Hindenburg won't be replaced. Just complemented. There's an interesting little event chain in Mod33 that requires at least 3 German carriers to get going. Peter might end up visiting Scapa Flow in a couple of years. 
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Hindenburg won't be replaced. Just complemented. There's an interesting little event chain in Mod33 that requires at least 3 German carriers to get going. Peter might end up visiting Scapa Flow in a couple of years.
Hopefully in something faster than a Stuka.
"OKM to task force: Climb Mont Blanc'"
Hindenburg and whatever-the-other-carrier-is-called (there are two) are realistically CVEs rather than proper CVs; I think of them as "Baltic carriers." They aren't replaced, just sidelined. Got them through a "modernize the fleet" event that gave me two Level 1 CVs with no CAGs, in exchange for a couple of cruisers.
Stuck with the K for "Kaiserliche Marine Schiff" - Imperial Navy versus the Royal Navy. Wilhelm isn't his father, but comparisons with Britain are kind of inevitable.
Looks like Peter and Canaris have gotten themselves a promotion, always nice to see good man go rewarded.
Edward is just as obscure a twat as he was historically. Guess the Kaiser may be a bit disincligned to restore his trone after that sad performance.
Lastly, I fear for the Brits Cunninghams words are somewhat prophetic. You did promise us a new Battle of Jutland didn't you
Unfortunately, I forgot to mod in Konteradmiral Canaris (S3, Spotter) before I started the game, so he's going to get credit for someone else's work. And no, George stays on the throne. Edward, Duke of Windsor, doesn't make himself any more ITL friends than OTL.
Langsdorff! Keep him away from HMS Ajax, HMS Achilles and HMS Exeter and he should do fine.
It was Langsdorff or Lindemann, and Lindemann struck me as too much of a battleship captain. Langsdorff, on the other hand, was in the right place and the right time OTL to have seen the ITL bombing of Almeria and been impressed by the power of fleet aviation.
And besides, you really think three British light cruisers would stand up to a well-handled carrier?
Saxe-Goburg und Gothas are behaving rather improperly.
Like I said, "At least my son had the decency to do it before he inherited, Eddie." Edward, Duke of Windsor reminds me of those guys you meet in college who can get by on charm, until they discover there is eventually a point past which you cannot pass.
Hindenburg won't be replaced. Just complemented. There's an interesting little event chain in Mod33 that requires at least 3 German carriers to get going. Peter might end up visiting Scapa Flow in a couple of years.
Hopefully in something faster than a Stuka.
"OKM to task force: Climb Mont Blanc'"
Besides, it's shaping up that Hindenburg is the ship you want to get assigned to. Sure, it's cramped, dirty, crowded, noisy, and generally incapable as a carrier, but it's also the first ship of the Kaiser's new navy to get a battle honor, and it's clearly a career-maker!
Side note, the weird English broadcast from the 1937 Coronation Review at Spithead is the actual BBC monologue. The broadcaster was hilariously drunk.
And I'm sorry, since none of the characters are there, I haven't shown you what's going on at the B&V yards in Hamburg.
Tirpitz historically. I couldn't find a good image of Bismarck in construction, but I knew that one existed.
Nice update again, for the win KMS Hindenburg ...furthermore, can we see some ingame pics again, or first some more story telling?
Tim
...furthermore, can we see some ingame pics again, or first some more story telling?Tim
21. The First Istanbul Conference
Yildiz Palace
Istanbul, Ottoman Empire
28 May 1937
Ernst Volkmann, wearing the tropical white clothing most men would associate with an upper-level manager of the British Raj rather than the grays of a German officer, right down to his pith helmet, knocked at the door to the main office of the German delegation's row of suites. A locally hired clerk opened the door, nodding apologetically and bowing him in. "Welcome, Volkmann Effendi," the man bobbed and bowed as Ernst stepped in, passing him the helmet. Two men sat at a low glass table, much more modern than the decorations Ernst associated with Istanbul, smoking and arguing some obscure technical point. Alfried von Bohlen and Karl von Terzaghi were well-matched in this regard, though they approached the problem that united them - railroad bridges - from directly opposite directions, Bohlen from the locomotives and Terzaghi from the bridges starting at the foundation. Like the bridges themselves, Volkmann had spent the past year feeling trapped between the two men.
"Volkmann!" Bohlen said, spotting him, his eyes lighting up. "We got your telegram yesterday, glad to see you here today. I take it the line is open now?" Ernst nodded, settling into the chair Alfried indicated. "As far as al Kuwayt, Alfried." He glanced over at Terzaghi. "I crossed the bridge on the way here. Extraordinary work. Amazing that you got it up in time. How did you?" Terzaghi shrugged. "Rail bridges are simpler than roadways. The caissons were the only trouble, and..." One elegant eyebrow rose and the Sudeten engineer waved towards the Marmara. "The Sultan made it clear that the cost was no concern. Life," he concluded, "is the cheapest construction material here, I find."
"So the line is open from Berlin to Baghdad finally?" Ernst murmured, amazed at the result. "And beyond," Alfried smiled, igniting another cigarette. "Would you believe it, when your train arrived, the French Mandate in Syria and the Shah in Persia both sent their authorization for spur lines to Damascus and Teheran!" Alfried's face blanked for a moment, then he slapped his forehead. "Excuse me, so silly of me! I have a surprise." He grinned, then snapped his fingers at the Turkish clerk, who nodded, scuttling away. "Turn around," Alfried said, waving at a point vaguely behind Ernst, who obediently looked behind him. He saw a young, sandy-haired man in field-gray, wearing an Oberleutnant's shoulder boards, ceremonial saber tasseled in the Lichterfelde colors, and a narrow gold cross at his throat, looking somewhat confused at the rapid summons. "Hans!" Ernst cried, standing and moving to his startled son as fast as decorum allowed. "What are you doing in Istanbul?" they both demanded practically simultaneously, Johann looking sheepish and Ernst simply overjoyed. "You first," Ernst said, waving his hand and drawing Johann into a shaded alcove.
"Not much to tell. They modernized the armored force... sort of. The new tanks still won't punch through Red armor, we learned that in Spain." Johann unconsciously touched the cross at his throat before continuing. "So we're selling the old cans to the Sultan, to the Chinese, whoever is so desperate that they'll buy tanks that only stop rifles." Ernst nodded before replying. "As for me - you would not believe what we have had to deal with for the past year." He frowned. "I cannot tell you the full details, but... you will note, I expect, that the Sultan's troops... and the Iraqi army... both march like Germans. All for a railroad," he said bitterly. Johann nodded. "So the Baghdad line is open, Father?" Ernst nodded, proud at least of the feat of construction that had linked the Mosul terminus with Baghdad in a European gauge, and then north into the Sultan's lands.
"So what does it all mean, then?" Johann asked. "It means, Hans," the older Volkmann answered gently, "that the Sultan owes us."
---
Many delegations had assembled at the Yildiz Palace, arranged as it was for high-ranking diplomats. All of the powers with an interest in the Balkans had sent delegations, ranging from the relatively high-profile Prince Pavle Karadjordjevic, Regent of Yugoslavia, to the recent head of the British commission investigating conditions in Palestine, Lord Peel. Of these, there were two major groups, as at most of these conferences. In the first rank were the Sultan's Grand Vizier, the French General Gouraud, Lord Peel, and more or less by courtesy, the foreign ministers of Germany and Italy, Konstantin Freiherr von Neurath and Count Gian Galeazzo Ciano. In the second rank were the ministers of Romania, Yugoslavia, and Albania, and in a distant third, the representatives of Iraq, Persia, and by dint of their loss of de facto power, Greece and Bulgaria.
