Took me a couple days to find it, but this is what the debate over German and Dutch being different languages reminded me of: "No, you're thinking of Australians."
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Took me a couple days to find it, but this is what the debate over German and Dutch being different languages reminded me of: "No, you're thinking of Australians."
Alliance with an dirty socialist?
How low is that!
Speaking of socialism, since there was no NSDAP in power, what kind of social reforms has the Kaiser pushed through?
No autobahns and Volkswagen surely?
How low is that!
Speaking of socialism, since there was no NSDAP in power, what kind of social reforms has the Kaiser pushed through?
No autobahns and Volkswagen surely?
Germany has made himself vulnerable with the soft underbelly of Europe...
I think it´s time for the Hohenzollern to ascend on the Italian Throne and transform Italy into a non-pathetic Nation
I think it´s time for the Hohenzollern to ascend on the Italian Throne and transform Italy into a non-pathetic Nation
I'm sorry, I missed replying first post, since I go bottom-up and the new reply pane doesn't work well with that method. Anyway. Yes, war soon, poor Switzerland. Regarding maps... I certainly hope so, but I am TERRIBLE at remembering to take screenshots (though I did get Salmuth's capture of Minsk, and the first Big Bag, at least).
Alliance with an dirty socialist?
How low is that!
Speaking of socialism, since there was no NSDAP in power, what kind of social reforms has the Kaiser pushed through?
No autobahns and Volkswagen surely?
No autobahns or VW, no... but the world's greatest railway system. Mod33 has annual rail improvement events for the monarchy path... probably so Krupp can make more railcar wheels.
I figure this means the trains run ahead of schedule, which is just as disruptive for Bock's Moltkean timetables as if they ran late.
Regarding the Italian socialist - I wish I could tell you it was only temporary and I was waiting to stab them in the back, take the Balkans and the Tyrol from them, and I'm sure to some extent Papen may think in those terms. But the truth is that Germany needs all the friends they can get. No one considers the Soviets friendly, and the West is now decisively closed to them. Thus, second-rate powers like Hungary, Italy, Spain (next update), and a half-organized Sultanate become Germany's brave allies facing down the decadent democracies and the raging bear.
Germany has made himself vulnerable with the soft underbelly of Europe...
I think it´s time for the Hohenzollern to ascend on the Italian Throne and transform Italy into a non-pathetic Nation
No, it'd wind up being Habsburg-Toskana, not Hohenzollern. And let's be fair - Italy really lost out on that one because Mussolini felt he had to be like Hitler. There's no chance of Mussolini wanting to be like Papen. He's too much the aristocrat.
A remider to take a screenshot!!
just to help you remember...
Though I pretty much know what it looks like at this point... not too much different from the Average '39 scenario... with The ottomans, and all of Poland+Lithuania occupied by Germany.
Of course you will probably release a rump Poland soon( probably minus Lithuania sadly
thats pretty much it right?
just to help you remember...
Though I pretty much know what it looks like at this point... not too much different from the Average '39 scenario... with The ottomans, and all of Poland+Lithuania occupied by Germany.
Of course you will probably release a rump Poland soon( probably minus Lithuania sadly
thats pretty much it right?
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A remider to take a screenshot!!
just to help you remember...
Though I pretty much know what it looks like at this point... not too much different from the Average '39 scenario... with The ottomans, and all of Poland+Lithuania occupied by Germany.
Of course you will probably release a rump Poland soon( probably minus Lithuania sadly
thats pretty much it right?
I have screenshots, though I haven't opened that folder in a while to look at them. The game itself has been over for months, so going back and getting fill-ins will be somewhat difficult. You have summed up the starting situation fairly well. Germany has a border with the Soviet Union in the east, allied with Hungary and the Sultan. I think I have a save from my breakthrough into northern France, so I can give a state-of-forces layout.
One of the consequences of this game, incidentally, will probably be a Mod33 modmod that makes the German royalist path more interesting. Add some German royals as leaders and minister choices, some events, that kind of thing. Include the publication of "Truppenführung," maybe the option of the Smedley Butler Conspiracy working.
55. Departures and Arrivals
Berlin, German Empire
13 April 1941
Ernst Volkmann should have been happy. Work on the Project was going well, he had gone farther than he had ever expected to go in life, and his children were, for the most part, well-established. Wilhelm and Rita had even managed to come to the Wannsee house from Stendal for Easter. Johann was unavailable, he had no word from Annelise, and Peter was not even in Germany at the moment. This last was part of why he was unhappy: all the evidence pointed toward a coming war.
