1st Half of May 1941
The hapless staff officer, a man whose monocle had slid down his sweat-drenched brow more times than he cared to count, surveyed the sea of red and blue pins that cluttered the map table before him. The crimson needles, which once pointed triumphantly towards the gleaming prize of Leningrad and the gateway to the east, now looked more like the scattered teeth of a rotten smile, with the blue pins of the Soviet 8th Army stubbornly lodged between the gaps. The air in the German Army Group North Headquarters had grown thick with the acrid scent of defeat masquerading as cigar smoke, as the generals barked out orders and the telephones squawked like caged birds. Colonel Gustav von Schlappschuss, the very picture of a man whose name was more intimidating than his tactical acumen, could not fathom the audacity of the Soviets. The T-35 monsters, with their quaintly outsized turrets and a seemingly endless supply of angst for his panzer crews, had transformed the once orderly blitzkrieg ballet into a chaotic tarantella of explosions and retreating treads.
"Ja, ja," Gustav murmured to no one in particular, stroking his meticulously groomed mustache as he contemplated the dire situation. The Panzer III, the pride of the German armored forces, had been rendered about as effective as a paper knife in a butchery contest. The heavy tanks, which the Wehrmacht had so confidently dismissed as mere curiosities from a bygone era, had turned into the bane of their existence. The Soviet beasts had a curious knack for playing a game of mechanical peekaboo, emerging from the dense foliage only to vanish again, leaving behind a trail of twisted metal and charred dreams. The infantry, bless their hearts, had done their best, lobbing grenades and prayers with equal fervor, but they had been about as effective as a toddler armed with a water pistol against a horde of angry ducks.
The plot twist that never came had Gustav feeling like the straight man in a comedy show that had gone off the rails. He had expected a grand entrance from the Luftwaffe, a chorus line of Stukas to swoop in and lay down a symphony of destruction upon the enemy's heads. But alas, the skies remained as empty as his wine glass at this ungodly hour, the planes apparently too busy serenading the poor saps pushing towards Brest. Gustav knew the score—his drive had been the neglected middle child in this war's dysfunctional family, and it stung.
As he pondered his next move, the distant rumble grew louder, like the displeased grumbling of a giant's stomach. The T-28s, those lumbering leviathans of the Soviet medium tank arsenal, were on their way, no doubt eager to add their weight to the chaos. Gustav felt his heart sink to the depths of his highly polished boots. A retreat was inevitable, a humiliating backpedal from the very jaws of victory. The order would have to be given, the blame cast elsewhere, and the story of the day's failure would be scribbled down in the annals of war with the finest ink of irony. He glanced at the clock—still ticking, as if mocking the immutable flow of fate. With a sigh that could have deflated the most robust of Zeppelins, he reached for the telephone, ready to relay the grim news up the chain of command. The dance of power had taken an unexpected turn, and Gustav found himself stepping on his own feet.
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The citizens of Trondheim, who had been huddled in their homes with the solemnity of mice anticipating a catastrophic feline entrance, were now greeted with the peculiar sight of the ocean's fury playing out before their very eyes. The horizon, once a serene canvas of navy blues and steely grays, had transformed into a tumultuous masterpiece of fire and brimstone. The omnipotent Soviet colossus, the Sovyetsky Soyuz, had emerged from the frosty mists like a mythical leviathan, its guns roaring with the indignant fury of a nation unaccustomed to the icy embrace of the Arctic. The German ships, once proud and gleaming under the Nordic sun, now resembled a conga line of matchsticks being snapped in the jaws of a giant. Each explosion sent a cacophony of splinters skyward, creating a macabre fireworks display that reflected in the shocked gazes of the onlookers. The sea, once a silent witness to the unfolding drama of war, had become a raucous participant, its waves dancing in a grim ballet of destruction. Meanwhile, young Olaf, who had dreamt of the day when he would join the fray as a gallant warrior, found his coming of age narrative unexpectedly rewritten. Instead of charging into battle, he found himself running a makeshift tea stand, serving the trembling soldiers and sailors who had stumbled upon the shores to be taken prisoner. The irony of the Soviets achieving their first significant victory on the high seas was not lost on the townsfolk, who had grown accustomed to the land-based blitzkrieg that had become the hallmark of the Third Reich. Yet, as the last plume of black smoke dissipated into the chilly air, the only invaders left to confront in Trondheim were the seagulls, squawking over the spoils of war like unruly siblings fighting over a discarded fish head. The town, though relieved of its immediate danger, was left to grapple with the peculiar aftertaste of a victory that was not quite their own, but a spectacle that none would soon forget.