The conference's deliberations were universally held in the Sultan's seat, the Dolmabahce Palace. The man the Sultan had chosen as Grand Vizier, Huseyn Nihal Pasha, opened each session. A relatively young, charismatic man of letters, Husyen Nihal was a less than perfect choice if the Sultan wished to appease the Allied Powers: he was an academic, a novelist - and a fierce pan-Turkic nationalist. Huseyn Nihal had been the impetus behind the pressure on the Shah, and, Ernst Volkmann knew, had led to Bakr Sidqi's coup and "protectorate" in Iraq. What he lacked in statesmanship, he compensated in fervor. Like all of the gathered dignitaries, he spoke fluent French, but as a point of honor refused to acknowledge anything but Turkish in negotiation; hence, his table alone, on the high dais in the Muayede Salonu, the palace's great ceremonial hall. The Sultan himself was behind a strategically placed screen; like his Vizier, he spoke clean, fluent French, and had Neurath been able to choose between the young idealist and the middle-aged artist who had spent twenty years living in Paris, he would have chosen the artist.
The elder statesman of the assembled group was William, Earl Peel. Frail and ailing, he had spent most of the first part of the year as King George's emissary in Palestine, trying to sort out the difficulties of the Mandate in the face of a persistent rising which had degenerated into an effective Arab-Zionist civil war. Peel looked drawn and haggard; he had suffered a variety of ailments since the middle of the Great War, and never quite recovered from any of them. Neurath had met him before, respected him, and suspected he would not outlive the year. The British Empire was one of the world's unquestioned superpowers, and as such, Peel's table was to Nihal Pasha's right.
To the left of the dais was General Henri Gouraud, the man that Neurath could not help but think of as Clemenceau's mideastern hatchetman - he had once overthrown the King of Syria, and now served as the Military Governor of Paris. His presence was mostly because of his prior service in the region, not because of any great diplomatic ability. Gouraud, right sleeve pinned to his chest and a grim expression permanently set on his face, had set his kepi on the table. A plain wooden crucifix was prominently displayed on the table - a sign which Nihal Pasha could hardly fail to see, and even the Sultan, his view obscured, could not misinterpret. Gouraud had given an interview to a reporter on the way here, saying that this entire matter could be solved by a pair of battleships and a brigade of marines. Neurath looked across that table, eyes meeting Gouraud's for a moment. He was surprised at the degree of hate that came across the table, but smiled enigmatically in reply.
Next to Gouraud, and hence directly across from Neurath in the octagonal arrangement, was Gian Galeazzo Ciano, the Italian foreign minister, and until he had met Nihal Pasha, easily the hardest man among this gathering for Neurath to stand. He was a peacock, vain and strutting, with the bomber pilot's wings he had earned in Ethiopia prominently displayed on his close-tailored suit. Ciano had established a reputation, unearned to Neurath's ear, for diplomatic genius: first the Ethiopian matter, then the Italian intervention in Spain, and now word even of an interest in the other shore of the Adriatic. Today, though, he looked unhappy - word of the completion of the Berlin-Baghdad line meant that German influence over the Sultan was at its peak.
Rounding out the last three tables of the octagon were the delegates from the Balkans - Prince Pavle Karadjordjevic for Yugoslavia, the Patriarch of Romania, Elie Cristea, and Regent Horthy's representative Döme Sjotay jammed elbow-to-elbow at one table, the Romanian and the Yugoslav glaring uneasily at the Hungarian - the other Mideastern states, and finally the pretenders to Bulgaria and Greece seated directly across from the dais. Of these, Cristea and Karadjordjevic had obviously formed an uneasy alliance, seeing encroachment by the other powers at this conference as inevitable. For his part, Sjotay traded knowing looks with Ciano and Neurath; he clearly thought that some arrangement had been reached between Budapest, Rome, and Berlin, though Neurath himself had no idea what this might be.
"We are gathered," Nihal Pasha began in Turkish, the interpreters following a moment later, "to discuss the matters of Turkish sovereignty over regions historically under the benign protection of the Sultan." Peel frowned, standing and raising a hand. "I beg your pardon, sir," the British diplomat protested, "but I hardly feel that the self-determination of the people of Greece and Bulgaria is a matter of 'Turkish sovereignty.'"
"Quite, Peel Pasha," the Vizier smiled, teeth showing. "Please, tell me of the self-determination of the people of Palestine. How is that matter?" Peel blanched; he had not expected such a direct confrontation. For that matter, neither had Neurath, but it was clear that Nihal Pasha was very much a Turkish nationalist, and likely disagreed with the Sultan's declarations of national rights following the Greek and Bulgarian matters. Nihal Pasha reminded Neurath of stories of the Nazi leadership and their misty-eyed "Aryan" nonsense. "Now, please, sit, Peel Pasha, until I have concluded my statement. You may speak your fill later." Peel sat, legs practically failing under him at the sudden rebuke.
"As I began, this matter is essentially a matter of the Sultan's rightful dominions being returned to the protection of the Father of Nations. His Highness, King of Kings and Chief of Chiefs, has thus far been benevolent in his reasonable claims throughout the Balkan Peninsula. He has refused no one their right to return to his guidance. The Greek people, seeking restitution for the ill treatment heaped upon them by the mistakenly called 'Father of the Turks,' have wisely chosen our protection, and we have granted it. The Sultan has already guaranteed them the freedom of their religion and the status of their King Georgios within the Empire, and I fail to see what more concern this exerts upon the people of Europe." It was an exceptionally high-handed speech, and Neurath glanced at the juniormost table, where Georgios himself was seated, looking uncomfortable. "Your Majesty," Peel asked quietly, "is this true? Have you accepted the protection of the Sultan?"
Georgios stood, looking awkward and discomfited. "We have, sir. The Sultan has agreed that Greece should be a state within the confederation, not a subject people, and has agreed to... remarkable autonomy and the restitution of western Thrace to Greek rule." Georgios swallowed, as if trying to force down the admission that his nation, free for little more than a century, was once more a protectorate. "And as for Bulgaria," Nihal Pasha said with a wave of his hand, "the Bulgarians made war against us! Can we be faulted for wishing to protect ourselves from their hostility?"
"I think," Ciano drawled, leaning back without tipping his seat back, "that we may all agree that everyone here has... interests in the area. Certainly, we should make no moves without informing the others, but truly, does anyone here believe that the Sultan's actions are sufficient to trigger a general war?" He looked pointedly at Gouraud, who sat, wooden and silent, not bothering to respond. Neurath nodded and added his own voice. "Does anyone here remember what Prince Bismarck said? 'Doubtless, when war comes, it will be caused by some damned-fool thing in the Balkans.' Do we truly wish a repeat of that, just because the Sultan does not wish to be the 'sick man' once more?"
"A fine sentiment," Gouraud snarled, "from the men responsible for there being a Sultan once more. You Germans have already begun unsheathing your swords once more. Mark my words, gentlemen, this will end only when Berlin and Istanbul are both under the jackboot, just as they wish us."