Rumor had suggested that the titular King of Spain, Alphonso XIII, had died in February; Ernst knew from his own increasing contacts in the General Staff that this was in fact the case. A tense period had followed in which the joint representatives of Papen and Mussolini, in the names of their respective monarchs, had demanded of Franco that he at least accept a titular King Juan III. Today, on Easter, 1941, for the second time in two years, a king was crowned on Easter at the Kaiser's urging. Peter had known about it for weeks, the carrier group was in Cadiz with Canaris and the two princes as the Kaiser's representatives at the coronation. The house still felt empty.
Wilhelm was lost in thought, apparently concerned with his own affairs. Ernst's youngest son looked tired, uncomfortable out of uniform, and little Fritz was walking now in his bandy-legged, open-armed way, constantly threatening to pull over anything that could be pulled. Rita, showing the first stages of a new pregnancy, chased the boy around, Wilhelm barely glancing at him, apparently lost in thought. Ernst and Lise traded a glance, remembering their four children at that age. After repeated failed attempts to engage her son in conversation, Lise finally retreated to the kitchen to harass the staff, and Ernst was left alone with Wilhelm.
"Willi," he finally asked, "What's bothering you?"
"It's going to be war, Father. Even if we weren't set on it, at this point the French are." Wilhelm stared moodily at his own hands, examining them from cuff to knuckle. "When it happens... I jump somewhere, and if I'm lucky, I get to come home in one piece again." He looked up at Ernst with naked fear in his eyes, something no one else had seen. "I don't know if I can do it again." His hands shook slightly, and he expended a visible effort to still them. "I've started dreaming about Rybie again. I haven't done that since the hospital."
Ernst nodded, stood, and departed. When he came back, he was carrying a cigar box. When he opened it, it still smelled of the long-ago Havanas which had occupied it. Wilhelm saw the maker's mark date inside the box: 1914. "A group of us bought the box to share when we volunteered," Ernst said, a far-off, sad look in his eyes. It was obvious whom he meant when he opened the box: a row of fourteen men in waistcoats and vests, some smugly holding pipes, some with glasses, outside a recruiting station. "The entire firm volunteered when we heard it was war." Ernst sat opposite his son, going through the photographs one by one. "We swore we'd all get together in Paris. Liege, the Marne, the Somme, Verdun... only one who seemed immune was old man Heber -" Ernst tapped an older, somber-faced man in the first photo. "He was too old and too experienced to take as a lieutenant, so he went in as a major. He ate a gas shell at Passchendaele." He swallowed a lump. "End of the war, I checked their regiments, turned out I had gotten lucky." Ernst smiled bitterly. "If you can call it lucky. The reason Peter's short enough to be a pilot is because of the hard years." He straightened, looking Wilhelm in the eye. "Every time I went on leave, I was sure it would be impossible when I got back to the front. The trick... the trick is just to stop thinking about it. If you think about it, you'll get yourself killed."
Wilhelm nodded, somewhat stunned at these revelations. Ernst Volkmann rarely discussed the War. For him to do so meant he took his son's fears seriously, and a quick glance at his own son told Wilhelm all he needed to know about why his father was worried. He closed his eyes for a moment, straightening up, and when he opened his eyes, they were remarkably clear. "I'll make it home." Ernst considered telling him that he had once made that same promise, that it was meaningless, and eventually let it lie. At that moment, a knock sounded at the door. He started, then Bach, the British-trained butler whom Lise thought was an extravagance, but he felt went so well with the big uptown house, coughed politely at the door. "Sir, a young woman at the door wishes to speak to you."
"It's Easter, who's wasting my...?" Bach did not answer, but cocked an eyebrow, suggesting more urgency than he would normally express, and a faint air of disapproval. Ernst rose from where he sat with Wilhelm, moving quickly to the door. At the door stood a tiny blonde, in her early twenties, clearly both pregnant and miserable. "Hello, Papa," Annelise barely whispered.
It was an incredibly uncomfortable dinner - Rita snickered at Annelise's condition the whole meal, despite Wilhelm's warning looks and the ring on Anni's hand. Her descriptions of French sentiment rang true with what Ernst remembered from 1914. When he pressed her to stay, she just gave a tired, sad smile and shook her head. "No... Henri's family has a chateau in Normandy. He's asked me to wait for him there, says the war can't possibly be like last time, one way or the other." Ernst nodded, stiffly, standing and bowing from the waist fractionally. "Very well, Frau Lassan. There is nothing I can do for you then."
Wilhelm, Rita, and Lise watched Ernst's retreating, stiff-shouldered back; Annelise just wept. In the background, Fritz cackled happily with whatever toy he had found. Finally, Wilhelm stood to break the silence, following his father and smiling reassuringly at his sister. "We'll make it right, Annchen."
