His name isn't very intimidating to begin with. I see the Germans are sending their very best to face you!
I expect the Germans to overcompensate and come at you next with King Tigers.
A fine meal!
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His name isn't very intimidating to begin with. I see the Germans are sending their very best to face you!
To be fair, the Germans of this time didn't have the greatest of leaders...why not have fun with names?
I am quite sure that the folks in Germany are already dreaming up new uber-weapons to face off against my stronk weapons...
End of May 1941
In the cramped, stuffy bunker deep in the heart of the Wolfsschanze, the air was thick with the scent of cigarette smoke and the sour tang of despair. Generals Keitel and Jodl exchanged glances, their faces a canvas of weary resignation as they tried to maintain their composure in the face of the Führer's volcanic wrath. Jodl, the more stoic of the two, fidgeted with his monocle, his mind racing through the military strategies that could potentially salvage the situation, while Keitel, his cheeks flushed with anxiety, kept his eyes firmly glued to the map, as if the solution to their predicament might be found in the tiny red and blue pins that signified their troops' dwindling positions. Meanwhile, the lesser-known yet equally exasperated Colonel Klemm, who had the misfortune of being the messenger of this dire news, wished he could simply melt into the wall behind him.
"Mein Führer," Keitel began tentatively, his voice quivering like a leaf in the path of an approaching storm, "we are doing everything in our power to regroup and counterattack, but the... the situation is... challenging, to say the least."
"Challenging!" Hitler bellowed, his voice echoing through the concrete corridors like the roar of a caged beast. "This is not a game of checkers, Keitel! This is the fate of the Third Reich we are talking about!" He slammed his fist onto the table, sending the delicate porcelain cups and saucers rattling precariously. "How can you call the treachery of our allies 'challenging'?"
Jodl took a deep breath, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down as he swallowed his own words of dissent. "Indeed, the Romanians switching sides is a... a most unexpected development," he ventured, his voice as tight as a violin string about to snap. "But we must remain steadfast in our convictions and our objectives."
"Convictions!" Hitler spat, his mustache quivering with indignation. "What good are convictions when our so-called allies are as reliable as a chocolate teapot in Siberia?" He paused, his gaze flitting between the two men, who were now both visibly shrinking before him. "And what about those blundering buffoons in Army Group South? Did they think they were on a summer jaunt to the Black Sea?"
The room fell silent, save for the hissing of the radiator and the distant clatter of a typewriter, the rhythm of war's incessant administrative drumbeat. The tension was palpable, the weight of their collective failure hanging in the air like a dark, oppressive fog. Even the mice scurrying in the shadows of the bunker's corners seemed to hold their breath.
And as the rant continued, unabated by the ticking clock or the gravity of the situation, the generals could only nod along, their thoughts a jumble of fear, frustration, and a sneaking suspicion that maybe, just maybe, their beloved Führer wasn't the military genius they had all once believed him to be. But they dare not voice it aloud, for in this bunker of power, the only sound louder than the clang of defeat was the echo of their own silent prayers for a miracle that seemed more elusive than a good joke at a Gestapo dinner party.
Both Keitel and Jodl were seasoned veterans of the "Hitler Rant Show" and knew that when the curtain fell on one of these dramatic monologues, it was their cue to step in with a dose of military reality. They took a moment to collect their thoughts, the air around them charged with the scent of burnt strategy maps and shattered illusions of victory.
"Mein Führer," began Keitel, his voice a delicate pas de deux between respect and the urge to roll his eyes, "while the situation is indeed... challenging, we must not lose sight of the fact that the Romanian and Hungarian setbacks are not the end of the world."
"Ja, ja," chimed in Jodl, eager to placate the man whose mood could swing from that of a rabid squirrel to a sulky toddler denied his nap. "We have faced adversity before and emerged triumphant. Our engineers are working around the clock to devise new wunderwaffen that will surely turn the tide in our favor!"
Hitler paused, his fists still clenched tightly around the edges of the map table. The room held its collective breath, waiting for the verdict. "Wunderwaffen, you say?" he mused, his eyes lighting up with a mad spark of hope. "Tell me more about these... wunderwaffen."
And so, the generals launched into an elaborate dance of words, describing fantastical contraptions that would make even Jules Verne blush. There were super-tanks with shells the size of a small car, jetpack-equipped soldiers who could rain terror from the skies, and even a secret underwater base where the next generation of U-boats were being built to rule the seas. It was a veritable cornucopia of military absurdity, each idea more ludicrous than the last. But in the shadowy bunker, where the line between strategy and delusion had been blurred by the relentless march of the Soviet bear, these proposals were greeted with a nod of approval from the man who had once promised his people a thousand-year empire.
The two generals watched as the dictator's face softened, his eyes glazed over with the sweet nectar of distraction. It was as if he had forgotten the very words of defeat that had just left his lips. In that moment, they knew they had bought themselves a bit more time. Time to patch up the crumbling Eastern Front with duct tape and hope, and perhaps, just perhaps, avoid the wrath of the man whose temper could make the very earth tremble. And as they retreated to their offices, their heads filled with the absurdity of their own words, they couldn't help but chuckle. After all, in the dark comedy that was the Third Reich, sometimes the best defense was a good offense... of nonsense.
