redistribute their forces. In a tacit truce, the Kwantung Army finally acknowledged the surrender of Japan and moved south into lines along the Yalu River, although they did not move to reoccupy the French zone south of the 53rd parallel. The French allowed Japan to send "humanitarian support" to the Kwantung Army. It was revealed in the Frehling Report of 1957 that this "humanitarian support" consisted of Japanese ammunition and ordnance stocks that were recorded as destroyed following the May armistice. Recognizing the stalemate, the Soviets redoubled their efforts to push back the Chinese. Despite appalling losses, Chiang Kai-Shek held firm. Trouble loomed behind the Chinese front lines, however- the Communist fighters who dispersed after the execution of Mao Tse-Tung by the Japanese formed a massive guerrilla army, undermining Chinese operations throughout the northern half of the country.

In Washington, General Frank Andrews was officially named Commander in Chief of the Allied Armies. He left for his new headquarters at Paris. Following him by ship were one million American soldiers, convoy after convoy streaming east. The American bases in the Calais region swelled and swelled. The Navy Seabees were put to exhausting work, building a network of artificial harbors to hold the growing transport fleet.

As the winter of 1944 drew nearer, the war hung in the balance. Would Stalin be able to crack the lines before the Americans could make their strength felt? Would the untested American Army be able to compete with men that had fought savagely for years?

As Andrews contemplated the answer, he began work with his staff on Operation Olympic, the plan that he hoped would answer these questions- and change the course of the war.

From A History of the Second World War, by Prof. Henry Kissinger


September 14, 1944

Joe McCarthy howled in delight, watching the stick of bombs tumble downwards and blossom in fire in the docks of Vladivostok.

"TAKE THAT, YOU STINKIN COMMIES!" he roared. A round of hearty curses chorused over the intercom.

"McCarthy! Stop screamin in the fuggin intercom or I'll dump this thing in the drink!" McCarthy snorted.

"Aw, c'mon, Vince. You gotta love watchin those Commie suckers get what's comin to em." There was a short pause before the intercom crackled again.

"You remember something, pal. Those bombs just killed a lot of people. Right now, somebody down there is burning to death. For all I know, I just blew up a couple of kids out walking with their mom on shopping day. I don't want to hear that bloodthirsty shit, especially from you, you puffed-up headquarters rat. Watch your gun, or I'll make sure you stay on the ground where you belong."

There was a stunned silence throughout the bomber crew. Finally, McCarthy hit the intercom and spoke icily.

"Acknowledged, sir."

At the front of the plane, the copilot leaned over.

"Vince, that was a little harsh." Vince Agolikis snorted.

"I give a shit. You listen, that guy back there's flown what, five missions? He wants to play like he's one of the flying elite, he can try flying a mission where the Russkies shoot back for once. On somebody else's fuggin plane."

The radio crackled. "Foxtrot Wing, this is Radar. We have contacts." A list of bearings came up. Agolikis cursed. Shooting Star P-80s roared past, heading to intercept. Agolikis whistled softly. The P-80s were peeling away at almost 500 miles per hour. He listened to the reports over the radio.

"Engaging- visual- two down there, turning for a second pass-"

"I count thirty, maybe forty- good shooting, Andy-"

"No, just a minor hit-"

"Got him, got him-"

He could see the image in his mind- the P-80s whistling through the Soviet formations like ghosts, whipping around and firing from behind while the MIGs were still banking, over and over. The Soviets didn't stand a chance. Three minutes later, the all-clear came back.

"Forty-three down. Foxtrot Three reports trouble, possible fuel tank hit, repeat Foxtrot Three returning to base."

Agolikis relaxed his hands on the steering column and ordered his flight to bank. There were still two targets on the list to hit. The B-17s dropped the remainder of their bombs, and turned back to Hokkaido. Behind them, Vladivostok was a lens of fire on the horizon. McCarthy remained silent.

OPERATION OLYMPIC - November 1944 - March 1945

While the Soviets continued their grim push to the West, charging over the bodies of half a million dead conscripts, the United Nations scrambled to fill the gaps in their line. The French Army, pushed to the limits of its endurance, was finally beginning to disintegrate. Only the superior striking power of Western weapons saved the defenders, especially the air forces. President Laval later acknowledged that without the RAF, the line would have broken. It was only the savaging of Soviet supply lines and artillery positions that kept the Communists from overwhelming the Allies. Another bright point was the entrance of Juan Quiropa's Spanish Republic into the war, and the arrival of twenty fresh divisions which joined the Brazil/Portugal Joint Expeditionary Force on the Italian front.

In the Middle East, the British-led Persian forces continued their fighting retreat. By the end of 1944, the Soviets controlled half of the nation. In India, Zhukov's spearheads completed their advance to the Indian Ocean, although naval bombardment prevented the Soviets from establishing themselves along the coast. The Soviets faced the British across the Indus, and Churchill made a fateful move. He promised independence to India ten years from the war's conclusion, in return for full mobilization of the population. New armament factories were rushed into production, and a motley new Indian National Army began to take shape. The Indian campaign, once the greatest success of Soviet arms, threatened to become another stalemate.

In the Far East, American airpower halted the Soviet advance, levelling Vladivostok and destroying vital stocks. American Marines, preceded by devastating bombardments, expelled the Soviets from the Kurils. And against all expectations, they succeeded in seizing key points on the Chukotka Peninsula in the depths of a Siberian winter. The Soviets pulled out of Chukotka, and for the first time since 1921 Allied forces occupied Soviet soil.

These setbacks were merely the beginning. Frank Andrews was determined to strike directly at Stalin's power- his army. While the Kremlin pondered how to respond to the Americans in Chukotka, Andrews gave them a new question to mull.

On November 12, 1944, a massive American landing force landed in the Peloponnese in Greece. While the Soviets moved to resist this force, fifteen divisions landed at Tirana and another ten divisions at Thessalonica. The American Air Force ran a furious series of sorties, striking hard throughout the Balkans from their Mediterranean bases in Naples, Crete, and Palermo. The Americans advanced rapidly despite the weather, secure in their nylon snowsuits and moving at night with their night-vision goggles. Within a month, the entire Soviet position in Greece and Albania had collapsed, and the Americans had half a million soldiers taking up defensive positions on the new front from Tirana to the Turkish border.

This was just the beginning. While Stalin was forming up a new defensive line along the mouth of the Balkans, a small American force invaded across the Baltic from Norway and seized Copenhagen. The American Navy prevented a counterattack, and now the Americans had a secure base from which to strike anywhere in the Baltic Sea. As 1944 turned into 1945, Stalin was forced to redistribute his forces to new garrisons. His numerical superiority was further reduced by these conditions, and the offensive in the West died.

On March 12, 1945, Prime Minister Churchill gave his famous "Iron Curtain" speech, concluding with the ringing words, "We shall tear down this wall!" Excitement built as the United Nations waited to see how the Allies would use their new advantage to end the horror of the war.

On April 3, 1945, they found out.

From A History of the Second World War, by Prof. Henry Kissinger


April 3, 1945

President Wendell Willkie shook Churchill's hand, then Laval's. Chiang Kai-Shek had declined to attend the summit, declaring that his place was in the frontlines. The other Allied leaders knew the true reason; Chiang's corrupt government was on the verge of toppling. Despite heavy Allied assistance, the Chinese front would collapse in a matter of months. Already, the rehabilitated Japanese Army was being quietly readied for combat action and the British were preparing to send troops from Bengal and Siam north.

