The air in Paul's divisional barracks was heavy and moist, wind slipping through the open window and stirring the papers on his desk.
From outside the office, the sound of soldiers training drifted in.
"One, two… three…" a sergeant shouted.
"It's going to rain soon," Hasso said, lowering his cigarette. "Again," he added dryly.
Hasso rose from his chair, reaching for a whistle lying on the table.
"Don't bother," Paul said, casting him a strict glance.
Hasso tilted his head for a moment, then sat back down.
Minutes passed. Both men remained by the window, smoking in silence.
"Enjoy it, Hasso," Paul said at last.
"Enjoy what?" Hasso asked, turning toward him.
"The peace. You'll long for it soon," Paul replied, his gaze serious.
Hasso looked down briefly.
"When will the invasion happen?" he asked, raising his eyes again.
"Officially, never. And if it does happen, it won't be an invasion. Not officially," Paul said, almost sarcastically.
He paused, then smiled faintly. His gaze drifted back to the window as the first drops of rain struck the ground, their sound echoing through the complex.
"Unofficially, in one week." Paul said suddenly.
"A second Great War," Hasso murmured. "A second gamble for everything."
Paul studied him for a moment.
Germany won't lose this time, he thought.
He stood abruptly, his chair creaking across the floor, and placed a firm hand on Hasso's shoulder.
"Come on," Paul said. "Let's make sure the odds are on our side."
Outside, they crossed the courtyard, their immaculate uniforms quickly soaked by the heavy rain. Soldiers along the way snapped to attention as they passed, heading toward the field.
As they approached, the sergeant turned instinctively at the sound of footsteps, even through the downpour.
"Oberst Jaeger. Oberstleutnant Manteuffel," he saluted sharply.
Both men nodded in response and took their place beside the sergeant.
They watched as the company of soldiers jogged around the field, the rain little more than a mild inconvenience to men who had long since noticed the presence of their legendary commander.
"Assemble!" the sergeant shouted, his voice already hoarse.
The soldiers immediately broke formation and ran toward the three men, forming long, orderly rows, divided cleanly into their respective squads. In perfect unison, they raised their right foot and brought it down again. Boots struck the mud, the collective stamp echoing across the field. Then they saluted, rigid and proud.
"Good. Very good, Sergeant Freuer," Paul said, nodding briefly toward him before turning back to the company.
The men looked at him expectantly, posture straight despite the sheets of rain pouring down upon them.
Water dripped from the brim of Paul's officer's cap as he began to walk slowly through the ranks.
"Men of the Fourth Company," he called out, his voice carrying even to those at the far end of the formation.
He continued down the rows, hands clasped behind his back.
"We live in dangerous times. Times in which your lives are worth…" He paused. "Nothing."
The words hung heavy in the air.
"And yet you stand here. You are ready to fight. That alone is worth something. Your loyalty, your dedication, your sense of duty. That is worth everything."
Paul stopped beside a young soldier, studying his face for a brief moment.
"I will not lie to you. The future will not be easy. It will not be kind. Your country will demand much from every one of you. But are you not as tired as your country is. Are you not tired of the chains of Versailles. Not tired of their arrogance, their laughter, their condescending stares?"
Rain streamed down his coat as he turned slightly, addressing the entire formation.
"Soon, I will ask you to break those chains."
He stopped.
"How will you answer?"
For a heartbeat, the field was silent. Then, as if bound by a single will, the soldiers shouted as one.
"Yes, sir!"
Paul nodded and returned to Hasso's side.
"I believe the odds are good for us," he said quietly. "Do you know why, Hasso? Because we have a reason to fight. Rage fuels us. The shame of the previous generation fuels us. And that is what sets us apart from the rest."
He watched the soldiers standing unmoving in the rain.
"A starved child will always be stronger than a well-fed one."
Hours later, Paul stared at his plate with quiet irony. It was generously filled. Venison and potatoes made up the main course.
"It's wonderful. Thank you, Elisabeth," Paul said, his usually rigid shoulders relaxing slightly.
"Good to hear. Gustaf shot the deer this morning, so I thought we shouldn't let it go to waste," Elisabeth replied with a smile, tasting her own cooking.
Paul nodded as he chewed, his gaze drifting across the wide garden beyond them.
"What great peace," he murmured absentmindedly, a piece of venison slipping from his fork and falling back onto the plate.
Elisabeth raised an eyebrow.
"What is it, Heinrich? What troubles you so much?"
Paul almost laughed. It was dry, hollow, and sad.
"This peace is beautiful, yet I destroyed it myself. Willingly," he muttered.
"What are you talking about?" Elisabeth asked, her eyes narrowing.
Paul sighed before leaning forward. Slowly, gently, he reached out and brushed a strand of her blonde hair behind her ear, his hand resting against her cheek.
"A darkness, one you have never seen, will befall this continent," he said quietly.
"A darkness? Are you talking about the French?" she asked.
"I am talking about war, my dear," Paul replied, his gaze drifting aside, caught between shame and regret.
Elisabeth slowly pulled away, emotion weighing heavily in her eyes.
"You men and your wars," she said, shaking her head, her voice trembling.
"Elisabeth…" Paul began, reaching out again.
"No, Heinrich. No," she murmured, tears gathering as she turned away in defiance.
Paul withdrew his hand, his jaw tightening.
For a moment, there was complete silence. Only the faint sound of the wind drifted in from outside.
"You know," Paul said at last, standing up, "I will make sure it is the last one."
Elisabeth wiped her eyes with a napkin and let out a weak chuckle.
"The last one. Of course."
No, Elisabeth. I am serious. This will be the conflict to end all conflict. A massacre to end all death. A great flame to extinguish the fire. I will make sure of it, Paul thought, a deadly resolve burning in his gaze.
He stepped closer and gently pulled her into an embrace, holding her softly as the weight of his resolve settled between them.
"How much time do we have left?" she asked, her face buried in Paul's arm, her voice muffled.
Paul closed his eyes and sighed.
"We have begun the final preparations. The troops will move to the Polish border in four days. After the ultimatum they will refuse, we attack." He paused, swallowing. "Five days at most."
Elisabeth pulled herself upright, wiping her tears away with her sleeve.
"Then let us spend those days well," she said with a faint smile, her lips unable to hide her sadness in the slightest.
The night grew long. Lights burned inside Paul's house for hours, voices and soft sounds drifting into the dark sky, heard only by the squirrels in the garden and by a few wandering ghosts.
Paul arrived at the headquarters of the General Staff early the next morning, his hair untypically disheveled. Strands of dark hair had fallen onto his forehead, giving him a worn appearance he rarely showed.
He made his way through the grand building, past wide rooms and vast halls, until he reached the very end of a long corridor. There, set almost deliberately out of place, was a small, unremarkable door. A simple sign beside it read:
Working Group Manstein
Paul stepped inside the room that would become his second home for the coming days, the heart of the Reich's strategic mind. This was where plans were sharpened, where wars were shaped before the first shot was ever fired.
Several familiar faces greeted him. At the center stood Manstein, designated commanding general of the operation, still known to only a select few. He leaned over a small table bearing a large map, now crowded with miniature figures, arrows, and intersecting lines that cut across the terrain like scars.
Beside him stood Rommel, sipping coffee, leaning casually against the wall, his posture relaxed, almost deceptively so.
At the far end of the room, half swallowed by shadow where the morning sun did not reach, sat Heydrich. His posture was loose, his expression unreadable.
Above the map, a single line of text marked the plan they were all gathered for:
Fall Weiss
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