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The fighting in Eastern Poland see-saws back and forth. I am reasonably confident that the Wehrmacht will not be able to break through, and that we will eventually grind them down. The AI's habit of reinforcing failure with the troops that are succeeding is so delightfully...predictable...and exploitable.
My armies in the south have broken open the weaker Axis allies to the south...and we have been able to fire the Romania switch sides event three years early. I'm not entirely sure this will enable me to actually advance into Central Europe...as doing so will only lengthen my front line and I really don't have a huge army yet.
But still...fun to be able to knock out one of the Axis so early!
- 3
Barbarossa's barely begun and already the Axis tears itself apart. Excellent.
At least it's more useful than a chocolate teapot in Burma. That one's liable to melt.
The entire scene was great, but I found the closing line to be the most striking and true.
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The more I study how Germany actually was run during that time...the more true the statement becomes.
The really terrifying reality is that the concept is true for almost any government. Almost all government policy is wrong...and the amount of nonsense in any government can be on a spectrum from 'mostly harmless' to 'oh...my...God' and government will still function.
- 2
July 1941
The young man, whose name was Gustav, watched with a peculiar mix of excitement and trepidation as the German troops marched through the cobblestone streets of Turku. The sun had decided to take a break from the dreary war-torn skies, casting a warm, almost cheerful glow on their gleaming helmets and rifles. Gustav, a die-hard conservative with a penchant for speaking in grandiose tones, couldn't help but feel a sense of camaraderie with these disciplined men of valor, despite the language barrier and the stark reality that they were technically the enemy of his enemy. He had always been an idealist at heart, believing in the purity of a cause and the redemptive power of standing firm against tyranny. The Soviets had brought fear and scarcity to his homeland, and he had watched with horror as the socialist ideology began to seep into the fabric of Finnish society like a malignant dye. Now, with the arrival of the Germans, Gustav saw an opportunity for his country to shake off the shackles of oppression and rekindle the flame of independence that had once burned so fiercely.
He observed the soldiers with a keen eye, noting their sharp movements and stoic expressions. They were a stark contrast to the disheveled and demoralized Soviet troops he had seen retreating, their eyes hollow from the unending battles in the harsh Finnish winter. The Germans, on the other hand, seemed fueled by a determination that transcended mere survival. Gustav had read of their Blitzkrieg tactics and their swift conquests across the continent, and while he didn't necessarily agree with their political leanings, he couldn't help but admire their tenacity and military prowess. He felt a strange kinship with these foreigners, a kinship forged in the crucible of shared adversity.
As the days turned into weeks, Gustav's hope grew stronger with each passing day that perhaps, just perhaps, the Third Reich could be the unlikely heroes in this chapter of Finland's storied history. He eagerly awaited the moment when the Finnish and German forces would link arms and drive the Bolsheviks back from whence they came. He imagined the cheers that would erupt from the townspeople, the joyous reunions of families torn apart by the brutal occupation, and the proud rebirth of a nation that had so valiantly resisted the Red tide. It was a hope that was both naive and noble, a hope that would soon be tested by the capricious whims of fate and the darker realities of war.
But for now, as Gustav leaned against the cold stones of a centuries-old building, watching the Wehrmacht organize their supplies with a precision that would make a Swiss watchmaker weep with envy, he allowed himself to dream. Dream of a future where the swastika and the blue-and-white cross would fly side by side, not as conqueror and conquered, but as brothers in arms against a common foe. He knew it was a precarious hope, one that could be snuffed out as easily as a candle in a gale, but it was a hope that sustained him through the long, dark days of occupation. And in the grand tapestry of history, where the threads of fate often twist and turn in the most unexpected ways, Gustav clung to the belief that redemption for his beloved Finland was not just a distant mirage, but a real, tangible possibility.
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Hungary switches sides. Slovakia is annexed.
Our forces reach Belgrade but have to pull north to support our fighting in Hungary and Slovakia. Our infantry formations are lagging behind the cavalry in the south, and that situation remains extremely fluid.
Germany makes an amphibious landing at Turku, and prepares to exploit our weakness there. We redeploy troops to protect the routes to Murmansk and Leningrad. Hopefully our men arrive in time.
In Eastern Poland, we continue to hold...but casualties are mounting. The Germans have been able to really punish us at times, and I am starting to get concerned that we won't be able to hold where we are. I may decide to pull troops out of the south...potentially some of the cavalry, to give myself some more troops that can plug holes if the Germans do manage to break through.
It 'looks' good...but the army is showing brittleness...
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"Ah, comrades," General Zhukov began, stroking his mustache thoughtfully as he surveyed the map, "the dance of war has turned into a rather complicated tango, hasn't it?" His voice was a blend of gruffness and wit, the kind that could cut through the thick fog of a Stalingrad morning. The other generals, clustered around the table, nodded solemnly, each lost in his own calculations and concerns. "Between the brave Hungarians switching tunes and the Motorized Corps playing a rather unexpected polka through Bratislava, it seems we're in for a performance we didn't anticipate in our grand theater of operations."
