The Night of the Naked
The battle raged on. Manstein remained in the square, systematically suppressing the rebels. However, several Revolutionary Guard officers, highly skilled in infantry tactics, chose a different path.
"A company-sized enemy force has dispersed and is moving through the industrial district!"
"What is their formation?"
"They've split into groups of five!"
Battalion Commander Walter Model fell into deep thought. Shtal had issued strict orders to suppress the rebellion within a precise timeframe. It made perfect sense. The roar of machine guns and the blare of megaphones would echo throughout the entire city. And if that happened? There was no telling what desperate measures the rebel conspirators might take upon hearing the gunfire. Of course, Model, who confidently viewed himself as a future legendary general, believed he could easily handle such a situation, but...
Model recalled the copy of The Art of War that Shtal had distributed to all junior officers of the Revolutionary Guard. Annihilating the enemy in a spectacular fashion was all well and good, but it meant nothing if one's own forces suffered heavy casualties.
It would have been so much easier if we could have suppressed them as they entered the square. They'll probably keep moving for another ten minutes.
There was no helping it. He had to initiate the strike first. It didn't matter. It might be slightly tedious, but defeating them in detail, group by group, was a perfectly viable option.
"Block both ends of the alleys! Ambush them from the walls lining the streets!"
Vienna was said to be the most well-planned city in the world, but even Vienna could not entirely escape the limitations of a pre-modern metropolis. While grand, sweeping boulevards organically connected the main thoroughfares, the side streets and alleys remained a labyrinth.
'Know your enemy and know yourself, and you will not be imperiled in a hundred battles.' We have a perfect grasp of the local geography.
They were in the ideal position to ambush and surround the squads moving through the alleys, neutralizing them completely.
The rebel soldiers, utterly oblivious to what was happening, were advancing slowly toward their objective: the residence of the Chief Justice. And then, in that very moment—
"W-What is this?!"
Figures clad in black, heavily armed and wearing gas masks, erupted from all directions. They wore no military uniforms, and their attire was so mismatched that it was impossible to identify them, but...
"S-Squad leader, what do we do?!"
"They look like civilians... Do we shoot?!"
Still, one thing was absolutely clear: these people were undeniably hostile. How could they be anything else when they had suddenly surrounded them from all sides, wearing gas masks and brandishing shields and batons?
"F-Fire! Return fire immediately!"
However, the majority of the soldiers did not even realize they were "rebels." Most of them believed they were heroes who had come to "rescue Shtal from the rebels." They simply could not bring themselves to point their rifles at civilians who weren't even holding guns. As they hesitated, a quick-witted non-commissioned officer hastily changed his orders.
"T-Then... reverse your rifles! Strike them with the butts!"
"But..."
"Look at them, roaming around dressed like that in the dead of night! They must be bandits or thieves!"
Most of the squad and platoon leaders reached the same conclusion. They flipped their rifles around and began to fight with the buttstocks.
But close-quarters combat was still close-quarters combat. No matter how elite these soldiers were, the moment they stopped shooting, they were reduced to nothing more than common thugs. Furthermore, weren't their opponents armed with shields and batons? Some of the ambushers, as if stepping out of a medieval battle five hundred years ago, even wielded ten-meter-long pikes, thrashing the rebels from a safe distance. In the end, both companies were captured right there in the middle of their march.
Once the skirmish concluded, Walter Model let out a sigh of relief.
"As expected, Vice Chairman Shtal's judgment was correct. The soldiers and junior officers are innocent. They refused to point their weapons at civilians until the very end."
Elsewhere, however, there were those who displayed a level of pathetic incompetence that defied all imagination.
Guderian had also been fortunate enough to easily surround the rebel forces just as they were assembling. Following Manstein's example, he deployed tear gas and fired machine guns into the air. However, the commander of this particular rebel company possessed an exceptionally vivid imagination.
"Machine guns! Those are machine guns...!"
Terrified and convinced they were already surrounded by a massive enemy force, the rebel commander still had absolutely no intention of surrendering.
"W-We die here! Return fire!"
The elite imperial soldiers would never disobey their commander's orders. Grimacing from the agonizing sting of the tear gas and contorting their bodies into absurd postures to dodge the unseen machine-gun fire, the soldiers still managed to raise their rifles and pull the triggers.