Meanwhile, the grand Summit of Paris was underway. In the heart of the city, where German bombers had levelled a few city blocks, ground was being broken on the new headquarters of the United Nations. Today, the Allied leaders had already declared their intention to set up a successor to the League of Nations. The United Nations would remain in place as a final arbiter of world affairs, a bulwark against a Third World War. Where Landon had hesitated, Willkie had come out as a fighting liberal, declaring his faith in the United Nations and renouncing isolationism forever. Although the Democrats still held the Congress, Willkie had savaged Wallace in the presidential election. The Allies finally stood in true consensus, and the American Army was fully geared up for war.

Willkie sipped at his brandy. "A good day's work, gentlemen. And now the generals will have their turn." Laval nodded.

"Your generals, Wendell. Mine have seen enough glory to last them til the end of their days." Willkie nodded solemnly.

"France has acquitted itself nobly, Pierre. I assure you that the American Army stands ready to seal the victory you have fought for so long." He glanced at his watch. "It will begin shortly. We should return to Headquarters." The three men walked solemnly to the door, to await word from the east.

April 3, 1945- Rome

Skorzeny peered through the bars of his cell, drawing himself to his full height. The frail old man on the other side smiled pleasantly and chuckled.

"Save the theatrics, Herr General. I've been threatened by better men than you, and bigger." Skorzeny sneered.

"I remember you, you know. From the old days. I remember you getting booted out of your office with your tail between your legs."

Konrad Adenauer smiled again. "Yes, and I remember hearing the man responsible had shot himself in a dank hole, hiding from the 'Asiatic hordes' he thought he'd brush aside." Skorzeny's smirk faltered. "You're not quite the specter of menace you were, either. I suppose it's difficult to be a bully when you're limping around with a headful of false teeth." Skorzeny snarled.

"Get to the point."

Adenauer nodded impassively. "I understand that you were involved in the Werewolf plans. That you helped organize the Hitler Youth into bands of terrorists that would resist the Soviets."

Skorzeny thought for a moment and nodded. "I have admitted as such."

"And you have steadfastly refused to disclose how the Werewolves are led- how to contact the various cells." Skorzeny smirked.

"First, the Werewolves are German patriots, not terrorists. And second, there is no point of contact. They fight for themselves and the Fatherland. The German officer corps is held prisoner here. They are their own commanders." Adenauer nodded placidly.

"You've said that before too. But I happen not to believe you." Adenauer dragged a chair over and settled into it, rummaging through his briefcase idly. "You know, in the free zones, there's been quite a lot of talk about what Germany will be like after the war. I believe that I shall be elected Chancellor." Adenauer glanced up, sudden steel in his eyes and voice. "And I believe that there will be little room for such as you. I need only write a small letter to the Tribunal, suggesting a few things. About what happened at Himmler's headquarters at Amsterdam. About your actions in Poland and in Brussels." Adenauer held up a dossier and produced a series of maps and photographs. "There's talk you'll be rehabilitated in a few years. I can make sure that never happens."

Skorzeny's face was a careful mask. Adenauer read the subtlest clues, a tightness around the eyes, the pulse of the artery in his neck, the slight creak as his feet clenched in their prison boots. He smiled and opened his pocket watch.

"Ten seconds, Herr General."

Without changing his expression, Skorzeny spoke. "In Geneva. Kielstrasse 14. The code is 'Jetzt Ost mit du.' And may you rot in hell, you traitor." Adenauer stood and bowed.

"The hell of the situation, Herr General, is that you don't know how much influence I truly have. Perhaps, like Goering, you will hope to escape the hangman. Perhaps you have smuggled cyanide into your cell." Adenauer smiled gently. "And just maybe the guards will not pump your stomach in time, Herr General. Yes. Yes, you just might succeed in killing yourself." Adenauer put on his hat and bowed again in farewell. "Enjoy your dinner."

In his cell, Skorzeny sank back into the shadows, sitting quietly on his bunk. He sat there for a very long time.

The uprising started in Bavaria, and spread like wildfire across the width of Germany. While the Soviets had imprisoned vast numbers of former German soldiers, they had not yet dealt with the Hitlerjugend. Everywhere, schoolboys disappeared into the forests and mountains, unearthing caches left behind by the retreating Wehrmacht. Soviet sentries were picked off at their posts, landmines began finding trucks, trains were derailed. The Soviets crushed the uprising efficiently and ferociously- within two weeks, the vast majority of the diehards had been rooted out and dealt with. However, the German population grew increasingly restive. Garrison troops were doubled, and then doubled again. The frontlines were robbed of troops, and the Western front was almost quiet, but for the roar of bombers and artillery shells. In the north, British commandos disabled the shipyards at Kiel and naval forces shelled Hamburg. The Soviet Army was stretched thin, not knowing where the next blow would fall. Almost a million Soviet troops saturated Germany, a vast army of occupation. The strain on overburdened commisaries grew even greater. The soldiers grumbled, obeying their orders slowly and grudgingly. The NVKD responded in the only way it knew, by drawing its noose tighter. Already ten million Soviet troops had left the Rodina for the West, and a million of them would never come back.

It was now- as the Soviet Union prepared for the final battle for Germany- that the Allies struck.

In a lightning coup, the Turkish government declared for the Allies, opening the Straits of Istanbul and massing troops on the Caucasus border. The Soviets put their forces in the Black Sea on full alert, although again the Allied navies showed their mettle. In a ferocious battle, the entire Soviet Black Sea Fleet was annihilated. American bombers began raking Sevastopol and Odessa, cutting ties between the Soviet Union and the Balkan front. Panic seized the Soviets. Barely had new orders arrived for thousands of troops to mass on the Balkans when the hammer blow fell.

British and American paratroopers landed in Czechoslovakia, behind the Soviet lines. Several key fortresses fell quickly, and aided by a mass uprising, the Allied-controlled landing fields linked up. Simultaneously, twenty divisions of American motorized infantry, backed by massed bomber raids and a reserve of Spanish and Mexican troops, pushed against the Soviet line in Bavaria. The line buckled, and broke in less than a week.

At the same time, another two hundred thousand troops landed in Danzig. By the time the Soviets could bring troops to bear and halt the advance, the spearhead had pushed halfway to Dresden. Immediately, massive air forces began strafing the Soviet formations sent to halt the advance. The Allied bases at Copenhagen and Munich groaned under the administrative chaos of supplying the new salients- but they did their job, and the lines held.

By the beginning of June, 3.5 million Soviet soldiers were trapped in Germany, their corridor back to the East a mere hundred kilometers wide. The frantic attempts by the Soviet High Command to reinforce the area only turned the army into a chaotic mob, as soldiers arrived only to find their communications jammed and bombers churning their roads into rubble.

The first mutiny occurred among a regiment of Romanian troops stationed in Jutland. Slaughtering their political officers, they declared for the Allies and refused to obey orders from the Soviets. A unit of hardened Siberians was sent to crush them- and instead joined them. Within a week, the mutiny had spread like wildfire, and nearly a hundred thousand soldiers had organized themselves into an Army of Russian Liberation under a General Andrei Vlasov. Questions about Vlasov persist to the present day, but his competence cannot be questioned. His small territory in Denmark rapidly expanded, and by the end of July he had not only repelled several thrusts by Konev, but seized Kiel and Hamburg. Vlasov and the ARL opened their ports to the Allies, and supplies began rushing in.

This, then was the situation on the eve of the Battle of Dresden- the Americans on the verge of encircling Germany, open revolt in the Soviet Army, the stalemate of every Soviet offensive. All that was about to change.

