"It is important to capture these two strategic points. Without them, we would not be able to continue," Manstein said, pointing at two locations close to one another. He marked them, adding another line to the map.
Paul nodded, then suddenly paused.
"There is another point we did not consider," he said. His finger moved slowly before coming to rest on a position farther west.
Paul turned toward the man standing in the background. "Heydrich, didn't you say there are only limited bridges at the Vistula that can support our tanks? Is this one of them?"
Heydrich raised an eyebrow and flipped through a stack of papers.
"Our intelligence suggests yes," he said slowly.
Paul sighed.
"It is the only one within roughly one hundred kilometers," Heydrich added, looking up at the others.
Paul and Rommel exchanged a glance, their expressions serious.
Manstein nodded.
"This bridge will become a focal point," he said. "To capture it, and to do so before they can destroy it, we will have to be faster."
Once again, Paul and Rommel looked at one another, sharing a silent understanding.
Sunlight streamed through the windows, illuminating the map. Marks and lines multiplied steadily, turning it into an entirely new canvas. Hours passed. Eventually, the sun's reflection faded, replaced by the dull glow of a lamp. Quiet sounds continued to emerge from the inconspicuous room throughout the night.
The days passed in much the same way. Although Paul tried to spend as much time with Elisabeth as he could, fate was cruel.
On a seemingly ordinary evening, no different from the others, sobbing echoed through the broad hallways of Paul's mansion. A silhouette stood by the window, drops of tears hitting the floor.
Outside, a small convoy waited. A black Mercedes flanked by two military trucks. A man clad in a black leather coat walked slowly toward it. The soldiers standing before the convoy saluted him with rigid pride.
The door of the limousine swung open, and the men stepped forward. Before entering, he paused and turned one last time, his black hair fluttering in the harsh, cold wind.
Their eyes met for an instant that stretched far longer than it did in reality. Then the man turned and slipped into the car, his leather glove tightening under the pressure of Paul's unseen grip.
The convoy drove through the brightly lit city of Berlin, reaching its center before coming to a stop.
Paul opened the door and stepped out, the cold air biting into him. He adjusted his glove and looked behind him.
Two similar convoys were parked beside his, waiting silently on the deserted street.
He turned forward and tilted his head upward, taking in the massive monument before him. A towering pillar crowned by a golden statue. A winged woman holding a laurel wreath in one hand and a spear in the other.
"The Victory Column," a voice said.
Paul lowered his gaze as he approached the two silhouettes of Manstein and Rommel. Both wore coats, their decorated uniforms visible beneath.
Paul nodded as he reached them.
"I brought something," Manstein said, reaching into his breast pocket and producing three metal flasks, handing one to each of them.
"To our victory," Rommel said with a short laugh, raising his flask.
Paul and Manstein exchanged a glance before raising theirs as well.
Paul exhaled softly, opening his mouth at the same moment as Manstein.
"To victory," they said, tilting their flasks to their lips.
The full moon illuminated Berlin that night. The three men stood within the shadow cast by the towering statue, almost poetically framed.
They spoke of the war, of tactics, and also of life and family.
After a few minutes, they parted ways. Manstein's convoy turned first, disappearing down another street. Rommel followed Paul for some time before his own convoy branched off as well.
Only the moon and the golden statue bore witness to their meeting on that fateful night.
Separation, Paul thought, as he stared out of the window. A fate that had befallen many that day.
Hours later, Paul awoke as the car took a turn. Outside, only darkness greeted him.
"Herr Oberst, we have arrived," the driver said.
Paul stepped out and looked toward the horizon, where the first rays of sunlight struggled against the fading night. A faint glow spread across the sky.
Guided by a soldier, Paul walked forward, his leather boots feeling heavier than usual. Half a dozen armed men flanked him.
The sounds of engines and voices grew louder. An irregularity within the otherwise silent forest.
He rounded a tree and saw the first tank moving, dozens more following in a long column. Their tracks echoed through the oak forest.
The camp came into view. A field of tents, campfires, and armored vehicles. Soldiers rested, laughed, slept, or played cards on tree trunks. Each acknowledged him with respect.
On a small rise stood a larger tent guarded by two soldiers. They saluted as he approached.
"Herr Oberst, welcome," one of them said.
Paul entered the tent and found a small bunk and a large wooden table. A map lay spread across it, with a man standing before it.
"Hasso, good to see you," Paul said, taking his place beside him.
"Good to see you, Commander," Hasso replied, lifting his eyes from the map.
The two talked for a while.
"Just like back in Spain. That shithole," Hasso said with a laugh.
"Indeed," Paul replied, slowly straightening up from the table they had been leaning over for the past hour.
"We take that position first," he concluded.
"Should we dig trenches, just in case…" Hasso began.
Paul turned around.
"Why should we? We won't be the ones defending, Hasso."
He pushed aside the tarp blocking the entrance. Bright light hit his face, forcing him to raise a hand to shield his eyes.
The calm before the storm, Paul thought, blinking as he slowly adjusted to the light. It was unusually warm for April, the sun especially strong. Not a single cloud was visible in the sky.
In that moment, Paul decided to go for a walk, a lone silhouette trailing behind him through the camp.
He breathed in the fresh air, letting the sun warm his face. Paul walked on, gaining altitude, his gaze drifting to even the smallest details.
