Steps echoed through the hallway of the Reichskanzlei, dozens of them. People stepped aside, lowering their heads.
The summer sun streamed through the tall windows, illuminating the faces of some of the highest generals and officers of the Wehrmacht, Luftwaffe, and Kriegsmarine.
Leading them was Manstein, his hat pulled low, his expression unreadable. Behind him walked Admiral Dönitz, his white gloves hidden behind his back. Richthofen, Sperrle, and Student moved at his side, their faces stern and rigid.
At the rear, another figure stood out. Paul would have rejoiced had he seen that he was among them.
Erwin von Witzleben walked behind the others, his expression filled with annoyance and restrained anger. Any attendant who met his gaze quickly looked away, not daring to hold the stern eyes of the man who would later take part in Operation Valkyrie.
They soon reached the door.
The two SS men standing guard before it looked unsettled.
"The Führer is in the middle of a meeting," one of them began, stepping forward and raising his hand.
The group stopped.
In the next moment, Manstein seized the man's wrist with crushing force and pulled him closer.
"Listen to me, soldier," Manstein said quietly, his voice calm but edged with anger. "I had a war to fight, as did every man standing here. Yet we are here now, despite all common sense and despite the need for our presence at the front."
He leaned in slightly.
"So you will step aside. You will open that door. And you will do it now."
The hallway fell silent.
The man hesitated for only a heartbeat, but it was enough. General von Witzleben stepped forward, shoved the SS man aside without a word, and pushed the door open.
"Funds will have to be" a voice began, cut short by the sudden intrusion.
"What is this?" Hitler snapped, rising from his chair as his eyes fell on the assembled generals.
"I have no idea, my Führer," Goebbels replied quickly, turning toward the men now filling the doorway.
"How dare you barge in like this?" he shouted, pointing accusingly at Witzleben and Manstein.
"My generals," Hitler said sharply, his anger already simmering. "What is the meaning of this?"
"Führer," Witzleben began, his voice flat and devoid of enthusiasm. "We are here regarding General Kesselring and his unjust treatment."
"Unjust?" Goebbels laughed loudly. "This is unbelievable. The arrest was a direct Führer order. There was nothing unjust about it."
"Nothing unjust?" Manstein replied, his voice calm but hard. "Punishing a man for acting with common sense goes too far."
"Too far?" Goebbels roared, but he was silenced by a raised hand.
Hitler stepped forward, his breathing uneven.
"What exactly is this, Manstein?" he shouted. "What do you demand from me? This is traitorous behavior." His face flushed a deep red.
"We ask you to reconsider your decision," Manstein answered evenly.
"This is too harsh."Sperrle added, sternly.
Dönitz nodded too.
Faced with the silent pressure of so many high ranking officers, Hitler faltered. His eyes widened and he took a step back, shaking his head sharply.
"Kesselring will be placed under house arrest instead," he said at last, his voice suddenly quiet. "However, he will still be brought before a military tribunal."
Witzleben shook his head.
"My Führer"
"NO!" Hitler exploded. He seized the cup of tea beside him and hurled it toward Witzleben. The general barely managed to dodge as the still-hot liquid splashed across his uniform.
The cup shattered against the floor, its shards scattering across the polished wooden boards.
"One more word!" Hitler screamed. "And you will all be charged with treason!"
Witzleben stood frozen, genuinely stunned, a rare sight for a man like him. His gaze flickered from the shards on the floor to Hitler himself.
"Yes," he said finally.
He turned and walked out.
The others watched him go, exchanged brief glances, and followed him out of the room.
Manstein lingered for a moment, looking at Hitler, shaking with fury, and at Goebbels, seething beside him. His expression carried something unexpected, almost pity.
Then he turned away, leaving the door open behind him.
Quietly, to himself, he said, "You will regret this in the future. But it is already too late."
With lowered head, he walked down the hallway and disappeared from sight.
Evening at the Victory Column, Berlin
Two men stood before the monument, paying their respects. Their uniforms broadened their backs.
"Such glory. I fear it will be destroyed," General Witzleben said quietly, his eyes distant.
