novelraw Chapter 156: For Germany
Chapter 156: For Germany
1st of March 1941
Zhukov stood before his window, his gaze deep and full of thought as he watched the leaves circling outside, falling down into the water.
"Hm," he murmured, a piece of paper between his fingers. The syllables glinted in the pale sunlight coming through the window.
A crease formed on his forehead.
Slowly, he lifted the paper, reading it once again in his mind.
Berlin, 15th February 1941
Dear Georgi,
if you are reading this, then everything has unfolded exactly as I anticipated. Someone reached you. Someone you were already expecting. They came on my orders, carrying this message with the utmost urgency and absolute discretion.
I will not waste your time with pleasantries.
This letter is a warning.
I am sending it to you not as a politician, nor as a soldier, but as a man who still values the bond we share.
Our intelligence services have uncovered something deeply alarming.
The second Purge is coming, Georgi.
This is no rumor, no speculation. Stalin has prepared for this with ruthless precision. The machinery is already in motion, and when it begins, it will not stop. Not for loyalty. Not for achievement. Not even for you.
You know better than most what such a purge means.
Names will vanish. Commands will change overnight. Men you trust today will be gone tomorrow.
And you will be among those at risk.
I would not send this if there were any doubt.
Act carefully. Trust no one without question. And above all, be ready before it begins.
You may choose to ignore this warning.
But if you do, you may not get a second chance.
— Paul
The sharp click of a lighter cut through the room.
"Say it again."
Zhukov turned abruptly, the parchment in his hand already burning at one corner.
"Say it again!" he roared, his composure shattering in an instant. The soldier standing in the doorway flinched, lowering his head.
"General Konstantin Konstantinovich Rokossovsky was found dead this morning in his barracks. Other officers were found dead as well. All died in the same way..."
Zhukov gave a slow nod, the flames continuing to crawl along the parchment, the line of fire inching closer to his fingers.
"Continue," he said, his voice heavy with authority.
"They were found kneeling, their foreheads pressed to the ground. A single bullet had pierced their necks."
The fire reached Zhukov’s fingers, yet he did not react.
"Old friend..." he murmured, his eyes growing heavier, darker.
"Have I been blind... or have I been blinded?"He said tossing the burning parchment into the fireplace. His fist was already red as he clenched it tightly.
A week later – 8th of March 1941
Somewhere in Northern France
The wind howled along the steep cliffs, crashing violently against the towering edges above the English Channel.
Crunch.
Crunch.
A black leather boot crushed the thin layer of frost covering the grass.
A figure emerged.
The Iron Cross at his neck swayed with each step, clinking softly against the fabric of his uniform. His cloak snapped violently in the wind as he came to a halt at the very edge of the cliff.
Below him, the sea churned.
His sharp blue eyes scanned the horizon, distant... almost detached.
For a moment, there was only the wind.
Then his lips parted.
"Begin."
He spoke calmly. Almost quietly.
Behind him, far down the slope, a man stiffened, immediately turning to the next.
"Begin."
The word spread.
"Begin."
"Begin."
Like a chain reaction, voices carried it further and further, until it was no longer a command, but an inevitability.
Slowly, the man at the edge turned.
His black hair lashed wildly across his face, yet there was no mistaking him.
Paul.
His gaze was steady. Cold.
"This will decide everything, Manstein," he said, a faint smile forming on his lips, one that never reached his eyes.
"Indeed, my Führ—"
Manstein never finished.
Because in that very moment the world answered.
A thunderous roar tore through the air.
Then another.
And another.
Manstein’s words were swallowed.
Because the horizon ignited.
Hundreds of columns of fire tore into the sky, one after another, streaks of blazing light cutting upward with terrifying speed. Trails of smoke carved deep scars into the heavens as the rockets climbed higher... and higher... until they vanished beyond sight.
And then...
silence.
For a heartbeat, the world seemed to hold itself still.
Then...Distant...
A rolling storm of impacts far beyond the horizon, too far to see, only felt, carried back as a deep, monstrous echo.
Paul watched.
Unblinking.
Unmoved.
History had just been rewritten. Once again.
While the rockets contniued to rise through the sky.
Another deep, growing roar erupted.
Shadows, dozens of them.
A terrifying cross-shaped formation of Luftwaffe aircraft surged overhead, their silhouettes cutting sharply against the pale sky. Perfectly aligned. Unnervingly precise.
Bombers at the core. Fighters flanking them like blades.
More formations followed.
And more.
Wave after wave rose from the inland fields, climbing higher and higher.