Ciano, surprisingly mild, replied before Neurath had a chance. "General, do you truly believe that the business of people far from Paris is the domain of the military governor of that fine city? Do you believe that the German Foreign Minister came all this way to strut about in a silly spiked helmet and twirl his elaborate moustaches until we cower in fear?" Ciano, whatever else might be said about him, at least had a gift for mockery - Gouraud's moustache was far more impressive than Neurath's, and far more Wilhelmine, for that matter. "No... the simple fact is, the peace settlements after the Great War were written in anger and haste, and truly some re-evaluation is needed. We all have... interests in the Balkans, and the time and place to work them out is here at the conference table, not on the battlefield." Gouraud settled back, growling and seething like a caged animal.
The next three days were a period of intense negotiation. At the end of it, the reason for Ciano's "interests" was made clear: Albania's freedom was guaranteed by Italy, as was Yugoslavia's, in exchange for "special consideration" in those countries which amounted to an Italian protectorate over the Dalmatian coast. Peel was simply too ill to put up much resistance, and still locked in internal debate over the Palestine Mandate, which was still in arms. Gouraud thus found himself isolated, and could do little but snarl and protest as the Italians widened their sphere, the Sultan's gains were ratified with a caveat of "thus far, and no farther," not that Neurath himself believed that there was a danger of a march on Vienna, and, finally and most importantly, the Ottoman Sultan and the German Kaiser's respective foreign ministers signed a public treaty of alliance, both offensive and defensive. The Sick Man and the pariah of Europe had found each other, and neither would fight alone.
Yildiz Palace
Istanbul, Ottoman Empire
28 May 1937
Ernst Volkmann, wearing the tropical white clothing most men would associate with an upper-level manager of the British Raj rather than the grays of a German officer, right down to his pith helmet, knocked at the door to the main office of the German delegation's row of suites. A locally hired clerk opened the door, nodding apologetically and bowing him in. "Welcome, Volkmann Effendi," the man bobbed and bowed as Ernst stepped in, passing him the helmet. Two men sat at a low glass table, much more modern than the decorations Ernst associated with Istanbul, smoking and arguing some obscure technical point. Alfried von Bohlen and Karl von Terzaghi were well-matched in this regard, though they approached the problem that united them - railroad bridges - from directly opposite directions, Bohlen from the locomotives and Terzaghi from the bridges starting at the foundation. Like the bridges themselves, Volkmann had spent the past year feeling trapped between the two men.
"Volkmann!" Bohlen said, spotting him, his eyes lighting up. "We got your telegram yesterday, glad to see you here today. I take it the line is open now?" Ernst nodded, settling into the chair Alfried indicated. "As far as al Kuwayt, Alfried." He glanced over at Terzaghi. "I crossed the bridge on the way here. Extraordinary work. Amazing that you got it up in time. How did you?" Terzaghi shrugged. "Rail bridges are simpler than roadways. The caissons were the only trouble, and..." One elegant eyebrow rose and the Sudeten engineer waved towards the Marmara. "The Sultan made it clear that the cost was no concern. Life," he concluded, "is the cheapest construction material here, I find."
"So the line is open from Berlin to Baghdad finally?" Ernst murmured, amazed at the result. "And beyond," Alfried smiled, igniting another cigarette. "Would you believe it, when your train arrived, the French Mandate in Syria and the Shah in Persia both sent their authorization for spur lines to Damascus and Teheran!" Alfried's face blanked for a moment, then he slapped his forehead. "Excuse me, so silly of me! I have a surprise." He grinned, then snapped his fingers at the Turkish clerk, who nodded, scuttling away. "Turn around," Alfried said, waving at a point vaguely behind Ernst, who obediently looked behind him. He saw a young, sandy-haired man in field-gray, wearing an Oberleutnant's shoulder boards, ceremonial saber tasseled in the Lichterfelde colors, and a narrow gold cross at his throat, looking somewhat confused at the rapid summons. "Hans!" Ernst cried, standing and moving to his startled son as fast as decorum allowed. "What are you doing in Istanbul?" they both demanded practically simultaneously, Johann looking sheepish and Ernst simply overjoyed. "You first," Ernst said, waving his hand and drawing Johann into a shaded alcove.
"Not much to tell. They modernized the armored force... sort of. The new tanks still won't punch through Red armor, we learned that in Spain." Johann unconsciously touched the cross at his throat before continuing. "So we're selling the old cans to the Sultan, to the Chinese, whoever is so desperate that they'll buy tanks that only stop rifles." Ernst nodded before replying. "As for me - you would not believe what we have had to deal with for the past year." He frowned. "I cannot tell you the full details, but... you will note, I expect, that the Sultan's troops... and the Iraqi army... both march like Germans. All for a railroad," he said bitterly. Johann nodded. "So the Baghdad line is open, Father?" Ernst nodded, proud at least of the feat of construction that had linked the Mosul terminus with Baghdad in a European gauge, and then north into the Sultan's lands.
"So what does it all mean, then?" Johann asked. "It means, Hans," the older Volkmann answered gently, "that the Sultan owes us."
---
Many delegations had assembled at the Yildiz Palace, arranged as it was for high-ranking diplomats. All of the powers with an interest in the Balkans had sent delegations, ranging from the relatively high-profile Prince Pavle Karadjordjevic, Regent of Yugoslavia, to the recent head of the British commission investigating conditions in Palestine, Lord Peel. Of these, there were two major groups, as at most of these conferences. In the first rank were the Sultan's Grand Vizier, the French General Gouraud, Lord Peel, and more or less by courtesy, the foreign ministers of Germany and Italy, Konstantin Freiherr von Neurath and Count Gian Galeazzo Ciano. In the second rank were the ministers of Romania, Yugoslavia, and Albania, and in a distant third, the representatives of Iraq, Persia, and by dint of their loss of de facto power, Greece and Bulgaria.
The conference's deliberations were universally held in the Sultan's seat, the Dolmabahce Palace. The man the Sultan had chosen as Grand Vizier, Huseyn Nihal Pasha, opened each session. A relatively young, charismatic man of letters, Husyen Nihal was a less than perfect choice if the Sultan wished to appease the Allied Powers: he was an academic, a novelist - and a fierce pan-Turkic nationalist. Huseyn Nihal had been the impetus behind the pressure on the Shah, and, Ernst Volkmann knew, had led to Bakr Sidqi's coup and "protectorate" in Iraq. What he lacked in statesmanship, he compensated in fervor. Like all of the gathered dignitaries, he spoke fluent French, but as a point of honor refused to acknowledge anything but Turkish in negotiation; hence, his table alone, on the high dais in the Muayede Salonu, the palace's great ceremonial hall. The Sultan himself was behind a strategically placed screen; like his Vizier, he spoke clean, fluent French, and had Neurath been able to choose between the young idealist and the middle-aged artist who had spent twenty years living in Paris, he would have chosen the artist.
The elder statesman of the assembled group was William, Earl Peel. Frail and ailing, he had spent most of the first part of the year as King George's emissary in Palestine, trying to sort out the difficulties of the Mandate in the face of a persistent rising which had degenerated into an effective Arab-Zionist civil war. Peel looked drawn and haggard; he had suffered a variety of ailments since the middle of the Great War, and never quite recovered from any of them. Neurath had met him before, respected him, and suspected he would not outlive the year. The British Empire was one of the world's unquestioned superpowers, and as such, Peel's table was to Nihal Pasha's right.
