The rails trembled beneath the weight of 100,000 men and their machines.
Soldiers, munitions, tanks, artillery… every armored shape required to field a modern army, rushed across the reinforced tracks.
Russia had entered the war almost the moment it began, and in under five days, the last of its first hundred thousand arrived at France's doorstep.
These were not the Russian soldiers of old, drunk, corrupt, and catastrophically incompetent.
No… these men marched with twenty years of refinement behind them.
Their professionalism appeared to be rivaled only by those within the Armed Forces of the German Reich.
When they unloaded the armor, they did so with precision.
Machines were refueled, supplies stacked into convoys, and units moved out. Disciplined, efficient, professional.
And still… by the time they arrived, Paris was already within reach.
Everywhere they looked, war had passed.
