< World War II - The Waves of Steel (2) >
June 29, 1940
Moscow, Capital of the Soviet Union
"T-That's absurd…"
Lavrentiy Beria, the chief of the NKVD who was said to fear no one in the Soviet Union but Stalin, groaned, feeling a wave of vertigo.
As soon as he received the report that the operation in Germany had succeeded, sparking large-scale strikes and anti-war protests, he had eagerly bragged to the General Secretary, only for it to be turned into a failure by a single speech from that young bastard of a Vice-Chancellor?
Hitler and Goebbels, who had been so unpredictable they gave Beria a headache, were gone, and a governnt that promised to reconstruct democracy in Germany had been established.
I was inwardly relieved, thinking this governnt of self-proclaid capitalists, full of contradictions, would be the easiest for Communism to shake, but does Germany only produce demagogues?
"L-Let's put this on hold for now."
"Sir?"
The person who had delivered the report questioned him without thinking, but after receiving a chilling gaze, imdiately shouted.
"Ah, I understand! I will keep my mouth shut about this matter!"
"Good. You'd better keep that promise. You know what will happen if you don't."
"Yes, sir!"
With a frigid expression, Beria gestured for his subordinate, who was trembling with a pale face, to leave.
Who should I get to handle that guy? Left alone, Beria tore at his hair.
"Damn it, maybe I should have watched how things developed a bit more before reporting…"
Logically, it was hard to imagine a large-scale anti-war protest dying down so quickly, so if one had to be picky, the failure of the operation wasn't Beria's fault.
But the problem was that Stalin's mood was in the worst possible state these days, and Beria himself had reported it to curry favor while the Red Army was getting thrashed, deliberately earning the ire of the military brass.
If only he hadn't boasted so proudly in front of Stalin, it might have been different, but if he reported this failure now, he would surely fall out of Stalin's favor or his own neck would be on the line.
"No, no… After all I did to get this position."
Thanks to the atrocities he had committed to get into Stalin's good graces, and his own sadistic tendencies, Beria's enemies were countless.
It was obvious what would await him if he fell out of Stalin's favor. Recalling the end of Yezhov, whom he had disposed of, Beria shivered with a chill.
After a mont of anxious deliberation, Beria's eyes glinted with a cruel and greedy light.
"I'll have to tell rcader to dispose of Trotsky quickly."
Ramón rcader, a Spanish NKVD agent bought by the Soviets, had beco the lover of Sylvia Ageloff, the secretary of Leon Trotsky—Stalin's political enemy and a giant of communism in exile in xico—and was getting close to him.
rcader had already spent nearly a year earning Sylvia's trust to get close to the suspicious Trotsky, so if he was told to eliminate Trotsky in a hurry, it should be possible.
In any case, even if he didn't report on the internal situation in Germany, Stalin would find out eventually.
Then his only choice was to prepare a gift that would please Stalin enough to more than cover up for his mistake.
Beria grinned as he imagined Stalin's pleased face praising him, and his own power becoming even more solidified.
-
June 29, 1940
Northern Italy, Trentino-Alto Adige (South Tyrol) - Trento, Italian Army Headquarters The defense line, which Italy had poured its heart and soul into building over a long ti, was constructed quite impressively along the Alps, defying the prejudice against the Italian Army.
But despite this, Vice Commander Giovanni sse could not hide his worry.
Although they had praised themselves for a great victory in the last battle against Germany, the French Army had been there then.
The French Army had withdrawn, and the Italian Army had reinforced its defense line in its own way, but it was hard to be optimistic about whether they could block the German Army alone, which had inflicted considerable damage even when they had held them off with the French.
The only consolation was the fact that Air Force Marshal Italo Balbo, though he had stepped back from the front lines, was managing the air force from the rear and had introduced a large number of new fighter aircraft.
The all-tal main fighter Macchi C.
200 Saetta, the essence of Italian air technology; the supplentary Fiat G.50; and even the biplane CR.
42, a transitional fighter to overco production issues.
Macchi had won the competition, but Fiat had lobbied extensively to needlessly split the production into three lines, even throwing a biplane into the mix for World War II, creating an exasperating situation, but sse, being an Army man, of course, knew little of such things.