General Budyonny leaned forward, his eyes twinkling with the glimmer of a man who'd seen more than his share of battles. "And let's not forget our little excursion in Belgrade," he quipped, his mouth curling into a sardonic smile. "The Germans had the audacity to take the stage for a brief encore before the grand finale of our counter-offensive. Quite the dramatic twist, wouldn't you say?"
The room echoed with chuckles that were as dry as the toast they'd had for breakfast, each man recognizing the bitter irony in their words. The war had indeed turned into a tragicomedy, with the punchlines delivered by the grim reapers of fate. Yet, amidst the gallows humor, there was a palpable sense of camaraderie. They were all in this together, navigating the unpredictable plot twists that the war had thrown at them.
General Timoshenko, never one to be outdone in the arena of dark humor, chimed in, "Perhaps we should send a telegram to Berlin, congratulating them on their newfound love for the Arctic. I'm sure the Finns are thrilled to have them as occupiers." His sarcasm hung in the air like a thick plume of cigar smoke, reminding everyone of the chilling reality outside their warm, map-filled room.
The generals of STAVKA were a peculiar bunch, a motley crew of strategic minds and seasoned soldiers who understood that sometimes, the only way to keep the madness at bay was to laugh in its face. But as they shared their quips and quips, their eyes never left the map, their fingers never ceased to trace the lines of advancement and retreat, and their thoughts remained focused on the heavy burden of lives lost and battles still to be won. For all the humor they could muster, they knew that the true cost of this war was no laughing matter.
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Gustav sadly shares the thought of many during this time, choosing what they see as the lesser of two evils.
The Soviet Balkan campaign might just be a bridge too far. Better to pull back and let Germany bleed itself on your turf.
The Soviet Balkan campaign might just be a bridge too far. Better to pull back and let Germany bleed itself on your turf.
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Hitler is his usual self, suffocating whatever initiative that could have saved the Reich, I see.
When trapped between the Bolsheviks, and the NSDAP...man, what an awful choice.
I did pull back the motorized corps.
The problem seems to be how much we the Soviets are bleeding. I don't think I've ever had this much allotted to manpower replacement before. The Russian doctrine tree is...rough early on.
Hitler is Hitler...
...though, the AI is doing most of the damage to itself, rather than Germany's leadership.
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- 1
Start of August 1941
My dear Ivan,
The sunsets here are something to behold, a fiery spectacle that could rival even the most vibrant paintings of our homegrown Russian artists. But as the last rays dip below the horizon and the cool night air envelops the battlefield, the tranquility is shattered by the persistent cacophony of war. The T-35, my iron steed, has become both my sanctuary and my prison. We've earned ourselves a reputation, you see, not just for the fear we instill in the enemy, but for the stubbornness that keeps us grinding through the mud and chaos. The Germans have dubbed us 'the landship', and not without a hint of respect, I suspect. The way she lumbers along, with her five turrets like a metallic Hydra, it's easy to see why. Yet, she's not without her flaws. In this dance of death, she moves more like a lumbering bear than a nimble panther.
Our days are spent in a macabre game of hide and seek. We hunker down in our steel fortress, waiting for the next wave of grey-green figures to emerge from the tree line, their panzer engines growling like a pack of hungry wolves. And when they do, we give them the welcome they so richly deserve, sending them back to their Führer in twisted heaps of scrap. But Ivan, the irony is thick as the smoke from our guns – the very thing that keeps us alive is what makes us a target. Our size, our might, our invincibility, or so it seems from the inside – it's all just a facade. The Germans have a knack for finding our weak spots, like a mischievous child poking at a sleeping bear. They've learned that a well-placed shot can bring this beast to her knees. And when she falls, it's a sight that no man should have to see.
But amidst the horror, there are moments of absurdity that make me chuckle, even as I write to you now, hunched over my makeshift desk, the clank of metal and the distant rumble of warfare serving as a grim symphony. Just yesterday, I watched as one of our comrades managed to get his T-35 stuck in a ditch. The poor soul was so eager to get out of the line of fire that he forgot to check his six. Now, Ivan, imagine if you will, a 50-ton metal behemoth, stranded like a whale, with a whole battalion of Germans laughing as they circled around, popping off shots like it was target practice at the village fair. It wasn't until we lured them in with the siren's call of a false retreat that we could turn the tables, our 45s peeking out from behind like a couple of naughty schoolboys with slingshots. We sent them running with their tails between their legs, and our 'beached' comrade was eventually towed to safety.
The camaraderie is what keeps me going, Ivan. The shared jokes, the quiet moments of respite, the knowing glances when the shells scream down from the heavens – it's all part of the unspoken language of survival. The men in my crew, they're more than just soldiers; they're my brothers in arms. We fight together, we curse together, and when the dust settles, we share what little we have with the same enthusiasm as if it were a feast in the Kremlin itself. And as we sit here, with the stars above and the enemy before us, I can't help but feel a strange kinship with those who oppose us. They too are caught in this whirlwind of destruction, trying to make sense of the madness that's engulfed us all.