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I, a mere mechanic in the grand scheme of the Soviet Air Force, watched with a peculiar mix of awe and amusement as the lumbering giants of the sky, the Petlyakov Pe-8s, took off from the airfield at Kiev like a gaggle of ducks with a vendetta. They were a motley crew of metal monstrosities, patched up with a mishmash of parts that would make even the most stoic of engineers weep. Yet, they held an allure, a promise of power that could shake the very foundations of the enemy's war machine. Their mission was clear, though the irony was not lost on us: to disrupt the very veins and arteries of the Wehrmacht's relentless march into Belarussia. It was a task that seemed almost whimsical in its futility, but the pilots and crew, bless their valiant souls, approached it with the gusto of a tavern brawler in a vodka-soaked haze.
The Yak-2s, our feathered guardians, flitted about the skies like overgrown mosquitoes, their engines buzzing a tune of defiance as they escorted the Petlyakovs. The pilots of these nimble fighters had the unenviable job of playing shepherd to the bombers' lambs, trying to lead them through the gauntlet of Messerschmitts that awaited like vultures around a carcass. The first few sorties were tense, our hearts in our throats as we waited for the grim tapestry of war to unfurl. To our surprise, the engagements were less like the one-sided slaughters we'd anticipated and more like a dance of death, a ballet with bullets and bombs. The Luftwaffe's BF-109Fs were indeed formidable foes, but our pilots had a knack for turning the tables, using the very chaos of combat to their advantage. They were the jesters in this grim masquerade, darting and weaving with a grace that belied their mechanical steeds' cumbersome reputation.
As the days turned into weeks and the weeks into a blur of oil, sweat, and engine grease, the pattern of our engagements began to resemble a strange ritual. We'd send out our heavy metal birds of war, expecting them to be picked off one by one, only to watch as they returned, bruised but not broken, with tales of their escapades. The Yaks, too, had their moments of glory, their pilots becoming the stuff of barrack-room legend, spinning yarns of their daring do that had even the stoic sergeants chuckling into their steaming bowls of borscht. It was as if the gods themselves had decided to play dice with our fates, each roll determining whether we'd laugh in the face of death or mourn our comrades' passing. And yet, amidst this macabre farce, we found a strange camaraderie, an identity not just as cogs in the great Soviet war machine, but as the unsung heroes of the skies, the ones who kept the ducks flying.
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About a week into the fighting, and the Germans have taken Brest, but are in the midst of being counter-attacked. Their drive on Riga was initially successful, but has been pushed back due to the unexpectedly dogged resistance of our forces equipped with the T-35 heavy tanks, and the intervention of one of our cavalry corps, with T-28 medium tanks. Our success here is likely short lived, as the Germans are heavily reinforcing this drive and my current forces aren't numerous enough to fully halt it.
In the center, the drive towards Minsk has been halted due to the German's repositioning forces to push towards Riga. In the south, we have had success in attacking Hungary and Romania. The hope is to force the Germans to spread out more and force them into reacting to us. I am in no way ready for full scale offensives...but so far the AI is proving to be it's own worst enemy.
The number of German armor divisions is disquieting...and I am grateful I have researched anti-tank weaponry to try to give my boys a fighting chance. I am also glad the enemy mostly has only Panzer IIIs...and not Panzer IVs.
In the air, the Luftwaffe has not really been present very much. Our fighters have given the enemy bombers a bloody nose...and our strategic bomber force is taking losses but not catastrophic ones. This is pretty much as good as I was hoping, since I have tried not to focus heavily on air units. I suspect I have the Royal Air Force to thank for the limited number of German aircraft I am facing.
The big surprise has come at sea. The Germans finally invaded Norway...they landed troops at Bergen successfully, and a force was heading for Narvik and ran directly into the arms of my super heavy battleship. No transport survived. It was a glorious slaughter. I will now send my K-class submarines to raid the German supply lines to Bergen. Time to feast on convoys. The Baltic / Iron road is closed to the Germans for now. Unfortunately, I can't send Soviet forces into Norway because they aren't actually in my faction...but the sea doesn't care about nationality...and my navy has done well!