To the left of the dais was General Henri Gouraud, the man that Neurath could not help but think of as Clemenceau's mideastern hatchetman - he had once overthrown the King of Syria, and now served as the Military Governor of Paris. His presence was mostly because of his prior service in the region, not because of any great diplomatic ability. Gouraud, right sleeve pinned to his chest and a grim expression permanently set on his face, had set his kepi on the table. A plain wooden crucifix was prominently displayed on the table - a sign which Nihal Pasha could hardly fail to see, and even the Sultan, his view obscured, could not misinterpret. Gouraud had given an interview to a reporter on the way here, saying that this entire matter could be solved by a pair of battleships and a brigade of marines. Neurath looked across that table, eyes meeting Gouraud's for a moment. He was surprised at the degree of hate that came across the table, but smiled enigmatically in reply.
Next to Gouraud, and hence directly across from Neurath in the octagonal arrangement, was Gian Galeazzo Ciano, the Italian foreign minister, and until he had met Nihal Pasha, easily the hardest man among this gathering for Neurath to stand. He was a peacock, vain and strutting, with the bomber pilot's wings he had earned in Ethiopia prominently displayed on his close-tailored suit. Ciano had established a reputation, unearned to Neurath's ear, for diplomatic genius: first the Ethiopian matter, then the Italian intervention in Spain, and now word even of an interest in the other shore of the Adriatic. Today, though, he looked unhappy - word of the completion of the Berlin-Baghdad line meant that German influence over the Sultan was at its peak.
Rounding out the last three tables of the octagon were the delegates from the Balkans - Prince Pavle Karadjordjevic for Yugoslavia, the Patriarch of Romania, Elie Cristea, and Regent Horthy's representative Döme Sjotay jammed elbow-to-elbow at one table, the Romanian and the Yugoslav glaring uneasily at the Hungarian - the other Mideastern states, and finally the pretenders to Bulgaria and Greece seated directly across from the dais. Of these, Cristea and Karadjordjevic had obviously formed an uneasy alliance, seeing encroachment by the other powers at this conference as inevitable. For his part, Sjotay traded knowing looks with Ciano and Neurath; he clearly thought that some arrangement had been reached between Budapest, Rome, and Berlin, though Neurath himself had no idea what this might be.
"We are gathered," Nihal Pasha began in Turkish, the interpreters following a moment later, "to discuss the matters of Turkish sovereignty over regions historically under the benign protection of the Sultan." Peel frowned, standing and raising a hand. "I beg your pardon, sir," the British diplomat protested, "but I hardly feel that the self-determination of the people of Greece and Bulgaria is a matter of 'Turkish sovereignty.'"
"Quite, Peel Pasha," the Vizier smiled, teeth showing. "Please, tell me of the self-determination of the people of Palestine. How is that matter?" Peel blanched; he had not expected such a direct confrontation. For that matter, neither had Neurath, but it was clear that Nihal Pasha was very much a Turkish nationalist, and likely disagreed with the Sultan's declarations of national rights following the Greek and Bulgarian matters. Nihal Pasha reminded Neurath of stories of the Nazi leadership and their misty-eyed "Aryan" nonsense. "Now, please, sit, Peel Pasha, until I have concluded my statement. You may speak your fill later." Peel sat, legs practically failing under him at the sudden rebuke.
"As I began, this matter is essentially a matter of the Sultan's rightful dominions being returned to the protection of the Father of Nations. His Highness, King of Kings and Chief of Chiefs, has thus far been benevolent in his reasonable claims throughout the Balkan Peninsula. He has refused no one their right to return to his guidance. The Greek people, seeking restitution for the ill treatment heaped upon them by the mistakenly called 'Father of the Turks,' have wisely chosen our protection, and we have granted it. The Sultan has already guaranteed them the freedom of their religion and the status of their King Georgios within the Empire, and I fail to see what more concern this exerts upon the people of Europe." It was an exceptionally high-handed speech, and Neurath glanced at the juniormost table, where Georgios himself was seated, looking uncomfortable. "Your Majesty," Peel asked quietly, "is this true? Have you accepted the protection of the Sultan?"
Georgios stood, looking awkward and discomfited. "We have, sir. The Sultan has agreed that Greece should be a state within the confederation, not a subject people, and has agreed to... remarkable autonomy and the restitution of western Thrace to Greek rule." Georgios swallowed, as if trying to force down the admission that his nation, free for little more than a century, was once more a protectorate. "And as for Bulgaria," Nihal Pasha said with a wave of his hand, "the Bulgarians made war against us! Can we be faulted for wishing to protect ourselves from their hostility?"
"I think," Ciano drawled, leaning back without tipping his seat back, "that we may all agree that everyone here has... interests in the area. Certainly, we should make no moves without informing the others, but truly, does anyone here believe that the Sultan's actions are sufficient to trigger a general war?" He looked pointedly at Gouraud, who sat, wooden and silent, not bothering to respond. Neurath nodded and added his own voice. "Does anyone here remember what Prince Bismarck said? 'Doubtless, when war comes, it will be caused by some damned-fool thing in the Balkans.' Do we truly wish a repeat of that, just because the Sultan does not wish to be the 'sick man' once more?"
"A fine sentiment," Gouraud snarled, "from the men responsible for there being a Sultan once more. You Germans have already begun unsheathing your swords once more. Mark my words, gentlemen, this will end only when Berlin and Istanbul are both under the jackboot, just as they wish us."
Ciano, surprisingly mild, replied before Neurath had a chance. "General, do you truly believe that the business of people far from Paris is the domain of the military governor of that fine city? Do you believe that the German Foreign Minister came all this way to strut about in a silly spiked helmet and twirl his elaborate moustaches until we cower in fear?" Ciano, whatever else might be said about him, at least had a gift for mockery - Gouraud's moustache was far more impressive than Neurath's, and far more Wilhelmine, for that matter. "No... the simple fact is, the peace settlements after the Great War were written in anger and haste, and truly some re-evaluation is needed. We all have... interests in the Balkans, and the time and place to work them out is here at the conference table, not on the battlefield." Gouraud settled back, growling and seething like a caged animal.
The next three days were a period of intense negotiation. At the end of it, the reason for Ciano's "interests" was made clear: Albania's freedom was guaranteed by Italy, as was Yugoslavia's, in exchange for "special consideration" in those countries which amounted to an Italian protectorate over the Dalmatian coast. Peel was simply too ill to put up much resistance, and still locked in internal debate over the Palestine Mandate, which was still in arms. Gouraud thus found himself isolated, and could do little but snarl and protest as the Italians widened their sphere, the Sultan's gains were ratified with a caveat of "thus far, and no farther," not that Neurath himself believed that there was a danger of a march on Vienna, and, finally and most importantly, the Ottoman Sultan and the German Kaiser's respective foreign ministers signed a public treaty of alliance, both offensive and defensive. The Sick Man and the pariah of Europe had found each other, and neither would fight alone.
I cannot believe the cake of Balkans is divided yet again.
Which Balkan war shall now come?
Which Balkan war shall now come?
Methinks the Balkans might either be much more or much less violent in the near future.
The Balkan war, when it comes, will essentially be a sideshow to the main event, and will be VERY frustrating to one particular character.