But let's not dwell on such somber thoughts. The war, as they say, goes on, and with each passing day, I'm reminded of the warmth of home, the smell of your mother's piroshki, and the sweet sound of Natasha's laughter. It's these memories that fuel me, that keep me aiming true and pushing forward. Who knows, perhaps one day soon we'll be back there together, swapping tales of valor and victory, and I'll regale you with the epic saga of the T-35 that outsmarted the wolf.
But for now, Ivan, let's not get ahead of ourselves. Survival is the name of the game, and we play it with the same fervor as we did our street football back in Leningrad. Each day is a new challenge, each battle a puzzle to be solved. It's like playing a game of chess with Death himself, except the board is on fire and the pieces are made of flesh and steel. Yet, in the heart of this inferno, we find humor in the most unlikely of places. Like the time our radio operator, Sasha, managed to tune into a German propaganda broadcast, only to have the signal cut out every time he tried to switch back to our own. We laughed until our sides ached, the enemy's blustering echoing through the tank like a bad joke at the worst possible time. It's these little moments of absurdity that remind us we're still human, still capable of joy amidst the chaos.
And as we speak of joy, let's not forget about our dear NKVD liaison, Comrade Borisovich. The man's got a face like a bulldog chewing a wasp, but he's got a heart of gold. Or at least, as gold as it can be in this line of work. He's got a knack for procuring the most surprising of luxuries, like the time he showed up with a crate of vodka, smuggled in from who knows where. We were all sure it was going to be the end of us, but somehow, that vodka tasted like the sweetest victory. We drank to the health of our mothers, the memory of our fallen comrades, and the hope of seeing another sunrise. And when the Germans launched a surprise attack that very night, let me tell you, we were ready for them, fueled by the warmth of the drink and the fire of our determination.
So, my friend, as I sit here in this metal tomb, scribbling away by the dim light of a flickering candle, I think of you, Natasha, and our old life. The future is as unpredictable as a drunken cossack, but one thing is certain – I will fight with every ounce of strength I have to make it back to you all. Until then, keep the vodka flowing and the laughter loud. And remember, no matter how grim the battlefield, there's always room for a little Russian charm and a well-placed shot of irony.
Yours, in the trenches,
Aleksandr
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As I pored over the depressing NKVD report, the stark numbers stared back at me like the grim reaper's own ledger. The Petlyakov Pe-8, our workhorse of the skies, was dropping like flies against the new BF-109F menace. It was a dance of death, and we were the wallflowers getting crushed under the dancers' boots. The I-29 escorts, our gallant knights, were trying their darndest, but it seemed the only thing they could escort to safety was our pride, bruised and limping. The paper practically shouted the unspoken truth: we were in a pickle, and not the kind you put on a sandwich to make it interesting. The report spoke of antiquity in the face of innovation, a tale as old as warfare itself.
The language was as convoluted as a bowl of spaghetti, but the message was clear: we needed new toys, and fast. Not just any toys, mind you, but the kind that could make those sneaky little Luftwaffe rascals think twice before crossing our airspace again. The suggestion was delicately wrapped in the gauze of patriotism and technological advancement, lest the great Stalin's ego get bruised. We couldn't have him thinking our Pe-8s and I-29s were as out of fashion as last year's fur hat. No, we had to present it as an opportunity to showcase the might of Mother Russia, to prove that even when the chips were down, we could still roll out the red carpet for our aviation industry.
The irony of it all was that the very same machines we were praising as the embodiment of modern warfare had just been outfoxed by the enemy's latest gadget. Yet, there I was, sitting in my chair that had seen more action than a cat in a rocking chair factory, trying to spin this yarn into gold. It was a tough sell, like convincing a fish to take up residence in a birdcage, but I was a man with a mission. And if there's one thing we Soviets know, it's that sometimes you have to laugh to keep from crying. So, I took a deep breath and dived into the task, weaving a narrative so intricate, it would make even the most stoic commissar crack a smile. After all, in a world where your next mission might be your last, a bit of humor was the only thing keeping us from going completely round the bend.
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In a room suffused with the rich aroma of victory cigars, Stalin's eyes gleamed with the kind of mirth reserved for those who have just played the ultimate trump card in a game of geopolitical poker. He leaned back in his chair, a man whose every whim was now the law of the land, or at least the land that hadn't been obliterated by his relentless march towards power. The STAVKA members, a motley assembly of seasoned generals and stoic politicians, eyed him with a blend of admiration and trepidation. After all, this was the man who could turn their lives into a tragic Shakespearean play with a single stroke of his pen. Yet, they couldn't help but share in his joy, for the news was indeed a rare bouquet of roses in the minefield of war.
"Ah, comrades," Stalin began, his voice oozing with the kind of satisfaction that could only come from watching one's enemies trip over their own hubris, "the Yugoslavs have finally seen the error of their ways and thrown in the towel. Our southern flank is now as secure as my grip on your...ahem, I mean, our great motherland!"
