Chapter 37
Chapter 37
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Translator: penny
Chapter: 37
Chapter Title: July Crisis (4)
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[<The Great War> Approaches Right Before Our Eyes! Controversy and the Mysterious Book...]
A newspaper on the desk bore that headline.
The news that Austria-Hungary had issued an ultimatum to Serbia reached Germany.
And one book skyrocketed in popularity.
"We need to print more of this book!"
"We've already printed several runs. Calm down and have some tea..."
"Tea? Screw your damn tea!"
Erwin Rommel Senior was hounding the president of a publishing house in Württemberg, an old friend.
He had entrusted the publishing rights for his son Rommel's book, only for the man to show up out of the blue today making these demands.
"That book! The book's selling like hotcakes!"
As the president foamed at the mouth and ranted, Senior quietly backed away.
Ignoring him, the president shouted excitedly.
"Half a million copies sold! Half a million in just a few days!"
"Half a million...?"
"This isn't just about making money—it's about making history!"
Senior's eyes trembled for a moment.
He didn't know much about publishing, but he could sense it had sold an insane amount.
Seeing that, the president pressed harder.
"Rumors are flying that God has raised your son as a new prophet!"
"No, it's not that serious..."
"Half-joking, half-serious, of course. But isn't it amazing that talk like that is circulating in this age of reason?"
The president grabbed Senior's shoulders firmly.
"Anyway, prophet or genius, one thing's certain: your son's a bestseller author."
"..."
"You row when the tide comes in. Let's print a few more and wrap it up."
"Sigh... I'll wire my son and let you know."
"No!"
As the president tightened his grip, Senior furrowed his brow.
Ignoring that, the president spat as he yelled.
"Aren't you the head of the household? Just stamp it and be done!"
"I am the head."
Slam! Senior shook off the hand and turned away coldly.
"Rommel's married now, so he's the head. He should decide his own affairs—what's this about heads of household?"
The president gaped like a fool as Senior spoke clearly.
"I'll meet again once I hear back. Hopefully without this unpleasantness."
"But..."
"Goodbye."
Ding-a-ling—As Senior left briskly, only the hollow chime of the door echoed in the ornate room.
◇◇◇◆◇◇◇
General Staff Headquarters.
"Who could've predicted this?"
"That lieutenant did."
"Crazy. I still can't wrap my head around it. Seeing an old novel I read become reality leaves me dumbfounded."
"They say the Great General Staff is paying attention."
"That's nothing. Word is Austria-Hungary wants a copy sent over."
"..."
I awkwardly pulled my cap lower.
They'd summoned me from General Staff HQ, and the atmosphere was buzzing in a very un-German way.
Not just talk about me... but excitement about the war.
I glanced at them briefly before entering the grand building.
Following a field-grade officer waiting for me... to a secluded spot.
"Lieutenant Erwin Rommel. By the authority delegated by His Majesty the Emperor, you are hereby promoted in recognition of your immense contributions to successfully revising and stabilizing the Imperial Army's organization and logistics systems."
"Th-thank you. I accept the orders."
Something felt off, but I never imagined it'd be this weird.
What? A sudden promotion?
The citation mentioned the maneuvers from before... had it really been years already?
Spotlighting that now—what was going on?
A sudden promotion was highly suspicious...
"Here's your rank insignia and commission."
"Yes, sir."
The insignia and documents looked legit. Only the timing and place were odd.
'Hmm, maybe let it slide for now.'
While I pondered, the officer continued curtly.
"Upper echelons have issued transfer orders for you. Report immediately to the 1st Military Inspection Group in Danzig."
I blinked.
Danzig? 1st Military Inspection Group? What did they do?
But the officer brushed past me as if done.
"..."
The transfer orders were straightforward: reassigned to the 1st Military Inspection Group.
Danzig, though—I knew that one.
"Danzig... East Prussia, the Eastern Front."
Why send me to the Eastern Front? No reason for a sudden promotion and transfer like this...
"Not like it's a bad deal."
I weighed pros and cons—no real downsides.
Schlieffen Plan concentrated forces west, but East wasn't second-rate.
Merit opportunities seemed equal.
Risk levels similar in my view. Just trench warfare might be nastier—no complaints.
"Tch, no chance to say goodbye to the battalion commander. Guess a letter later."
Another regret: couldn't watch my customized battalion in action up close.
Lingering unease, but nothing immediately bad seemed...
◇◇◇◆◇◇◇
1st Military Inspection Group.
Tututututu.
Tututututututu.
Tutututututututututututu!
Think machine guns? Wrong.
"Arrrgh! What the hell—dumping this much work on me right away?!"
"No time for screaming! Process these papers first!"
Typewriters louder than machine guns.
"Ow, my ears...!"
With war looming, the war machine was revving for mobilization.
But even huge machines are stiff at first crank.
In short, smooth mobilization needed sacrifices.
Like breaks, meals, sleep.
"Whoa! Nice speed, Rommel! Here's more!"
"Please!"
"And brew my coffee!"
So the 1st Military Inspection Group was like a transforming robot.
Normally the 1st Military Inspection Group, but on mobilization...
Presto! Transforms into the 8th Army. Kid's dream toy, right?
"No matter how you slice it, we're short on officers!"
"What do you expect me to do? I'm not a genie! Suck it up!"
...Except it was manual transformation.
And missing parts, so staff like me and Major Max Hoffmann floundered in paperwork seas.
Damn, no wonder it felt off!
Thought innovative writing meant good treatment—instead, premium slave labor.
'Sent a non-War College lieutenant to staff, so promoted to captain as consolation!'
"Whoa?! Where's my hand?! Hand?!"
'General Staff! You tricked me, General Staff!'
Workload so bad, even a monkey—no, a cat's paw—would be welcome.
Situation was chaos. Papers flying like in Hogwarts.
"Damn it! Ultimatum expired 24 hours ago! If Austria-Hungary declares before us, we're dead..."
Major Max Hoffmann's despairing shout made everyone wince.
General Staff or not, all mortals here.
"You can do it! People shine when death looms—try something!"
As folks dropped, paperwork sea receded.
Once the valve turned, next was easier, then easier still.
Aftereffects lingered, though.
"Ughhh."
"...Ah, coffee? Thanks, Rommel...."
Thus, July 26—called Bloody Sunday—faded.
We greeted July 27 sprawled on cots and papers.
Blinking awake, I saw Major Max Hoffmann smoking by the window.
"Not sleeping?"
"Declaration could come anytime. You suffered yesterday—sleep."
My hoarse question got an eager reply.
Not wanting to see him struggle, I said,
"No declaration today anyway."
"Oh ho, another prophecy?"
"Please, sir—you don't believe that nonsense?"
"Why not? Prediction or prophecy—both equally credible."
His playful tone made me lie back.
"Sigh... rest today."
I rustled papers over me.
Half-asleep, I mumbled,
"Declaration's tomorrow."
So let's sleep today.