Both - the conflicts will be internal matters, but as has been pointed out, there are a lot of people now under the Sultan's umbrella that are not particularly happy about it. You can say a lot of nice things about Mustafa Kemal - unless you're a Greek, Armenian, or Cypriot.
Probably. However, if there's one thing that history teaches us, it's not to get upset about people behaving irrationally in the Balkans.
Peace in the Balkans! The sultan deserves several Nobel prizes if he can really pull that off . Looks like the Germans have a powerful new ally in the form of the Ottomans, but has the Kaiser the will to stomach Mussolini too?
. Looks like the Germans have a powerful new ally in the form of the Ottomans, but has the Kaiser the will to stomach Mussolini too?
Hmmm. I think you had actually dealt with this before.... Well, sorry for bringing it up again. Personally I would prefer seeing SMS (as it is a direct parallel of HMS), but that would require arsing about in the unitnames.csv - which is time-consuming at best. Thank you for answering my question anyway.
BTW, now that the German-Ottoman alliance has come about again, do you have any plans for detaching some ships for a Mediterranean Division; a WWII version of Goeben and Breslau?
A
Peace in the Balkans! The sultan deserves several Nobel prizes if he can really pull that off
Funny you should mention that, it's about time for Papen to visit the Pope...
Hmmm. I think you had actually dealt with this before.... Well, sorry for bringing it up again. Personally I would prefer seeing SMS (as it is a direct parallel of HMS), but that would require arsing about in the unitnames.csv - which is time-consuming at best. Thank you for answering my question anyway.
BTW, now that the German-Ottoman alliance has come about again, do you have any plans for detaching some ships for a Mediterranean Division; a WWII version of Goeben and Breslau?
A
You're correct about SMS versus KMS; in this case, it's because my last reply to you occurred while thinking about the Titanic, so I got RMS and HMS confused. Still, Wilhelm has already said that he'd rather not have any ships named after him in his lifetime, so I'll fudge it and say that the reasoning is that the ship belongs to the institution of the Reich, not the man on the throne.
As for a Mediterranean squadron, closest I've come is selling old ships to the Sultan and to Hungary. It's more effective than scrapping my Type II boats and my tier-one destroyers that I can no longer convert to escorts (yes, there are things that worked better in HoI1!).
That has been fixed in AOD. You can convert DDs into Escorts and Transports into Convoy Transports.
22. A Summer's Education
---
Air Warfare Center Wildpark-Werder
Wildpark-Werder, Berlin, German Empire
1 June 1937
Fahnrich Wilhelm Volkmann woke in pain, as he had every day for the past two weeks. The cadets were allotted six hours of sleep a night, provided there was no interruption. Willi's night had not been uninterrupted; he had fire watch for an hour in the middle of the night, and he had not been fortunate enough for it to be one of the endcap hours. Thus, when Ausbildungsfeldwebel Wennecke kicked over their garbage can, sending the metal cylinder clanging down the bay, he barely rolled out of his bunk rather than leaping out like some of the marginally better rested cadets. Basic training was not, he inwardly groaned, what he had expected. Wennecke strode down the bay like an angry titan, wielding his swagger stick left and right to motivate the cadets he thought were too slow... including Volkmann, who got a nasty welt across his left arm for his troubles. He scrambled to pull on his dark-blue fatigue uniform, the prescribed dress until they had "earned" more advanced uniforms, while Wennecke flicked on the blinding overhead bay lights. Like most of the others, Wilhelm wilted at the glare, but still fell more or less into formation for morning inspection. Wennecke, assisted by his corporal, Gaue, came through the ranks, Gaue with a clipboard in hand and Wennecke catching minute variations in uniforms. He growled at Volkmann, "How you ever expect to lead good men with boots like those?" pointing at Wilhelm's apparently inadequately-shined boots; Wilhelm refrained from replying, a lesson he had learned in the first day there. "Volkmann, one tour," Wennecke snapped over his shoulder at Gaue. Inwardly, Wilhelm sighed in relief - one marching tour was no great punishment, and they had not yet started receiving passes anyway, so spending his weekends marching was no great loss.
Rather than breakfast, which might be expected after such a wake-up, Wennecke took them for a run. They had started off relatively short, three kilometers or so, but Wennecke had rapidly ramped up their distance. They stumbled through nine kilometers at an admittedly slow pace in their barely-broken-in boots, and when they returned, stinking and winded, Wennecke dismissed them for breakfast. He did not bother with bathing, since this stage of training was mostly physical torture, rendering a shower pointless and time-consuming. Breakfast was predictable: fried sausage, fried potatoes, fried onions, and a hunk of bread, all of it execrable, not that Wilhelm had much time to register the taste. "Eat it now, taste it later" was one of Wennecke's favorite maxims. They rammed the food down in the five minutes he allotted from the last man's seating himself. Wilhelm was queasy, but soldiered on, his digestive system unused to the basic training philosophy of calories over all else. From breakfast, Wennecke jogged them - Wennecke never moved slower than a jog in formation - to draw weapons from the arms room. "Weapons" was a courtesy; they were ancient Mauser rifles with the bores filled, heavier than the issue weapon. When one cadet had voiced a complaint, Wennecke had first beaten the man until he could barely crawl to his bunk, then explained that the heavier rifle was meant to acclimate them to the extra weight.
The day's training was about what one would expect - obstacle courses in the morning and a suspiciously full lunch, ladled out by the mess team in the cadets' issue mess dishes. Potatoes, dumplings, and broth, with recognizable bits of sausage - an improvement over breakfast, Volkmann had to admit, which combined with Wennecke's grin to make him suspicious, just not suspicious enough to refuse food. His suspicions were confirmed when they were led to a long, low building flanked by several lean-to sheds. Even from a distance, he could see gas masks laid out on tarps outside the shed. Wennecke, grinning like a maniac, pointed to the sheds. "Air-out day today, turds, take a deep breath!" He broke them down by a visual estimate of helmet sizes, and they found themselves breathing through a series of obviously recycled gas masks, the fit refining until each of them had his personal mask for the day.
Wilhelm expected he would be fine - he could hold his breath for longer than most, thanks to hours in Turkish bazaars. He was mistaken; the moment he got into the dimly-lit, smoky chamber, Wennecke, with no mask at all, was barking at him to pull the mask off and take a deep breath. "I wanna see that skinny chest move, Volkmann!" the drill instructor snarled, inches from his face, ignoring the thin tracks of tears running down his face. Wilhelm inhaled deeply... and immediately retched. The feeling that his lungs and eyes were on fire was overwhelming, and he felt lunch rising. With a will, he forced it down, only to hear Wennecke yelling at the dozen cadets currently in the gas chamber. "On your faces! Now! Front - back - go! Front - back - front - go! Back! Front! Go!" For what seemed like an eternity, Volkmann obeyed the commands, rolling from back to front and standing on command, until a few men over, he heard retching, and finally he could not keep it any more. The door flew open at the first sound of vomiting, and Wennecke kicked them one-by-one to make sure they got out the door before losing their food. Volkmann looked around as best he could; tears, mucus, and vomit streaked all of the cadets who had exited, carefully shielded from those who had not gone in yet. Wennecke didn't even take time to gloat, running back in for the next set of unfortunates, leaving Wilhelm and the others still choking and vomiting. "Son of a bitch," Wilhelm muttered, hands on his knees and head still heaving. He looked down and cursed.
His boots were filthy.
