Chapter 115
Chapter 115
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Translator: Vine
Chapter: 115
Chapter Title: The Wave of Steel (2)
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< The Second World War - The Wave of Steel (2) >
June 29, 1940
Moscow, Capital of the Soviet Union
“I-It can’t be…”
Lavrentiy Beria, the head of the NKVD, who was said to fear no one in the Soviet Union but Stalin, groaned as a wave of dizziness washed over him.
He had just received a report that the covert operations in Germany had succeeded, sparking massive strikes and anti-war protests. He had immediately rushed to boast about it to the General Secretary, only for it to all come crashing down because of a single speech by some wet-behind-the-ears Vice-Chancellor?
After the utterly unpredictable Hitler and Goebbels were gone, a new government that pledged to restore democracy in Germany had taken power.
Beria had been secretly relieved, thinking that this self-proclaimed capitalist government, riddled with contradictions, would be the easiest to destabilize. But what was it with Germany, producing one master agitator after another?
“W-we’ll put this on hold for now.”
“Sir?”
The subordinate who delivered the report couldn't help but question him, but one icy glare from Beria had him shouting.
“I-I understand! I will remain silent on this matter!”
“Good. You’d better keep your word. You know what happens if you don’t.”
“Yes, sir!”
With a frigid expression, Beria gestured for his pale, trembling subordinate to leave.
*Who should I get to take care of him?* Left alone, Beria clutched his head.
“Damn it, I should have waited to see how things developed before reporting…”
Logically, no one would have expected a massive anti-war protest to die down so quickly, so the failure of the operation wasn't necessarily Beria's fault.
The problem, however, was that Stalin's mood had been at its absolute worst lately. And Beria himself, while the Red Army was taking a beating, had specifically antagonized the military leadership to report this and curry favor.
If only he hadn't boasted so proudly in front of Stalin. Now, reporting this failure would surely put him in Stalin's bad graces, if not put his own neck on the line.
“No, no… I’ve come too far to lose it all now.”
Because of the atrocities he had committed to win Stalin's favor and his own sadistic tendencies, Beria had countless enemies.
It was painfully obvious what awaited him if he fell from Stalin's grace. The memory of the fate of his predecessor, Yezhov, whom he had sent to his death, sent a chill down Beria’s spine.
After a moment of anxious deliberation, Beria’s cruel and greedy eyes glinted.
“I’ll have to tell Mercader to deal with Trotsky quickly.”
Ramón Mercader, a Spanish NKVD agent recruited by the Soviets, had become the lover of Sylvia Ageloff, the secretary of Leon Trotsky—Stalin’s political rival and a giant of communism exiled in Mexico—to get close to his target.
Mercader had already spent nearly a year earning Sylvia’s trust to get past the suspicious Trotsky’s defenses. If he ordered him to eliminate Trotsky now, it should be possible.
Stalin would find out about the situation in Germany eventually, whether he reported it or not.
In that case, his only option was to prepare a gift so pleasing to Stalin that it would more than cover for his blunder.
Beria grinned, imagining Stalin's delighted face as he praised him, and the further consolidation of his own power.
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June 29, 1940
Trento, Italian Army Command, Trentino-Alto Adige (Südtirol), Northern Italy
The defensive line Italy had painstakingly built over a long period was, contrary to the stereotype of the Italian military, quite formidably constructed along the Alps.
Despite this, Italian Army Deputy Commander Giovanni Messe could not hide his concern.
They had celebrated their victory in the last battle against Germany as a great triumph, but the French army had been there then.
Now the French had withdrawn. The Italian army had done its best to reinforce the line, but it was hard to be optimistic about their chances of holding off the Germans alone, especially when the Germans had inflicted considerable damage even when they were fighting alongside the French.
The one comforting fact was that Air Marshal Italo Balbo, though he had stepped back from the front lines, was now managing the air force from the rear and had introduced a large number of new fighter aircraft.
There was the pinnacle of Italian aviation technology, the all-metal Macchi C.200 Saetta, its supplementary fighter, the Fiat G.50, and even the biplane CR.42, a transitional fighter to overcome production issues.
