• We have updated our Community Code of Conduct. Please read through the new rules for the forum that are an integral part of Paradox Interactive’s User Agreement.
Ahh, Lobsters fighting Reds :D

Happy Thanksgiving, we are thankful for the update :D
 
Last edited:
Impressive deployments there im sure The Finns Will do just fine with Such a British Commitment to their Defence.
 
This will be an important test to the readiness of the Imperial forces. I hope they will fare better then in Denmark.
Oh, and don't forget to bring your coat. I heard it can be cold sometimes in Finland :D
 
Thats a good update and a real teaser your offering us there Draco. All of us will sit here and hope you get the time of for doing an update even though celebrating Thanksgiving. Are you sending Gordon to Moscow, are you sure he looks ruski enough? :rolleyes:

Happy Thanksgiving!
 
Draco Rexus: ...“The Imperial Armoured Army will arrive in two weeks, sir...General Slim and all six regiments (of) Royal Marines...will arrive tomorrow with the morning tide.”

most excellent ! ! with the difference of arrival times of the Drake brothers, i was expecting all of those units to arrive "in the morning"... ;) even so, six regiments of Royal Marines should be enough to accomplish all that HRM expects of the entire lot, eh? ? :D


Draco Rexus: ...Gordon Drake travels into the belly of the beast! :eek:

to Moscow! ! it is a good thing that Gordon speaks fluent Russian (and has excellent papers! ! ) :D

magnificent update ! ! :cool:


...American Thanksgiving...

enjoy! ! and, be safe, (all of y'all) ! ! :)
 
That really is a large and impressive force you are sending to aid Finland, but with the Red Army attacking I am sure it is needed. Really nice to see the lobsters will arrive so soon, and then the tankers in just two weeks, and is very impressive. But how did you managed to get past the Strait at Copenhagen? Did you unload in Norway or Sweden and march them to Finland? Or did you land in Denmark so that you took Copenhagen, opened the Straits and then sent the navy through?
Have a great thanksgiving Draco, we will all be waiting for you and looking forward to see the Drake brothers and the Empire give Uncle Joe a display of British power :)
 
They do like pulling out their surprises. I would love to see the reaction of the faces of the Finns to that pronouncement.
 
One of these days the IGS' inability to tell anyone about anything until the day before it will happen is going to be a liability.
 
Fulcrumvale said:
One of these days the IGS' inability to tell anyone about anything until the day before it will happen is going to be a liability.

Well I imagine having allies who, the moment you tell them your plans, immediately tell the enemy is hardly likely to inspire loquaciousness in the IGS!
 
A cunning and brilliant plan indeed!
 
Looks like Finland will be saved, hopefully, also, maybe you could land at Arkhangelsk.
 
Huzzah for the Marines!
It seems I've timed my return to AARland just right to see some Imperial action.
(The first term of University does tend to rather restrict your available reading time :cool: )
I would say nice update, but that would be the understatement of the year.
KEEP IT UP!!! :D :D :D
 
Rawne: I hope you find time to read Dracos great AAR between all those parties, since I assume that's what you meant by little reading time :cool: ;)

*clears throat* Our most esteemed writAAR, I am here with an ultimatium from the AARland mob. Unless you update your AAR within 24 hours action might be taken to force such an update and to show our great concern about the lack of updates. I assure you, as I deliver this notice the greatly spread mob is getting ready for action.

Hope you had a great thanksgiving Draco! Well, that is for all the yanks, always good to have a reason to throw a party.
 
The mob can officially disband for the time being!

CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR - Part One

go1946-i.jpg

Görlitzer Bahnhof
Berlin, Germany
March 17, 1940
10.42 a.m.


With a jolt and a scream of escaping steam the train came to a final halt inside Görlitzer Bahnhof’s main terminal. The station, Berlin’s end of the new rail line that linked the capital of the Third Reich to Hungary’s capital of Budapest, as seen through the windows of the compartment, appeared deserted, except for the uniformed Gestapo guards who marched from a door opening on to the platform. On any train in the West, especially the British Isles, the train would be resounding with the noise of passengers opening compartment doors and moving to exit the train, however, in Berlin, the passengers remained in their compartments and waited to have their papers checked by the approaching Gestapo guards.

Glancing down upon himself and tugging slightly at his uniform tunic, the darker of the two men in the compartment took a deep breath. He, he loathed to admit, nervous about the upcoming inspection despite having every confidence that his papers were all in order. Looking back up he saw that gazed at his companion, sitting casually with one booted leg crossed over the other, oozing self confidence and despite being on the train for near six hours his uniform look freshly pressed. The Hungarian newspaper he was reading had a dual headline, above and below the crease, with the top headline attempting to cheer the steadfast defense of Finland by the Finns and Britain’s Imperial Armoured Army and Royal Marines against Communist Russia which had been going on for over a month now, while at the same time attempting not to appear to sympathetic to the Allies, with whom the Hungarians were at war. It certainly made for some interesting reading, the man thought somewhat ruefully. After casting his gaze back out their compartment window at the activities of the German inspectors, he turned to find that his companion had lowered the paper and had turned his gaze upon him with a small grin. “Come now, Richard,” the man said in the highly polished tones and accent of a Hungarian aristocrat, a slightly teasing tone at that, “you’re not going to allow a little thing like those approaching uniformed thugs to cause you concern, are you?”