He only held high expectations because the Air Force Marshal had boastfully declared that he would show a new side of the Italian Air Force.
Still, excluding the outdated CR.
32, if you combined the three new fighter models, it ca to a whopping 500 aircraft. Surely that would be of so help, wouldn't it?
"Vice Commander, the commander summons you! A report has co in that an airstrike has begun on the front!"
"Looks like those German bastards are finally attacking."
sse swallowed dryly with tension.
It would be perfect if the French Army could co to help, but it seed they were too late. It couldn't be helped.
-
Giovanni sse quickened his pace, watching the proud new aircraft of the Italian Air Force scramble one after another into the blue sky.
But when sse arrived at the command room, he found Commander Rodolfo Graziani sitting with a completely pale face.
"Commander?"
"Ah, uh-huh. Vice Commander."
sse's question of what was wrong with the commander didn't last long.
Even in the command room, he could hear the roar of explosions from far away.
"Huh?"
What was more terrifying was that the sound of the explosions was getting closer—
And when he heard screams, shouts, and sirens from outside the command room before the roar of explosions, sse felt a chill run down his spine.
"A-Airstrike!"
"What about our air force?"
The adjutant who ran in reported with a scream and then couldn't continue at sse's question. The answer ca from Commander Graziani.
"Our air force can do nothing."
"Sir?"
sse looked at Graziani with a face that said, 'What kind of crazy talk is this?', but Graziani couldn't say a word.
Soon, the sound of machine-gun fire and explosions began to be heard from outside.
"T-Too many, damn it!"
"Aaaaargh!"
"Damn it, save !"
He couldn't see outside from inside the building, but the urgent screams and shouts, and the sound of the air being torn apart from the sky even at this mont, further stimulated sse's tension.
"This war is over. We're finished…"
anwhile, Graziani, the Commander-in-Chief, was already half out of his mind.
sse, feeling a sense of crisis beyond re bewildernt, shouted.
"C-Commander! You have to evacuate! To the bunker!"
"R-Right, I should."
As if he had just realized it, Graziani got up from his seat, and sse led the way out of the command room—and froze on the spot.
If the sky of Trentino-Alto Adige (South Tyrol) was a sea, the German Air Force was surging in like a wave. With enough vigor to push back the sea itself.
-
June 30, 1940
Western Tyrol, Austria - Headquarters of the Italian Invasion Force
"All personnel, attention!"
It wasn't even surprising anymore, so my heart was calm—or so I thought.
"To the Vice-Chancellor, salute!"
Seeing Roger Michael among those saluting at Manstein's command, I couldn't help but make a peculiar expression.
To see my War College classmate in such a state. Michael's expression was also quite a sight.
He should have been working at the Berlin General Staff, so it seems Manstein requisitioned him.
…I guess I'll be hearing so complaints about Manstein at our next drinking session.
"Hahaha, thank you for coming in person, Vice-Chancellor! The morale of the officers and n will surely soar through the heavens!"
"You're always working hard, Chief of the General Staff. How is the war situation?"
"Haha, excellent, of course! Those Italian bastards don't know what hit them!"
The outline of Operation Adler (Eagle) was this.
The terrain was the Alps, and the enemy's defense line was solidly prepared. So, our plan was a very simple one: advance slowly while unleashing a torrent of artillery and airstrikes until their defense line was shattered.
Of course, the outline of the operation itself was simple, but we committed an overwhelming 5,000 aircraft to this operation.
More ti was spent on the preparation for this truly Richthofen-esque and ruthless operation—which involved rotating a crazy number of 5,000 aircraft in a four-shift rotation to carry out a 24-hour bombing in the narrow area of the Italian front—than on the operational outline itself.
We scouted all possible terrain in the Tyrol region of the Alps where airfields could be prepared and installed air bases everywhere, and the air force officer corps racked their brains and worked hard to allocate personnel for this massive air operation and to keep the flight paths of the air wings from getting tangled.
On the first day of the offensive, we shot down every Italian aircraft we saw, and since then, Italy, whether out of fear of depleting their air power, hasn't been able to commit its air force at all and is just getting pumled one-sidedly.