June 10, 1945

Shooting Stars screamed overhead, guns blazing. Before the Soviet AA could even open up, the planes were gone, off to strike at another position, and leaving plumes of fire curling up from the tattered lines. The flame and smoke made the lines of infantry stand out in relief against the night sky.

Bob Dole adjusted his helmet and his night-vision goggles. He fired off a few shots, squatting as he ran forward. His men followed him in a crescent. The machine gun nest ahead had survived the strafing, and was still raking the American lines ahead. His orders were to take out that nest. Patton's tanks were still tied up in the north, dealing with Konev's flank attack. Dole gritted his teeth. He knew enough intel to know that this nest and the Soviet battalion over the hill were tying up his regiment and the Michigan regiment in the next valley. The northern thrust to Dresden was over, and now it was just a matter of holding what Operation Condor had won. The American Army was about to pay heavily for its almost bloodless victory.

Well, Bob Dole was about to do his part. Dole gripped his M-14 more tightly and trotted forward. The gunners up there turned their attention to his company, and bullets began biting into the dirt around him. He threw himself flat, cursing. Those gunners must have night-vision goggles, looted from a dead GI. Dole gestured, and a sergeant crawled up.

"Sir?"

"Tell the men to find cover and get ready. I'm going to take out that nest." The sergeant stared.

"Sir, that's suicide. They've got night-vision, or they wouldn't have fired on us-"

"Dammit, I know that. That's why one man's going up there, and that man is Bob Dole. You tell the men to find cover. When that nest is out, we'll need to move fast and take that hill. Then we can move up the mortars and dislodge that battalion." The sergeant nodded and saluted crisply. He handed Dole his grenades. Dole took them and grasped his hand.

The sergeant moved back to his squad. Off to his left, the squad started firing heavily. The machine gun swung over, and Dole could hear the bullets thudding home, he hoped, in dirt. He stood and broke into a trot. No hope in sneaking up- had to get up there before they could-

The machine gun started to swing back around. The line of bullets grew closer-

A dry click came from the nest. The gunners cursed in Russian, switching to a fresh belt. Their guards opened fire, and single-shot carbines started barking out, bullets whistling past. Dole felt a tug on his pant leg and glanced down, just a nick, lucky, lucky...

The machine gun opened up again. Dole ducked his head and tumbled into a mortar crater. The bullets stitched a ceiling over his head. He was just close enough for a grenade. He pulled one out and pulled the pin. He poked his head out.

Apparently, the Russians had the same idea. He saw a Russian grenade tumbling towards him. He ducked back into the hole as a huge explosion roared nearby. He stood up, the bullets whistling by, and threw the grenade. He ducked back down, and grinned as he heard the explosion.

Something slammed into his shoulder, and his arm went numb. A white-hot pain roared through his body. He screamed, curling up. Someone ran up, screamed something. He didn't hear it at first.

His vision slowly returned. He saw the sergeant there. He grinned weakly.

"Thought I threw that grenade out of the hole." The sergeant laughed, holding back tears.

"You did, sir. You got those bastards. They got off one last grenade before you cooked em all. We'll get you out of here, back to base. You did it, sir."

Dole nodded and closed his eyes. The pain washed over him and he felt the prick of a morphine needle in his leg. It was enough. He closed his eyes and waited for the stretcher.

JUNE 7-12, 1945 - THE BATTLE OF DRESDEN

General Patton, in command of the northern salient on Germany's eastern border, determined to continue his push to link up with Eisenhower's Second Army and encircle the Soviet troops in Germany. "I'll be in Moscow by Christmas," he bragged. Events proved otherwise.

Supreme Allied Commander Frank Andrews was hesitant to sign off on Patton's daring plan. "He's got half the strength he needs, but he's got twice the guts," was Andrews' famous comment. Indeed, if the push on Dresden failed, the northern salient would become dangerously exposed. Reinforcements continued to arrive on the German front, despite Allied attempts to sow chaos through bombing and electronic spoofing. The Battle of Dresden marked a dire gamble.

On June 7, Patton initiated his first charge forward, feinting west. At the same time, Vlasov's Army of Russian Liberation launched an offensive east. The intent was to fool Konev into thinking a smaller encirclement was underway. Konev, however, recognized the gambit and threw his best troops, veterans of the Finnish War, into the gap between Patton and Eisenhower. He also sent his largest tank army, with the last of his precious fuel reserves, to attack Patton's salient and cut him off from the Baltic coast. Orders were hand-delivered by courier, circumventing the coded transmissions so thoroughly compromised by Allied intelligence.

Konev's counterattack landed just as Patton turned south and slammed into the reinforcements around Dresden. While the Soviet infantry was sorely outclasssed by American training and equipment, the Soviet T-38s were still more than a match for the American Sherman tanks. Anti-tank brigades managed to halt the attack, but a human wave attack overwhelmed the defenders. Patton, against the advice of his officers, divided his forces. Half continued their push south, while Eisenhower, delayed by weather, launched his overdue push north. The other half hit Konev's flank, but Konev had already prepared makeshift defenses along his southern flank.

By June 10, therefore, Patton's position was an "_|" shape, with his best forces at the southwest corner. Konev's tank armies, backed by the suicidal bravery of his infantry, continued to press against the weak hinge of Patton's salient. Massive air support helped to slow, but not halt, the Soviet advance. In several places, American forces in the south scored significant gains against the defenders of Dresden. However, neither General Smith nor Eisenhower's 100,000 man force could crack the lines.

Meanwhile, Vlasov's Army of Russian Liberation simultaneously scored its greatest triumph and its greatest tragedy. The ARL's infantry managed, against incredible odds, to break through along the Baltic coast and drive to link up with the American beachhead at Danzig. Konev's northern flank threatened to shatter completely, and massive defections swelled the ARL's ranks to nearly 200,000. However, Vlasov was assassinated by an NKVD officer posing as a defector. The ARL was thrown into chaos, and while Vlasov's officers squabbled over the right of command, the demoralized ARL ground to a halt.

On June 11, Soviet forces on Patton's eastern side launched an assault on the hinge, which was easily repulsed. However, at the same time Konev launched a fresh assault from the west. For nearly four hours, Soviet forces actually held the breach, encircling Patton and his spearhead. However, Patton had anticipated this move, moving supplies and fuel out of the likely breaking point. As soon as Konev completed his encirclement, Patton launched a vicious assault on his flank, punching through and encircling the Soviet frontlines. By nightfall, nearly 100,000 Soviet soldiers and 400 T-38s were trapped within the pocket. Vicious bombardment took up the remainder of the night. Soviet forces launched several attempts to break the cordon, but were foiled. The Soviets were unable to compete with US soldiers able to operate in total darkness. At 7:11 AM on June 12, the Soviet commander in the pocket, General Russokovsky, sent out an offer of surrender. Patton accepted it with alacrity. The exhausted Soviets, deprived of their best forces, withdrew to defensive positions.

At the battle's end, neither the Americans nor the Soviets had gained any ground. While Patton's force had been mauled and Eisenhower's blunted, Konev had lost the cream of his forces. He still held the Dresden corridor, but had lost the means of counterattack. In a week, he had lost 350,000 of his 3.6 million men killed, wounded, or surrendered.

Operation Condor seemed destined to end in a grueling war of attrition.

June, 1945

While Patton and Eisenhower duelled with Konev at Dresden, the Allies suffered two grave blows elsewhere.