“Of course not,” he replied in the same language and tone, “however, that being said, I do not have the experience that you have of diving into the belly of this particular monster.”

Lifting the newspaper back before his face to continue reading, the lighter man replied, “I’ll grant you that with this monster, it is not at all pleasant. However, we shall endure and survive, eh?”

Richard McIntyre, field agent of His Majesty’s Secret Service, known to those outside the Empire as MI-6, and veteran of several clandestine operations before the war and in the opening stages of the war in the Balkans, normally would make a sarcastic reply to his companion’s cavalier attitude. However, the man across from him, whom the Scotsman had known since their time in training to join what had become the Imperial Intelligence Office, was not one traded barbs with and hope to win. It also helped that besides being one of the most successful of the IIO’s agents, McIntyre, who trusted no one, would trust the other man with his life. Which on this mission, he would have no choice, just as the other man, Gordon Drake, would have to trust McIntyre with his.

Needing a way to poison the warming relations between Berlin and Moscow, the Empire seized upon the military coup d’État that struck Romania on March 12. That coup d’État had eliminated the socialist leadership of the Romanian government and the conservative and borderline Fascist military quickly asked for and were granted admission to the German-Hungarian Alliance, which added yet another nation at war with the British Empire, albeit one that had very little ability to directly create an impact upon the Empire. Quickly deciding that the situation was ripe for exploitation, a mission of such audacity that could only have been planned by MI-6’s chief, Sir William “Intrepid” Stephenson, was cobbled together within a few days and launched. The plan called for Drake and McIntyre to portray intelligence officers of the Royal Hungarian Army who had been working within Romania when the coup d’État erupted and that the two had obtained valuable information that needed to be passed on to Berlin. For the IIO to risk two of the Empire’s most accomplished agents, with nothing more than the reigning confusing within Bucharest and the secrecy of Budapest’s intelligence work to protect them, the Scotsman knew that the mission was one that would have grave consequences were it to succeed or fail.

Tactically, the believability of the two British agents was without question. Both men were accomplished linguists who had the uncanny ability of picking up a language very quickly and having the talent of easily picking up regional dialects of a language, and hence speaking fluent German, Hungarian, and Romanian would cause no difficulty. The only risk at this point was that someone within the Romanian government, Hungarian military, or German intelligence would catch one of a hundred possible small things that would case the entire mission to come apart at the seams. Taking a deep breath, McIntyre shrugged off the voice that was reminding him that such a occurrence would be a Very Bad Thing, took on an air of detached nonchalance, and leaned casually back against his seat to wait the guards. Trusting in his training, a little to luck and leaving the rest in God’s hands, McIntyre was ready.

Glancing out the compartment window with the casual air of a jaded traveler, McIntyre saw that the Gestapo men had begun their examination and cleared passengers were disembarking from the training and slowly filling the platform leading the interior of the station. When the German inspectors were two compartments away, the Scotsman took out a cigarette and lighter. “Do we address them in Hungarian or German, Gordon?”

“I believe that London would want us to use German, but I’m of a mind that we call it on the luck of the draw. Would you like to lead?”

“I’ll follow your lead, my friend, after all you have prior experience with the Gestapo.”

“Pray, don’t remind me,” Drake replied with a faint shudder from behind his paper. “I know for a fact that this time my brother will not be around to pull us out of the fire if we end up in the hands of those blackguards again.”

With that grim reminder the door of their compartment opened and an arrogant faced Gestapo man stepped in and barked viciously, “Your papers!”

Lowering the top fold of his paper to cast a look of aristocratic disdain down his nose at the offending man, Drake sniffed and then said something in Hungarian to McIntyre. As expected, the German’s face turned red. Stepping further into the compartment and signaling for a second man to follow him in he barked at the Hungarian uniformed Scotsman, “What did he say?”

“My colonel,” McIntyre answered coldly and with emphasis on the rank, “suggested that you must have had a relation on your Kriegsmarine’s Kraft Nordic to have such an attitude while speaking with superior officers.”

Ignoring the tone and the implication that his actions might have in impact on German-Hungarian relations, the German growled angrily. “What are you two talking about?”

“You mean the news has not reached your papers,” McIntyre asked in a slightly chiding voice. Taking the Hungarian paper from Drake’s hands, the British agent showed the scowling Gestapo man the newspaper headlines that proclaimed the loss of the German battle-cruisers Schlesien and Schleswig-Holstein and four destroyers to the Royal Navy during a battle in the North Sea on February 28. Secretly enjoying not only the news of another naval victory for the Empire but also the look of bafflement on the Gestapo man’s face as he attempted to decipher the Hungarian newspaper, McIntyre continued, “The loss of two fine battle-cruisers and four destroyers with no known British losses, is one thing, but if a family member was one those lost, that would explain your lack of respect greatly.”