A small lily breaking through the soil. A squirrel leaping through the treetops, clutching what looked like a nut.
A rustling sound made Paul turn. His hand instinctively reached for his pistol, then relaxed.
He stepped forward slowly and carefully. Removing his leather glove, Paul extended his bare hand.
A small brown deer stood before him, alone, its wide eyes filled with innocence. Its nose twitched as it cautiously drew closer to Paul's hand.
For a moment, the forest fell into absolute silence. Then Paul felt something wet brush against his skin.
For the first time in a long while, Paul smiled. Not out of calculation. Not out of false emotion. Not out of necessity. He smiled because he wanted to.
Another rustle startled the animal. It gave Paul one last look, its dark eyes strangely expressive, before darting away. Its silhouette vanished behind the trees.
With it, Paul's smile slowly faded. His gaze shifted toward the source of the sound.
"Sorry, sir," Gustaf muttered, stepping into view.
Paul exhaled softly.
"It's fine."
He continued toward the light, reaching the edge of the forest and a small cliff beyond it. Below lay the vast camp.
Paul stood there, his eyes wandering over the endless forest and open fields, his gaze fixed on a distant direction.
Poland, he thought, trying to discern where, within that sea of trees, Poland began and where Germany ended.
"Only empty lines drawn on maps," he whispered, clasping his hands behind his back.
He closed his eyes and let the harsh sunlight wash over his face, his thoughts slowly drifting away.
An airfield in Königsberg
Two silhouettes stood on the asphalt of the airfield. Their broad backs were turned toward the ground, their gazes fixed upward. The sun illuminated the golden decorations on their uniforms.
"Beautiful, is it not?" Kesselring asked, turning slightly, catching Richthofen in the corner of his eye.
Richthofen did not answer. He merely nodded.
Their conversation was barely audible beneath the countless sirens echoing across the military airfield.
Soldiers rushed about frantically, before them, behind them, all around the two officers.
"Do you miss the time you spent inside the cockpit?" Richthofen asked suddenly.
Kesselring smiled.
"More than anything."
The two continued to observe the scene before them.
The heated runway was crowded with aircraft. One after another, they roared forward, their wheels leaving the safety of the ground as they climbed into the bright sky. Fighter after fighter, bomber after bomber joined the formation, until a massive strike group had taken shape above the skies of Königsberg.
Kiel, military port
With thunderous roars and cheering from the sailors, warship after warship cast off their ropes. Destroyers, cruisers, and even the old battleships came to life as turbines roared into motion. Thick black smoke poured from their funnels.
Slowly but surely, the fleet left the safety of the harbor. Steel hulls met the open sea as the waves of the Baltic crashed against the massive ships. They spread out, forming a wide and disciplined formation.
On the bridge of the battlecruiser Scharnhorst stood a single man, small in comparison to the colossal vessel beneath him.
His brilliant blue uniform reflected the light as he leaned against the metal railing, gazing into the distance before turning and stepping inside.
The man picked up a telephone. A voice crackled through the line.
"Admiral reporting. Naval Strike Force One has assembled successfully. Course thirty-one degrees east."
Raeder nodded sternly.
"Good. Full speed. All ships," he commanded, setting the telephone down.
He gripped the table as the ship accelerated, the hull swaying rhythmically from side to side as the fleet surged forward.
A certain camp at the border to Poland
Major Reicher stood at attention when the field telephone rang. He grabbed it instantly. A deep voice spoke from the other end.
"Chief of the Wehrmacht Keitel speaking. The ultimatum has been refused. By authority of the Führer, I hereby order the immediate implementation of Plan Weiss."
Reicher's eyes widened. The receiver slipped from his hand and hit the ground. For a moment, he simply stood there, breathing hard, his gaze darting through the tent.
"Sir?" he asked, turning sharply toward Hasso. "Where is Oberst Jaeger? We have received the order to attack." His voice trembled, heavy with adrenaline.
"He went for a walk," Hasso replied, shrugging his shoulders.
Paul was still standing at the cliff when he heard hurried breathing behind him.
He did not turn. He already knew who it was.
"Sir… sir…" Reicher gasped, bending forward and supporting himself on his knees.
"We… we…" He stopped, forced himself to breathe, then straightened.
"Plan Weiss is to be implemented. We are ordered to attack."
Paul exhaled slowly. His head lifted, his eyelids opening at last.
In that moment, it was as if fate itself had aligned the world.
Thousands of kilometers away, across an ocean, a quiet hospital room. A faint breathing echoed through the sterile air.
On a narrow bed lay a man, his blond hair long and unkempt, a deep scar defining his face.
At the exact moment Paul opened his eyes to the sun, the man's eyes snapped open as well, blue pupils meeting the world once more.[1]
Paul looked at Reicher, who stood rigid, waiting.
Slowly, he opened his mouth.
"Major Reicher," he said, his voice colder than ice.
"Begin the general assault."
The wind picked up. A small cloud drifted across the dominating sun, dimming its light.
A new chapter in human history had begun.
And it would not be a bright one.
The World witnessed the dawn of the Second World War, arriving five moths earlier than in the timeline we know.
-------------------------------------
The War begins...
Thank you all for the support! I appreciate every Power Stone, comment, and review.
By the way, could we reach ten reviews as a little Christmas present so the book finally gets rated?
[1] Well....