"Thanks to the great performance of our air force and artillery, their defense line is rapidly collapsing! It's the power of the large numbers of 15cm heavy guns and 88 anti-aircraft guns deployed!"
"Excellent."
And after seizing complete air superiority, we were openly bombarding the enemy lines.
Unless it was sothing on the level of the Maginot Line, it would be impossible for a re trench line relying on mountain terrain to withstand 24 hours of continuous bombing and heavy artillery fire.
Even before the lethality, the non-stop rain of bombs and shells is in itself an overwhelming act of violence against the soldiers' minds.
By the ti our army advances, the Italian army will have no strength left to resist.
As expected, big, beautiful, and nurous guns are justice.
Stalin might have been wrong about other things, but he got this one thing right.
"Ahem, but.
The consumption of ammunition and bombs is truly enormous. Will that be alright?"
Manstein asked, cautiously gauging my reaction.
We were, no joke, carrying out a 24-hour bombardnt and airstrikes.
Naturally, ammunition consumption was skyrocketing, and for this operation, the munitions companies were screaming with joy as they churned out and sent shells and aerial bombs.
"I did co here for that reason, but—"
The Cabinet was in an uproar over the consumption rate, but the argunt that it's cheaper to pour out shells than to send tax-paying workers to the battlefield was effective.
Well, they did send
to make sure things weren't wasted too much, but I had not the slightest intention of stopping them.
"I only ca to be here. Don't worry, and fire away. We can pay it back with our spoils."
If we crush Italy, France will have to do sothing, and then we can declare war on France and get money from Britain.
It feels a bit like I'm starting to adopt Hitler's mindset, but it's better to pour money into it than to throw soldiers into a defense line nestled in the Alps.
Our economy isn't so weak that it can't sustain such an offensive for a few days, and supplies are not an issue.
I glanced around and said.
"Is General Richthofen out there as expected?"
"Ah, he just returned from bombing on the previous shift and is sleeping, but should I call him?"
"No. Let the man who worked hard rest."
I don't really get why a man of his rank has to go out and fly a bomber, but…
In any case, we were steadily emulating Arica, which served as the arsenal of democracy in the original history, and waging a democratic-style war.
Waging war by grinding up people is the worst strategy, relying on commanders is diocre, and the best, of course, is to just throw money at the problem.
As I was chuckling to myself, Manstein spoke again.
"Ah, right! I heard the prototypes of the Freiheit Self-Propelled Gun are quite useful!"
In the damned Alps, tanks and towed guns had their limits, so self-propelled guns were desperately needed. However, the main self-propelled gun used by the German army used the Panzer II chassis, so its firepower was limited, and the Panzer II chassis production line had long been discontinued.
So our new self-propelled gun, nad Freiheit (Freedom), was developed as an ambitious project mounting a 15cm heavy gun on a Panzer IV chassis. With this, you can send even a heavy tank to et its maker in a single blow.
We had to grind the engineers like crazy to get even a prototype out for this offensive, but as expected, the great engineers were the kind of people who produced sothing when you ground them down.
To be honest, I was half in doubt myself, but to complete a usable new self-propelled gun prototype in just two months.
Engineers are truly amazing.
"I heard it was made under your orders after the failure of the last offensive! As expected, your discernnt is truu-ly magnificent, Vice-Chancellor!"
"Ah, yes…"
I couldn't wipe the unimpressed expression off my face, but he wouldn't be Manstein if he noticed.
"And besides, Freiheit! I heard even this wonderful na was your idea, Vice-Chancellor!"
"Ah, no, wait a mont."
Why the hell did they tell this guy such a useless story!
"Freiheit for a self-propelled gun! Haha! Is it the bombardnt of democracy, bringing freedom to the enemy?"
Damn it, the engineers suggested I give it a na since they'd already proposed it, and I just said it without thinking.
I rembered how Arica gave nas like 'Liberator' to its strategic bombers, and my inner eighth-grader suddenly flared up…
"A very wonderful sense of style, Vice-Chancellor! Freedom rains from the sky! Hahahaha!"
Even more than the cluelessly excited Manstein—
Michael's gaze, which seed to say, 'So you're into that kind of thing,' hurt even more.
Ah, my life…
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