In India, Zhukov determined to launch his assault before the Indian National Army could form itself into an effective force. Backed by massive artillery bombardments, Zhukov established beachheads across the Indus at Sukkur and Multan. Simultaneously, his forces surrounded and overwhelmed the Royal Marines garrisoning Karachi. While the Soviets could still not operate along the coast, they now could prevent the British from launching a full-scale assault from the sea. Despite harrying from Pakistani tribesmen (and full-scale guerrilla warfare in Afghanistan), the Soviets were able to rapidly link up their beachheads by June 15. The INA, rushed into combat with ten rounds of ammunition each, collapsed in its first major engagement, despite heroic bravery.

Wavell ordered his men to fall back. In the north, he was able to blunt the Soviet advance by resorting to partisan warfare. In Kashmir and the Punjab, native troops with British officers were able to bring Zhukov's attack to a halt. However, in the south his front was dangerously fragile and overextended. By July 1, the Soviets had overrun Gujarat and were halfway from the Indus to Delhi. Touring the front with Jawaharlal Nehru, Wavell continued to exhort his troops to rally. While the Soviets paused to consolidate their position, Wavell entrenched. Sorely outclassed by Zhukov's forces, Wavell now pinned his hopes on the INA, hoping that he could delay the Soviets long enough for his new forces to come into play.

In China, the Allies suffered their most grevious defeat yet. Chiang Kai-Shek, desperate to bolster his support, pinned his future on a massive May assault against Soviet forces in western Manchuria. His goal was twofold; to halt the slow Soviet advance in that theater, and to push all the way to Korea and deny any combat role to the Japanese.

He failed miserably. China was one of the few theaters where the Soviets still maintained air superiority, especially as Stalin pulled planes out of more vulnerable areas. Chiang's Nationalist forces were savaged, and by the beginning of June 300,000 Chinese troops were falling back on Beijing in a rout. Chiang's generals began to talk seriously of removing him, and two assassination plots were narrowly foiled. Many fleeing troops disappeared into the hills, linking up with Communist partisans. Deng Xiaoping, a young officer, overcame factionalism to declare himself head of the People's Republic of China. As the Communists gained strength and entire provinces fell, the Nationalist Army collapsed. Chiang was kidnapped and murdered on June 10. To the dismay of the free world, the Chinese front collapsed completely. The Nationalist Army split into five factions, each battling the other. The Soviets linked up with Deng's Communist guerrillas and supplied them with badly-needed ordnance.

As July began, it looked as through the stalemate was over, and the Soviets were winning.
 
While the Americans worked feverishly on new plans and projects to break the Soviet front, help came from an unexpected front.

July 4, 1945

While the Soviets congratulated themselves on weathering the worst, a fresh blow struck. American troops, operating in the Balkans, guarded Istanbul, while the mountains sufficed to protect Turkey's eastern flank. However, the Soviets were powerless to prevent the Turks from allowing a British landing force from crossing into the Black Sea. Thirty years after Gallipoli, the British Army crossed through the Dardanelles. Winston Churchill himself met the invasion force here, and was photographed solemnly laying a wreath on the beach where so many ANZAC troops had died in the last Great War. The force steamed on, and revealed itself to the Soviets by a massive bombardment of Sevastopol. Before Soviet troops could respond, the Royal Marines had landed north and south of the city. USAAF bombers neutralized the coastal defenses, and within a week the city had fallen. A second wave of Canadian and African troops arrived to bolster the invaders. Within a week, the Soviet Army in the Crimea had collapsed- Canadian forces braved intense fire to secure the mouth of the peninsula, and the British landed a second force at Kerch. In less than two weeks, the entire peninsula was solidly in Allied hands.

The narrow approaches to the Crimea favored the defensive now, and a Soviet counterattack was completely wiped out. Behind the Allied lines, the inhabitants of the Crimea rejoiced, treating the British troops as liberators. Encouraged, Allied propagandists loosed their most deadly weapon- the promise of freedom.

Leaflets- signed by Laval, Willkie, and Churchill- promised that the USSR would be reformed into the Russian Commonwealth. Overnight, the Crimean prisoner of war camps became recruiting grounds, as thousands of Ukrainians came forward to join the Army of Russian Liberation. Marines struck at Odessa and Azov before fading away. Bomber raids now hit the oilfields of the Caucausus, the factories of Kiev, the communication lines to the Balkan front. Just as the Soviets appeared ready to win a final victory, the Allies opened yet a new front, draining forces into garrisons and further demoralizing the Soviet Army.

As July ended, the war entered its most dangerous phase.

July 27, 1945

Alexandr Kovaliuk pulled out his pistol and shot the commissar in the back of the head.

A stunned silence fell over the platoon. One private whipped up his rifle and trained it on Kovaliuk, and two more jumped to wrestle him to the ground.

The silence stretched on uncomfortably. Kovaliuk still didn't know exactly what was happening. The commissar had started screaming at one of his men, calling him a traitor, calling him a swine. He threatened the gulag. And then the pistol.

"Lieutenant?" One of the sergeants was approaching, hand on his pistol. Kovaliuk blinked and nodded. He cleared his throat.

"Men, the commissar was threatening to send one of us to the gulag. For tripping over a stone." Kovaliuk gathered his thoughts- he still wasn't sure exactly where he was going. "But that's not the real reason. The real reason was that Anton is Ukrainian. Just like you. And you! And all the rest of us!" The platoon was staring hard, not daring to agree, not daring to breathe. Kovaliuk tightened his grip on the pistol. "I am Ukrainian. I am not a Soviet. None of us are Soviets, because we were never given a choice! Well, I will give you a choice. You can shoot me right now and be Soviets." He took a deep breath.

"Or you can come south with me and be Ukrainian. We will join the British. We will be free."

One private raised his hand. "Sir... that's... the 155th is between us and the British. Twenty thousand men." Kovaliuk raised his pistol.

"Then we will offer them the same choice."

The awful silence stretched further and further. Finally, one man stepped forward and raised his rifle over his head.

"I am Bohdan Pavelovitch Rasefsky! I am a free man! I am free!" The platoon erupted, roaring and laughing.

Singing, twenty men marched south to face twenty thousand.

July 28, 1945- Shanghai

General Joseph Stilwell stared hard at the five men around the table.

"Goddamn you." They winced and traded glares with each other, avoiding Stilwell's gaze.

"You stupid damn fools, and don't say a word, cause I'm talking to all of you. In three months, you've lost thirty thousand square miles and three hundred thousand men. I won't be surprised if you've gone and lost all of China. And you're still more interested in fighting each other than in fighting the Soviets."

Zhang Xueliang slammed his fist on the table. "I tried to make Chiang see-"

Stilwell cut him off. "And he arrested you, and then Chiang is killed and you're set free and still no one listens to you. Well, you can forget the holy act. I know for a damn fact you sent three divisions into a death trap because you didn't trust the commanders." Stilwell spat on the floor. "Well, this is over right now. If you can't agree which of you is in charge of China, then none of you are." Stilwell rapped on the door and a squad of armed US Marines marched in, standing stiffly at attention.

"Under General Order 3-114 of May 1941 of the Allied Co-Operation Council, I hereby charge you with dereliction of duty, insubordination, endangerment, and a number of other charges I'll finish typing up later on. You're all under arrest, and command of your armies will be transferred from the Nationalist Government to the Allied commander in this theater. That's me, folks." Stilwell raised his hand to stop the eruption of protest. "I don't give a tin shit about your greedy, petty feuds, and I don't intend to watch you play warlord while millions of people die because you didn't get your head out of your ass." Stilwell's translator rubbed his hands anxiously, trying to communicate the tone Stilwell's speech had taken. It didn't matter. The Nationalist generals got his message.