"Much of it already has been," Manstein replied.
For a moment, there was only stillness, broken by the wind brushing across the men's coats.
"And you say this man is truly that outstanding?" Witzleben asked suddenly.
"Indeed," Manstein nodded. "A natural general. He won every battle he fought. At times it feels as if he truly sees the future." He paused, his eyes sharpening. "I made a decision today. One I made long ago, but only now fully realized. I will follow him."
Witzleben's eyes widened. Even a seasoned general like Manstein was willing to set aside his pride for an Oberst, not yet thirty.
Manstein reached into his breast pocket and took out a letter, handing it to Witzleben.
"What is it?" he asked.
"A letter to Jaeger."
Witzleben skimmed the text.
The Tiger roared. The Eagle waited.
When the moment came, I looked to the sky
and chose the one who sees.
Erich von Manstein
"A poem?" Witzleben asked, almost amused.
"If you want, you can sign it too," Manstein said quietly.
Witzleben thought for a moment.
"Although I have seen him countless times, I have never truly spoken with the man. I will not sign it."
Manstein sighed.
"Even after his astonishing feats in Poland? His tactical genius? Even after what those two said?"
"Yes," Witzleben answered coldly. "Those two are biased."
He paused, then added,
"But I will meet him myself. If he truly is what you describe, then and only then will I consider it."
Manstein tilted his head, surprised.
"What about France? Do you not need to be there to defend it?"
Witzleben scoffed.
"Just as you trust the younger generation, I do as well, at least to some extent. There is no need for panic if I am gone for a day or two. And did you not say yourself that they will not attack?"
Manstein nodded.
"Probably."
The two men stood there for a moment longer before turning away, each heading toward his own battlefield, toward Poland.
The air grew cold that night, and the hours felt especially dark for the country in question.
Poland, Poznań area.
"Is it true that we are doomed? I heard we are encircled," a young Polish soldier asked, his finger trembling as he gripped the handle of a worn machine gun.
Around him, leaning against sandbags and trucks parked as a defensive line, stood other soldiers. Most of them were older than him.
"Who knows. Who knows," one of them muttered. He suddenly reached into his breast pocket, his eyes widening.
"Hey," he said quietly as he stood up, his tall stature suddenly imposing.
"Who stole my last cigarette?" he shouted, grabbing a soldier beside him who had been asleep.
The man snapped awake, shaking his head in confusion.
"Did you steal my cigarette, you bastard?" the tall soldier demanded, hauling him to his feet.
"What the hell is wrong with you?" the awakened man shouted, shoving him away.
A brawl erupted almost instantly, dragging in several other soldiers who were struck in the chaos.
Amid the shouting, laughter, and curses, none of them noticed the truck speeding past their position.
Only the young soldier from before, still gripping his machine gun, sensed that something was wrong.
"Hey, where is that truck going?" he asked, his voice swallowed by the noise.
No one answered.
He murmured to himself, "Looks like they are fleeing."
Soon, more trucks rushed past their position, still ignored by the arguing soldiers.
Then one of the trucks exploded.
The shock sobered everyone instantly. Men threw themselves to the ground, scrambling for cover.
"What the hell was that?" someone shouted. "A mine?"
"A mine? Are you stupid? That was artillery."
While they argued, the young soldier narrowed his eyes, straining to see through the smoke.
Slowly, he leaned back, all strength draining from him.
"No. It's a t—"
The explosion swallowed his words.
Sand and asphalt were hurled into the air as the position vanished beneath fire and force. For a moment, all sound disappeared.
Then came the quiet, relentless rattling of tank tracks.
Through the thick smoke, dark hulls emerged, revealing themselves slowly as they advanced.
But it was not Paul's division. It was Rommel's.
Paul was already far away by then, hunting greater prey. Having presented Poznań on a silver tablet, he turned his attention to his next objective.
His tanks rolled across fields, grassland, and forests. Sometimes Luftwaffe aircraft passed overhead. Sometimes there was only the sun. Sometimes only the moon.
Their direction never changed.
East.
Warsaw.
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