---
Batman, Ottoman Empire
1 June 1937
"Volkmann Effendi," the Turkish runner called, "message for you, sir!" Johann Volkmann turned towards the runner, who was waving a telegram in the air, and nodded absently. The telegram was on typical onionskin, fluttering in the messenger's hand as he breathlessly handed it over.
Johann sprinted from the rather dingy tent-hangar set up for training the Turkish mechanics, glad for any excuse to liberate himself from what he saw as a backwater. His supervisor, Major Simon, irritably adjusted his glasses and swatted a fly as Johann approached. "Sir," Hans asked, saluting as he skidded into the makeshift office, "have you seen this?" Simon frowned, looking at the onionskin. "Yeah, yeah, it came across my desk earlier. Congratulations, Volkmann. Grab your gear, get out of here while you can. Can't say as I blame you for wanting to run, the Turks are damn near untrainable." Simon finally returned the salute before waving Volkmann about his business. "And don't worry about the paperwork," he called after the retreating lieutenant, "we'll take care of anything that comes up."
Not for the first time, Hans Volkmann was happy that Alfried von Bohlen had bought him a motorcycle more or less on a whim. He occasionally suspected there were half a dozen mini-Volkmanns in Spain and Turkey because of the bike, but now, it meant that he did not need to wait on the daily supply convoy, instead throwing up a dust plume the entire way from Batman to Diyarbakir, where he brandished his orders and yelled until he was grudgingly given space on an Istanbul-bound train. At last, dusty, sweat-soaked, and exhausted, he arrived at the embassy, grateful at least that the motorcycle leathers kept the dust off his uniform. He took the embassy steps two at a time before vanishing into the cool, alabaster-white interior. "Can I help you, mein Herr?" a pretty blonde secretary asked, smiling from the nose down.
"Yes, I need the Army attache, please. I'm supposed to have orders waiting for me?" She frowned, picking up the telephone. "Yes, Herr Oberst? There's an Oberleutnant...?"
"Volkmann. Johann Volkmann," he said selfconsciously, aware of the sweat stains on his uniform for the first time. "I just came from Batman," he added lamely. "Yes, Oberleutnant Volkmann. Says he has orders waiting here, sir. Of course, I'll send him along presently." She hung up, smiling genuinely now. "Oberst Ritter is on the second floor, please see yourself in." Volkmann nodded gratefully, heading up the stairs with his visored cap wringing in his hands. Ritter, on the second floor, was waiting in an office several times the size of Simon's in Batman, with a fan lazily spinning above his desk. "Volkmann. Come in. Don't bother with salutes, it's good just to see a German officer for a change. Any relation to that engineer we had here?"
"Yes, sir. My father," Johann answered, gratefully taking the offered chair. "Oh really? Quite the feat, opening the Baghdad line so quickly. Berlin expected it would take at least a year," Ritter added, eye catching the gold cross at Johann's throat. "And I see you were in Spain. Hmm-mm. No wonder they picked you up for the Bendlerblock," the attache added in approval, fingers tapping the broad red stripe on the side of his own trousers. "Well - your travel orders! I have a surprise for you." He smiled broadly, sliding a sheaf of papers across the desk to Johann, who took them and began reading. "You're now my dispatch carrier back to Berlin, which gives you diplomatic immunity, the right to carry as much cargo as you want, and a compartment to yourself. No bonus pay, but you scratch my back, eh?" Johann, for his part, looked at the ticket in his hand. "Sir," he blurted, "the Orient Express?"
Ritter smiled, leaning back slightly, hands steepled over his chest. "Of course, Oberleutnant - can't have our dispatches getting to Berlin slowly, can we?"
---
Naval Air Training Facility Rügen
Rügen, German Empire
1 June 1937
"Gentlemen," Peter Volkmann said, hands folded behind his back, "welcome to Naval Aviator Class One. I intend to turn you into naval aviators - all six of you." The others chuckled nervously; the man in front of them was not quite a living legend, but his Spanish Cross was more than any other naval aviator wore. Peter, for his part, smiled. "Fortunately, the plane you'll be learning to fly first will all but fly itself. Would you care to walk with me?" He gestured out at the flight line, and the students rose to accompany him. "The Fieseler 167, gentlemen. Normally we use it as a torpedo bomber, but..." His hand patted one of the biplanes affectionately between cockpit and tail, smiling back at the new trainees. "But it will land with half of the upper wings and nothing else, and... I hate to admit this, but it'll carry twice the load of a Stuka, has the same legs, and is only a tad slower." He looked over the new pilots. "So any of you have a license yet?" One raised his hand - a Luftwaffe man, by the looks of it. "Yes... Fahnenjunker...?"
"Rudel," the man said, clearing his throat. The other officers shied away from him slightly, and Peter remembered his file. Apparently the Luftwaffe had considered him marginal for flight training, and had therefore mandatory-voluntarily transferred him, similar to his own status. Peter kind of pitied the man - if the Luftwaffe had washed him out, chances are that he would not make it through carrier training. "All right, Rudel, so you've flown some before... you qualify on Storks?" Rudel nodded before answering, "Jawohl, Herr Korvettenkapitän!" in what even Peter found to be a caricature of Prussian rigidity. Peter shook his head. "Rudel, none of that. Right now, we're just on the flight line. 'Sir' is sufficient, save the rest for parades." The others laughed, some more snickering than laughing, and Rudel turned beet-red. "Well, it's the same basic controls as a Stork... just more forgiving. You can land this thing vertically if you've got a stiff enough headwind. You want to fire 'er up, Rudel?" Peter asked, waving at the biplane. The dark-haired officer candidate stepped forward and began his preflight checks, and Peter heard some jealous muttering from the others. "You'll get your turns, boys," he said absently, eyes on Rudel, who was a trifle slow, but very thorough.
Finally, Rudel was ready to go, but Peter heard something else - a twin-engine aircraft on approach. He looked up, puzzled, as no twin-engines were expected at Rügen today, and saw a gull-winged Heinkel bomber coming in, gear already down. He ran over, vaulting up to the wing and slapping Rudel's cockpit to get his attention. "SHUT HER DOWN!" he roared over the engine as the cockpit slid open. Rudel nodded and cut the engine power, choking it at the same time. The engine spluttered and died as the two of them tracked the big bird off the runway onto the taxiway. "Who the...?"
The answer clambered down the crew ladder and pulled off a leather flyer's helmet to reveal a headful of short blonde curls. She saw him from across the taxiway and ran towards him, waving the whole time until she was close enough to distinguish rank insignia, at which point she slowed to a much more decorous walk. "Korvettenkapitän Volkmann!" she snapped, coming to attention and saluting. "Test pilot Reitsch reporting to the Naval Aviation Training Facility staff!"
"Ah - welcome aboard, Reitsch," he replied as he returned her salute. "My office is in the hangar over there, I will meet you there. I trust you have your orders?" She nodded and presented them; Peter rifled through them before handing them back. "Yes, Reitsch. I'll meet you in my office, please wait there." He turned back to the trainees, who, with the exception of Rudel, who looked slightly irritated at the loss of flight time, were grinning ear to ear. "All right. Rudel. You're in charge until I get back. Walk them through ground checks, and yes, this will be on the exam!" He beat a hasty retreat after Hanna, who surprised him just inside the hangar with a kiss that would have woken the dead.