Macchi had won the competition, but Fiat had pulled every string to lobby for a third production line, creating a maddening situation where they were producing biplanes for the Second World War. Of course, Messe, an army man, knew little of such things.
He only held onto the hope promised by the Air Marshal, who had boasted that he would show them a new Italian air force.
Besides, even excluding the outdated CR.32s, the three new fighter models numbered a full 500 aircraft. Surely that would be of some help?
“Deputy Commander, the Commander is summoning you! A report has come in that air raids have begun on the front!”
“So the Germans are finally attacking.”
Messe swallowed hard with tension. It would have been best if the French could come to their aid, but it seemed they were too late. There was no other choice.
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Giovanni Messe quickened his pace, watching the Italian Air Force's proud new aircraft take to the blue sky one after another.
But when he arrived at the command center, he found the commander, Rodolfo Graziani, sitting with a completely pale face.
“Commander?”
“Ah, yes. Deputy Commander.”
Messe’s confusion didn't last long. Even from the command center, he could hear the distant sound of explosions.
“Huh?”
What was even more terrifying was that the sound of the explosions was getting closer—
And when the screams, shouts, and sirens from outside the command center reached them before the explosions did, Messe felt a chill run down his spine.
“A-Air raid!”
“What about our air force?”
The aide who burst in reported with a scream, then fell silent at Messe’s question. The answer came from Commander Graziani.
“Our air force can do nothing.”
“What?”
Messe looked at Graziani as if he had lost his mind, but Graziani couldn't say another word.
Soon, the sound of machine guns and explosions could be heard from outside.
“C-Crazy… there are too many!”
“Aaaaargh!”
“Damn it, help me!”
Though he couldn't see outside from inside the building, the urgent screams and shouts, and the sound of something slicing through the air above, heightened Messe’s tension.
“This war is over. We’re finished…”
Meanwhile, Graziani, the commander-in-chief, was already half-catatonic. Messe, feeling a sense of crisis beyond bewilderment, shouted.
“C-Commander! We have to evacuate! Let’s go to the bunker!”
“Y-Yes, we should.”
Graziani seemed to snap out of it at last and stood up. Messe led the way out of the command center—and froze.
If the sky over Trentino-Alto Adige (Südtirol) was an ocean, the German Luftwaffe was a tidal wave, surging forward as if to push the sea itself away.
-
June 30, 1940
Italian Invasion Force Command, Tyrol, Western Austria
“Everyone, attention!”
I thought I would be calm by now, no longer surprised by these things, but—
“To the Vice-Chancellor of the Chancellery, salute!”
As Manstein gave the command, I couldn't help but make a strange face when I saw Roger Michael among those saluting.
To see a classmate from the War College in this position. The look on Michael’s face was a sight to behold, too.
He should have been working at the General Staff headquarters in Berlin. Manstein must have requisitioned him.
…I guess I’ll be hearing an earful about Manstein at our next drinking session.
“Hahaha, thank you for coming all this way, Mr. Vice-Chancellor! The morale of the troops will surely soar through the roof!”
“You’re always working hard, Chief of the General Staff. How is the war progressing?”
“Haha, excellently, of course! The Italians don’t know what hit them!”
The outline of Operation Adler (Eagle) was this:
The terrain was the Alps, and the enemy's defensive line was well-prepared. Therefore, our plan was simple: advance slowly while pounding their defenses with artillery and air strikes until they crumbled.
While the outline itself was simple, we had committed an overwhelming 5,000 aircraft to this operation.
More time was spent on the preparation for this ruthless, very Richthofen-esque operation—rotating 5,000 aircraft in four shifts for 24-hour bombing runs in the narrow Italian front—than on the outline itself.
We scouted every possible location in the Tyrolean Alps suitable for airfields and built airbases everywhere. The air force officer corps had racked their brains to allocate personnel and prevent the flight paths of the air groups from getting tangled for such a massive aerial operation.
On the first day of the offensive, we shot down every Italian aircraft we saw. Since then, the Italians, perhaps fearing the attrition of their air power, hadn't committed their air force at all and were just taking a one-sided beating.
