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Just read through this very good work. You have quite the story going here, and I am interested to see how it turns out.
 
Kurt_Steiner - The list goes on...

SeleucidRex - The Abwehr sure hopes he does ;) .

Pinkspider - Thank you for rescuing the RPTTISHFANF from total and utter failure :D . Do feel free to chime in with suggestions, queries and complaints, everyone! If something isn't working, no point in beating a dead horse. If there's one sound I really hate, it's crickets :rofl: .

stnylan - At last! After two months and four days, Weltkriegschaft is at last graced with your Compulsive CommentAARship :D :D . Glad you've enjoyed it so far.



Apologies again about the slightly late update :eek:o . I have decided that since my internet connection is often on the Hansen (that's an Ernst Trommler joke), all future updates will come as unannounced surprises. That said, installments will continue to be posted roughly 3-4 times per week.

Part XI going up now!
 
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Chapter II: Part XI

Chapter II: The Gambit of the West

Part XI


April 3, 1936

The great shadow of the nearly-complete Olympiastadion engulfed Fr. Martin Kappel, as he walked the concrete avenue that encircled the vast stadium. Though after eleven in the morning, it was quite cold in Berlin, and Kappel warmed his hands furiously in the pockets of his woolen greatcoat.

The sounds of distant construction still floated out over the vast Reichssportfeld, but principal work on the Olympic Stadium itself was virtually complete. The wide pedestrian avenue was deserted -- Berlin police were stationed around the complex to keep out unnecessary personnel, only allowing Kappel to enter for a fabricated appointment with one of the architectural officials.

Upon entering the grounds, he had been awed by the sheer scale of the construction. The Reichssportfeld was dominated by a gigantic stadium built to accommodate over 110,000 spectators. Much of the structure was actually buried in the ground, resulting in a relatively flat profile that evoked the Circus Maximus more than the Colosseum.

OlympischeStadionRittich-1.jpg

Construction was nearly complete on the entrance to the Reichssportfeld, with the Olympiastadion beyond.


Beyond the Olympiastadion, a huge field was being prepared to host gymnastics and equestrian events along with a quarter-million spectators. Grass had only been installed in the nearest section, though. The rest remained a great expanse of dirt and equipment.

Further still, at the western end of the complex, a tall bell tower rose out of the field, shrouded in scaffolding.

This tower overlooked a second sunken amphitheater, this one designed to seat 22,000. There, Kappel saw three steam-powered lifts hoisting the many tonnes of stone that were being used to complete the theater’s façade.

On the ground around the theater, dozens of huge bronze figures stood motionless. Kappel had been unable to restrain himself from asking one of the overseers about them. He had replied that the statues depicted German national heroes, and would soon be hoisted into the alcoves along the top of the theater.

EckartBuehneRittich.jpg

The sunken theater, known as the Waldbühne -- “Forest Theater” -- nearing completion.


More than a hundred and fifty smaller buildings dotted the grounds -- for minor sporting events, cultural exhibits and services for the millions of people who would converge on Berlin at the end of July for the start of the Games.

EckartBuehne2Rittich.jpg

Wide courts were built to accommodate the thousands of spectators that would crowd the Reichssportfeld each day of the Games.


Now, Kappel found himself at the front of the complex. He had made a complete circuit around the stadium. There was no sign of Baron von Yorck.

von Yorck had telephoned Kappel the day before, asking to meet him at the Reichssportfeld. He had insisted that the meeting was of the utmost urgency, but intimated that he had good news.

Kappel had been wary, but von Yorck had not used their prearranged code phrase to indicate that something was amiss. Thus, he had agreed to the meeting, and made his way to the Reichssportfeld on foot the next morning.

As soon as he stepped outside St. Matthias church, where Fr. Heinrich had again given him shelter, Kappel noticed something strange in the faces of those he saw. Berliners seemed anxious. The streets of the capital were nearly empty, despite it being a Friday morning. Those who were visible seemed to Kappel tense and preoccupied. He overheard vague rumors of a war with the Allies.

Kappel checked his watch, worried. Still no sign of him.

von Yorck had instructed Kappel to simply arrive at the Reichssportfeld at eleven-thirty. He would find Kappel, he said.