The generals chuckled nervously, unsure if they were being mocked or praised, but knowing better than to question the Great Leader's humor. They nodded in unison, the sound echoing through the chamber like a chorus of bobbleheads. One brave soul, General Zhukov, dared to speak up, his mustache quivering slightly. "Indeed, Comrade Stalin, our forces can now be redeployed to bolster the Eastern front, where the true battle lies."
But Stalin waved his hand dismissively, as if swatting away a pesky fly. "Pah! Let the Germans sweat it out in the marshes of Poland. They're more likely to get a taste of their own blitzkrieg there than anywhere else. No, no," he continued, his smile widening like Red Square, "our focus must be on consolidating our power here. After all, what good is a victory if we can't enjoy it from the comfort of our own, well-guarded borders?"
The room fell silent, the only sound the crackling of the fireplace and the occasional cough of a general trying to hide his discomfort. Stalin's gaze swept over them, his eyes twinkling with the fire of ambition. "But do not be mistaken," he said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial tone, "just because we have the upper hand does not mean we can rest on our laurels. We must prepare for the inevitable next move from our...shall we say, unpredictable friends in the West."
And with that, the room filled with the sound of shuffling papers and the murmur of strategic planning. The war might have taken a turn in their favor, but in the grand chessboard of history, Stalin knew that the game was far from over. And as for the General Mobilization that STAVKA had so tentatively suggested, well, that was a pawn they could sacrifice if it meant keeping the queen of power in their pocket.
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Yugoslavia is annexed. We may, potentially, be able to build a line from Trieste / Ljubljana / Maribor / Gyor / Miskolc and potentially threaten either Vienna or Italy if ever we get a chance to resume the offensive.
The Germans nearly break out into Ukraine from an offensive south east from Lviv towards and past Tarnopol. Fortunately, our redeployed motorized corps arrives and helps beat back the invasion.
The German invasion in Finland has been defeated and the enemy divisions are retreating into the Aland islands. I haven’t decided if I am going to try to deal with them there (our marine corps has not yet engaged)…or if I just want to leave them isolated and sink their convoys.
I am starting to debate when I should enact General Mobilization…the answer probably is ‘should have done it when the war started.’
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Bears also have a habit of devouring and mauling those that disturb them, a lesson I'm sure the Germans will learn.
The madness of dictators and rulers.
If it goes anything like the CK2 event, U don't have high hopes.
Has the situation grown so dire that Zhukov has quit shaving?
Letting the Germans rot and starve on Aland sounds like the best course.
What does General Mob. give you? More manpower?
This is alternate history. My Zhukov has a mustache...
Because of course he does. He always has...
Turns out that I had enough sea control to pursue them onto the islands and force their surrender. Urrah!
General Mobilization gives me some 15k manpower, plus more daily manpower growth, at the cost of some dissent and supplies.
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- 1
October 1941
Order of the Day
The Grand Council of Fascism,
Order of the Day
The Grand Council of Fascism,
meeting in these hours of utmost trial, turns all its thoughts to the heroic fighters in every corps who, side by side with the people of Lombardy in whom shines the unequivocal faith of the Italian people, renewing the noble traditions of strenuous valor and the indomitable spirit of sacrifice of our glorious Armed Forces, having examined the internal and international situation and the war's political and military leadership,
proclaims
the sacred duty for all Italians to defend at all costs the homeland's unity, independence, and freedom, the fruits of sacrifice and the efforts of four generations from the Risorgimento to the present, the life and future of the Italian people;
affirms
the necessity of moral and material unity of all Italians in this serious and decisive hour for the nation's destiny;
declares
that to this end the immediate restoration of all state functions is necessary, assigning to the Crown, to the Grand Council, to the government, to the Parliament, and to the corporate groups the duties and responsibility established by our statutory and constitutional laws;
invites
the government to beseech His Majesty the king, to whom turns the loyal and trusting heart of the whole nation, to assume effective command of the Armed Forces of land, sea, and air for the honor and salvation of the homeland, under article 5 of the Constitution, the supreme initiative that our institutions assign to him, and which have always been throughout our nation's history the glorious heritage of our august House of Savoy.
Meanwhile, amidst the chaotic dance of power and the shuffling of allegiances, the resilient citizens of Rome could not help but find a peculiar brand of humor in their dire circumstances. As the clanking treads of the Soviet tanks grew louder in the Po River valley, the whispers of a new Italy grew stronger. In the shadow of the crumbling Colosseum, where the gladiators of yesteryear had fought for the amusement of their emperors, the modern-day Romans waged a different battle for their freedom. They had watched with a mix of horror and fascination as the once mighty House of Savoy and the bellowing Fascist regime were reduced to mere footnotes in the annals of history. The newspaper article, penned by the ever-clever journalist, Gino Castellanos, did not mince words as it described the farcical attempts of the Grand Council to reinstate the King, who was currently enjoying a less-than-regal house arrest in the countryside. The headline read, "King Calls for Calm as His Kingdom Crumbles Like a Stale Ciabatta," and the article was riddled with such delightful turns of phrase that one would be forgiven for mistaking it for a script from the Commedia dell'Arte rather than the grim realities of war. Castellanos quipped that the Council was trying to "put Humpty Dumpty back together again," while the people had already moved on to playing a game of "musical thrones," with the Fascist leaders scattering like so many marionettes with their strings cut.