“Thanks to the performance of our air force and artillery, their defensive line is collapsing rapidly! It’s the power of the massed 15cm heavy guns and 88mm anti-aircraft guns!”
“Excellent.”
And after seizing complete air superiority, we were now openly bombarding the enemy lines.
It might be a different story against something like the Maginot Line, but a trench line relying on mountain terrain couldn't possibly withstand 24 hours of continuous bombing and heavy artillery fire.
Beyond the lethality, the relentless barrage of bombs and shells was in itself an overwhelming assault on the soldiers' morale. By the time our army advanced, the Italian forces would have no will to resist.
Just as I thought. Big, beautiful, and numerous guns are justice. Stalin may have been wrong about many things, but he was right about that one.
“Ahem, but. The consumption of ammunition and bombs is truly enormous. Will that be a problem?”
Manstein asked, cautiously glancing at me. We were, no joke, carrying out 24-hour shelling and air raids.
Naturally, ammunition consumption was skyrocketing. The munitions companies were screaming with joy as they churned out shells and aerial bombs for this operation.
“That is partly why I came here, but—”
The cabinet was in an uproar over the consumption rates, but my argument that it was cheaper to pour out shells than to send tax-paying workers to the battlefield had won them over.
They still sent me to make sure things weren't being wasted, but I had no intention of stopping these men.
“I only came. Don’t worry and fire away. We can make it back by winning.”
Once we crushed Italy, France would be forced to do something, and then we could declare war on France and get money from Britain.
It felt a bit like Hitler’s thinking, but I’d rather pour money into this than throw soldiers at a defensive line in the Alps.
Our economy wasn't so weak that it couldn't sustain a few days of this offensive, and our supply lines were secure.
I glanced around and said.
“Is General Richthofen out again, as expected?”
“Ah, he returned from a bombing run with the previous shift and is sleeping now. Should I wake him?”
“No. Let the man who works hard rest.”
Though I wasn't quite sure why a man of his rank needed to personally fly a bomber…
In any case, we were diligently emulating the United States, which in the original history served as the arsenal of democracy, and were now waging war in a democratic fashion.
Waging war by grinding up people is the worst strategy, relying on commanders is a mediocre one, and the best, of course, is to throw money at the problem.
As I was chuckling to myself, Manstein spoke again.
“Oh, right! The prototype of the Freiheit self-propelled gun has proven to be quite useful!”
In the wretched Alps, tanks and towed artillery had their limits, so we desperately needed self-propelled guns. The main SPG used by the German army was based on the Panzer II chassis, which limited its firepower, and the Panzer II production line had long since been shut down.
So, our new self-propelled gun, named Freiheit (Freedom), was an ambitious project developed by mounting a 15cm heavy gun on a Panzer IV chassis. With this, we could send even a heavy tank to meet its maker in a single shot.
We had to work our engineers to the bone to get even a prototype out for this offensive, but as expected, our great engineers produced results when pushed.
Honestly, I had my doubts, but for them to complete a usable prototype of a new SPG in just two months… engineers are truly amazing.
“I heard it was built under your orders after the failure of the last offensive! Truly, your foresight is remar-kable, Mr. Vice-Chancellor!”
“Ah, yes…”
I couldn’t hide my lukewarm expression, but it wouldn’t be Manstein if he noticed.
“And the name, Freiheit! I heard that brilliant name was your idea as well, Mr. Vice-Chancellor!”
“Ah, no, wait.”
Damn it, who told this man such a useless piece of information!
“Freiheit for a self-propelled gun! Haha! Is it a democratic bombardment that brings freedom to our enemies?”
Damn it all. The engineers suggested I give it a name since I proposed it, and I just said it without thinking.
I was reminded of how the Americans named their strategic bombers things like "Liberator," and a sudden bout of teenage fantasy got the better of me…
“A truly wonderful sense of style, Mr. Vice-Chancellor! Freedom rains from the sky! Hahahaha!”
Even worse than the oblivious and excited Manstein—
—was the look in Michael’s eyes, as if to say, ‘So that’s the kind of thing you’re into,’ which stung even more.
Ah, my life…