A patrol of policemen was walking up the avenue from behind him. He began walking quickly. Heart pounding, Kappel scanned the shadows of the Reichssportfeld’s buildings for agents of the Gestapo lying in wait for him. Was the meeting a trap?

More police were patrolling near the stadium’s entrance. Kappel began to run, turning up the long road towards twin stone towers that marked the Reichssportfeld’s entrance.

Out of breath, he came to a stop just yards from the entrance. Has von Yorck been here at all?

The policemen were no longer in sight. Standing at the entrance, a man in the grubby overalls of a construction laborer stood facing away from Kappel. A large bloom of white smoke momentarily hid the man’s head from sight. Kappel approached him from behind. “Pardon, but have you seen a well-dressed, mustachioed man come this way?”

“No man of that description has passed this way all day, Fr. Kappel.” The man turned. It was Baron von Yorck.

The priest sputtered with shock and relief. “I -- you -- how… What’s going on here, Karl?”

von Yorck chuckled. His face was smeared with a thin layer of grime, and his moustache shaved off. He held a thin cigar between his teeth. “I think you’ll be quite pleased with me, Father.”

“What’s happened?”

The aristocrat plucked the cigar from his lips and pulled Kappel close enough to whisper. “I have already succeeded in planting a bomb in the stadium. Ask me where.”

“What are you talking about?”

“There is an elevated viewing stand for Hitler and his close associates. This stand is supported by a wood-and-plaster platform. I have succeeded in having the platform rigged with enough explosives and shrapnel to kill everyone within forty meters.”

Kappel could scarcely believe what he was hearing. His mind flooded with questions. “I expressly forbid a bomb, did I not?”

“Then what was all that you told me about that scientist stealing PETN?”

“That was never meant to be used at the Olympics, that’s for --”

“Well, the bomb is already in place. If you choose not to use it, every man that Hitler kills after the first of August will be on your conscience.”

“You cannot see it like that. My conscience forbids it.”

“What did you tell me, Father? Remember? It is not about you, or your conscience or my conscience. It is about Germany.”

Kappel backed away. “It is difficult.”

“Have you found any sharpshooters that you’ve overlooked telling me about?”

“No.” Kappel had tried, but after the successes in Belgium, dissidents were few and far between.

“Then the bomb it is.”

The questions were coming too quickly. “How did you accomplish this?”

“Three hundred thousand Reichsmarks in well-placed bribes. I thought that you would be pleased at my expense and initiative.”

“I have to make up my mind, Karl.” Kappel’s head throbbed. “Expect me at your chalet some time in the next month. I hope to know more by then, and at that time I will give you my thoughts on the use of your bomb.”

A police patrol was making its way up the deserted avenue. von Yorck pulled Kappel close again. “Good luck. My home will be open to you, as always.” He resumed the affect of a laborer, turned, and strode back onto the grounds of the Reichssportfeld, smoking the cigar.

Along the long walk back to St. Matthias church, Kappel rolled the problem over in his mind. Could the sometimes unreliable baron be telling the truth? If not, what motive had he to lie? Why had he not used the code phrase if something was amiss?

Absorbed in his thoughts, he passed through the doorway of St. Matthias and into the nave before halting where he stood. Two black man-sized Sig-runes had been daubed crudely onto the stone pavers.

The SS had been to St. Matthias.
 
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One has to admire their persistence if nothing else.

Though you strike a particularly threatening note at the end. Nicely done.
 
About the bomb... der Führer may end selling tickets for the Olympics in the moond or in a quite bloody mood asking for some heads. No matter how different is this Hitler. If you've suffered the kind of murder attempt here described, you're going to be quite furious.

About the two black man-sized sig-runes... A curious way of saying: we see you...
 
40 metres? A big bomb indeed, if it catches innocent people I can't see the bombers received with much gratitude..
 
Well, I'm glad to see the plotters using restraint.

As for the SS runes . . . *ergh* I actually felt a chill in my soul.

Most excellent update.
 
*shiver* Is Father Heinrich dead, I wonder...?
 
TheExecuter - I'm sure Kappel and von Yorck would be very pleased at your overwhelming confidence in their success :rofl: .

Pinkspider - That pretty much does cover the range of possibilities ;) .

stnylan - Yes you do. And thank you!

Kurt_Steiner - Good point. Even a non-drugged Hitler is still going to be a little peeved when people try to kill him.

