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Because it's a mixture of the unknown Newtonsian 4th Law and the 12th Commandment, the 11th being 'Thou shalt not get caught"?
Something tells me that Rudel chap might be a good pilotafter all 
.
Good update, as always c0d.
.Good update, as always c0d.
Something tells me that Rudel chap might be a good pilotafter all
Good update, as always c0d.
Yeah. Give the man a Dive Bomber and then send him off to somewhere where there are lots of tanks and other assorted Targets.
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.
Nah, the man was a perpetual-motion machine. It'd take a more severe psychological blow than being cashiered from the Navy - like the paternity suit that led to the entire thing being pressed - to make a man like Heydrich break down.
And nothing in this says that Heydrich is a willing spy. I freely admit that that last part is because I had a mental image of a U-boat pulling up off the Dover coast the night before the invasion to pull a man in a rubber boat out of the water. When asked to confirm his identity, he replies "Heydrich. Reinhard Heydrich."
Plus Heydrich's just full of other opportunities - where else do you get a spymaster-pilot-naval officer-whatever you choose to make of him?
In this particular case, that's based on personal experience, and it's not that they're sadistic (note that Wennecke himself goes without a mask in the gas chamber, which I'll tell you only takes about an hour's exposure to tear gas to achieve), but in most cases are trying to be thorough in training for war. Thus, Wennecke's quite willing to beat a man until he can't walk for questioning orders, but he's at least willing to provide an explanation for why the orders are there.
Something tells me that Rudel chap might be a good pilotafter all
Good update, as always c0d.
Why would he go tank-hunting when there are battleships handy? Rudel at Scapa Flow...
And I expect that I'll be kinder to him than real life, where he ended the war flying planes he wasn't qualified on, with one leg in a cast and the other missing.
Side note, "Stuka Pilot" is available as an E-book. Given that Rudel was an unapologetic Nazi until his death, I'm unsure about German availability.
Not that far-fetched!
SKORZENY!
EDIT: Damn caps censoring.
You mean (ITL 1937) Luftfahnrich Skorzeny of the Austrian air force, who was spared involvement in the Nazi Party by the 1933 Rising in Germany, and hence is viable for military service in Austria because he isn't a member of an extremist organization?
Skorzeny's time is coming, given the cordial relations between Austria and Germany, which will only become more cordial.
You mean (ITL 1937) Luftfahnrich Skorzeny of the Austrian air force, who was spared involvement in the Nazi Party by the 1933 Rising in Germany, and hence is viable for military service in Austria because he isn't a member of an extremist organization?
Skorzeny's time is coming, given the cordial relations between Austria and Germany, which will only become more cordial.
In AAO I killed him off before be became anything special.
Nah, everyone needs a nemesis, and Wilhelm seems as good a victim as any.
23. Diplomacy
Frankfurt, German Empire
21 June 1937
Max Pruss was a career airship man. In the War, he had served as a petty officer in the naval airship fleet, rising as high as rudderman before the war ended. He had been part of Dr. Eckener's handpicked crew to deliver LZ 126, more commonly known as the Los Angeles, to the United States, on the first transatlantic crossing of many. He had been the first commander after Eckener himself of the Graf Zeppelin, flagship of Luftschiffbau Zeppelin's fleet. And for the past two years, he had served as the captain of the Hindenburg, the largest, finest airship ever constructed. The revolutionary vessel, Zeppelin's first helium-filled rigid-bodied airship, was to the resurgent Germany as the battleship Hood was to the British, a symbol of their empire and its source, in Germany's case technical innovation and perseverance, where Britain relied on tradition and the sea.
Pruss was also a nervous man today. He adjusted his uniform one last time as he saw the massive Maybach limousine approaching, "Gott Mit Uns" flags flapping at its fenders, and cast a furtive eye over his officers to make sure they were impeccable. Most of the passengers were already aboard, to allow full press access for the coming event. When the Maybach stopped, Pruss barked out to his crew, "Attention!" The following heel-click would have done the Potsdam garrison proud, he thought, but no salute accompanied it - his visitor was unique in that he was the only royal with no military rank.
The black-uniformed driver stepped around the car, opening the door and standing just as rigidly at attention as the Hindenburg crew behind Pruss. The man who emerged from the car was just shy of thirty, with intense dark eyes, a mouth that always seemed torn between frown and smile, and immaculately parted dark hair. Unlike his brothers, father, and grandfather, he was in no sort of uniform, preferring a double-breasted navy-blue suit. Prince Ludwig was, in short, more like the ship's third-most-important passenger than any of his relatives. He turned to offer his hand to the second-most, an attractive, short-haired brunette who smiled in gratitude before the two of them turned to board the airship. Grand Duchess Kira Kirillovna had spent literally years trying to find a suitably royal suitor; Ludwig was far from her first choice, but she had rapidly reconciled herself upon the Restoration. The German press clearly adored her - the throng of reporters, some even with cameras and microphones, illustrated that. The smart ones, like the American Shirer, had already ensconced themselves on the Hindenburg, no matter the cost.
"Your Highness," Pruss said, stepping forward and removing his hat, "may I present to you the airship Hindenburg, prepared to depart at your pleasure." He had carefully cultivated the aloof-but-protective air that he associated with the best naval officers of the War, and the Prince half-smiled in recognition of the artifice. "Thank you, Captain," he said, stepping forward and offering his hand. "I am sure that we are in excellent hands." As Pruss and the Prince shook hands, Ludwig turned to the cameras, smiling and waving with his other hand. "A fine day for Germany, Captain, and a pity we couldn't catch the first cruise of the season, eh?" Pruss nodded, knowing that the words were at least half for show. "Yes, Highness. May I show you around the ship?"
"Of course," Ludwig said graciously, smiling. "And sorry, lads, there's no way you can follow us. Likely to get a little crowded with just the two of us!" It was not much of a joke, but it was a royal joke, made by a popular royal, and thus it got a laugh. Ludwig escorted Kira up the loading ramp, then Pruss and his officers formed a protective wall between them and the reporters. Pruss was just close enough to hear Ludwig mutter to the Duchess, "Thank God that's over with. Finally a few days' peace!"
The three-day transatlantic crossing was uneventful; Pruss gave Ludwig his promised tour, and the Prince turned out to be a technically keen man who instantly understood the economic problems of the helium airship. Unlike easily replaced hydrogen, helium was too precious to vent, so the Hindenburg's engines had to be configured to allow downward thrust as well as lateral thrust. The system was apparently the brainchild of the aircraft designer Hinrich Focke, who had some ideas on the subject that Pruss had considered interesting, but impractical at the moment. Ludwig, however, had gone so far as to take a notebook from his pocket and scrawl a note - Pruss had seen over his shoulder, "Focke - Bremen - Autogyro?" They had been joined on the tour, no matter what Ludwig had told the reporters, by a third man, the ship's third-most-important passenger, Alfried von Bohlen. Alfried had been irritable, fingers constantly reaching for his cigarettes, but once absorbed in the technical details had been amiable enough company. The Crown Prince and the Cannon King's son spent most of the flight together, either playing cards or discussing some of Krupp's more significant civilian-side business.
Pruss found Ludwig an interesting man - he had absolutely no interest in the military heritage of his family other than as a historical point, unlike his elder brother Wilhelm, but was a technician and a businessman. He saw a metaphor for Germany in the fact that Krupp had profited most extensively not from cannon, but railway wheels, and that Krupp had turned its gutting after the War into an opportunity for profit. He was, however, keenly interested in the Zeppelin firm's rather tortured relationship with the Reich, and listened to Pruss's account of the four-way fight between Milch at Lufthansa, Goering at the RLM, the firm's president, Dr. Eckener, and the Kaiserliche Marine, who still saw the airship arm as their godchild. The end result was a nightmare, as Ludwig clearly understood: the RLM provided technical guidance, Lufthansa technically operated the airships in a partnership with Luftschiffbau Zeppelin, and the officers were all naval reservists. When asked about the last, Pruss was quite frank, having decided the Prince was unlikely to ruin his career on a whim. It seemed unlikely this man did anything on a whim, even this "flying vacation" to America. "Well," he said, when pressed about the naval connection, "it's obvious, isn't it? There are two things. We see a lot of ships in our travels, and... pardon me for saying so, Highness, but being a naval officer keeps the Air Minister from... excessive interference." Ludwig had nodded and made a note, and Alfried had snorted at the administrative incompetence that had created one body with four heads.
While Alfried and Ludwig had spent much of their time ensconced in the small smoking room on Alfried's insistence, Kira had effectively taken over the airship's salon, where she took control of the special aluminum piano and held court over the other passengers, regaling them with stories, usually funny, of her exile from Russia. One additional passenger got the benefit of Alfried and Ludwig's presence - the American reporter William Shirer, whom the Crown Prince had granted a series of interviews. Shirer made no secret of the fact that he was considering a book about his Berlin experiences, and the Crown Prince found him an intelligent conversationalist whose German was on par with Ludwig's English - close to flawless, with only an occasional non-native's misstep. For his part, Shirer was rewarded with three days' worth of exclusive interviews, which he faithfully broadcast from the ship's wireless set.
The final leg of the flight was over New York; Pruss trusted the industrialist and the prince to stay quiet and out of the way, and their status accorded them the special privilege of approaching Lakehurst on the airship's bridge. It was not Ludwig's first visit, but it was the first leisurely approach over the city by air. He massaged his wrist, cramped and stiff from hand-signing every single piece of air mail delivered on this journey for the past several hours, even letters postmarked in the air, and looked out over the harbor. The sun glittered off the gold foil on the Statue of Liberty's beacon, dazzling him, though he could see a dark cloud to the east. Below, in the harbor, the United States Navy had responded to the Crown Prince's visit by ordering two venerable old dreadnoughts out to greet him - New York and Texas, if he guessed correctly. Certainly that was the New York, which had been at the Coronation Review at Spithead just six weeks prior. He smiled - the ship's presence was a tacit recognition of the legitimacy of the Restoration. His eyes swept up to the skyline, where they droned past the Chrysler Building and the Empire State Building. He leaned over to Alfried and murmured, "Half expect to see a great ape climbing them, eh?" Alfried snorted and nodded, and Pruss glared over his shoulder to remind them to stay silent.
The lumbering ship approached Lakehurst from the south, across the east wind, and made a broad loop that carried them well away from the dirigible field before a final approach. To shed altitude, Pruss was never able to kill his engines completely, instead directing full down thrust rather than forward. Eventually, he had to take a calculated risk that his downward momentum had overcome the ship's natural buoyancy and ordered his engines to idle-aft to kill speed. The ship finally turned fully into the wind and Pruss nodded to the petty officer in charge of securing it, who tossed a coil of rope groundward. Ludwig held his breath - a covert glance showed Alfried and Captain Pruss doing the same - as they approached the mooring mast, and with the very faintest of bumps, imperceptible unless one was watching the mast as it happened, the Hindenburg arrived safely in America.
"Attention, passengers. This is Captain Pruss speaking," Pruss announced into the intercom. "On behalf of Luftschiffbau Zeppelin, I would like to thank you for fying on the Hindenburg, and would like to welcome you to the United States. Please have your customs declarations completed before debarking, as this will considerably ease your passage. Thank you again for flying with us, and I hope to see some of you on the return flight." His naval instincts continued the transmission. "That is all." He turned to Ludwig and smiled. "One more flight complete. I'm always worried that we'll accidentally run into the mast. Can't afford that on my paycheck. Now, Highness, Herr von Bohlen, would you care to see docking operations, or would you like to debark?"
Alfried surprised them both. "Docking operations. It's been fascinating so far." Ludwig nodded, smiling. "Of course, someone will have to let the Duchess know, so if you'll excuse me...?" Pruss shook his head, raising a hand. "No need, Highness, I can send an usher!" He snapped his fingers, beckoning the duty messenger over, and murmured his orders. The man nodded and vanished back into the passenger spaces.
In the crowd below, two different delegations were racing to meet the Crown Prince. One of these was headed by the President's unofficial envoy, Harry Hopkins, a balding, nervous-looking man who would occasionally grimace and massage his stomach, a habit that made his Secret Service escort somewhat anxious. Hopkins scanned the debarking figures anxiously, knowing that the Crown Prince rated at least a formal naval reception and wondering what had happened that the Lakehurst staff had not posted the Marines appropriately.
The other delegation consisted simply of three men; one was tall, blond, and kept taking half-steps away from his companions as if to secure himself a breathing space. The second was a querulous-looking old man with close-cropped hair and clothes that would have been old-fashioned in the 1920s, a collar folded down neatly over his bow tie. Even when he was not moving, he seemed to be pacing, and at the moment he looked as if the effort of smiling would crack and split his gaunt, wrinkled face. The third was a milder, shorter, and younger version of the second, with clothes cut to the latest business fashion and his necktie immaculate. Of the three, only this one had thought to bring an umbrella, though he carried a raincoat over the same arm which held the umbrella - whether for him, or the old man, it was difficult to say. "Damn it, Lindbergh," the old man finally rapped out, "this was your idea, meeting them here. What makes you think we'll get to them first?"
The aviator looked down at the old man, frowning slightly before replying. "I'm sorry, Mr. Ford. I cannot make him appear from thin air. Though from what I have heard... he might debark in Hangar One." Henry Ford scowled at Lindbergh before turning to the other man. "Well, Edsel, come on, let's go." He strode ahead, almost leaving the much-longer-legged Lindbergh behind as he stalked toward the gates. The aviator was quickly and easily recognized, especially by the sailors on this aviation base; he looked uncomfortable with the greetings and smiles thrust in his direction. Henry Ford, less recognizable as anything other than an angry old man, underwent an instant transformation the moment anyone called out for his attention. A simple "Hey, Mr. Ford!" would net whoever saw him a smile and a wave that left America feeling that Henry Ford was each and every one of them's personal grandfather, and Ford seemingly could not pass by a man who looked down on his luck without an encouraging word and a dollar. Edsel, for his part, merely looked harried and uncomfortable at chasing down his father.
Hopkins in the crowd, meanwhile, turned to see a Secret Service man at his elbow. "Sir, we just had a message from the tower. Seems the Prince has decided to stay aboard for docking operations, and sends his regrets. He'll be in Hangar One." Hopkins sighed, shook his head, and adjusted his fedora before proceeding. "Well, what are we waiting for, gentlemen?" he asked the two Secret Service men - one for him, one to follow the royals in America - with a raised eyebrow. They dutifully cleared a path, and Hopkins took full advantage of it.
In the hangar, two ranks of six blue-uniformed Marines stood facing each other, an officer facing between them toward the airship as its crew ladder descended. "Pr'SENT - HARMS!" barked the officer, and twenty-four hands clattered against twelve rifles in a moment's burst of sound. "Sir!" barked the Marine officer. "In the name of the President, the Secretary of the Navy, the Chief of Naval Operations, and the Commandant of the Marine Corps, welcome to the United States!" Ludwig for his part waved his salute; he was no soldier, and scarcely cared for the formalities of it... although, he secretly admitted to himself, Uncle Heinrich certainly showed there was no shame in a Hohenzollern sailor.
In the race for Ludwig's first attention, Ford and Lindbergh won, using Lindbergh's reputation and Ford's tenacity to bluff and bully their way through the guards. "Your Highness!" the old man rasped out, managing to stay ahead of Lindbergh to the latter's consternation and amazement, "a pleasure to meet you at last. I received your kind letter in Dearborn, and Charles here" - Lindbergh visibly winced at the familiarity - "thought that perhaps you'd be willing to meet here. Henry Ford, your Highness." To Ford's surprise, Ludwig broke past the Marines in an eager, almost unseemly, walk to pump his hand. "Delighted to meet you at last, Mr. Ford, charmed," the Prince replied in Eton-toned English. "And, may I say, Mr. Lindbergh," the Prince continued, shifting hands quickly, "an absolute pleasure. I regret that I was unable to be in Paris in '27. Quite a risk, sir, we must discuss that flight in detail some day!" Lindbergh muttered his greeting, seeing Alfried von Bohlen over the Crown Prince's shoulder, drawing in gratefully on his first unconstrained cigarette in days and shaking with silent laughter.
"Now, Highness," Ford continued in his flat Midwestern accent, "may I present my son, Edsel?" Edsel, as the President of the Ford Motor Company, had been the Crown Prince's actual correspondent; they had mutual business acquaintances, but this was their first face-to-face meeting. "Delighted, sir," Ludwig responded with a slightly less effusive handshake. "I look forward to many fine discussions with you both." Thus, the industrialists and the aviator began to draw the Prince aside just in time for Hopkins and his two escorts to burst into the hangar, a protesting Marine sentry shoved firmly aside. Instantly, Ludwig could feel tensions in the room rise. "Your Highness," Hopkins said, carefully collecting his breath, "a pleasure to meet you at last. I'm Harry Hopkins. President Roosevelt sends his regrets, but hopes that you will be able to pay your respects."
Ford, ever irascible and never in the best control of his tongue, muttered loud enough for even the Krupp heir to hear, "No respect due to That Man." Everyone, from Edsel Ford to Harry Hopkins, felt a moment of shock, but covered it over as a rumble of distant thunder sounded from outside. "Ah, Mr. Hopkins," Edsel Ford broke the silence, "may we borrow His Highness for just a moment? We have a small gift for him, and as it's going to rain, he may appreciate it." He smiled apologetically, clearly a much better diplomat than his father. Hopkins stiffened. "Of course, Mr. Ford, though I must say it's highly irregular." Prince Ludwig smiled in apology. "I am sorry, Mr. Hopkins, I am sure it will take only a moment. And in the meantime, I would be immensely grateful if you might collect the Duchess. She would be delighted to meet you. Kira," he leaned toward Hopkins to confide, "is tremendously interested in what your parks people have achieved here, and I understand you had some small hand in that?" He smiled as Hopkins visibly relaxed. "Of course, Highness. Certainly, shall I meet you here?" Ludwig smiled and nodded even as he and Alfried were swept up in the whirlwind that was Henry Ford on the move.
Edsel Ford was especially proud of this gift. "Only two like it," he explained, waving at the car before them. "The other is my personal car, Highness." The car in front of him was a long-nosed two-seat convertible, a balanced approach to luxury and performance. "Though I admit... it's too much a beauty to waste. We'll probably go into production next year." Alfried stubbed out a cigarette and snorted. "Yes, but what will it do on the track?" he asked Edsel in a gently chiding tone. Ford, for his part, looked mystified. "Well... we don't have a test track here," he admitted sheepishly. Krupp shook his head, smiling and pulling a checkbook from his pocket. "Very well... how much and how soon?" Even old Henry chuckled drily. "Looks like the German's got you, son."
---
Apostolic Palace of the Lateran
Vatican City
27 June 1937
"In nomine Patri, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti, ego te benedicte, amen," the Pope softly intoned, making the Sign of the Cross in front of the man kneeling before him, who looked up, smiling. Franz von Papen had risen as far as a Catholic in Germany could rise - Chancellor to the German Emperor, Papal Chamberlain, and now Knight Grand Cross of Grace and Devotion of the Military Order of Malta. The immense pectoral cross which this entitled him to wear had been bestowed the day prior by the Maltese Order's grand master; this visit had essentially been a triumphal parade for Chancellor Papen. This private visit with the Pope was both crown and gateway, though - the Pope was joined by only one other, Cardinal Eugenio Pacelli, the Papal State Secretary. The thin, ascetic Pacelli contrasted with Pius XI, who looked like he enjoyed life, had been the first Pope to ride in an automobile, and had resolved the issue of Papal sovereignty with the Italian government. Pius was thus the first Pope in generations on good terms with the Italian king - something Papen desperately needed for his project.
"Rise, my son," the Pope said in accented German, as he had been born within the Austrian Empire, "and please sit," he added, gesturing towards oen of the ornate wooden chairs that the Lateran seemed filled with. "Now, my son," Pius asked as he settled into his own chair, much more elaborate and much more cushioned, "you do not come here simply to receive my blessing. What may the Church do for the Chancellor of Germany?"
"Your Holiness," Papen said gravely, "Germany is a beacon of peace between Catholic and Protestant, but the gap may be closed further... my Emperor is troubled by this distance, and sends his regrets that it continues. He proposes a Concordat." Pacelli raised one thin eyebrow behind circular spectacles. "A Concordat, sir? And what would be the terms?" Papen smiled; this was far more direct than he had hoped. "First, Your Eminence, that the terms of agreement with Prussia, Bavaria, and Baden remain intact, as those states are members of the German Empire, and that the other member-states of the Empire may choose to enter into their own agreements with the Church. That the right of correspondence between Your Holiness," he added with a nod toward Pius, "and the Empire be completely unimpeded. That the right of parochial education be available to all Catholics..." he trailed off. "Well, your Eminence," he returned to Pacelli, "I doubt that we need to finish it here. I simply wish to open the ways for it." Pacelli smiled complacently and the Pope nodded. "Blessed are the peacemakers," Pius remarked, "for they are the children of God. Which brings me... Chancellor," he asked abruptly, "what would you say is the greatest threat the Church faces today?"
Papen frowned at the unexpected question. "Why, socialism, of course, because it seeks to usurp the charitable and spiritual functions of the Church." Pius nodded. "Just so. I have considered an encyclical... perhaps the German Emperor, in his role as the spiritual head of the Evangelical Church in Germany, would be willing to endorse it?" He picked up a thin sheaf of papers, adjusting his glasses and clearing his throat. His voice, slightly weak with age, gained strength as he read.
"The Communism of today, more emphatically than similar movements in the past, conceals in itself a false messianic idea. A pseudo-ideal of justice, of equality and fraternity in labor impregnates all its doctrine and activity with a deceptive mysticism, which communicates a zealous and contagious enthusiasm to the multitudes entrapped by delusive promises. This is especially true in an age like ours, when unusual misery has resulted from the unequal distribution of the goods of this world. This pseudo-ideal is even boastfully advanced as if it were responsible for a certain economic progress. As a matter of fact, when such progress is at all real, its true causes are quite different, as for instance the intensification of industrialism in countries which were formerly almost without it, the exploitation of immense natural resources, and the use of the most brutal methods to insure the achievement of gigantic projects with a minimum of expense."
As Pius fell quiet, he glanced over at Pacelli fondly. "Not all my words, of course, but the spirit," he added with a small, smiling shrug. Pacelli, for his part, smiled complacently; Papen knew quite well that in matters like this, the Cardinal was the Pope's speechwriter. "Still, what do you think?"
"Your Holiness," Papen said gravely, nodding, "I am quite certain my Emperor would gladly endorse such a declaration." Pius smiled warmly before replying. "Now, sir, I have a small matter to ask - a silly one, perhaps, an old man's folly." Papen raised an eyebrow.
"Could you perhaps speak to your governments about ensuring coffee shipments to Rome? I confess, it is a weakness of mine, and the recent... Ethiopian unpleasantness... has made coffee a vanishing delicacy here." Papen, to his credit, concealed his surprise, responding with a straight face, "Your Holiness, I shall see to it myself."
The coffee issue, as it turned out, was simply a wedge - the next day, he was invited to another intimate meeting, this with Pacelli and the Italian Foreign Minister, Count Ciano, whom Papen instantly liked, seeing him as a dynamic man in his own image. Ciano regaled Papen with story after story of the "march on Rome" and the miracles of Italian fascism - agricultural rebirth, the matter of Ethiopia and the restoration of Imperial pride to Italy, and even his own role in Istanbul, which had led King Victor Emmanuel to accept the title, bestowed on him by the acclaim of a grateful Fascist Grand Council, of Protector of Dalmatia. Papen privately was less than impressed with the Empire of Italy, even in Germany's reduced state, but it was a pleasant beginning that concluded with a meeting with the Duce himself. Benito Mussolini was a fireplug - there was no other word for the man, thickset and close-cropped, whose table talk sometimes felt like a speech every time he opened his mouth. The man had a presence, an energy, that Papen saw as a reflection of himself. The ever-present, spider-minded Pacelli, in contrast, was as cool and calculating a man as Papen had ever met. One night, when Papen had consumed perhaps a glass too much wine, he confided in the cardinal that he had been wasted as a diplomat - he would have been a perfect spymaster. Pacelli had simply smiled, raised an eyebrow, and replied, half-joking, "Why do you say I am not?"
---
Potsdam Garrison
Potsdam, German Empire
29 June 1937
Generalmajor Erich von Manstein closed his eyes, leaning back in his high-backed, gilt chair. The desk in front of him was filled with reports, all dealt with for the day. His favorite was a request from the new General Staff course for him to deliver a lecture as a recent operations and planning officer - recent being Manstein's favorite part. He much preferred his new job, and was glad he had escaped the possibility of being sent to wherever it was that Hausser had established his corps headquarters. Küstrin? It escaped him for the moment, and he did not feel like standing to check the map table.
Manstein opened his eyes to glance over at the uniform stand opposite from his desk, where a silver breastplate with an enamel black eagle trimmed in gold hung with a plumed Pickelhaube. There was no plum in all the Reichsheer like the one which genealogy, native ability, and rapid politicking had snagged him. He picked a handbell up from his desk, chiming quietly, and was instantly rewarded by the appearance of a fresh-faced Lichterfelde student on his summer duties as a page. "Tea," he waved, and the page nodded and vanished, appearing moments later with a steaming teacup. Manstein smiled as he blew across the hot water, his eyes catching the gilt letters on the opposite side of his office door as it swung close.
Frankfurt, German Empire
21 June 1937
Max Pruss was a career airship man. In the War, he had served as a petty officer in the naval airship fleet, rising as high as rudderman before the war ended. He had been part of Dr. Eckener's handpicked crew to deliver LZ 126, more commonly known as the Los Angeles, to the United States, on the first transatlantic crossing of many. He had been the first commander after Eckener himself of the Graf Zeppelin, flagship of Luftschiffbau Zeppelin's fleet. And for the past two years, he had served as the captain of the Hindenburg, the largest, finest airship ever constructed. The revolutionary vessel, Zeppelin's first helium-filled rigid-bodied airship, was to the resurgent Germany as the battleship Hood was to the British, a symbol of their empire and its source, in Germany's case technical innovation and perseverance, where Britain relied on tradition and the sea.
Pruss was also a nervous man today. He adjusted his uniform one last time as he saw the massive Maybach limousine approaching, "Gott Mit Uns" flags flapping at its fenders, and cast a furtive eye over his officers to make sure they were impeccable. Most of the passengers were already aboard, to allow full press access for the coming event. When the Maybach stopped, Pruss barked out to his crew, "Attention!" The following heel-click would have done the Potsdam garrison proud, he thought, but no salute accompanied it - his visitor was unique in that he was the only royal with no military rank.
The black-uniformed driver stepped around the car, opening the door and standing just as rigidly at attention as the Hindenburg crew behind Pruss. The man who emerged from the car was just shy of thirty, with intense dark eyes, a mouth that always seemed torn between frown and smile, and immaculately parted dark hair. Unlike his brothers, father, and grandfather, he was in no sort of uniform, preferring a double-breasted navy-blue suit. Prince Ludwig was, in short, more like the ship's third-most-important passenger than any of his relatives. He turned to offer his hand to the second-most, an attractive, short-haired brunette who smiled in gratitude before the two of them turned to board the airship. Grand Duchess Kira Kirillovna had spent literally years trying to find a suitably royal suitor; Ludwig was far from her first choice, but she had rapidly reconciled herself upon the Restoration. The German press clearly adored her - the throng of reporters, some even with cameras and microphones, illustrated that. The smart ones, like the American Shirer, had already ensconced themselves on the Hindenburg, no matter the cost.
"Your Highness," Pruss said, stepping forward and removing his hat, "may I present to you the airship Hindenburg, prepared to depart at your pleasure." He had carefully cultivated the aloof-but-protective air that he associated with the best naval officers of the War, and the Prince half-smiled in recognition of the artifice. "Thank you, Captain," he said, stepping forward and offering his hand. "I am sure that we are in excellent hands." As Pruss and the Prince shook hands, Ludwig turned to the cameras, smiling and waving with his other hand. "A fine day for Germany, Captain, and a pity we couldn't catch the first cruise of the season, eh?" Pruss nodded, knowing that the words were at least half for show. "Yes, Highness. May I show you around the ship?"
"Of course," Ludwig said graciously, smiling. "And sorry, lads, there's no way you can follow us. Likely to get a little crowded with just the two of us!" It was not much of a joke, but it was a royal joke, made by a popular royal, and thus it got a laugh. Ludwig escorted Kira up the loading ramp, then Pruss and his officers formed a protective wall between them and the reporters. Pruss was just close enough to hear Ludwig mutter to the Duchess, "Thank God that's over with. Finally a few days' peace!"
The three-day transatlantic crossing was uneventful; Pruss gave Ludwig his promised tour, and the Prince turned out to be a technically keen man who instantly understood the economic problems of the helium airship. Unlike easily replaced hydrogen, helium was too precious to vent, so the Hindenburg's engines had to be configured to allow downward thrust as well as lateral thrust. The system was apparently the brainchild of the aircraft designer Hinrich Focke, who had some ideas on the subject that Pruss had considered interesting, but impractical at the moment. Ludwig, however, had gone so far as to take a notebook from his pocket and scrawl a note - Pruss had seen over his shoulder, "Focke - Bremen - Autogyro?" They had been joined on the tour, no matter what Ludwig had told the reporters, by a third man, the ship's third-most-important passenger, Alfried von Bohlen. Alfried had been irritable, fingers constantly reaching for his cigarettes, but once absorbed in the technical details had been amiable enough company. The Crown Prince and the Cannon King's son spent most of the flight together, either playing cards or discussing some of Krupp's more significant civilian-side business.
Pruss found Ludwig an interesting man - he had absolutely no interest in the military heritage of his family other than as a historical point, unlike his elder brother Wilhelm, but was a technician and a businessman. He saw a metaphor for Germany in the fact that Krupp had profited most extensively not from cannon, but railway wheels, and that Krupp had turned its gutting after the War into an opportunity for profit. He was, however, keenly interested in the Zeppelin firm's rather tortured relationship with the Reich, and listened to Pruss's account of the four-way fight between Milch at Lufthansa, Goering at the RLM, the firm's president, Dr. Eckener, and the Kaiserliche Marine, who still saw the airship arm as their godchild. The end result was a nightmare, as Ludwig clearly understood: the RLM provided technical guidance, Lufthansa technically operated the airships in a partnership with Luftschiffbau Zeppelin, and the officers were all naval reservists. When asked about the last, Pruss was quite frank, having decided the Prince was unlikely to ruin his career on a whim. It seemed unlikely this man did anything on a whim, even this "flying vacation" to America. "Well," he said, when pressed about the naval connection, "it's obvious, isn't it? There are two things. We see a lot of ships in our travels, and... pardon me for saying so, Highness, but being a naval officer keeps the Air Minister from... excessive interference." Ludwig had nodded and made a note, and Alfried had snorted at the administrative incompetence that had created one body with four heads.
While Alfried and Ludwig had spent much of their time ensconced in the small smoking room on Alfried's insistence, Kira had effectively taken over the airship's salon, where she took control of the special aluminum piano and held court over the other passengers, regaling them with stories, usually funny, of her exile from Russia. One additional passenger got the benefit of Alfried and Ludwig's presence - the American reporter William Shirer, whom the Crown Prince had granted a series of interviews. Shirer made no secret of the fact that he was considering a book about his Berlin experiences, and the Crown Prince found him an intelligent conversationalist whose German was on par with Ludwig's English - close to flawless, with only an occasional non-native's misstep. For his part, Shirer was rewarded with three days' worth of exclusive interviews, which he faithfully broadcast from the ship's wireless set.
The final leg of the flight was over New York; Pruss trusted the industrialist and the prince to stay quiet and out of the way, and their status accorded them the special privilege of approaching Lakehurst on the airship's bridge. It was not Ludwig's first visit, but it was the first leisurely approach over the city by air. He massaged his wrist, cramped and stiff from hand-signing every single piece of air mail delivered on this journey for the past several hours, even letters postmarked in the air, and looked out over the harbor. The sun glittered off the gold foil on the Statue of Liberty's beacon, dazzling him, though he could see a dark cloud to the east. Below, in the harbor, the United States Navy had responded to the Crown Prince's visit by ordering two venerable old dreadnoughts out to greet him - New York and Texas, if he guessed correctly. Certainly that was the New York, which had been at the Coronation Review at Spithead just six weeks prior. He smiled - the ship's presence was a tacit recognition of the legitimacy of the Restoration. His eyes swept up to the skyline, where they droned past the Chrysler Building and the Empire State Building. He leaned over to Alfried and murmured, "Half expect to see a great ape climbing them, eh?" Alfried snorted and nodded, and Pruss glared over his shoulder to remind them to stay silent.
The lumbering ship approached Lakehurst from the south, across the east wind, and made a broad loop that carried them well away from the dirigible field before a final approach. To shed altitude, Pruss was never able to kill his engines completely, instead directing full down thrust rather than forward. Eventually, he had to take a calculated risk that his downward momentum had overcome the ship's natural buoyancy and ordered his engines to idle-aft to kill speed. The ship finally turned fully into the wind and Pruss nodded to the petty officer in charge of securing it, who tossed a coil of rope groundward. Ludwig held his breath - a covert glance showed Alfried and Captain Pruss doing the same - as they approached the mooring mast, and with the very faintest of bumps, imperceptible unless one was watching the mast as it happened, the Hindenburg arrived safely in America.
"Attention, passengers. This is Captain Pruss speaking," Pruss announced into the intercom. "On behalf of Luftschiffbau Zeppelin, I would like to thank you for fying on the Hindenburg, and would like to welcome you to the United States. Please have your customs declarations completed before debarking, as this will considerably ease your passage. Thank you again for flying with us, and I hope to see some of you on the return flight." His naval instincts continued the transmission. "That is all." He turned to Ludwig and smiled. "One more flight complete. I'm always worried that we'll accidentally run into the mast. Can't afford that on my paycheck. Now, Highness, Herr von Bohlen, would you care to see docking operations, or would you like to debark?"
Alfried surprised them both. "Docking operations. It's been fascinating so far." Ludwig nodded, smiling. "Of course, someone will have to let the Duchess know, so if you'll excuse me...?" Pruss shook his head, raising a hand. "No need, Highness, I can send an usher!" He snapped his fingers, beckoning the duty messenger over, and murmured his orders. The man nodded and vanished back into the passenger spaces.
In the crowd below, two different delegations were racing to meet the Crown Prince. One of these was headed by the President's unofficial envoy, Harry Hopkins, a balding, nervous-looking man who would occasionally grimace and massage his stomach, a habit that made his Secret Service escort somewhat anxious. Hopkins scanned the debarking figures anxiously, knowing that the Crown Prince rated at least a formal naval reception and wondering what had happened that the Lakehurst staff had not posted the Marines appropriately.
The other delegation consisted simply of three men; one was tall, blond, and kept taking half-steps away from his companions as if to secure himself a breathing space. The second was a querulous-looking old man with close-cropped hair and clothes that would have been old-fashioned in the 1920s, a collar folded down neatly over his bow tie. Even when he was not moving, he seemed to be pacing, and at the moment he looked as if the effort of smiling would crack and split his gaunt, wrinkled face. The third was a milder, shorter, and younger version of the second, with clothes cut to the latest business fashion and his necktie immaculate. Of the three, only this one had thought to bring an umbrella, though he carried a raincoat over the same arm which held the umbrella - whether for him, or the old man, it was difficult to say. "Damn it, Lindbergh," the old man finally rapped out, "this was your idea, meeting them here. What makes you think we'll get to them first?"
The aviator looked down at the old man, frowning slightly before replying. "I'm sorry, Mr. Ford. I cannot make him appear from thin air. Though from what I have heard... he might debark in Hangar One." Henry Ford scowled at Lindbergh before turning to the other man. "Well, Edsel, come on, let's go." He strode ahead, almost leaving the much-longer-legged Lindbergh behind as he stalked toward the gates. The aviator was quickly and easily recognized, especially by the sailors on this aviation base; he looked uncomfortable with the greetings and smiles thrust in his direction. Henry Ford, less recognizable as anything other than an angry old man, underwent an instant transformation the moment anyone called out for his attention. A simple "Hey, Mr. Ford!" would net whoever saw him a smile and a wave that left America feeling that Henry Ford was each and every one of them's personal grandfather, and Ford seemingly could not pass by a man who looked down on his luck without an encouraging word and a dollar. Edsel, for his part, merely looked harried and uncomfortable at chasing down his father.
Hopkins in the crowd, meanwhile, turned to see a Secret Service man at his elbow. "Sir, we just had a message from the tower. Seems the Prince has decided to stay aboard for docking operations, and sends his regrets. He'll be in Hangar One." Hopkins sighed, shook his head, and adjusted his fedora before proceeding. "Well, what are we waiting for, gentlemen?" he asked the two Secret Service men - one for him, one to follow the royals in America - with a raised eyebrow. They dutifully cleared a path, and Hopkins took full advantage of it.
In the hangar, two ranks of six blue-uniformed Marines stood facing each other, an officer facing between them toward the airship as its crew ladder descended. "Pr'SENT - HARMS!" barked the officer, and twenty-four hands clattered against twelve rifles in a moment's burst of sound. "Sir!" barked the Marine officer. "In the name of the President, the Secretary of the Navy, the Chief of Naval Operations, and the Commandant of the Marine Corps, welcome to the United States!" Ludwig for his part waved his salute; he was no soldier, and scarcely cared for the formalities of it... although, he secretly admitted to himself, Uncle Heinrich certainly showed there was no shame in a Hohenzollern sailor.
In the race for Ludwig's first attention, Ford and Lindbergh won, using Lindbergh's reputation and Ford's tenacity to bluff and bully their way through the guards. "Your Highness!" the old man rasped out, managing to stay ahead of Lindbergh to the latter's consternation and amazement, "a pleasure to meet you at last. I received your kind letter in Dearborn, and Charles here" - Lindbergh visibly winced at the familiarity - "thought that perhaps you'd be willing to meet here. Henry Ford, your Highness." To Ford's surprise, Ludwig broke past the Marines in an eager, almost unseemly, walk to pump his hand. "Delighted to meet you at last, Mr. Ford, charmed," the Prince replied in Eton-toned English. "And, may I say, Mr. Lindbergh," the Prince continued, shifting hands quickly, "an absolute pleasure. I regret that I was unable to be in Paris in '27. Quite a risk, sir, we must discuss that flight in detail some day!" Lindbergh muttered his greeting, seeing Alfried von Bohlen over the Crown Prince's shoulder, drawing in gratefully on his first unconstrained cigarette in days and shaking with silent laughter.
"Now, Highness," Ford continued in his flat Midwestern accent, "may I present my son, Edsel?" Edsel, as the President of the Ford Motor Company, had been the Crown Prince's actual correspondent; they had mutual business acquaintances, but this was their first face-to-face meeting. "Delighted, sir," Ludwig responded with a slightly less effusive handshake. "I look forward to many fine discussions with you both." Thus, the industrialists and the aviator began to draw the Prince aside just in time for Hopkins and his two escorts to burst into the hangar, a protesting Marine sentry shoved firmly aside. Instantly, Ludwig could feel tensions in the room rise. "Your Highness," Hopkins said, carefully collecting his breath, "a pleasure to meet you at last. I'm Harry Hopkins. President Roosevelt sends his regrets, but hopes that you will be able to pay your respects."
Ford, ever irascible and never in the best control of his tongue, muttered loud enough for even the Krupp heir to hear, "No respect due to That Man." Everyone, from Edsel Ford to Harry Hopkins, felt a moment of shock, but covered it over as a rumble of distant thunder sounded from outside. "Ah, Mr. Hopkins," Edsel Ford broke the silence, "may we borrow His Highness for just a moment? We have a small gift for him, and as it's going to rain, he may appreciate it." He smiled apologetically, clearly a much better diplomat than his father. Hopkins stiffened. "Of course, Mr. Ford, though I must say it's highly irregular." Prince Ludwig smiled in apology. "I am sorry, Mr. Hopkins, I am sure it will take only a moment. And in the meantime, I would be immensely grateful if you might collect the Duchess. She would be delighted to meet you. Kira," he leaned toward Hopkins to confide, "is tremendously interested in what your parks people have achieved here, and I understand you had some small hand in that?" He smiled as Hopkins visibly relaxed. "Of course, Highness. Certainly, shall I meet you here?" Ludwig smiled and nodded even as he and Alfried were swept up in the whirlwind that was Henry Ford on the move.
Edsel Ford was especially proud of this gift. "Only two like it," he explained, waving at the car before them. "The other is my personal car, Highness." The car in front of him was a long-nosed two-seat convertible, a balanced approach to luxury and performance. "Though I admit... it's too much a beauty to waste. We'll probably go into production next year." Alfried stubbed out a cigarette and snorted. "Yes, but what will it do on the track?" he asked Edsel in a gently chiding tone. Ford, for his part, looked mystified. "Well... we don't have a test track here," he admitted sheepishly. Krupp shook his head, smiling and pulling a checkbook from his pocket. "Very well... how much and how soon?" Even old Henry chuckled drily. "Looks like the German's got you, son."
---
Apostolic Palace of the Lateran
Vatican City
27 June 1937
"In nomine Patri, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti, ego te benedicte, amen," the Pope softly intoned, making the Sign of the Cross in front of the man kneeling before him, who looked up, smiling. Franz von Papen had risen as far as a Catholic in Germany could rise - Chancellor to the German Emperor, Papal Chamberlain, and now Knight Grand Cross of Grace and Devotion of the Military Order of Malta. The immense pectoral cross which this entitled him to wear had been bestowed the day prior by the Maltese Order's grand master; this visit had essentially been a triumphal parade for Chancellor Papen. This private visit with the Pope was both crown and gateway, though - the Pope was joined by only one other, Cardinal Eugenio Pacelli, the Papal State Secretary. The thin, ascetic Pacelli contrasted with Pius XI, who looked like he enjoyed life, had been the first Pope to ride in an automobile, and had resolved the issue of Papal sovereignty with the Italian government. Pius was thus the first Pope in generations on good terms with the Italian king - something Papen desperately needed for his project.
"Rise, my son," the Pope said in accented German, as he had been born within the Austrian Empire, "and please sit," he added, gesturing towards oen of the ornate wooden chairs that the Lateran seemed filled with. "Now, my son," Pius asked as he settled into his own chair, much more elaborate and much more cushioned, "you do not come here simply to receive my blessing. What may the Church do for the Chancellor of Germany?"
"Your Holiness," Papen said gravely, "Germany is a beacon of peace between Catholic and Protestant, but the gap may be closed further... my Emperor is troubled by this distance, and sends his regrets that it continues. He proposes a Concordat." Pacelli raised one thin eyebrow behind circular spectacles. "A Concordat, sir? And what would be the terms?" Papen smiled; this was far more direct than he had hoped. "First, Your Eminence, that the terms of agreement with Prussia, Bavaria, and Baden remain intact, as those states are members of the German Empire, and that the other member-states of the Empire may choose to enter into their own agreements with the Church. That the right of correspondence between Your Holiness," he added with a nod toward Pius, "and the Empire be completely unimpeded. That the right of parochial education be available to all Catholics..." he trailed off. "Well, your Eminence," he returned to Pacelli, "I doubt that we need to finish it here. I simply wish to open the ways for it." Pacelli smiled complacently and the Pope nodded. "Blessed are the peacemakers," Pius remarked, "for they are the children of God. Which brings me... Chancellor," he asked abruptly, "what would you say is the greatest threat the Church faces today?"
Papen frowned at the unexpected question. "Why, socialism, of course, because it seeks to usurp the charitable and spiritual functions of the Church." Pius nodded. "Just so. I have considered an encyclical... perhaps the German Emperor, in his role as the spiritual head of the Evangelical Church in Germany, would be willing to endorse it?" He picked up a thin sheaf of papers, adjusting his glasses and clearing his throat. His voice, slightly weak with age, gained strength as he read.
"The Communism of today, more emphatically than similar movements in the past, conceals in itself a false messianic idea. A pseudo-ideal of justice, of equality and fraternity in labor impregnates all its doctrine and activity with a deceptive mysticism, which communicates a zealous and contagious enthusiasm to the multitudes entrapped by delusive promises. This is especially true in an age like ours, when unusual misery has resulted from the unequal distribution of the goods of this world. This pseudo-ideal is even boastfully advanced as if it were responsible for a certain economic progress. As a matter of fact, when such progress is at all real, its true causes are quite different, as for instance the intensification of industrialism in countries which were formerly almost without it, the exploitation of immense natural resources, and the use of the most brutal methods to insure the achievement of gigantic projects with a minimum of expense."
As Pius fell quiet, he glanced over at Pacelli fondly. "Not all my words, of course, but the spirit," he added with a small, smiling shrug. Pacelli, for his part, smiled complacently; Papen knew quite well that in matters like this, the Cardinal was the Pope's speechwriter. "Still, what do you think?"
"Your Holiness," Papen said gravely, nodding, "I am quite certain my Emperor would gladly endorse such a declaration." Pius smiled warmly before replying. "Now, sir, I have a small matter to ask - a silly one, perhaps, an old man's folly." Papen raised an eyebrow.
"Could you perhaps speak to your governments about ensuring coffee shipments to Rome? I confess, it is a weakness of mine, and the recent... Ethiopian unpleasantness... has made coffee a vanishing delicacy here." Papen, to his credit, concealed his surprise, responding with a straight face, "Your Holiness, I shall see to it myself."
The coffee issue, as it turned out, was simply a wedge - the next day, he was invited to another intimate meeting, this with Pacelli and the Italian Foreign Minister, Count Ciano, whom Papen instantly liked, seeing him as a dynamic man in his own image. Ciano regaled Papen with story after story of the "march on Rome" and the miracles of Italian fascism - agricultural rebirth, the matter of Ethiopia and the restoration of Imperial pride to Italy, and even his own role in Istanbul, which had led King Victor Emmanuel to accept the title, bestowed on him by the acclaim of a grateful Fascist Grand Council, of Protector of Dalmatia. Papen privately was less than impressed with the Empire of Italy, even in Germany's reduced state, but it was a pleasant beginning that concluded with a meeting with the Duce himself. Benito Mussolini was a fireplug - there was no other word for the man, thickset and close-cropped, whose table talk sometimes felt like a speech every time he opened his mouth. The man had a presence, an energy, that Papen saw as a reflection of himself. The ever-present, spider-minded Pacelli, in contrast, was as cool and calculating a man as Papen had ever met. One night, when Papen had consumed perhaps a glass too much wine, he confided in the cardinal that he had been wasted as a diplomat - he would have been a perfect spymaster. Pacelli had simply smiled, raised an eyebrow, and replied, half-joking, "Why do you say I am not?"
---
Potsdam Garrison
Potsdam, German Empire
29 June 1937
Generalmajor Erich von Manstein closed his eyes, leaning back in his high-backed, gilt chair. The desk in front of him was filled with reports, all dealt with for the day. His favorite was a request from the new General Staff course for him to deliver a lecture as a recent operations and planning officer - recent being Manstein's favorite part. He much preferred his new job, and was glad he had escaped the possibility of being sent to wherever it was that Hausser had established his corps headquarters. Küstrin? It escaped him for the moment, and he did not feel like standing to check the map table.
Manstein opened his eyes to glance over at the uniform stand opposite from his desk, where a silver breastplate with an enamel black eagle trimmed in gold hung with a plumed Pickelhaube. There was no plum in all the Reichsheer like the one which genealogy, native ability, and rapid politicking had snagged him. He picked a handbell up from his desk, chiming quietly, and was instantly rewarded by the appearance of a fresh-faced Lichterfelde student on his summer duties as a page. "Tea," he waved, and the page nodded and vanished, appearing moments later with a steaming teacup. Manstein smiled as he blew across the hot water, his eyes catching the gilt letters on the opposite side of his office door as it swung close.
1. Garde-Panzerdivision
Befehlshabender General
MANSTEIN
Befehlshabender General
MANSTEIN
Again, interesting relevations. The visits to the USA and Italy open up a nice new set of possibility for the Empire. Looks like an alliance with Italy is only a matter of time. Just hope the Emperor is willing to tolerate Mussolini .
.
There is a certain Colonel from Southern Germany, actually quite near the Emporer's ancestral home ( <100 miles) who would be quite gifted as a Panzerman. Is there a job and a mention in this AAR in the cards for him?
Again, interesting relevations. The visits to the USA and Italy open up a nice new set of possibility for the Empire. Looks like an alliance with Italy is only a matter of time. Just hope the Emperor is willing to tolerate Mussolini
Good Lord! Do you people ever sleep?
FD - As long as Wilhelm himself doesn't have to deal with Mussolini or Ciano... I see Papen as much more likely to get along with them than a man who was raised to be German Emperor. Papen, after all, was described as the man who was taken seriously by neither his enemies nor his friends.
TA - I presume you mean Rommel? At the moment, he's teaching at Lichterfelde, a very popular instructor for his hands-on approach. Johann already encountered him earlier. It's not his last encounter, either. I included Manstein because of an earlier question about him, and because my reading shows him as a bit of a bon vivant, strategic vision aside.
So, wait 'til 1939 and look for someone grumbling about being assigned a schoolmaster as the new division CG.
Good Lord! Do you people ever sleep?
TA - I presume you mean Rommel? At the moment, he's teaching at Lichterfelde, a very popular instructor for his hands-on approach. Johann already encountered him earlier. It's not his last encounter, either. I included Manstein because of an earlier question about him, and because my reading shows him as a bit of a bon vivant, strategic vision aside.
So, wait 'til 1939 and look for someone grumbling about being assigned a schoolmaster as the new division CG.
Wha? It's barely 22:40 over here. It's indeed Rommel. It's good to see that the man has a job, maybe ITTL he is less disliked by the establishment in the Army since he's very publicly seen doing 'real' work and to know what he is talking about.
He's still distrusted, but he literally wrote the book on platoon-level operations, and that's what new lieutenants need. The fact that his trousers are conspicuously bare of red stripes, he seemingly lives in the field, and he's rumored to have fathered at least one child only to have his career rescued by the War make him somewhat persona non grata, but he's got a blue necktie and an infantry manual...
Oh, and it's summer of 1937, the most interesting publication season in decades as far as the Reichsheer is concerned. In short order, both Guderian and Rommel will be releasing general-edition books, and Johann is at least in a position where having a full bookshelf is a status symbol. More to follow.
Sweetness. I demand that there be at least a "General of Panzer Troops Erwin Rommel". He's a local by my standards, you see, I live in the same area. To illustrate: Rommel's son was Mayor of our Landeshauptstadt (State Capital) for decades.
Reminds me of a professor I ha(d/ve), who complained about what it takes to be a historic building in the United States. He (would/will) go on for hours given the opportunity about how Famous German #1's house was on his block growing up, and Famous German #2 taught at Stuttgart, and how in the world did the US win the war if we weren't willing to work, because Germany had Famous German #3...
Actually, that last one was pretty easy to answer: "Because we didn't have three models of heavy tank, five of medium, and eight of truck, but we had LOTS of trucks."
Good, some nice spoilers there...
For me it's more: "My city/region is awesome because of famous German #1, but thank god the Allies won so that I can be who I am."
For me it's more: "My city/region is awesome because of famous German #1, but thank god the Allies won so that I can be who I am."