"I don't think so," she mumbled through her tears. "God, I don't think so."
---
Charlottenburg Palace
Berlin, German Empire
12 May 1941
"He's what?" asked the Kaiser incredulously. Albert Speer, court architect, shrugged. "He appears to have... had a stroke, sire." Speer coughed, shuffling his feet apologetically. "Sire, Baron Krupp is not a young man, and he has been managing admirably since he took over the Ministry. If I may say so, I suspect that it's simply his workload."
"Yes, yes, quite right," Wilhelm said in distraction, frowning and pacing behind the desk, hands clasped behind his back. "Still, he picked a devil of a time to fall over at his desk, eh?" Speer nodded, torn between his ambition and his loyalty to his nominal superior in the Ministry of Economics. "Well... first things, Speer, I suppose I should visit him, has he a doctor, someone to take good care of him? I suppose he does, but make sure he has the best... and most discreet... care that my name can get him." Wilhelm sat down behind the great desk, slouched in his chair, all the air whooshing out of him at once, and Speer nodded, taking quick, rapid-fire notes as the Kaiser glanced at him. "You know, Speer... we could do much worse than... but Father'd never approve a commoner... damn difficult decision."
"Sire?" Speer asked politely, brushing his hair back from his forehead. That silly Hitler haircut, with the tendency to fall forward the moment he leaned to note something... it irritated Wilhelm, but it was the only really irritating thing about Speer. Finally, Wilhelm resolved himself, sitting up, momentarily ignoring the architect and picking up the phone. "Hello? Yes? Get me Essen, the Villa Hügel... thank you. Hello? This is the Kaiser. Alfried. What do you mean he's in Bohemia? Well then transfer me!"
Moments later, he was finally in contact with the Krupp heir. "Alfried? This is the Kaiser. Your father... I'm afraid he's in a bit of a bad way. Would you be willing to take over his position at the ministry? Yes. I understand. Of course, the Firm needs you. Suppose I can certainly understand that. Well. Thank you. And Alfried? Don't worry about him, he deserves the best Germany can give him. Of course. What's good for Krupp, et cetera. A pleasure as always, Alfried." Wilhelm closed his eyes, fumbling for a cigarette case and drawing one. Speer quickly leaned forward with a lighter, and the Kaiser nodded gratefully.
"Well, Speer. What do you say, would you like the Ministry?" Speer nodded, gulping, his wildest ambitions suddenly fulfilled. Wilhelm nodded absently, tapping a pen on the desk. "Mmm. Good, I'll settle it with the Chancellor then. I suppose I should welcome you to the government," the Kaiser concluded, rising and offering his hand. "An honor, Majesty."
---
Sanssouci Palace
Potsdam, German Empire
11 June 1941
The old man was dead. The realization had taken days to sink into Kaiser Wilhelm - that now, he was without question head of the House. The parade of dignitaries, from every country on Earth it seemed, never seemed to end, and his hand was numb from shaking them - almost as numb as he felt inside. His father had always been there, had always had a decision, right or wrong, and without Old King Wilhelm, he felt... lost. Today, a week after his death, they had brought him to the Antique Temple, to lay beside the Kaiserin. His second wife, Hermine Reuss, had wept bitterly at the thought of losing him to a woman she had never felt completely able to compete against in life, especially after the Kaiser had gently but firmly informed her that she would never lay in the Sanssouci crypt.
Generalfeldmarschall von Bock had originally expected to head the military delegation to the old Kaiser's funeral, but the sudden appearance of Generalfeldmarschall von Mackensen put a quick end to that. The old marshal, clothed in Totenkopf black, right down to the shako, had quashed Bock's designs with a slap of his hand on the War Minister's desk and a rather direct command: "You serve the son, puppy, I served the father. Let me bury him." Bock had acquiesced; Mackensen was, if nothing else, a living symbol of Germany's glory days.
Thus it was that the caisson advanced up the path toward the Antique Temple, where Wilhelm and the rest of the official party waited, standing respectfully as the Kaiser's coffin approached. The sarcophagus was already prepared, and the effigy carved and set aside, but Wilhelm II would lay in state here. He would not lay that way long, as the summer would make exposing his body unbearable and unsanitary. The caisson rolled along, drawn by a black cavalry horse, boots reversed in its stirrups and Prince Wilhelm, Wilhelm III's disinherited eldest son, acting as its guide, setting the cadence with slow clicks of his metal-tapped bootheels.
For the Kaiser, it was the year that would never end. First Krupp, then his father - all of the old breed seemed to be falling away. The Guards cavalry uniform kept him stiff and upright at least, a function as much of the high collar as of any innate dignity. All Wilhelm really wanted at this point was a rest - the annual summer cruise on the Deutschland - but the Chancellor had quietly warned him that 1941 would be a poor year to do this. Instead, he was watching his eldest son guide his father to his final resting place.
The procession finally halted before the Ancient Temple, and Mackensen and the other pallbearers stepped into place. Even old Krupp was lucid for the occasion and had lent his shoulder, the only man in civil garb in the immediate entourage. Bishop Dibelius was already in position when they rested the old man's coffin on the bier in the center of the Ancient Temple, and began speaking as soon as the pallbearers had stepped away. "And I said, 'Naked came I from my mother's womb, and naked shall I return...'"
Job seemed a curious choice for a reading for a man who had spent his life glorying in his role as king-emperor, even after his downfall in 1918. It seemed as ill-fitting as this glorious summer's day, and Wilhelm suddenly longed to be elsewhere, anywhere else, even back at Verdun. Finally, the speakers fell silent, and the long line of mourners began to tramp past his father where he lay in the center of the circular temple. Wilhelm himself was first in that line, and brushed his fingers over the ash-gray skin and silver hair of the old man's cheek. "Goodbye, Father," he whispered, barely audible, before deliberately squaring his shoulders and walking smartly from the temple.
Berlin, German Empire
13 April 1941
Ernst Volkmann should have been happy. Work on the Project was going well, he had gone farther than he had ever expected to go in life, and his children were, for the most part, well-established. Wilhelm and Rita had even managed to come to the Wannsee house from Stendal for Easter. Johann was unavailable, he had no word from Annelise, and Peter was not even in Germany at the moment. This last was part of why he was unhappy: all the evidence pointed toward a coming war.
Rumor had suggested that the titular King of Spain, Alphonso XIII, had died in February; Ernst knew from his own increasing contacts in the General Staff that this was in fact the case. A tense period had followed in which the joint representatives of Papen and Mussolini, in the names of their respective monarchs, had demanded of Franco that he at least accept a titular King Juan III. Today, on Easter, 1941, for the second time in two years, a king was crowned on Easter at the Kaiser's urging. Peter had known about it for weeks, the carrier group was in Cadiz with Canaris and the two princes as the Kaiser's representatives at the coronation. The house still felt empty.
Wilhelm was lost in thought, apparently concerned with his own affairs. Ernst's youngest son looked tired, uncomfortable out of uniform, and little Fritz was walking now in his bandy-legged, open-armed way, constantly threatening to pull over anything that could be pulled. Rita, showing the first stages of a new pregnancy, chased the boy around, Wilhelm barely glancing at him, apparently lost in thought. Ernst and Lise traded a glance, remembering their four children at that age. After repeated failed attempts to engage her son in conversation, Lise finally retreated to the kitchen to harass the staff, and Ernst was left alone with Wilhelm.
"Willi," he finally asked, "What's bothering you?"
"It's going to be war, Father. Even if we weren't set on it, at this point the French are." Wilhelm stared moodily at his own hands, examining them from cuff to knuckle. "When it happens... I jump somewhere, and if I'm lucky, I get to come home in one piece again." He looked up at Ernst with naked fear in his eyes, something no one else had seen. "I don't know if I can do it again." His hands shook slightly, and he expended a visible effort to still them. "I've started dreaming about Rybie again. I haven't done that since the hospital."
Ernst nodded, stood, and departed. When he came back, he was carrying a cigar box. When he opened it, it still smelled of the long-ago Havanas which had occupied it. Wilhelm saw the maker's mark date inside the box: 1914. "A group of us bought the box to share when we volunteered," Ernst said, a far-off, sad look in his eyes. It was obvious whom he meant when he opened the box: a row of fourteen men in waistcoats and vests, some smugly holding pipes, some with glasses, outside a recruiting station. "The entire firm volunteered when we heard it was war." Ernst sat opposite his son, going through the photographs one by one. "We swore we'd all get together in Paris. Liege, the Marne, the Somme, Verdun... only one who seemed immune was old man Heber -" Ernst tapped an older, somber-faced man in the first photo. "He was too old and too experienced to take as a lieutenant, so he went in as a major. He ate a gas shell at Passchendaele." He swallowed a lump. "End of the war, I checked their regiments, turned out I had gotten lucky." Ernst smiled bitterly. "If you can call it lucky. The reason Peter's short enough to be a pilot is because of the hard years." He straightened, looking Wilhelm in the eye. "Every time I went on leave, I was sure it would be impossible when I got back to the front. The trick... the trick is just to stop thinking about it. If you think about it, you'll get yourself killed."
Wilhelm nodded, somewhat stunned at these revelations. Ernst Volkmann rarely discussed the War. For him to do so meant he took his son's fears seriously, and a quick glance at his own son told Wilhelm all he needed to know about why his father was worried. He closed his eyes for a moment, straightening up, and when he opened his eyes, they were remarkably clear. "I'll make it home." Ernst considered telling him that he had once made that same promise, that it was meaningless, and eventually let it lie. At that moment, a knock sounded at the door. He started, then Bach, the British-trained butler whom Lise thought was an extravagance, but he felt went so well with the big uptown house, coughed politely at the door. "Sir, a young woman at the door wishes to speak to you."
"It's Easter, who's wasting my...?" Bach did not answer, but cocked an eyebrow, suggesting more urgency than he would normally express, and a faint air of disapproval. Ernst rose from where he sat with Wilhelm, moving quickly to the door. At the door stood a tiny blonde, in her early twenties, clearly both pregnant and miserable. "Hello, Papa," Annelise barely whispered.
It was an incredibly uncomfortable dinner - Rita snickered at Annelise's condition the whole meal, despite Wilhelm's warning looks and the ring on Anni's hand. Her descriptions of French sentiment rang true with what Ernst remembered from 1914. When he pressed her to stay, she just gave a tired, sad smile and shook her head. "No... Henri's family has a chateau in Normandy. He's asked me to wait for him there, says the war can't possibly be like last time, one way or the other." Ernst nodded, stiffly, standing and bowing from the waist fractionally. "Very well, Frau Lassan. There is nothing I can do for you then."
Wilhelm, Rita, and Lise watched Ernst's retreating, stiff-shouldered back; Annelise just wept. In the background, Fritz cackled happily with whatever toy he had found. Finally, Wilhelm stood to break the silence, following his father and smiling reassuringly at his sister. "We'll make it right, Annchen."
"I don't think so," she mumbled through her tears. "God, I don't think so."
---
Charlottenburg Palace
Berlin, German Empire
12 May 1941
"He's what?" asked the Kaiser incredulously. Albert Speer, court architect, shrugged. "He appears to have... had a stroke, sire." Speer coughed, shuffling his feet apologetically. "Sire, Baron Krupp is not a young man, and he has been managing admirably since he took over the Ministry. If I may say so, I suspect that it's simply his workload."
"Yes, yes, quite right," Wilhelm said in distraction, frowning and pacing behind the desk, hands clasped behind his back. "Still, he picked a devil of a time to fall over at his desk, eh?" Speer nodded, torn between his ambition and his loyalty to his nominal superior in the Ministry of Economics. "Well... first things, Speer, I suppose I should visit him, has he a doctor, someone to take good care of him? I suppose he does, but make sure he has the best... and most discreet... care that my name can get him." Wilhelm sat down behind the great desk, slouched in his chair, all the air whooshing out of him at once, and Speer nodded, taking quick, rapid-fire notes as the Kaiser glanced at him. "You know, Speer... we could do much worse than... but Father'd never approve a commoner... damn difficult decision."
"Sire?" Speer asked politely, brushing his hair back from his forehead. That silly Hitler haircut, with the tendency to fall forward the moment he leaned to note something... it irritated Wilhelm, but it was the only really irritating thing about Speer. Finally, Wilhelm resolved himself, sitting up, momentarily ignoring the architect and picking up the phone. "Hello? Yes? Get me Essen, the Villa Hügel... thank you. Hello? This is the Kaiser. Alfried. What do you mean he's in Bohemia? Well then transfer me!"
Moments later, he was finally in contact with the Krupp heir. "Alfried? This is the Kaiser. Your father... I'm afraid he's in a bit of a bad way. Would you be willing to take over his position at the ministry? Yes. I understand. Of course, the Firm needs you. Suppose I can certainly understand that. Well. Thank you. And Alfried? Don't worry about him, he deserves the best Germany can give him. Of course. What's good for Krupp, et cetera. A pleasure as always, Alfried." Wilhelm closed his eyes, fumbling for a cigarette case and drawing one. Speer quickly leaned forward with a lighter, and the Kaiser nodded gratefully.
"Well, Speer. What do you say, would you like the Ministry?" Speer nodded, gulping, his wildest ambitions suddenly fulfilled. Wilhelm nodded absently, tapping a pen on the desk. "Mmm. Good, I'll settle it with the Chancellor then. I suppose I should welcome you to the government," the Kaiser concluded, rising and offering his hand. "An honor, Majesty."
---
Sanssouci Palace
Potsdam, German Empire
11 June 1941
The old man was dead. The realization had taken days to sink into Kaiser Wilhelm - that now, he was without question head of the House. The parade of dignitaries, from every country on Earth it seemed, never seemed to end, and his hand was numb from shaking them - almost as numb as he felt inside. His father had always been there, had always had a decision, right or wrong, and without Old King Wilhelm, he felt... lost. Today, a week after his death, they had brought him to the Antique Temple, to lay beside the Kaiserin. His second wife, Hermine Reuss, had wept bitterly at the thought of losing him to a woman she had never felt completely able to compete against in life, especially after the Kaiser had gently but firmly informed her that she would never lay in the Sanssouci crypt.
Generalfeldmarschall von Bock had originally expected to head the military delegation to the old Kaiser's funeral, but the sudden appearance of Generalfeldmarschall von Mackensen put a quick end to that. The old marshal, clothed in Totenkopf black, right down to the shako, had quashed Bock's designs with a slap of his hand on the War Minister's desk and a rather direct command: "You serve the son, puppy, I served the father. Let me bury him." Bock had acquiesced; Mackensen was, if nothing else, a living symbol of Germany's glory days.
Thus it was that the caisson advanced up the path toward the Antique Temple, where Wilhelm and the rest of the official party waited, standing respectfully as the Kaiser's coffin approached. The sarcophagus was already prepared, and the effigy carved and set aside, but Wilhelm II would lay in state here. He would not lay that way long, as the summer would make exposing his body unbearable and unsanitary. The caisson rolled along, drawn by a black cavalry horse, boots reversed in its stirrups and Prince Wilhelm, Wilhelm III's disinherited eldest son, acting as its guide, setting the cadence with slow clicks of his metal-tapped bootheels.
For the Kaiser, it was the year that would never end. First Krupp, then his father - all of the old breed seemed to be falling away. The Guards cavalry uniform kept him stiff and upright at least, a function as much of the high collar as of any innate dignity. All Wilhelm really wanted at this point was a rest - the annual summer cruise on the Deutschland - but the Chancellor had quietly warned him that 1941 would be a poor year to do this. Instead, he was watching his eldest son guide his father to his final resting place.
The procession finally halted before the Ancient Temple, and Mackensen and the other pallbearers stepped into place. Even old Krupp was lucid for the occasion and had lent his shoulder, the only man in civil garb in the immediate entourage. Bishop Dibelius was already in position when they rested the old man's coffin on the bier in the center of the Ancient Temple, and began speaking as soon as the pallbearers had stepped away. "And I said, 'Naked came I from my mother's womb, and naked shall I return...'"
Job seemed a curious choice for a reading for a man who had spent his life glorying in his role as king-emperor, even after his downfall in 1918. It seemed as ill-fitting as this glorious summer's day, and Wilhelm suddenly longed to be elsewhere, anywhere else, even back at Verdun. Finally, the speakers fell silent, and the long line of mourners began to tramp past his father where he lay in the center of the circular temple. Wilhelm himself was first in that line, and brushed his fingers over the ash-gray skin and silver hair of the old man's cheek. "Goodbye, Father," he whispered, barely audible, before deliberately squaring his shoulders and walking smartly from the temple.
Well, if the Kaiserliches Heer does his work good enough, Annelise won't have a French husband for too long.
Who cares about a CB if the French are about to be handed another shoeing?
More seriously though, I almost fear this will be more bloody considering the increased tech base on both sides.
More seriously though, I almost fear this will be more bloody considering the increased tech base on both sides.
56. The Precipice
Paris, Republic of France
28 July 1941
"Darling, so good to see you again," Ernst vom Rath smiled at the young Frenchman across from him, patting his hand as the young man nervously slid into his seat. One wonderful thing about this posting was that Paris was so much more... permissive... than Budapest. The scar on his cheek twitched as he turned, signalling the waiter to bring a menu. The young man looked around anxiously; being seen in public with a man so obviously German was dangerous in these times.
The two of them sipped their coffee, making forced small talk as they awaited breakfast, until a shadow suddenly fell across the table. "You... you told me..." another young man, barely in his twenties, stuttered, face a mixture of anger and shame. "You told me I was the one!" Rath turned, smirking over his shoulder, turning back to the French youth. "Silly Poles, they get such strange ideas." He shrugged indifferently, watching the waiter approach again. "Please do go away, Herschel, you are making a scene."
Herschel Grynszpan, jilted lover and exiled Pole, drew a snub-nosed revolver from a pocket inside his coat and fired at a distance of less than a meter into the German diplomat's back. He fired again and again, emptying all five chambers into Rath. Rath gave one startled yelp and slumped forward, blood soaking the white tablecloth. Almost immediately, gendarmes came running, wrestling Grynszpan to the ground while the French youth stood, backing away in shocked horror.
Grynszpan himself made no effort to resist the police, silently collapsing into arrest. Had he known what he had begun, he would have trembled in horror.
---
Reichskanzlei
Berlin, German Empire
29 July 1941
"Are you serious?" demanded Papen, totally incredulous, almost hopping with glee. "Do you mean to tell me some damn-fool Pole seriously shot the secretary of our embassy in Paris?" He slapped the desktop in mirth, grabbing Neurath by his lapel with his free hand and cackling. "We have them, Konstantin! We have them!"
"Yes, Chancellor," Neurath replied stiffly, gently dislodging Papen. "And in the meantime, a German diplomat has been murdered." Papen grinned, sitting and throwing his feet onto the desk. "Well of course he has, by a Pole no less, and we had nothing to do with it, it's Providence, I tell you!" Seeing Neurath's disapproving stare, he sighed. "All right, all right, put the flags at half-mast for a day, give his family a wreath and some medal, the House Order or something, put swords on it for all I care, he was shot after all. He have children?"
"No, Chancellor. He... preferred Hohenlohe's approach." Papen clicked in disapproval. "No wonder we posted him to Paris," he chuckled. "Still, saves us on pension money, eh?" Papen's eyes glittered as he leaned forward, that familiar hungry expression on his face. "And tell Paris... tell that Red fool Daladier if he doesn't let the Orpo in to handle this, and immediately begin discussion on Elsass-Lothringen... and you make damned sure to call it by its proper name!... then we will meet him in Flanders."
"Chancellor... isn't that a matter for the All-Highest to decide?" Neurath protested. Papen's teeth showed when he smiled. "Leave His Majesty to me."
---
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HMS Illustrious
Scapa Flow, United Kingdom of Great Britain
4 August 1941
Captain Lord Louis Mountbatten was forty-one years old, the youngest carrier captain in the Royal Navy. He had been in command of the Illustrious for a mere two months, royal favor and the interest of the Prime Minister pushing him forward. His own relentless ambition and considerable ability added to this, but the fact remained, in a service dominated by seniority, Mountbatten had risen fast and far. At dawn, he had called out the ship's company, reading to them the text of the Prime Minister's speech.
"So that's it then, gentlemen. We are at war with the Kaiser. Nothing for it but to win, and give the Kaiser a damned good thrashing. We shall depart as soon as the Admiralty orders, capture one of those German battleships, and bring it back into harbor like Nelson at Copenhagen! God save the King!" The crew gave the prescribed cheer, then a single, off-key voice began quavering out Rule Britannia. Mountbatten, normally a stickler for discipline, made no effort to stop the song, joining in as it moved through his crew.
Across Scapa Flow, dozens of ships responded similarly to the news of war. Only the fuelers and coalers were desperately plying from ship-to-ship, the order expected any moment to sortie. Their preparations were feverish, mad, and, as events proved, futile.
Paris, Republic of France
28 July 1941
"Darling, so good to see you again," Ernst vom Rath smiled at the young Frenchman across from him, patting his hand as the young man nervously slid into his seat. One wonderful thing about this posting was that Paris was so much more... permissive... than Budapest. The scar on his cheek twitched as he turned, signalling the waiter to bring a menu. The young man looked around anxiously; being seen in public with a man so obviously German was dangerous in these times.
The two of them sipped their coffee, making forced small talk as they awaited breakfast, until a shadow suddenly fell across the table. "You... you told me..." another young man, barely in his twenties, stuttered, face a mixture of anger and shame. "You told me I was the one!" Rath turned, smirking over his shoulder, turning back to the French youth. "Silly Poles, they get such strange ideas." He shrugged indifferently, watching the waiter approach again. "Please do go away, Herschel, you are making a scene."
Herschel Grynszpan, jilted lover and exiled Pole, drew a snub-nosed revolver from a pocket inside his coat and fired at a distance of less than a meter into the German diplomat's back. He fired again and again, emptying all five chambers into Rath. Rath gave one startled yelp and slumped forward, blood soaking the white tablecloth. Almost immediately, gendarmes came running, wrestling Grynszpan to the ground while the French youth stood, backing away in shocked horror.
Grynszpan himself made no effort to resist the police, silently collapsing into arrest. Had he known what he had begun, he would have trembled in horror.
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Reichskanzlei
Berlin, German Empire
29 July 1941
"Are you serious?" demanded Papen, totally incredulous, almost hopping with glee. "Do you mean to tell me some damn-fool Pole seriously shot the secretary of our embassy in Paris?" He slapped the desktop in mirth, grabbing Neurath by his lapel with his free hand and cackling. "We have them, Konstantin! We have them!"
"Yes, Chancellor," Neurath replied stiffly, gently dislodging Papen. "And in the meantime, a German diplomat has been murdered." Papen grinned, sitting and throwing his feet onto the desk. "Well of course he has, by a Pole no less, and we had nothing to do with it, it's Providence, I tell you!" Seeing Neurath's disapproving stare, he sighed. "All right, all right, put the flags at half-mast for a day, give his family a wreath and some medal, the House Order or something, put swords on it for all I care, he was shot after all. He have children?"
"No, Chancellor. He... preferred Hohenlohe's approach." Papen clicked in disapproval. "No wonder we posted him to Paris," he chuckled. "Still, saves us on pension money, eh?" Papen's eyes glittered as he leaned forward, that familiar hungry expression on his face. "And tell Paris... tell that Red fool Daladier if he doesn't let the Orpo in to handle this, and immediately begin discussion on Elsass-Lothringen... and you make damned sure to call it by its proper name!... then we will meet him in Flanders."
"Chancellor... isn't that a matter for the All-Highest to decide?" Neurath protested. Papen's teeth showed when he smiled. "Leave His Majesty to me."
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Wilhelm III said:
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William Shirer said:
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Winston Churchill said:
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HMS Illustrious
Scapa Flow, United Kingdom of Great Britain
4 August 1941
Captain Lord Louis Mountbatten was forty-one years old, the youngest carrier captain in the Royal Navy. He had been in command of the Illustrious for a mere two months, royal favor and the interest of the Prime Minister pushing him forward. His own relentless ambition and considerable ability added to this, but the fact remained, in a service dominated by seniority, Mountbatten had risen fast and far. At dawn, he had called out the ship's company, reading to them the text of the Prime Minister's speech.
"So that's it then, gentlemen. We are at war with the Kaiser. Nothing for it but to win, and give the Kaiser a damned good thrashing. We shall depart as soon as the Admiralty orders, capture one of those German battleships, and bring it back into harbor like Nelson at Copenhagen! God save the King!" The crew gave the prescribed cheer, then a single, off-key voice began quavering out Rule Britannia. Mountbatten, normally a stickler for discipline, made no effort to stop the song, joining in as it moved through his crew.
Across Scapa Flow, dozens of ships responded similarly to the news of war. Only the fuelers and coalers were desperately plying from ship-to-ship, the order expected any moment to sortie. Their preparations were feverish, mad, and, as events proved, futile.
The ghost fleet arrives...
What an casus belli.
Not as glorious as the murder of a heir to the throne.
But close enough!
What an casus belli.
Not as glorious as the murder of a heir to the throne.
But close enough!
Well, the Yanks had their ships sunk or attacked, the Germans a random killer at hand...
War it is then! I wonder how quick France will be overrun and I hope that some sort of invasion of Britain will happen...
There will be no parades and hurrahs on the way to the battlefield, largely because the troops involved are already pretty much positioned, so parades would give them away.
The initial contact will be less battle, more one-sided slaughter, not tilted the way the British would like. Of course, there are no fewer than three separate plans for similar operations in the works. In the Med, Cunningham's been hammering away at an operational order for an aerial attack on Taranto since he got there. In Germany, Scapa Flow essentially is the annual wargame problem for the aviators. In Japan... well... they may have to scrap Yamamoto's plans for want of surprise. Though Pearl Harbor is a different anchorage, supposedly too shallow for aerial torpedoes, and the USN still thinks the IJN is too far away to pull it off...
The ghost fleet arrives...
What an casus belli.
Not as glorious as the murder of a heir to the throne.
But close enough!
At this point, a lost soccer ball would have kicked it off. And I doubt there'll be a throne for the Sigmaringen branch of the House of Hohenzollern out of it, either.
See reference to Battle of London above.
Next up, an outline of the Bock Plan and the last-minute intervention in its execution by a major-general named Volkmann over a Danish physicist.
Thats the end for the world as we know it. Guess the Bock-plan will be some variation of the Schlieffen plan, or will the Holy Fire of Küstrin listen to a certain young gun named Manstein? Anyhow, I guess I can whine about the fate of the Netherlands very, very soon...
Can we expect a Kriegsmarine 'Kopenhagen' at Scapa Flow? May be wishful thinking (the North Sea hardly isn't the Pacific), but it would be interesting nontheless.
Can we expect a Kriegsmarine 'Kopenhagen' at Scapa Flow? May be wishful thinking (the North Sea hardly isn't the Pacific), but it would be interesting nontheless.