English Patriot - Excellent point, and one of which Kappel is keenly aware.

Ironhewer - Thank you very much!

SeleucidRex - That shall be answered when we return to Father Kappel.
 
Kurt_Steiner said:
About the two black man-sized sig-runes... A curious way of saying: we see you...
It wouldn't be a very effective message if it was subtle. I wonder if Kappel might be encouraged to spill the plot to the authorities if the SS keeps breathing down his neck.
 
I don't see what the motivation would be... Not spill and maybe be caught, maybe not - OR - spill the plot and definitely be caught and tortured. I don't think Kappel expects them to grant him some kind of immunity.
 
SeleucidRex said:
I don't see what the motivation would be... Not spill and maybe be caught, maybe not - OR - spill the plot and definitely be caught and tortured. I don't think Kappel expects them to grant him some kind of immunity.
Exactly my thoughts, which is why I'm curious about what is intended by the runes. Maybe they're suspicious of him and want him to bail out? If so, it's terrible timing on the part of whoever is watching him- Kappel is the only one with both the inclination and knowledge to prevent the bomb from blowing up.
 
Chapter II: Part XII

Chapter II: The Gambit of the West

Part XII


April 6, 1936

The artillery over-lieutenant swayed to maintain his balance, dropping to a crouch to keep the glass from falling from his forehead. The brown liquid within sloshed angrily, causing the glass to wobble. The over-lieutenant was on his feet again, backpedaling in a semi-circle. The men around him offered shouts of encouragement. The young officer held out his hands for balance, and grew still, trying to calm the liquid within the glass. A smile crept across his face. The shift in his facial muscles set the glass wobbling again, and the over-lieutenant staggered backwards. This time he was not quick enough, as the glass tipped over the crown of his head and shattered on the wooden floor.

The officers’ mess erupted into shouting. Small numbers of paper Reichsmarks changed hands.

The officers of 2. Regiment, 3. Infanterie-Division had been billeted just outside Sankt Arnual, near Saarbrücken, since March, and had had few diversions to distract themselves from the mundane business of peacetime soldiering. Stabveterinär Gerhard Schmidt, head veterinarian of his battalion, accepted a 5 Reichsmark note from the battalion logistics officer with a smile.

Leutnant Kretsch was now vowing to hold his breath for three full minutes. A fresh round of wagers was agreed upon, and odds were established. It was getting very late. Schmidt resolved to go to sleep as soon as the little blond lieutenant had either succeeded or turned blue in the process.

Leutnant Kneser showed Kretsch to a wooden stool, and straddled his legs. “One, two three! No cheating now!” Kneser clamped a rough hand over Kretsch’s mouth, pinching off his nose with the other.

The logistics officer had produced a stopwatch, an the men began to chant off the seconds.

Schmidt felt a sudden draft of cold air, and heard the slam of a door. A corporal hurried into the room out of breath. “Attention! Which one here is Stabveterinär Schmidt?”

Schmidt turned toward the corporal. “I am Schmidt. What’s the matter?”

The junior officers were still chanting in time with the Abteilungquartiermeister’s stopwatch. “Thirty-five!”

“Some of the horses have stampeded. Hauptmann Brecke requests that you follow me immediately.”

“How did they get out at this hour?”

“Forty-five!”

“I do not know, but you must come quickly.”

Schmidt grabbed his overcoat from his place at the mess table, and hurried out the door after the corporal, slipping into it as he ran.

They passed through the regimental drill yard, down a flight of wooden stairs and into a dirt quadrangle surrounded by stables. Several groups of soldiers were inspecting the stalls by lamplight. One of the veterinary assistants called out to Schmidt.

“Somebody left the inner gate unlatched, it seems. Something must have spooked the horses, and seven of them bolted.”

Schmidt cursed under his breath. Horses were in short supply, and if anything happened to these, there would be a high price to pay indeed.

“Over here! Look at this!” One of the soldiers was waving his lamp over a dark patch on the ground just inside the outer fencing. Schmidt knew almost immediately that it was blood.

“One of the horses must have hurt itself. Which way did they go?”

The soldier conferred with a comrade. “We think they went up into the hills to the south.”

Schmidt nodded. “Gericke, Müller, Fischer, take my bags of supplies, and follow with as many men as you can!”