"Surprised?" she asked, breathless and grinning. He nodded wordlessly. "Well. Apparently Admiral Raeder put in a request to General Milch for a long-range patrol and torpedo plane. So I volunteered and here we are - part of the Naval Aviation staff now!" Her dimple deepened, and Peter found his surprise and bewilderment fading, smiling in appreciation. "Well then... test pilot Reitsch... we'll have to develop a training and development plan, won't we?" His arms slipped around her. "I trust you'll be working very closely with me on that," she murmured.
---
Copenhagen, Denmark
1 June 1937
At the end of a long day of teaching, Friedrich Groener waved away the last students at his fencing lessons and headed back to his small apartment. He had established a small but successful practice; he had hopes that a couple of his students might even manage the 1940 Helsinki Olympics. This occupied his thoughts as he trudged home, gearbag slung over his shoulder. As he set the fencing gear against the wall, the tall, blond man noticed a folded note on his floor, slid under the door. Frowning, he picked it up and read.
---
Air Warfare Center Wildpark-Werder
Wildpark-Werder, Berlin, German Empire
1 June 1937
Fahnrich Wilhelm Volkmann woke in pain, as he had every day for the past two weeks. The cadets were allotted six hours of sleep a night, provided there was no interruption. Willi's night had not been uninterrupted; he had fire watch for an hour in the middle of the night, and he had not been fortunate enough for it to be one of the endcap hours. Thus, when Ausbildungsfeldwebel Wennecke kicked over their garbage can, sending the metal cylinder clanging down the bay, he barely rolled out of his bunk rather than leaping out like some of the marginally better rested cadets. Basic training was not, he inwardly groaned, what he had expected. Wennecke strode down the bay like an angry titan, wielding his swagger stick left and right to motivate the cadets he thought were too slow... including Volkmann, who got a nasty welt across his left arm for his troubles. He scrambled to pull on his dark-blue fatigue uniform, the prescribed dress until they had "earned" more advanced uniforms, while Wennecke flicked on the blinding overhead bay lights. Like most of the others, Wilhelm wilted at the glare, but still fell more or less into formation for morning inspection. Wennecke, assisted by his corporal, Gaue, came through the ranks, Gaue with a clipboard in hand and Wennecke catching minute variations in uniforms. He growled at Volkmann, "How you ever expect to lead good men with boots like those?" pointing at Wilhelm's apparently inadequately-shined boots; Wilhelm refrained from replying, a lesson he had learned in the first day there. "Volkmann, one tour," Wennecke snapped over his shoulder at Gaue. Inwardly, Wilhelm sighed in relief - one marching tour was no great punishment, and they had not yet started receiving passes anyway, so spending his weekends marching was no great loss.
Rather than breakfast, which might be expected after such a wake-up, Wennecke took them for a run. They had started off relatively short, three kilometers or so, but Wennecke had rapidly ramped up their distance. They stumbled through nine kilometers at an admittedly slow pace in their barely-broken-in boots, and when they returned, stinking and winded, Wennecke dismissed them for breakfast. He did not bother with bathing, since this stage of training was mostly physical torture, rendering a shower pointless and time-consuming. Breakfast was predictable: fried sausage, fried potatoes, fried onions, and a hunk of bread, all of it execrable, not that Wilhelm had much time to register the taste. "Eat it now, taste it later" was one of Wennecke's favorite maxims. They rammed the food down in the five minutes he allotted from the last man's seating himself. Wilhelm was queasy, but soldiered on, his digestive system unused to the basic training philosophy of calories over all else. From breakfast, Wennecke jogged them - Wennecke never moved slower than a jog in formation - to draw weapons from the arms room. "Weapons" was a courtesy; they were ancient Mauser rifles with the bores filled, heavier than the issue weapon. When one cadet had voiced a complaint, Wennecke had first beaten the man until he could barely crawl to his bunk, then explained that the heavier rifle was meant to acclimate them to the extra weight.
The day's training was about what one would expect - obstacle courses in the morning and a suspiciously full lunch, ladled out by the mess team in the cadets' issue mess dishes. Potatoes, dumplings, and broth, with recognizable bits of sausage - an improvement over breakfast, Volkmann had to admit, which combined with Wennecke's grin to make him suspicious, just not suspicious enough to refuse food. His suspicions were confirmed when they were led to a long, low building flanked by several lean-to sheds. Even from a distance, he could see gas masks laid out on tarps outside the shed. Wennecke, grinning like a maniac, pointed to the sheds. "Air-out day today, turds, take a deep breath!" He broke them down by a visual estimate of helmet sizes, and they found themselves breathing through a series of obviously recycled gas masks, the fit refining until each of them had his personal mask for the day.
Wilhelm expected he would be fine - he could hold his breath for longer than most, thanks to hours in Turkish bazaars. He was mistaken; the moment he got into the dimly-lit, smoky chamber, Wennecke, with no mask at all, was barking at him to pull the mask off and take a deep breath. "I wanna see that skinny chest move, Volkmann!" the drill instructor snarled, inches from his face, ignoring the thin tracks of tears running down his face. Wilhelm inhaled deeply... and immediately retched. The feeling that his lungs and eyes were on fire was overwhelming, and he felt lunch rising. With a will, he forced it down, only to hear Wennecke yelling at the dozen cadets currently in the gas chamber. "On your faces! Now! Front - back - go! Front - back - front - go! Back! Front! Go!" For what seemed like an eternity, Volkmann obeyed the commands, rolling from back to front and standing on command, until a few men over, he heard retching, and finally he could not keep it any more. The door flew open at the first sound of vomiting, and Wennecke kicked them one-by-one to make sure they got out the door before losing their food. Volkmann looked around as best he could; tears, mucus, and vomit streaked all of the cadets who had exited, carefully shielded from those who had not gone in yet. Wennecke didn't even take time to gloat, running back in for the next set of unfortunates, leaving Wilhelm and the others still choking and vomiting. "Son of a bitch," Wilhelm muttered, hands on his knees and head still heaving. He looked down and cursed.
His boots were filthy.
---
Batman, Ottoman Empire
1 June 1937
"Volkmann Effendi," the Turkish runner called, "message for you, sir!" Johann Volkmann turned towards the runner, who was waving a telegram in the air, and nodded absently. The telegram was on typical onionskin, fluttering in the messenger's hand as he breathlessly handed it over.
Johann sprinted from the rather dingy tent-hangar set up for training the Turkish mechanics, glad for any excuse to liberate himself from what he saw as a backwater. His supervisor, Major Simon, irritably adjusted his glasses and swatted a fly as Johann approached. "Sir," Hans asked, saluting as he skidded into the makeshift office, "have you seen this?" Simon frowned, looking at the onionskin. "Yeah, yeah, it came across my desk earlier. Congratulations, Volkmann. Grab your gear, get out of here while you can. Can't say as I blame you for wanting to run, the Turks are damn near untrainable." Simon finally returned the salute before waving Volkmann about his business. "And don't worry about the paperwork," he called after the retreating lieutenant, "we'll take care of anything that comes up."
Not for the first time, Hans Volkmann was happy that Alfried von Bohlen had bought him a motorcycle more or less on a whim. He occasionally suspected there were half a dozen mini-Volkmanns in Spain and Turkey because of the bike, but now, it meant that he did not need to wait on the daily supply convoy, instead throwing up a dust plume the entire way from Batman to Diyarbakir, where he brandished his orders and yelled until he was grudgingly given space on an Istanbul-bound train. At last, dusty, sweat-soaked, and exhausted, he arrived at the embassy, grateful at least that the motorcycle leathers kept the dust off his uniform. He took the embassy steps two at a time before vanishing into the cool, alabaster-white interior. "Can I help you, mein Herr?" a pretty blonde secretary asked, smiling from the nose down.