The fact that these soldiers were so highly trained actually proved to be their undoing. Having reached a level of proficiency where they could reload and fire with their eyes closed, these elite rebels proceeded to do exactly that.
Hearing the sudden exchange of gunfire, Guderian tilted his head in confusion.
"What is that sound? That's not a machine gun."
"Those are the shots of our standard-issue service rifles, sir."
"...How is that possible?! Ah, this is driving me crazy. Who the hell is shooting?!"
"W-We don't know, sir!"
Only when the thick clouds of tear gas began to disperse in the early morning breeze did Guderian finally realize the truth behind the gunfire.
"...Those absolute lunatics, they're shooting at each other?!"
Not a single one of Guderian's men had fired a shot at the rebels. Yet, nearly half of the rebel soldiers were already lying on the ground, bleeding. Even now, they were weeping tears of agony as they continued to shoot at one another—long after the machine guns and tear gas had ceased.
Granted, their tears were mostly a physical reaction to the lingering tear gas. Still, the sight of them sobbing hysterically while gunning each other down was a perfect, tragicomic encapsulation of the sheer irony of civil war.
"Damn it, stop shooting right now!"
"H-How do we stop them, sir?"
"Do something! Give me that megaphone! Testing, testing... Cease fire immediately! We have not fired a single shot at you! I know it's painful, but open your eyes and look around! See whose bullets are actually killing your comrades, for God's sake! Damn it!"
Guderian stared at the horrific, absurd spectacle before him and let out a heavy, exhausted sigh.
"Fuck... how am I supposed to explain this to Vice Chairman Shtal...?"
September 15, 1916, 5:15 AM.
The suppression operation commenced simultaneously, executed with absolute, flawless precision. While some rebel units surrendered without a fight, others dissolved into chaotic, disorganized skirmishes. Guderian's sector, in particular, had suffered a disastrous stroke of misfortune. Nevertheless, by 5:40 AM, every single rebel force that had entered the city of Vienna was completely neutralized. It had taken a mere twenty-five minutes!
"S-Something is wrong!"
Inside a hidden basement in Vienna, Hötzendorf and his high-ranking officers were waiting. They were fully prepared to rush to the courthouse the very moment the coup succeeded. But then...
At exactly 5:15 AM, the entire city was suddenly engulfed by the deafening roar of machine-gun fire.
It was clear that something entirely outside of their control was unfolding. Anyone could guess what had happened. The perfectly synchronized gunfire and the mysterious voices blaring from megaphones could only mean one thing: the Imperial Army and the National Assembly had clashed.
"D-Damn it! They knew!"
"No, it's fine. We don't know that yet! Besides, our Imperial Army is elite!"
"Exactly. How many men could that bastard Shtal possibly mobilize anyway?"
The National Assembly was a hastily cobbled-together organization that hadn't even passed proper legislation yet. The only force they could possibly muster was the Austrian Agricultural Cooperative's Revolutionary Guard, which numbered a mere three thousand men. The rebels held a clear numerical advantage.
Even if Shtal had caught wind of their plans and engaged them, the rebels held the upper hand in both numbers and quality! The officers desperately reassured themselves.
However, as about fifteen minutes passed, a deeply unsettling premonition began to bloom in Hötzendorf's chest. No, this was far more than just a simple premonition.
Having locked horns with Shtal in political warfare for years, and with the conflict intensifying rapidly of late, Hötzendorf had come to realize a profound truth.
Whenever I get this feeling... I always lose! Damn it all! We're finished...
Why hadn't he felt this way before launching the coup? Why was he only realizing it now?
A cold dread washed over Hötzendorf, and his teeth began to chatter uncontrollably. I'm going to die. We're all going to die... We are absolutely dead! Having lived his entire life as a refined aristocrat, when had Hötzendorf ever experienced the raw, visceral terror of death? Even when he lost a political battle, it merely resulted in "dishonor," never a direct threat to his life.
Feeling the icy grip of mortal terror for the first time in his life, a panicked Hötzendorf shrieked at his officers.
"We're finished! We're absolutely finished!"
"General Hötzendorf, what is the meaning of this?!"
"W-We have to get out of the city right now! Where... where should we go...?"
"Calm down! We haven't received a single report yet!"
"The fact that we haven't received any reports is the problem! We must find an escape route immediately! W-Who would grant us asylum...? Yes, Russia! We'll flee to Russia!"