The narrative style of 'Il Messaggero' reflected the newfound spirit of the Italian people, who had grown weary of the heavy-handed propaganda that had once painted Mussolini as an invincible colossus and the King as a divine figurehead. The paper had become a beacon of irreverence in the face of tyranny, a symbol of the collective sigh of relief that the people had taken matters into their own hands. The article went on to praise the unforeseen heroes of the day: the housewives who had turned their pots and pans into makeshift weapons, the children who had transformed their schoolyard games into reconnaissance missions, and the once-cowering shopkeepers who now stood tall, shouting defiance from the windows of their boarded-up stores. These unlikely warriors had banded together to form a human shield around the heart of their city, proving that the true power of Italy lay not in the hands of its self-appointed leaders, but in the indomitable spirit of its people.
The twin losses of Milan and Parma to the relentless Soviet march were acknowledged with a heavy dose of gallows humor. The paper likened the Soviets' advance to a stubborn meatball that refused to be digested by the Italian peninsula, despite the best efforts of the disjointed military forces. Yet even in the face of such adversity, the article managed to find a silver lining, suggesting that the fall of these cities might just be the wake-up call the nation needed to realize that their true enemy was not the invading forces, but the treacherous leaders that had led them to this dire fate. As for the British seizure of Sardinia, it was noted with a cheeky nod to the island's reputation for producing fine cheese, "At least the British will find something palatable amidst the wreckage of our military blunders."
The destruction of the Italian Army, once a source of national pride, was presented with a touch of dark comedy. The paper lamented the loss of life and military prowess, but could not resist pointing out that the "once-feared legions of Mussolini" had been reduced to a "ragtag band of soldiers playing hide and seek with their own shadows." The article closed with a rallying cry, urging the people to continue their revolt, to laugh in the face of fear and to remember that even in the darkest of times, the human spirit can shine brighter than the gleaming steel of a thousand tanks. For in the end, it was not the grandeur of the regime or the might of the military that would ensure Italy's survival, but the unbreakable will of its people to stand up to tyranny, to forge a new future from the ashes of the old, and to once again declare, with a wry smile and a twinkle in their eye, "Viva ltalia!”
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Somehow, in a complete surprise to me, we fire an event that allows us to annex Italy. Yes, most of Italy's army has been destroyed by the British in North Africa. Britain has invaded Sardinia and potentially Sicily as well. I have taken Milan, Parma, and am pushing on Turin with a small force of six cavalry divisions. Mostly just probing to see what I can take while not getting surrounded.
This means I can now take that force and some infantry divisions holding in the Venice area, and move them into Bavaria...where my other cavalry divisions have been sparring with some light German mobile troops on the far Western edge of our fronts. We had earlier in the fall advanced as far as Nuremburg, but for both sides, the number of men involved are small....and the fighting is EXTREMELY fluid. Removing the threat of Italian forces from the south frees up enough troops to potentially break the south of Germany wide open.
The front line runs from Switzerland, through southern Bavaria and southern Czechoslovakia, back to Lvov, and then takes a sharp turn to the north and is almost a straight line to Koenigsburg. This north south line has been the site of HEAVY fighting by most of the German and Russian armies. It has resembled the Western Front of world war 1, with heavy casualties and minimal movement all summer. In October, a massive Soviet hammer blow crushes through the German defenders in Eastern Prussia. The Russian advance was unable to collapse the German line totally, but the usual counterattack was unable to seriously force the Soviets back as the Wehrmacht had been able to do all summer. We reached the outskirts of Warsaw, but have been halted there, hopefully temporarily.
Things look good, but I'm sure the Germans are not defeated yet!
- 3
All you need now is a D-Day to distract the German AI, letting you break through in the east and south. Although maybe you don't want the West claiming the credit of victory. This has so far been all you, and we're only in 1941!
That would indeed help end the war sooner, however, it would then open up lots of questions about the post-war world. Which...might be good for the AAR, to be honest.
We shall have to see.
- 2
December 1941
The Führer Adolf Hitler is dead!
I. An unscrupulous clique of party leaders without frontline service have exploited this situation to stab the fighting front in the back and to seize power for their own selfish ends.
II. In order to maintain law and order in this situation of acute danger the Reich Government has declared a state of martial law and has transferred the executive power to me together with the supreme command of the Wehrmacht.
III. I hereby command:
1. I transfer executive power with the right of delegation to the territorial commanders, in the home territory to the Commander of the Reserve Army, while simultaneously appointing him Supreme Commander in the home territory - in the occupied western territories to the Commander-in-Chief West - in the occupied eastern territories to the commanders-in-chief of the army groups and the Wehrmacht commander Ostland for their respective areas of command – in Denmark and Norway to the Wehrmacht commanders.