He sprinted past rows of stalls, arriving at the swiftest riding horse. He saddled it quickly and mounted, cantering out the gate and into the night. A full moon illuminated the fields outside the Army compound, and Schmidt could see muddy horse tracks leading towards the wooded hills that overlooked Sank Arnual.

In the bright moonlight, his horse followed the trail quickly and within several minutes he found four of the horses huddled in a narrow cleft in the hill. Schmidt called back to the others. “I found some of them! Come up quickly!”

Several voices called back to him from nearby. Gericke, Müller, Fischer and five other men soon appeared on horseback. “I think I see which one is hurt,” Gericke said, coming upon the cleft. He urged his horse down the slope, but the animal was unsure of its footing and neighed loudly.

At this, the horses in the cleft spooked again, and bolted away from the soldiers.

“After them!” Schmidt brought his horse to a gallop as the terrain leveled. The soldiers were now chasing the horses over sodden ground covered by tall grasses. Schmidt could see the terrified horses jumping over a long fence that ran the length of the field. The French border.

Fischer had nearly overtaken the slowest of the horses, and was over the fence himself. “Stabveterinär! Help me with this one!”

Schmidt and the others crossed the fence and dismounted thirty meters beyond it. The horse had somehow gashed itself along the belly, and was in great pain. Fischer caressed the animal’s forehead. “Shh! Shh-shh-shh! Good, good.”

Oberveterinär Fischer passed a look to Schmidt. There was nothing that could be done. Schmidt nodded and pulled the old revolver from his medical bag and loaded a single round.

The horse died instantly.

Startled by the shot, the remaining runaway horses neighed wildly in the distance. Unteroffizier Gericke was already mounted, and immediately galloped off in their direction.

Schmidt replaced the weapon in his bag, and remounted. “Müller! Take the --”

A sharp crack split the air. One of the riding horses screamed. Another loud report and a splash in the muddy ground. “Somebody’s shooting!”

Three more shots. Schmidt’s men dove for cover.

Schmidt leapt from his horse and crouched in the tall grass, groping through the bag for the pistol and ammunition.

One of the veterinary assistants was on the ground, screaming. Schmidt heard a strange thump and instinctively closed his eyes -- something very bright was shining through his eyelids. Fischer let out a cry of pain. When Schmidt opened his eyes, the scene was lit as bright as day by a brilliant flare. Three of his men and two of the horses had been shot and lay on the ground, yet no shooters were visible. What could be going on?

At last he found the gun and began loading rounds as quickly as he could. He heard the sharp staccato of a machinegun and felt a hot splatter on his neck as his horse roared with pain above him.

He stood. He could see a line of soldiers in French-style Adrian helmets charging through the tall grass. Schmidt aimed his pistol at the closest man and fired twice. The man kept coming. He fired all his remaining bullets. At last the man dropped to the ground.

Schmidt began to reload, but a searing pain in his chest sent him sprawling on his back and he knew no more.
 
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Oh my.... If the French really did this then they are either a) completely off the rocker

b) Have seized the alst opportunity they have to fight the Germans on nearly equal terms.


But somehow this smells like a Black Operation. Dunno why though, probably because I can't really see the French doing it.
 
Perhaps it's just a patrol. Perhaps the French Push as started in earnest.




Thinking about the horse...

When I was a kid a grew up surrounded with animals (dogs, cats, birds, pigs and some horses). One day, one of my favorite friends, a wonderful horse, had an accident, Don't remember what happened, but I saw him covered with blood, badly injured. I asked, implored my granda not to kill him, but he repeated me over and over that it was the only solution. However, I was so mad that he offered me to let the horse go on for a day, unless his suffering was too much, to see if he recovered.

The horse did it, he went out. He had some scars and some pain in one of his rear hands, but he got trought it. He lived a long and happy life. Because I was a little stubborn SOB :D In the end my grandpa didn't know who to shot, if the horse, me, or both, such a sobbing bastard had my poor grandpa shouthing at him.

More than twenty years have went on since then, but I can still see the blood on his body, his injuries, and I still have that pain in the throat I felt once.

You see, I cannot refer to an animal as "it" :D Excuse the little exorcism of those memories...
 
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The French!? They're on the border for sure, good gods I didn't think they'd try something like this so soon.