Zhang stood and saluted, with just the right mix of dignity and insulting precision. The other four generals attempted the same with mixed results. Stilwell returned the salute and left the building, walking down to his car. He sighed as the trip back to his headquarters began.

"Lord Jesus, but I just got myself in hot water."

August, 1945

With the German front tied up in a deadly stalemate and India and China on the verge of collapse, the Allies pinned their hopes on the Crimean beachhead. British and American submarines poured into the Black Sea, and commando raids erupted from Bulgaria to the Caucasus. Everywhere the Allies landed, they left arms and ammunition for the disgruntled locals. In Romania, a full-scale guerrilla war developed, further disrupting communications with the Balkan front. In the Caucasus, British agents arrived just as Stalin began the mass deportations of ethnic groups he deemed "unreliable." The result was a bloody guerrilla war in Daghestan, Chechnya, and Azerbaijan. In Armenia, troops revolted against their commanders, and the local government struck a deal with the Allies, allowing Commonwealth troops to move in from Turkey so long as the Turks were kept off Armenian soil. As Stalin poured more troops into suppression of the Caucasus revolt, the frontline in Persia collapsed. Soviet armies withdrew from the siege of Ishafan and pulled back to the border in the east. Muslim rebels in Afghanistan and occupied India stepped up their resistance, aided by British gun-running expeditions. Stalin, hoping to send a message to Tibet, sent paratroopers to occupy Sinkiang, a region long under Soviet influence. The Tibetans took note and forbade Allied flights over their territory.

Zhukov was forced to strengthen his garrisons, draining his frontline. The delay was enough- INA troops were beginning to bolster the shattered British line. Somberly, Zhukov sent orders to entrench at the current position.

In China, the Communist forces continued their march south, arriving at the northern approaches to Beijing on August 12th. General Joseph Stilwell, who had assumed command of the fractured Nationalist Army, cobbled together a makeshift defense force around a nucleus of two US Marine divisions. Ten Chinese militia divisions, an ANZAC brigade, and two French regiments took part in the defense. The ragtag Chinese militia performed spectacularly, rallying several times despite heavy losses. The Soviets and Communist Chinese halted their advance, gathering strength.

This was exactly the breathing space the Allies needed. Under the overall command of General Douglas MacArthur, a joint force of Japanese veterans and US Marines landed at Vladivostok. MacArthur immediately occupied the landing fields, sending B-17s on raids throughout Siberia. Strongpoints were overwhelmed by airborne troops. Within a week, the entire Soviet position along the Pacific coast had collapsed. Several divisions of Soviet troops rebelled and defected, and the natives of Yakutsk declared their independence of Moscow behind the shield of US airpower.

While the world was still digesting this news, France announced that Italy would regain its long-delayed independence. A new government was installed, operating for the moment under a French-imposed constitution (a constitutional convention and free elections would await the war's end). A purged and retrained Italian military immediately began forming behind the lines at Venice, under the overall command of Charles De Gaulle's Italian Theater. De Gaulle declared, with good reason, that within three months he would be able to put thirty fresh divisions on the Italian border. The French also began recruiting in Argentina, announcing that nation would regain its independence by year's end. Plans were laid for 75,000 Argentine soldiers to join the French lines.

As the summer of 1945 faded, so too did Soviet hopes. The edges of Soviet empire were crumbling, and their only advantage- their vast pool of manpower- was fast eroding. In northern Germany, the Army of Russian Liberation received reinforcement from 100,000 Latin American soldiers. The partisans in Yugoslavia, Romania, and the Caucasus were gaining strength daily.

Cornered, Stalin issued fateful orders. On September 3, 1945, Case Ten began.

September 3, 1945- CASE TEN

The state of the Soviet military fifteen months into the war was extremely poor. Nearly a third of the USSR's military strength was devoted to holding Germany, through a corridor fifty miles wide. Insurrection threatened to end Soviet rule in the Caucasus, and while the Siberian armies were tied down in China, the Americans had swept through eastern Siberia. The British foothold in the Crimea left huge swaths of the Soviet Union open to bombing and further destabilization. In the Balkans, in India, China, Scandinavia- everywhere, the Soviet Union was checkmated, and the Allies were producing a new division every day. Within a few months, the Soviet Union would be doomed.

Stalin decided to implement Case Ten. Drawn up by the Soviet High Command six months earlier, Case Ten called for abandonment of the offensive and withdrawal to more defensible lines. In Asia, Stilwell's New Nationalist Army and the Indian National Army were unable to launch a credible offensive. In addition, the People's Republic of China (following a coup, now under the leadership of Zhou Enlai) served as an excellent buffer. The September withdrawal in Asia went smoothly, as Zhukov pulled back to shorter lines and the PRC was given control over land conquered by the Soviets. The troops freed up were poured into Afghanistan to crush the uprising there and to bolster forces in Siberia, where a winter offensive to expel the Americans was planned.

In Europe, however, Case Ten was an unmitigated disaster.

The withdrawal was planned to reconcentrate Soviet forces along a line from the Danzig corridor to Istanbul. This would have doubled the concentration of Soviet troops along the line. In addition, the Allied troops would be exhausted by a rapid march forward and stretched wider. In theory, Case Ten would have allowed the Soviets to launch a devastating series of local offensives against the Allies, re-establishing an insurmountable advantage in manpower. Things went wrong, however, almost from the beginning.

Konev, in receipt of the Case Ten orders, was stunned. He had to pour three million soldiers on foot through a fifty-mile wide corridor, in the face of Allied airpower. He immediately began planning to make the best of the situation. Using American POWs as envoys, Konev informed Patton that he intended to move his troops out of Germany- along the entire width of Patton's northern salient. Patton was given an ultimatum- either withdraw to Danzig or face eight-to-one-odds.

Patton's reply was delivered by Allied cryptographers who broke into the Soviet communications frequencies.

"KONEV- GO SHIT IN YOUR HAT. REGARDS, GEN. GEORGE S. PATTON, JR."

Konev's reply was equally as eloquent. A rolling artillery barrage announced the beginning of the push east. Simultaneously, Soviet troops pulled out of their positions along the French lines and the North Sea coast, burning everything behind them. Konev was determined to leave nothing in Germany the Allies could use. As city after city fell under the torch, the French stepped up their pursuit and bombers raked the retreating columns unmercifully. The Soviets, demoralized by the constant destruction, retreat, and their own losses, finally broke. At Bremen, the commander of the 10th Army, formerly responsible for holding the Netherlands and the North Sea, announced that he would disobey the pillage order. Given a taste of disobedience, his soldiers stopped moving, and before long, Bremen was the center of a virtual civil war, Communist diehards battling mutineers. Many of the mutineers simply melted away, several thousand declaring for the Army of Russian Liberation once they were safely north. The panic and the strife spread quickly, as panicky NKVD officers liberally applied summary execution to speed the evacuation. Within a week, the western Soviet flank had completely collapsed. A lawless, uncontrolled mob, one million strong, was rushing straight at Konev's eastern front, pillaging, raping, and looting as it went. Behind the wave of destruction remained hundreds of thousands of stragglers- some destined for POW camps, others to wear the blue armband of the Army of Russian Liberation.