“What in the hell are you talking about?”

Moving from his nonchalant cross legged seated position to his feet and mere inches from the German’s face in the blink of an eye, Drake barked in Prussian accented German, “What arrogance! What unmitigated gall! How dare you fail to show the proper respect an officer deserves, you insolent swine! What is your name, you cur?”

“G-g-gruber, mein herr,” the Gestapo man stammered, not only not expecting such a reaction but clearly not used to being spoken to in such a manner. Did I just stumble a field test set up by Gestapo Headquarters, the man wondered while attempting to retain control of his bodily functions at the thought of actually doing what he feared.

“Make a note of his name, Captain Acsády,” Drake growled ominously with a glance over his shoulder. “Now, Gruber, my aide and I may be Hungarian, but we are officers in the Royal Hungarian Army and as officers demand a certain amount of respect. And I am astonished to say that respect has not been received. You there, what is your name?”

Trying to back out of the compartment, either looking for a superior to come to the rescue or simply out of fear of the potential backlash it was not perfectly clear, the second man stopped short and stiffened to attention while Gruber failed to hide a look of profound relief from crossing his face. “Spielman, herr Oberst.”

“Spielman, collect my and Captain Acsády’s bags and follow us,” Drake commanded while tapping his finger into Gruber’s chest. “Herr Gruber,” he sneered coldly, the German's look of relief quickly being chased of his face by another of fear, “here is going to direct my aide and I to your commanding officer so that this outrage can be reported.”

Not waiting for the second man to respond, Drake pushed the clearly aghast Gruber out of the compartment and stepped out onto the platform. Spotting the man who was clearly the captain of the detail, Drake take ahold of the young German’s arm and marched quickly over to the officer, apparently oblivious to the stares he was receiving from the crowd. Following behind with a bemused grin upon his face, McIntyre, whose normal modus operandi would have been to as unobtrusive as possible, had to admit that Drake’s storming the walls and placing himself in a position of pseudo-dominance had a certain amount of charm and style.

“Hauptmann! I am Ezredes László Károly Miklós,” Drake announced in his most imperious aristocratic voice, cold eyes darting daggers, “of the Royal Hungarian Army’s Intelligence Directorate. My aide and I were on a tight time schedule to attending a briefing at Abwehr Headquarters that has been completely botched by this cretin Gruber. We have, by now, most certainly missed the car that was waiting for us and therefore need for you to make arrangements to have another made available post haste!”

Taken aback by what according to the insignia upon his uniform was a very angry Hungarian colonel, one heavily decorated to boot, nearly frog marching one of his men toward him and blustering about time schedules in Prussian accented German, the young Gestapo officer nearly blanched before his recalled his position and attempted to reassert his authority, albeit with more tact than the unfortunate Gruber. “My apologies, Herr Oberst,” the captain said while coming to attention and clicking his heels, yet thankfully forgoing the Nazi salute. “However, all trains arriving from outside Germany are required to be inspected and all passengers have their papers inspected. Unteroffizer Gruber was simply attempting to do his duty.”

“Herr Hauptmann,” McIntyre cut in smoothly while pointedly glance about the platform and at the passing civilians who were openly staring in amused wonderment at the unfolding spectacle, “I am Százados György Acsády, the Ezredes’ aide. If all that is required are our papers, allow me to present them to you now for your inspection while arrangements are made for that car the Ezredes requires.”

Taking the proffered papers from the “Hungarian” captain, the German officer was unable to keep the gleam from his eyes at the distinct possibility of being able to avoid escalating the situation and thereby keep his superiors out of the equation. Glancing at them without truly seeing them, he handed the papers back to McIntyre while growling to his subordinates. “Spielman, give those bags to Gruber and then go fetch a car for these officers. Gruber, you take those bags and respectfully place them in that car and then return here for punishment.”

Catching sight of the satisfied look exchanged between the two “Hungarian” officers, and misunderstanding the look completely, the German said, “Sirs, again my apologies for the confusion and delay, I assure you that no disrespect was intended.”

“I’m quite sure of that, Hauptmann…,” McIntyre murmured while Drake struck a pose of a slowly calming aristocrat.

“Hans Griswold, at your service, sir.”

“Rest assured, Hauptmann Griswold,” McIntyre continued, “once my Ezredes calms down he will undoubtedly commend you to your superiors.”

Clicking his heels again and bowing respectfully from the waist, the German sputtered a word of thanks while the two British/Hungarian officers strode following the departing Spielman toward an awaiting staff car. Once out of earshot of the officer who still wore a look of baffled wonderment upon his face, Drake smiled slyly at McIntyre and spoke in Hungarian, “Step one accomplished, my friend, now to the really tricky part.”



*****
Up next: Going further into the belly of the beast... the German beast, that is. Sorry for the confusion about which beast Gordon was going to visit. :D
 
Last edited: