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Oh, I'm excited about the Autogyros!
 
Ah, yes, the French Empire...


On a more serious note, the Third Empire has only one chance, making it too expensive for the Germans to crush them. Then, that only works if they are busy elsewhere at the same time.

If the Third Empire's immediate goal were to fight the Reich, that would be true, and also completely impossible, since German foreign policy in the '30s was to encircle France. Spain and Italy are still, as of '48, German allies. Fighting on three fronts would be insane, especially with about a third of mainland France lost in the War and no overseas possessions remaining, and their only potential ally distracted by an endless war with Japan. So the immediate policy is going to be to end the complete collapse of France.

Oh, I'm excited about the Autogyros!

"Autogyro" in this case is because Peter's exposure dates back to the '30s and the Berlin Motor Show. Old habits die hard, but this does roughly mirror OTL, when the Royal Navy conducted the first experimental heliborne assaults, and the first operational heliborne assault not long after at Suez.
 
Admittedly, I totally forgot about Spain and Italy.

But I still can't see the Germans ignoring a coup/revolution or generally the overthrow of their puppet without a serious foreign distraction.

Here's to hoping you don't go the TL-191 route. The author had a serious case of Anglophobia, and since it was a CP victory world in essence, we ended up with Nazi Churchill and London nuked.
 
And Norwich, and Brighton.
 
Things have been silent here for quiet a while... yet I can't simply forget this great AAR... so, is it dead or just asleep?

It's been in very long-term hibernation. I've moved from Virginia back to Texas and my work week has increased in length by 25% and intensity by several orders of magnitude, but I'm in a position where I have to write again to de-stress. So - fire up the rotors, clean the carbines, and await Admiral Canaris...
 
yeah
 
128. Smoke In The Wind

In the end, it was not American intriguers, nor homegrown plotters, who cast down the restored Bourbons. As in 1789, it was bread. After the better part of a decade under extreme privation, one in five Frenchmen still had no work, the public treasury had been emptied completely by efforts both to meet reparations and to feed the public, and French industry was crippled by the wholesale theft of factories, industrial plant, and the vital resource region of Alsace-Lorraine at Wilhelmshaven. There was no place in France where any industrialist felt safe building factories, with the roads from Savoy, the Rhine valley, and the Pyrenees all open to German-led or German-inspired wolves. The Realm was prostrate, and even with covert American aid, there was little that could be done about it. Jacques would never accept that.

Jacques, of course, would never know that the king himself had authorized the slow parceling out of the precious treasures of the Louvre, such as had not been carried away by enthusiastic German officers, to meet the terrible budgetary shortfalls that Henri and his cabinet faced. Jacques only saw that what little pride France had left was being sold to the parvenu Americans. Jacques would never know that the Petain-Giraud feud had crippled a government already on the edge of collapse, even after Petain's own death in 1947. Jacques only saw a cabinet full of generals and peacocks who never seemed to achieve anything. Jacques would never know that the king himself was suffering as much as the kingdom, ulcers and sleeplessness dominating the days of the man who knew how his own people thought of him despite his efforts. All Jacques knew was that he was hungry, he was poor, and his king was apparently a German lackey.

Thus, on Ash Wednesday, 11 February 1948, when bread riots broke out in Paris, they spread. In Toulouse, in Marseilles, in Rouen, in Brest - throughout France, the riots caught like wildfire. The army was called to alert, the Paris gendarmerie sent in to attempt to break up the riots, the king himself appealed over the radio for peace and calm in the Lenten season. It was no use, and, on Good Friday, the king played directly into the conspirators' hands, by sending a desperate radio message to General de Gaulle and the Corps Blindee, headquartered at Reims, to restore order in the capital.

Within six hours, the armored columns rolled down the Champs Elysees. They entered the city just before dawn on Saturday, 27 March 1948, unbuttoned and with tops open on all vehicles despite a chill in the air. De Gaulle himself rode at the head of the column in an American-manufactured Willys Jeep officially manufactured at Citroen's new Clermont plant. Beside him in the back seat of the car was a handsome, strong-jawed man in the uniform of a colonel of the Foreign Legion - a uniform to which he was not strictly entitled. His name was Louis Jerome Victor Emmanuel Leopold Marie Bonaparte, Prince Napoleon.

The day after Easter, Henri once again appeared to the French people, to announce his abdication from the throne in favor of a constitutional convention, called under the protection of General de Gaulle and the watchful eye of the French military. Henri died on 1 May 1948, officially of a broken heart. He was not yet 30 years old.

The Convention was carefully manipulated by the conspirators. Speeches recalling France's martial glory, and laying down an official policy of revanchism, rang through St. Louis-des-Invalides, where the military conspirators had chosen to meet, among the trophies of every French victory since Louis XIV. It took sixty days for them to achieve their purpose, but on the fifteenth of June, the Third Empire was born. Swearing an official policy of non-cooperation with the Reich and the repudiation of Wilhelmshaven, Napoleon VI was presented to the French people to near universal acclamation after seven years of the inconsequential Bourbon restoration. Coronation was planned for 2 December 1948.

First among the countries to offer their recognition - and their official aid - was the United States of America, represented by their ambassador, Major General William Donovan.

Kaserne Groener
Grafenwöhr, German Empire
12 April 1948


Groener was a hastily assembled compound by German standards: heavy wooden beams, plastered walls, drafty buildings. The vast spread of pavement around the barracks buildings would normally have held an armored regiment at the very least, but here they held only a battalion's worth of vehicles, delicate, tied down against the wind that could, and had, flipped any of them over and set the Reich, and more importantly, Marshal Rommel, back by a month or more. The wires thrummed in the slightest breeze, and the crews felt like they were under similar tension. Rommel had been on edge since the French situation broke.

On one side of this ramshackle compound was a cluster of hangars, fuel tanks, and a single lonely control tower, a windsock flapping forlornly in what little breeze there was. From here it was a simple leap to a rifle range and a curious mock-up, a Drache without its engines, though with canvas tenting stretched out to show the massive spread of its rotors. Every day, a platoon of men could be seen squatting down at the edge of the clearing under the lee of a hangar, waiting for a whistle to charge out pell-mell squad by squad, vaulting into the Drache mockup, waiting for the next whistle to dismount once more, the next squad charging in. Sometimes there would be a change, and they would carry a half-dozen stretchers, or several hundred kilos' of sandbags and boxes.

Rommel watched. Rommel always watched, except when it was the turn of the headquarters staff to mount and dismount. He seemed to spend more time at the airfield compound, watching operations, than he spent in any of the planning meetings, staff calls, or meetings with dignitaries from Berlin. Johann Volkmann watched with him, pensive, awaiting his chief's mood for the day. Rommel finally broke his silence, walking-out baton whipping around from behind his back to thwack into his hand. The ferrule was a deactivated 20-millimeter round, one of the old Panzer II rounds, chipped and scarred from contact with pavement. "Generalfeldmarschall of a single battalion, Volkmann," he snapped, frustration showing through. The men never saw it, but Johann was too close to miss his feelings. "Another war coming, and I have one battalion!"

Johann Volkmann was uneasy, unsure how to respond. The daredevil was no longer a young man. Mortality, it seemed, actually existed, especially since Hanschen had been born. It had been a difficult labor, brought on two months early while Johann had been watching marines executing their own air assaults from the Graf Zeppelin to Rügen. Ilse had finally been granted the grudging recognition of a professorship in applied physics. Generaloberst von Becker had had quite a bit to do with that, but the announcement had been interrupted by oncoming labor. By the time Johann had reached Berlin, he had a son, tiny Hanschen - Johann Ernst Albert Volkmann, born at a shade over two kilos and struggling from birth. Johann had wept unashamedly when he first held his son. Even Ernst had not known exactly how to react.

Rommel had sent a bottle of champagne and a box of cigars to celebrate, granted a month's leave, and been shocked when, two weeks later, Johann had returned. France had just gone mad, and, as Johann put it, "I can only watch the little man breathing so long. It's like being under fire with no order to advance." He would rather be here, busy.

Finally he replied to Rommel. "Maybe it won't come to that, Herr Generalfeldmarschall. Maybe they'll get their house in order." Rommel snorted. "God forbid the French get their house in order, Hans." The windsock fluttered, the trees at the clearing's edge stirred. Rommel sniffed. "There's smoke on the wind, Hans. I just pray we're ready here." At the mock-up, a man's foot caught in the doorway as he dismounted. He plunged headfirst, twenty kilos of equipment banging against his back and a rifle thumping him in the chest.

Fallschirmlehrgruppe Ostafrika
Dar-es-Salaam, German East Africa
14 May 1948


"Did you hear, sir?" a young leutnant asked the lean Oberst in faded Jäger-green. "French king died." It had taken two weeks to reach the far side of Africa, but Wilhelm Volkmann was not surprised to hear it. He grunted in reply, glancing up at the leutnant. He was a local, a postwar volunteer who had never seen combat. Here in East Africa, it was viewed as a social necessity to join the militia at some point. For the leutnant to have stayed, even volunteered for full-time service, was a sign of a special sort of madness to Wilhelm. He had been that way - once. "Feige," he said finally, "when was the last time you jumped?" Leutnant Feige swallowed. The Oberst was well-known as a man who liked to kick people out the side of an airplane, had even established a parachutist school using a handful of ancient Tante Jus as soon as he had arrived here. "Ah, sir, just during the qualification."

"Put yourself on the next roster." It was dismissal as much as anything else, and Wilhelm returned to his paperwork. His greatest single challenge was literacy: the Askaris were for the most part willing, but spoke little German and read even less. Arabic, perhaps, but most of their officers spoke only rudimentary Arabic. Wilhelm's own gift for languages had so far been of less use than he had hoped. Thus, intensive language and literacy training was part of every trooper's basic training, something Wilhelm had picked up from the French and their Foreign Legion. They were fine soldiers, as Lettow-Vorbeck had demonstrated, but for him to lose half a delivery's worth of supplies in a drop to a man who didn't understand "THIS SIDE UP" was simply unacceptable. Thus, Wilhelm had immediately butted in to help reform Askari training. He had thrown himself into all sorts of projects when he got here: reforming basic training, establishing the parachute school, appropriating an ancient Luftwaffe transport squadron, even rebuilding the airfield. He kept going because Rita had not yet arrived. He did not know if she would: he scarcely knew who he was himself, other than a collection of scars, medals, and bad memories.

A dark-skinned trooper in gray-green cotton stepped in, clicked his heels, and held out a sheet of onionskin. "Arrived from the Stadtholder's office today, Herr Oberst." The accent was thick, the words recognizable as German by courtesy, but the elan was as good as a Guardsman's. Heels clicked again as Wilhelm took the onionskin from him. "Thank you. Dismissed." He unfolded the sheet, blinked twice, a smile spreading across his seamed, battered face.

YOUR FATHER SENT US ORIENT EXPRESS CONSTANTINOPLE. SAILING SS GENERAL VON STEUBEN. ARRIVED SUEZ 12 MAY. EXPECT ARRIVE END JUNE LATEST. R.

Rita! He pitched forward in relief. She had come after all.

Kaiser-Wilhelm-Werft
Kiel, German Empire
1 June 1948


The reviewing stand glittered. There stood old Raeder and Canaris for the Kaiserliche Marine, the Kronprinz for the royal family, and, unusually for a Kaiserliche Marine review, a delegation from the Luftwaffe: old Wolfram von Richthofen's sons Wolfram and Götz, and his widow Jutta. The young men were in Luftwaffe blue, both pilots, the most notable scions of the famous aviation family they were here to honor. Kapitän zur See Peter Volkmann faced them, the ship's complement at his back, arrayed across the deck of the Manfred von Richthofen. The speeches went on and on, half an hour, an hour, an hour and a half, while the crew sweated and stood at parade rest. Despite years of discipline, Peter's eyes wandered down the stands to see Hanna and the children. She smiled, a small bundle of Volkmanns near the most notable members of the fleet and the heir to the throne. If a bomber came over now... Peter shook his head; that was wartime thinking, and everyone knew the wars were over.

Finally, the Kronprinz came to attention. "Oberst von Richthofen!" Wolfram stepped forward, saluted, received the Kronprinz's salute in return. "Would you do the honors?" The young man, not even thirty yet, drew his Luftwaffe saber, and Peter knew what was coming. "Crew - ACHTUNG!" he yelled back over his shoulder. Behind him, division by division, waves of blue-coated sailors came to attention. His own sword came free, popped up to his shoulder; the officers followed suit. "Kapitän Volkmann!" Richthofen yelled, voice almost lost in the crowd despite the sudden hush. Everyone here knew what this meant. "Man the ship and bring her to life!"

The saber whipped up, glittered in the sun an inch from his nose, hung there until Richthofen acknowledged, and slashed down and across his body. The ship - his ship - was a real thing, a living, breathing beast of five thousand souls and almost a hundred aircraft. He spun and issued his first order. "Make speed, aft by tug," he commanded in a voice that echoed across the deck. "Crew to stations. Division officers, post! Take command of your divisions. Dis-MISSED!"

The crew filed away, the ship shifted, shuddering, tension entering the great cables that connected it to the tugs. They could have left under their own power, but Kiel's harbor was crowded, such measures were dangerous, and it was peacetime - no need for the great wartime scramble. Everyone knew the wars were over.

Even though the entire Reich smelled smoke on the wind.
 
:D :D :D :D

I have no other coherent response, save that to have my absolute favorite AAR written by my favorite AAR author resurrected like this is just too good to be true.
 
Can't wait for the helicopter assault.
 
:D :D :D :D

I have no other coherent response, save that to have my absolute favorite AAR written by my favorite AAR author resurrected like this is just too good to be true.

Believe it. I'm on TDY right now (who knew I'd like southern Oklahoma?) so I'm away from my desktop, but first thing I intend to do when I get home is quietly put Civ4 aside, install DH on my big computer so I'm not hogging my wife's, and get to work on my long-hoped-for Siegerkranz mod so we can see the '50s and beyond.

Can't wait for the helicopter assault.

Well, you'll have to wait until at least 1951. ;)
 
Glad you're still around. I'd almost abandoned this thing myself.
 
Believe it. I'm on TDY right now (who knew I'd like southern Oklahoma?) so I'm away from my desktop, but first thing I intend to do when I get home is quietly put Civ4 aside, install DH on my big computer so I'm not hogging my wife's, and get to work on my long-hoped-for Siegerkranz mod so we can see the '50s and beyond.

Very exciting! If you post it, I will happily play it and comment on it.
 
Generalfeldmarshall of a battalion?

The battalion that'll be the first in the fight and will be at every critical point in the coming fight.

If the French want another go at it, give them what they want!
 
I had an update about half-written, but I think you'll be more interested in this.