Konev's offensive failed miserably. Despite his heavy numeric superiority and the discipline that still held on his eastern front, his soldiers lacked the stomach to charge into Patton's lines, and fell back time and again. Patton was forced to give ground in many instances, but he was never truly in danger. Entire Soviet divisions on the southern tip of his salient simply abandoned their positions, marching through Dresden to the east.

On September 21st, the two Soviet columns met. The western flank troops slammed into Konev's eastern lines like a hurricane, looting supplies, disrupting movement, and spreading demoralization like a disease. Konved was forced to turn around his artillery and fire upon the advancing hordes, and soon his entire force was in a state of collapse. On September 27th, Konev gave in to the inevitable. Taking with him a core of disciplined troops, Konev fought his way through the mob, organizing a chokepoint at Dresden. Barely one in six of the Soviet troops in Germany marched through Konev's lines in order. Some remained behind, raising the flag of the Army of Russian Liberation and acting as local authorities. Many more simply turned to brigandage, and packs of Russian bandits were still being rooted out of Germany well into 1947.

In one month, the Russian military had lost three million men without facing any serious combat. The news was too massive to suppress, and soon the entire Soviet sphere was alive with rebellion. In the Ukraine, a Free Ukranian Army sprang up to match the ARL, and soon the Red Army was pulling back from the Crimea. Cossack units in the Don and Kuban joined the growing Caucasus rebellion. In the Balkans, the Soviets were unable to move their troops out- partisans blocked their advance. As the Soviets tried to push through, the Americans moved out of their lines, striking them hard along the rear. The Red Army's will to fight was gone. In a matter of weeks, the entire Balkan line had collapsed, and a million more Soviet soldiers had been lost.

On October 12th, Konev managed to cobble together new defensive lines, farther east than Case Ten had called for- roughly from Memel to Constanta. Instead of seven million men, he had four. In the vacuum he'd left behind, the Allies were delayed by the need to establish order. Poland, Czechoslovakia, Yugoslavia, Bulgaria, Hungary, and Romania regained their independence. The new governments were weak and disorganized, and banditry by Soviet stragglers and local bullies remained a severe problem. The chaos prevented any Allied offensive- as a matter of fact, it was five months before Andrews could move battle-ready American troops up to the Case Ten lines.

As it turns out, he didn't have to.

October 1945- The End

With the Red Army in chaos, Stalin's rule teetered on the edge. While the newly reconcentrated Soviet forces scored significant successes against partisans in the Caucasus and Central Asia, the fire of rebellion seemed to spark up everywhere at once. In Finland, an uprising forced Soviet troops to retreat to the outskirts of Helsinki while Allied transports dropped supplies and arms to the partisans. The Cossack units, swelled by Red Army deserters, gained power in the Kuban, coordinating strikes with the RAF at Sevastopol. Ukrainian partisans took Odessa, and Royal Navy battleships guarded the city. The Siberian offensive never materialized, as troops refused to march east. Allied propaganda units were hard at work breaking into Soviet transmissions, dropping leaflets, and helping to coordinate the growing resistance.

It was starkly apparent that Allied airpower and technology sorely outclassed Soviet capabilities. American jet fighters destroyed entire air bases before interceptors could launch. American bombers, flying above the range of Soviet anti-aircraft guns, now ranged as far as Minsk and Leningrad. One air raid under the legendary Jimmy Doolittle dropped bombs on Moscow, destroying a troops barrack and shattering windows in the Kremlin itself. Once the Red Army refused to fight, the Soviet regime was doomed.

A small cabal of Soviet leaders, led by Lavrenti Beria of the NKVD, decided that the Soviet Union's only hope lay in removing Stalin and opening negotiations. Beria trusted very few outside his immediate circle, and the October 15 Plot was almost solely an NKVD affair. At 9:12 am, Joseph Stalin was killed by a suitcase bomb left by Beria. Beria himself immediately called for an emergency session of the Supreme Soviet, but was arrested by army troops loyal to Stalin.

Zhukov immediately left the Asian front, summoning top leaders of the Red Army to a summit in Stalingrad. There, he issued the Stalingrad Declaration on October 20, placing the Soviet Union under military rule. Despite some initial resistance, the collapse of the NKVD left Zhukov as the only legitimate leader. Zhukov announced an immediate cease-fire on all fronts, calling on the Allies to open negotiations.

The news of Stalin's assassination and the assumption of power by Zhukov caused widespread chaos. In several areas, the Red Army collapsed entirely. In Scandinavia, General Voroshilov announced a unilateral withdrawal, pulling out of Norwegian and Swedish territory, and then out of Finland. In Persia, General Tarasov's own troops killed him and then retreated north. Armenia, Azerbaijan, and Georgia declared independence, and Red Army deserters began marching to their homes. NKVD troops launched a revolt in Moscow itself, battling with Red Army troops in and around the Kremlin. In Siberia, General Galitskii declared for the Army of Russian Liberation and opened his borders to the American/Japanese force at Vladivostok. General MacArthur, riding in a special train, rode west to Okhotsk, brashly appearing at every stop to make speeches to locals.

Faced with the utter collapse of authority, Zhukov accepted the inevitable. On October 30, 1945, Zhukov surrendered unconditionally to the Allies. The Soviet experiment- and World War II- had come to an end.

Epilogue

The sudden collapse of the Soviet Union caught the Allies unprepared. Stilwell hounded the Communist forces in China, not accepting the final surrender of Zhou Enlai until April 12, 1948. (While some historians call this the end of the Second World War, most accept the October 30, 1945 date.)

It soon became apparent that the world was horribly unstable. The French and British Empires had suffered mortal blows- France no longer had the strength to dictate to its colonies, and Britain had been forced to promise independence to India. The USSR, China, and to a lesser degree, Eastern Europe, were on the verge of anarchy. Konev and other Red Army leaders maintained small pockets of order, but were little more than warlords.

President Willkie had made George Marshall his Secretary of State, and on November 18, 1945, announced the Marshall Plan. In order to combat the rising tide of anarchy and rebuild the former Communist states, the United States announced a massive aid program. Over the next ten years, billions of dollars were spent on reconstruction of Europe, the USSR, and China.

Too much is radically different from our world for me to create a really convincing history of the last few decades right now. What stands out:

The re-emergence of stable Chinese and Russian democracy under American tutelage created a massive pool of cheap, skilled industrial labor. As a result, the American economy never became the industrial powerhouse of our world. America does remain the sole superpower- but based on a technological and computer revolution that occurred faster.

France and Britain took a somewhat slower route to decolonization, assisted by the removal of Communism as a guiding light and helping hand to nationalist movements. Also, without an external enemy to combat, America and France were much more eager to support democratic rule in Latin America. The Third World, while still poor, isn't the desperate place we know. Argentina, Brazil and Chile are world-class economic powers, and Uruguay serves as a sort of Latin American Singapore.

Pierre Laval left office in 1946, but served as the first Chair of the European Community's Presidency. He later became something of a recluse, emerging only for the inaugural session of the European Parliament in 1966. He died the next week.

Joseph Kennedy was elected President in 1960. Rumors of John Kennedy's infidelities prevented him from running, haunted by the ostracism of Roosevelt after the revelation of his affair. Robert Kennedy never became President, either, but won the Nobel Peace Prize in 1977 for his work as Chair of the US Development Agency.

Radical Islam remains a problem for the world, as do the problems of global warming, environmental damage, and nuclear proliferation. But in this world- unscarred by a fifty-year Cold War, firmly under democratic rule, and where the divide between the rich and poor is smaller- there is a greater degree of optimism and hope.

As President Joe Kennedy said, "Ask not what the world can do for you- ask yourself, what I can do for this world?"

Stay tuned to learn more about the fates of your favorite characters.


*points to blackboard* As you can see here, the Soviet Union expelled several million German civilians after they overran Central Europe. Konrad Adenauer's Germany ratified peace treaties with the Allies (and with the new Russian Federation) which forever renounced all claims to Memel, the Sudetenland, Austria, and nearly all of Silesia. However, the Germans were slower to accept the expulsion of Germans from East Prussia and Danzig. After three years of negotiations and much behind-the-scenes bargaining, Germany and Poland reached the separate Prussian Accords. Poland was allowed to keep East Prussia and Danzig (although some adjustment of the borders with Lithuania and Belarus were made), as an autonomous area. Germany was granted some extraterritorial rights in the former East Prussia.

While we're discussing changes to the map, you may want to examine the Middle East here, to look at the Republic of Israel-Palestine. As you can see, the nation has been divided into a number of cantons on the Swiss model. Several European states, in the wake of the dark revelations about Nazi atrocities, have also taken care to ensure the civil rights of their Jewish minorities. France and her former pupil state of Italy have led the way, with model civil rights statutes that were widely copied, especially by the Ukraine, which along with Israel-Palestine and the United States is a major center of Judaism.

Civil rights- that reminds me. Joe Kennedy, like most of the war hero presidents to come (such as G.H.W. Bush, 1976, and Bob Dole, 1980), ran as a Republican. To pass his sweeping 1963 Civil Rights Act, Kennedy relied heavily on the support of Lyndon Baines Johnson, Senate Majority Leader. Johnson's ambitions for the presidency died in 1963, as the Democrats shattered on the rock of civil rights into northern and southern wings. In 1986, the split was finalized when the New Democrats (the liberal northern wing) merged with the Green Party. The southerners kept the Democratic name, forming a conservative populist party. The Republicans remain pro-business and pro-civil rights, largely because Southern Baptists never bolted the Democratic Party in this world. The Republicans and Democrats each hold approximately 45% of Congress, and the Greens a crucial 10%.

Over here, it hardly need be said, the US never withdrew from the Kyoto treaty.

Ho Chi Minh went back to college after the war and died peacefully in his sleep after his election as Leader of the Opposition in the Indochina Parliament. He was under consideration at the time for a Nobel Peace Prize, for his work in helping to devise the constitutional agreements that prevented the secession of Laos and Cambodia.

Kim Il Sung was arrested by the Republic of Korea and sentenced to ten years of hard labor for his postwar activities with the Communist Party. He was later rehabilitated, standing unsuccessfully for the Korean Congress several times. A month before he died, he was given Korea's highest military decoration for his resistance to the Japanese during the war. (His collaboration with the Soviets was largely forgotten by this point.)

Mikhail Gorbachev was a bank president.

Ernesto "Che" Guevara was a crusading newspaper editor, who became a minor international celebrity for his exposes of corruption in the Argentine government and his adamant opposition to the remnants of French influence. His flamboyant appearance and long hair shocked many, and he became a familiar face in America (via satellite television, he was sought after as a commentator).

Pierre Laval, as already mentioned, stepped down as President of France after ten exhausting years, and died in 1967. He left a personal fortune of nearly a billion dollars. A hundred million went to his family, and the remainder to the World Health Organization's vaccination campaigns. He was a softie at heart.

Colonel Jean Gaspard retired from military service in 1968, following a stint as adviser to Algeria's government during its 1960-64 war with Muslim fundamentalists and the foiling of an assassination plot against Egypt's President Nasser. (He had actually been promoted to General, but was prevented from revealing this for national security reasons.)

Jean Denel broke his morphine habit. His Communist past caused him some difficulty in finding a job at first, but there were more jobs than available men. He ended up marrying a piano teacher and becoming an elementary school principal.

Henri Bacquard ran for local office on the strength of his war record and won. He served two terms in the National Assembly before his election as Mayor of Lyons.

Otto Skorzeny served six years in Spandau Prison. Upon his release, he gave a couple of extremely polite newspaper interviews before disappearing. He later surfaced as an advisor to the government of Bolivia (which had the distinction of being the last Axis nation to surrender), and then disappeared again entirely in 1966. To this day, his final resting place remains a mystery.

Yamamoto was killed in action at the Battle of the Hokkaido Straits. His flagship Hiryu was swarmed by torpedo planes after Shooting Star jets took out his fighter screen.

Albert Einstein wrote the same letter to Al Landon that he did to Roosevelt in our timeline. The Manhattan Project fit nicely into Landon's modernization campaign- "I'd rather spend ten bucks and put one kid in harm's way than spend one and risk ten kids," he said famously. By the way, this demonstrates simultaneously Landon's great strength of plainspoken grit and his great weakness of tactless blurting.

The Manhattan Project was still two months from completion at war's end. While an atom bomb did go off at Trinity, and atom bombs were later tested by Great Britain, France, Russia, China, Brazil, India, Pakistan, Brazil, Argentina, Korea and Japan, no nation maintains more than a few dozen warheads- just enough to serve as a final deterrent. With the exceptions of India and Pakistan during the Kashmir Crisis of 1993, no nation has ever threatened the use of its nuclear option.

Einstein served for three years as head of the UN Atomic Energy Commission, but he had no head for politics. His suggestion of a World Atomic Authority that would supply nuclear power to UN member states never took off, and his Non-Proliferation Pact was gutted. He resigned in disgust and went back to Princeton.

As I stated previously, Israel-Palestine wasn't flooded with refugees as it was in our timeline. Also, the British held onto the area until 1954. As a result, there was enough time to build a workable consensus. The region is divided into thirty-two provinces with large degrees of autonomy. Jewish Israelis now make up about 55% of the population. By tradition, the Speaker of Parliament is Jewish and the President is Arab. There are extremists on both sides, but the majority of MPs and citizens lean heavily on those who would break the fragile peace.

Goering, Goebbels, and Eichmann were tried at the Rome Tribunal, although Goering committed suicide before sentencing. Goebbels, Eichmann, Bohrmann, and several other top-level Nazis were hung on December 10, 1946. Riefenstahl was tried and cleared, although she never managed to fully redeem her reputation. She still kept her love of adventure, taking up scuba diving in her 90s. She also attempted to join one of the European Union's special Arts Grant missions to the World Space Station, but was rejected after physical screening.

The world is definitely unstable. The US is the world's strongest power and the world's strongest economy, but in this world Russia had forty years less catch-up to do after Communism's fall. The end of empire came slower and easier, China's been a capitalist powerhouse for decades, and Latin America never had decades of disastrous military rule to recover from. There are several big power blocs- Russia, the Federal Republic of China, the Latin Trade Bloc, the European Union, the USA, the Arab League, the African Community... something big has got to happen soon.

What that is, no one will ever know.
 
from the secret archives of the Biblioteque Nationale-

October 5, 1967

Jean Gaspard lit the cigar, a dizziness coursing through him. He coughed violently into his palm, his back aching. He'd used himself too hard for too long- this was his last mission, he swore to himself again. He caught a glance of himself in a window, white moustache and thick glasses. He turned his attention back to the symbol scratched into the wall- a single fang in a circle.

"Werewolves," he gritted out. "Merde."

Farhan looked at him quizzically. Gaspard nodded to the symbol.

"Werewolves. The Nazi underground." Farhan's eyes went wide.

"You mean- Skorzeny? What the hell is Skorzeny doing in Egypt?" Gaspard pointed.