Rotterdam – at the same time
Cough. Cough.
"Are you alright, my Kaiser?" an attendant asked, worried, already pulling out a white ribbon.
Wilhelm pushed it aside, raising his head once more.
The old Kaiser stood silently atop a balcony overlooking the harbor, his weary eyes lighting up for a brief moment.
Below him, ship after ship departed, their decks filled with countless troops.
Sirens blared across Rotterdam.
The entire city stood in a state of absolute urgency.
"No one under the sun..." he murmured, leaning heavily on his ceremonial saber. Then he turned and gestured with his hand. The attendant quickly produced the ribbon once again.
Wilhelm smiled ever so lightly. He raised the ribbon and swung it around, as below him countless others, family, friends, fellow soldiers, did the same, bidding farewell to those who had departed.
Back in northern France, somewhere underground.
"Gentlemen, the theater of Britain has officially opened."
Manstein clasped his hands behind his back, standing in the center of the room before a large military map depicting Britain’s southern coasts.
A heavy silence fell over the bunker, broken only by the damp, urgent ringing of field telephones in the adjacent rooms.
He let his gaze sweep across the assembled officers before continuing.
"This day did not come easily. The preparations have demanded more from us than any campaign before. We have spent months, no, years, solving problems that many once considered insoluble. The assembly of sufficient shipping space. River barges, modified transports, pontoons... thousands of vessels gathered from Rotterdam to Le Havre. The coordination between Army, Kriegsmarine and Luftwaffe...Fuel, ammunition, heavy equipment..."
Manstein paused for a moment, his eyes reflecting quiet satisfaction.
"Yet we have done it. The air umbrella is in place. The first waves are already crossing under cover of our long-range strikes.
Manstein pointed at the map with a pointing stick. (MAP)
"Today we strike with three powerful army groups:"
"Army Group A under General Fedor von Bock will assault the eastern sector between Folkestone and Ramsgate with over 180,000 men. Their task is to secure the ports and push steadily toward London."
"Army Group B under General Heinz Guderian will form the western hammer, landing from Worthing to Newhaven with nearly 150,000 men and more than 900 panzers. Once the beachheads are secure, his armored forces are to break through rapidly and roll up the entire British southern flank."
"Between these two army groups, in the central sector from Rye to Eastbourne, GeneralHasso von Manteuffel will command Army Group C of some 100,000 men and 300 panzers. He will follow with the second wave, thrust into the developing gap, link both army groups and lead the combined drive northward."
"In addition, General Kurt Student will lead the airborne assault with the full strength of XI. Fliegerkorps and the 7th Flieger Division. Their paratroopers and glider-borne troops will seize vital airfields, bridges and road junctions inland from the very first hours. They will sow chaos behind British lines and prevent rapid enemy reinforcements from reaching the coast."
"The strategic reserve of over 600,000 men is under my personal command. It will flow gradually through the established beachheads as soon as they are secured, reinforcing the advance and ensuring we maintain unstoppable momentum. Especially with additional heavy armor."
Manstein paused, his expression showing quiet pride mixed with realism.
He gestured sharply at the three large markers on the map.
"Make no mistake, gentlemen. The British will fight bitterly. They still believe their island is impregnable. But history has already begun to rewrite itself above us."
The generals in the room nodded gravely, some with visible pride, others with the focused tension of men who knew what lay ahead...
"Gentlemen...Operation Sealion has begun."
Keee...
Keee...
Above the raging sea, a group of seagulls glided through the air. They turned in a sharp arc, banking over the white spray. Underneath them, countless metal silhouettes cut through the English Channel. Hundreds of transport vessels rolled over the rising waves, their engines a low, rhythmic growl that shook the very water.
Keee...
Keee...
The white feathers of the birds blasted against the wind as they descended toward the shore. The beaches of Great Britain appeared through the gloom, the sand visible to the last grain. Behind them, the first transport craft managed to catch up to the birds, appearing through the light layer of fog like iron giants.
In the cramped bellies of the landing boats, thousands of soldiers sat in a heavy, suffocating silence. They were packed tight. Their gear clinked with every roll of the tide. Cold water jumped over the steel sides to drench their wool uniforms. No one spoke. No one moved.
The foremost soldier slowly closed his eyes as the landing craft touched what felt like a sand bank. He felt the heavy jolt through the soles of his boots. He pulled the chilling air deep into his lungs, feeling the cold sting one last time.
His breath faded into the sourroundings as the ramp before him fell forward.
Keee...
Keee...
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The end is approaching, slowly yet inevitably...
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