"Yes, I need the Army attache, please. I'm supposed to have orders waiting for me?" She frowned, picking up the telephone. "Yes, Herr Oberst? There's an Oberleutnant...?"
"Volkmann. Johann Volkmann," he said selfconsciously, aware of the sweat stains on his uniform for the first time. "I just came from Batman," he added lamely. "Yes, Oberleutnant Volkmann. Says he has orders waiting here, sir. Of course, I'll send him along presently." She hung up, smiling genuinely now. "Oberst Ritter is on the second floor, please see yourself in." Volkmann nodded gratefully, heading up the stairs with his visored cap wringing in his hands. Ritter, on the second floor, was waiting in an office several times the size of Simon's in Batman, with a fan lazily spinning above his desk. "Volkmann. Come in. Don't bother with salutes, it's good just to see a German officer for a change. Any relation to that engineer we had here?"
"Yes, sir. My father," Johann answered, gratefully taking the offered chair. "Oh really? Quite the feat, opening the Baghdad line so quickly. Berlin expected it would take at least a year," Ritter added, eye catching the gold cross at Johann's throat. "And I see you were in Spain. Hmm-mm. No wonder they picked you up for the Bendlerblock," the attache added in approval, fingers tapping the broad red stripe on the side of his own trousers. "Well - your travel orders! I have a surprise for you." He smiled broadly, sliding a sheaf of papers across the desk to Johann, who took them and began reading. "You're now my dispatch carrier back to Berlin, which gives you diplomatic immunity, the right to carry as much cargo as you want, and a compartment to yourself. No bonus pay, but you scratch my back, eh?" Johann, for his part, looked at the ticket in his hand. "Sir," he blurted, "the Orient Express?"
Ritter smiled, leaning back slightly, hands steepled over his chest. "Of course, Oberleutnant - can't have our dispatches getting to Berlin slowly, can we?"
---
Naval Air Training Facility Rügen
Rügen, German Empire
1 June 1937
"Gentlemen," Peter Volkmann said, hands folded behind his back, "welcome to Naval Aviator Class One. I intend to turn you into naval aviators - all six of you." The others chuckled nervously; the man in front of them was not quite a living legend, but his Spanish Cross was more than any other naval aviator wore. Peter, for his part, smiled. "Fortunately, the plane you'll be learning to fly first will all but fly itself. Would you care to walk with me?" He gestured out at the flight line, and the students rose to accompany him. "The Fieseler 167, gentlemen. Normally we use it as a torpedo bomber, but..." His hand patted one of the biplanes affectionately between cockpit and tail, smiling back at the new trainees. "But it will land with half of the upper wings and nothing else, and... I hate to admit this, but it'll carry twice the load of a Stuka, has the same legs, and is only a tad slower." He looked over the new pilots. "So any of you have a license yet?" One raised his hand - a Luftwaffe man, by the looks of it. "Yes... Fahnenjunker...?"
"Rudel," the man said, clearing his throat. The other officers shied away from him slightly, and Peter remembered his file. Apparently the Luftwaffe had considered him marginal for flight training, and had therefore mandatory-voluntarily transferred him, similar to his own status. Peter kind of pitied the man - if the Luftwaffe had washed him out, chances are that he would not make it through carrier training. "All right, Rudel, so you've flown some before... you qualify on Storks?" Rudel nodded before answering, "Jawohl, Herr Korvettenkapitän!" in what even Peter found to be a caricature of Prussian rigidity. Peter shook his head. "Rudel, none of that. Right now, we're just on the flight line. 'Sir' is sufficient, save the rest for parades." The others laughed, some more snickering than laughing, and Rudel turned beet-red. "Well, it's the same basic controls as a Stork... just more forgiving. You can land this thing vertically if you've got a stiff enough headwind. You want to fire 'er up, Rudel?" Peter asked, waving at the biplane. The dark-haired officer candidate stepped forward and began his preflight checks, and Peter heard some jealous muttering from the others. "You'll get your turns, boys," he said absently, eyes on Rudel, who was a trifle slow, but very thorough.
Finally, Rudel was ready to go, but Peter heard something else - a twin-engine aircraft on approach. He looked up, puzzled, as no twin-engines were expected at Rügen today, and saw a gull-winged Heinkel bomber coming in, gear already down. He ran over, vaulting up to the wing and slapping Rudel's cockpit to get his attention. "SHUT HER DOWN!" he roared over the engine as the cockpit slid open. Rudel nodded and cut the engine power, choking it at the same time. The engine spluttered and died as the two of them tracked the big bird off the runway onto the taxiway. "Who the...?"
The answer clambered down the crew ladder and pulled off a leather flyer's helmet to reveal a headful of short blonde curls. She saw him from across the taxiway and ran towards him, waving the whole time until she was close enough to distinguish rank insignia, at which point she slowed to a much more decorous walk. "Korvettenkapitän Volkmann!" she snapped, coming to attention and saluting. "Test pilot Reitsch reporting to the Naval Aviation Training Facility staff!"
"Ah - welcome aboard, Reitsch," he replied as he returned her salute. "My office is in the hangar over there, I will meet you there. I trust you have your orders?" She nodded and presented them; Peter rifled through them before handing them back. "Yes, Reitsch. I'll meet you in my office, please wait there." He turned back to the trainees, who, with the exception of Rudel, who looked slightly irritated at the loss of flight time, were grinning ear to ear. "All right. Rudel. You're in charge until I get back. Walk them through ground checks, and yes, this will be on the exam!" He beat a hasty retreat after Hanna, who surprised him just inside the hangar with a kiss that would have woken the dead.
"Surprised?" she asked, breathless and grinning. He nodded wordlessly. "Well. Apparently Admiral Raeder put in a request to General Milch for a long-range patrol and torpedo plane. So I volunteered and here we are - part of the Naval Aviation staff now!" Her dimple deepened, and Peter found his surprise and bewilderment fading, smiling in appreciation. "Well then... test pilot Reitsch... we'll have to develop a training and development plan, won't we?" His arms slipped around her. "I trust you'll be working very closely with me on that," she murmured.
---
Copenhagen, Denmark
1 June 1937
At the end of a long day of teaching, Friedrich Groener waved away the last students at his fencing lessons and headed back to his small apartment. He had established a small but successful practice; he had hopes that a couple of his students might even manage the 1940 Helsinki Olympics. This occupied his thoughts as he trudged home, gearbag slung over his shoulder. As he set the fencing gear against the wall, the tall, blond man noticed a folded note on his floor, slid under the door. Frowning, he picked it up and read.
Heydrich as a spook? That's so crazy it just might work.
I think the last AAR I read that mentioned Heydrich's naval background was The Yogi's Eagle and the Lion. It's always nice to see things like that pop up.
I think the last AAR I read that mentioned Heydrich's naval background was The Yogi's Eagle and the Lion. It's always nice to see things like that pop up.
You know I wish there were an AAR where Heydrich ends up as a useless drunkard in Wilhelmshaven after being kicked out of the Navy.