2. The following are subordinated to the holders of executive power:
a) All Wehrmacht offices and units in their area of command, including the Waffen SS, the RAD, and the OT.
b) All public authorities (of the Reich, the states, and local government), in particular the entire order police, security police, and administrative police.
c) All officials and formations of the NSDAP and its associated leagues.
d) The public transportation services and public utilities.
3. The whole of the Waffen SS is to be integrated in the army with immediate effect.
4. The holders of executive power are responsible for the maintenance of law and order. They are to ensure in particular:
a) The security of the communications networks.
b) The neutralization of the SD.
Any resistance against the military authorities is to be ruthlessly suppressed. In this hour of the greatest peril for the Fatherland the unity of the Wehrmacht and the maintenance of discipline is the most important requirement. I therefore make it the duty of all army, navy, and air force commanders to support the holders of executive power with all means at their disposal and to ensure that their directives are obeyed by the agencies subordinate to them.
The German soldier is faced with an historic task. It will depend on his energy and behavior whether or not Germany will be saved.
The same have all territorial commanders, the supreme commanders of the sections of the Wehrmacht and the subordinate commanders of the army, navy and air force.
The Commander-in-Chief of the Wehrmacht
Field Marshal von Witzleben
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Colonel-General Friedrich Fromm, his heart beating like a drumline in a frantic military parade, stumbled out of the claustrophobic detention room with the gracelessness of a newborn foal. The stark contrast of the room's suffocating silence and the cacophony of chaos in the corridor outside was as jarring as a slap across the face with a wet fish. The Bendlerblock, once a bastion of order and precision, had transformed into a pandemonium of shadows and shouted commands, the walls echoing with the erratic footsteps of men whose fates were as tangled as a bowl of spaghetti left to the mercy of a tornado. The air was thick with the scent of burnt gunpowder and the metallic tinge of fear, as if the very molecules of the atmosphere had conspired to suffocate the treachery that had dared to rear its ugly head.
With a furrowed brow and the heavy burden of his own precarious future weighing upon his shoulders, Fromm mustered the veneer of authority that had served him so well during his storied military career. The SS soldiers, faces twisted into snarls of loyalty, saluted him with a fervor that seemed almost comical given the circumstances. He returned the gesture with the practiced ease of a man who had seen more salutes than sunsets, his eyes flicking over them like a metronome searching for any hint of dissent or disloyalty. They were as oblivious to his internal turmoil as a pack of dogs to the fleas that plagued their fur.
The hallways of the building, usually so orderly they could have been used as a blueprint for military discipline, were now a maelstrom of panic and confusion. Papers fluttered like the last desperate leaves of autumn, and the once gleaming floors were scuffed and marred with the chaotic dance of combat boots. Fromm's gaze darted from one corner to the next, his mind racing like a carousel of doom. The weight of his decision to abandon the coup pressed down upon him like a leaden blanket, each stitch a silent accusation. If he had stuck to his guns, perhaps he would be the hero of the hour, basking in the glow of a new dawn for Germany. Instead, he found himself wading through the murky waters of a failed rebellion, the sharks of retribution circling ever closer.
He squared his shoulders and strode forth, barking orders as if he had not a care in the world. His voice, a blend of command and desperation, sliced through the pandemonium like a knife through warm butter. The soldiers around him snapped to attention, their movements becoming as crisp as the pages of the Führer's beloved Mein Kampf. In the midst of this chaos, he was the eye of the storm, a man who had danced on the razor's edge of treason only to find himself back in the fold of power, albeit a precarious one.
As he approached the makeshift battleground, the din of gunfire grew louder, a crescendo of death that seemed to crescendo with every step he took. His heart hammered in his chest like a blacksmith's anvil, each beat a grim reminder of the gravity of the situation. The executions he had ordered played out in his mind like a macabre ballet, the final curtain call of men who had dared to dream of a world without the madman's grip. He steeled himself, for he knew that the survival of his own skin depended on his ability to convince the world that he had been but a pawn in this tragic farce. The irony was not lost on him: in a game of chess played with lives, he had sacrificed his own knights to save his king. Yet, as he stepped into the fray, the taste of bile in his mouth and the stench of gunsmoke in his nose, he couldn't help but wonder if the joke was ultimately on him.
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The Russian army, led by the monstrous T-35 tanks, crushes through Prussia and takes Koenigsberg and then Gdansk. In the south of the Polish front, the Russians crush the last German attack...and then cut off a spearhead of German tanks trying to head towards Romania and the oilfields. That situation remains fluid, but it is unlikely that the Germans will escape.
Russian forces, reinforced by troops from the Italian front, push into Bavaria against weak opposition. The Wehrmacht tries to reinforce here...but the Russians push north from Budapest to Prague and have opened a gap in the front line of several hundreds of kilometers. Not much stands between the forces in Prague and Berlin.
The Wehrmacht is in a terrible position. They are going to have to either fall back, or die where they stand.
The event for the assassination of Hitler fires, and he survives.