Completely casting aside his dignity, General Hötzendorf began frantically stripping off his military uniform right in front of his officers.
"W-What on earth are you doing?!"
"Shtal will be bursting through those doors any minute! Or rather... Stalin will. If we want to escape disguised as civilians, this useless uniform is only going to get us caught!"
The aristocratic officers stared at Hötzendorf, utterly dumbfounded.
If an ordinary soldier had spread panic like this on the battlefield, it would be considered a capital offense, warranting immediate imprisonment and a court-martial. In fact, stripping down completely naked without leaving even a shred of underwear was behavior better suited for an asylum than a military tribunal. Yet, seeing their Chief of the General Staff behave this way, the rebel leadership began to waver. After all, Hötzendorf's predictions had rarely been wrong.
If not for Shtal, their coup would have succeeded long ago. Could it be...?
Doubt spread like wildfire through the high command.
"W-We must follow General Hötzendorf's lead!"
"Have you lost your mind?! Are you still generals and honorable noblemen?!"
"What good is being a noble or a general when your life is on the line?! Hurry up and strip!"
"This... this is madness..."
"Don't want to? Fine, I'll strip on my own! General Hötzendorf, Russia is too dangerous!"
"Ah... right, of course. Then if not Russia, what about Japan, China, or South America?"
"Sounds perfect!"
Roughly thirty percent of the high command immediately began shedding their clothes in unison. Panic was highly contagious. When one or two people engaged in erratic behavior, it was dismissed as a mere aberration. But when thirty percent did it, it was no longer an aberration. It became a rational course of action.
Soon, sixty percent of the high-ranking officers were completely naked. However, a military force preparing for a coup d'état had naturally neglected to pack proper civilian attire. Some managed to grab only shirts, while others wore nothing but trousers. Those who couldn't find any clothes at all cut holes in flour sacks and draped them over their bodies.
"H-How dare you...! My rank is Field Marshal! Hand over those clothes this instant!"
"To hell with your rank! Our lives are on the line, who cares about that?! Give them to me!"
"You son of a bitch! How can you do this to your own in-law? Didn't you take my daughter as your wife?!"
"Senior, do you remember our days at the military academy? Please, can't you just spare me that one flour sack?!"
Every single one of them was an aristocrat. This meant they were all deeply intertwined through blood, school ties, and regional connections. At the very least, everyone gathered here had graduated from the same military academy. They dragged up favors and debts from ten, even twenty years ago, bickering and wrestling over scraps of fabric.
"H-Have you no shame?!"
"Good heavens... I would rather just surrender."
Even if their erratic behavior had become "rationalized" in their panic, there was no denying that it was still utter madness. The remaining forty percent, who still retained their sanity, realized that the rebellion was doomed.
"To think I plotted a coup with these pathetic fools. I must have lost my mind."
"Then get the hell out of here!"
"Go ahead and surrender to Shtal! You think he'll let you live?!"
"That is exactly what I intend to do. Enjoy your little circus."
The noble officers who still possessed a shred of dignity adjusted their uniforms and walked out. Within thirty seconds, the rhythmic clatter of horse hooves echoed from a distance.
"Cavalry...?"
"If it's cavalry... it must be Stalin."
"Ha, that crazy old fool Hötzendorf was right again."
Indeed, Hötzendorf had not been wrong in the end. He had even correctly predicted that Stalin would be the one to arrive.
The high-ranking officers who still had their wits about them raised their hands high and shouted toward Stalin.
"We surrender! We surrender!"
Stalin swiftly had them bound and rushed into the basement where the rebel leadership was holed up. And... upon witnessing the scene inside, Stalin's jaw dropped.
"What is this... some kind of degenerate party?"
"N-No, that's not it..."
"Freeze right there."
Stalin ordered his men to train their rifles on them, freezing them in place.
Then, just in case, he retrieved a camera he had packed on his horse. It was Stalin's brand-new hobby! Ever since photographing Führer Apis being roasted in the electric chair, he had developed a keen interest in photography.
"Bwahaha! Your glorious figures shall be preserved in history forever! Forever!"
Once again, Hötzendorf's judgment had not been wrong.
Amidst this absolute circus, Hötzendorf had made the quickest decision to escape in civilian clothes. And indeed, Hötzendorf was the only one who was still fully and properly dressed.