"It's obvious, Farhan. The French government sends us here because it hears someone is going after Nasser. We hear talk that leads us to this shop. And now, the owner is murdered and there's a Werewolf symbol on the wall. It's not a frame-up. I recognize that knifework." Gaspard gestured to a footprint in the dust- a large foot, dragged along the floor. "Skorzeny's here. He's taunting us."

Farhan grunted. "Should have shot him when you had the chance."

"Wasn't my decision." Gaspard drew on his cigar, and looked at the ceiling. "Twenty years is a hell of a long time, Farhan."

Farhan nodded. "Apparently, it's not that long to some."

October 6, 1967

Gaspard grumbled as he paced on the building's roof. His satellite phone still couldn't get a signal.

"Damned Foreign Office gadget-lovers," he muttered. Why did they give him this thing if it didn't work? "Maybe I'll try again in a few years when it works." He hung up in disgust and put the phone back in its pack. Staring down on Cairo, he lit a cigar. He still hadn't found anything: Skorzeny had covered his tracks too well.

Gaspard drew on the cigar, musing while threads of smoke uncurled themselves into the desert air. He'd found a few Nazi diehards in Algeria when he helped fight in the Insurgency- Soviet prisoners of war who'd taken advantage of the chaos at war's end to make their way into the world of the muhajideen of Afghanistan, Dagestan, Persia and Bosnia. The Muslim radicals were hunted from base to base- their failed rebellions in Lebanon, Israel-Palestine, Algeria, and Nigeria had left them without a patron. The great democracies tolerated no disruption of their quiet world, and the Arab elites were anxious to maintain their grip on power. Nasser was the voice of the Arab world- his vision of unity required openness and toleration. As long as he lived, the fragile peace of the Middle East had a chance to take root and grow. If the radicals had their way- as they so nearly had in the Israeli Civil War- then the instability would take hold and shatter the Muslim world.

And now proof that Skorzeny was helping the radicals. Gaspard puffed his cigar. Nazis and muhajideen- and to what end? The end of Israel, surely. Arab nations opposed to democracy and to communism. And- just maybe- the chance for one last adventure. Adrenaline is the most addicitive of drugs.

Gaspard turned the thought over in his head. And now I'm here to stop him. Just like I stopped the radicals in Algeria- because Farhan and I are the Foreign Office's crack team on Arab issues-

A chill ran through his aging body.

Skorzeny knew I would come. This is a trap. All the rest is just icing on the cake.

Gaspard whirled and rushed down the stairs, panting at the exertion. He barrelled into the room, smashing in the door.

Farhan was already dead, a bullet in the back of his head. Two young blond men held up pistols, Lugers with silencers. As the door closed behind him, Gaspard heard the loping rhythm of a man walking with a limp.

A big man.

October 6, 1967

Gaspard slowly raised his hands. He wasn't beaten yet, not by a long shot, but he needed time.

Skorzeny knew it. His icy bark of laughter hadn't changed in twenty years.

"Put your hands down, General. We both know you haven't surrendered." Skorzeny settled into a chair, grunting as his injured knee bent.

"You've murdered my aide." Skorzeny nodded.

"I do regret that. He heard us entering the room and injured young Hans here." Gaspard noticed that one of the young men was cradling his ribs. "Rest assured, your man didn't go down easily." Gaspard snarled.

"Nor do you. What is this?" Skorzeny smiled.

"I wish to end our long antagonism, General Gaspard. I tried to retire once, you know. But my blood has always been restless. I've been quite busy- I trained the Bolivian State Police, I fought in Palestine, and, yes, Algeria. I'm something of a legend in the Palestine Liberation Front's camps, you know- the White Lion, they call me."

"More of a ferret." Gaspard clenched his fists. "Are you saying you've murdered two people just to shake hands with me?" Skorzeny smiled.

"Three. You forget President Nasser, whose motorcade will pass under this window-" Skorzeny gestured to the street under Gaspard's room- "in twelve minutes. Please note the Fiat in the alley across the way- it contains one hundred kilograms of high explosives, fifteen liters of napalm, and fifty kilograms of shrapnel." Skorzeny held up a small radio transmitter. "And one detonator."

Gaspard remained silent. Skorzeny nodded and continued.

"Here is the deal. You will send a highly confidential report to President De Gaulle announcing that I was killed. In a few minutes, there will be an explosion in a room on the other side of Cairo containing a corpse of plausible height. I've even gone to the trouble of locating someone with jaw and knee injuries. Then I will walk out of this room and to a quiet villa somewhere. I'll never bother another soul. And you can announce that you've foiled a plot to assassinate President Nasser, and garner another medal or two." Skorzeny's smile died somewhere before it reached his eyes.

"And if I don't. You'll kill me?" Skorzeny chuckled.

"You're getting slow in your dotage, Gaspard. No, my dear General. I will break your jaw and your knee. Then I will blow up President Nasser. You will have the pleasure of hobbling after me through the chaos of a disintegrating Middle East, from Beirut to Tel Aviv to Tunis. I have some very interesting ideas which I haven't yet shared with my muhajideen friends. Neither of us will ever know peace again. I think I know you well enough, old warrior- what was it MacArthur said after Cuba? Ah, yes- you simply want to fade away."

Skorzeny held up the transmitter. "The choice is yours."

Gaspard narrowed his eyes. The two gunmen- he could drop one and use him as a shield, the room was small enough for that. He could lunge at Skorzeny- the gunmen would pause, and he'd able to knock one out the window while he broke the arm of the second. He could dive back for the doorway- it was close to the stairway, he could escape and warn Nasser's security. He ran through another six scenarios in his head. Finally, he sighed and bowed his head.

"I'm tired," he murmured. "Tired of fighting battles no one will ever know about. Tired of fighting with shadows. Tired of seeing my friends die." He paused, frowning at the sky. "Go home, Skorzeny. Our war is over."

Skorzeny nodded slowly, raising himself from the chair. He took a battery out of the transmitter and sighed.

"Ah, well." He grinned. "A pity. It would have been glorious." Skorzeny paused for a second, fury and confusion working around his face. Finally, he sagged and a fire seemed to go out of his eyes. Followed by his henchmen, Skorzeny limped out of the room and out of history.

Gaspard sat on the bed. Farhan's dead eyes stared blankly back at him. Gaspard reached down and gently closed them. Then he lay back on his bed.

He closed his eyes and listened to the silent breath of the night.


The beeping on the machine shows that Gaspard will not last much longer. Theres a knock at the door, a nurse hurries over and opens it. "No, you cannot come in....He is very sick...he will see no one!". "tell him I'm a ghost of his past" Says a very thick german accent. The Nurse lets him in. Gaspard awakens to the sound of a man....a very large man with a limp walk up to his bed side. "ahhh i see i have won the war, i told you in my last letter that id out live you." Gaspard struggles to talk, "ahhh Skorzeny, i had a feeling we would meet again, i only wish it were under better times, much like the last time we met." For the next couple hours the 2 old enemies talk, talking about what has happend in the last years since they had seen each other. "go over the the top dresser, and take out the small box" Skorzeny does it and opens it. Gaspard says "that is the medal i won for all my bravery battling you during that war, I want you to have it" Skorzeny walks over and takes Gaspards hand "My friend, never in my life had i had so much fun playing cat and mouse with you" Beep. beep. beep. beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep.

Skorzeny pockets the small box and heads toward the door, as he's about to leave he looks back...Gaspard the great french commando is dead, only now does Skorzeny feel is own mortality.