The Allies better get into Europe in the next year...because if they don't....Uncle Joe is going to be very happy!
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- 2
The situation continues worsening for Germany. How's Japan looking?
If the coup succeeds, does that do anything in-game, like peace them out with the Allies?
If the coup succeeds, does that do anything in-game, like peace them out with the Allies?
Japan has invaded China, but has made no more than historical progress for late 1941. Most of the north, parts of the south. They have not yet gone after the Allies. Indochina and Thailand are her puppets.
I didn't actually know the event from the German side...it's never fired for me when playing as the Germans. I went and looked in the event files.
If Hitler survives, as happened here...certain ministers and leaders die and Germany takes 10 dissent.
If Hitler dies, then the government is set to 6 Democratic, 2 Left...and a completely new government takes over. A much larger list of ministers and leaders die. Germany takes 15 dissent. There is nothing about making peace with the Allies.
- 1
Mid January 1942
In the dimly lit bunker under the Rhineland city of Essen, the echoes of Hitler's tirade reverberated off the concrete walls, a cacophony of anger and despair that seemed to mock the futility of their dwindling cause. His eyes, once gleaming with the madness of power, now bore the hollow look of a man who had tasted the bitter pill of defeat. General von Manstein, one of the few high-ranking officers who had not yet abandoned him to fate, strove to maintain a stoic façade, his mind racing with the gravity of the situation. Despite the absurdity of his leader's rantings about mythological retribution, he could not help but feel a pang of pity for the broken figure before him. Meanwhile, Albert Speer, his hand resting gently on the pocket that concealed the fateful pistol, exchanged furtive glances with his fellow conspirators. The air was thick with the scent of fear and treachery, yet they remained steadfast in their resolve to end this tragicomedy of errors. As the Führer's rant reached a crescendo, the telephone on the makeshift desk jolted to life, its shrill ring piercing the air like a slap of reality. A young, trembling aide tentatively picked up the receiver, his voice quavering as he spoke into the mouthpiece. The room fell silent, save for the erratic ticking of the clock on the wall, each second a solemn metronome counting down to their collective destiny. The aide's face grew ashen as he relayed the message: the Soviet's had indeed breached the river defenses, their armored beasts poised to devour the city whole. It was a grim reminder that the farce of power was about to be swallowed by the cold, unyielding jaws of fate, and amidst the chaos, the only certainty was the loss that awaited them all.
Outside the bunker, in the crumbling remnants of a once-proud city, the cobblestone streets of Essen trembled with the incautious tread of soldiers who knew their cause was lost. The once mighty Wehrmacht had become a patchwork of disillusioned youths and aging reservists, the legendary discipline of the early Blitzkrieg days replaced by the chaotic desperation of men who knew they were fighting for a lost cause. Meanwhile, in the bunker, the silence following the aide's grim announcement was so profound it seemed to press down on the very air, until it was shattered by the sudden, maniacal laughter of the Führer. His eyes lit with a wild, desperate spark, he spun around to face his stunned entourage. "You see!" he exclaimed, his voice a strange mix of hilarity and hysteria, "The gods of Valhalla have heard my pleas! The Russians come for me, and I shall give them the spectacle they crave!" He began to pace, his hands animated as he described the grandiose battle he envisioned, his own personal Ragnarök, where he would lead the last stand against the Bolshevik hordes and ascend to eternal glory. His generals, seasoned men of war who had seen the horrors of combat, exchanged weary glances, the absurdity of their leader's delusion not lost on them. Yet, amidst the laughter, the plotters felt the noose of fate tighten around their necks. The time for their treachery was at hand, and as they watched the madman before them, they understood that the loss they sought to impose was not only for their enemies, but for themselves as well. The pistol in Speer's pocket grew heavier with each passing moment, a silent witness to the tragic farce that was their lives. The clock on the wall ticked on, a solemn sentinel to the impending denouement, as the unlikely heroes of this twisted tale prepared to write the final, bloody chapter in the annals of the Third Reich.
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The Wehrmacht heeds the Fuhrers order to make a stand, and are either over-run (in Prussia) or surrounded in pockets (in Poland). There is no meaningful resistance to the Soviet advance from the south, and Russian infantry enters Berlin on the 1st January, 1942. Hitler flees to the Rhineland by air, but will die there in mid-January.
France and the low countries have multiple partisan rebellions. The majority of the German army has surrendered in Poland or been destroyed. We are mopping things up now...
Today Germany...
Tomorrow?
- 3
An interesting twist on Hitler's final demise. He still dies in a bunker, but not by his own hand.
Your Russia is much less devastated by the war and also much more successful. The Iron Curtain contains all of Italy and Germany as well as the OTL states. And nukes aren't a thing yet, so MAD isn't a factor. I see conflict with the West being the most likely outcome.
Did the US join the war in December on schedule?
Hmmm...
Your Russia is much less devastated by the war and also much more successful. The Iron Curtain contains all of Italy and Germany as well as the OTL states. And nukes aren't a thing yet, so MAD isn't a factor. I see conflict with the West being the most likely outcome.
Did the US join the war in December on schedule?