Chapter 400121Chapter NaN

July 12, 1940

Rome, the capital of Italy

As the defense line in South Tyrol crumbled and the defeated soldiers at the front fled, the desperate war situation began to reach the populace controlled by the National Fascist Party.

The shock and fear felt by the soldiers on the front lines spread to the cities, and from city to city, growing with each telling as it rippled outwards.

“Duce, take responsibility for the deaths of the Italian people!”

“Fascism has failed! We are no longer slaves to a dreamer!”

Anti-war sentiment soared, especially in Northern Italy, which was under direct threat from the German Army, and they fiercely condemned Mussolini and the National Fascist Party for starting the war.

With military force already scarce due to the war and public security deteriorating, even the socialists, who had been operating as underground organizations under oppression, began to take to the streets and raise their voices.

“It was the king who put the Duce in power and caused this tragedy! We must expel the outdated, obsolete monarchy and create a nation for the people!”

As the voices of the opposition, long suppressed by the Duce's personal charisma and achievements, began to burst forth, chaos began to shake all of Italy uncontrollably.

“Duce, I am very disappointed.”

The sight of the Italian King, Victor Emmanuel III, who was only 153 cm tall, lecturing the large man Mussolini while seated seemed quite comical, but Mussolini, despite his build, was completely intimidated.

“I-I am sorry, Your Majesty.”

Although Mussolini wielded power as the Duce, under Italian law, the head of state was the king, and the appointment and dismissal of the prime minister were strictly the king's authority.

Benito Mussolini himself had been able to seize power by catching the king's eye with the March on Rome and being appointed prime minister.

In a situation where his control over the National Fascist Party was already weakening, he could not maintain power without the king's support.

“Lately, you've been a string of failures.

You failed the Tyrol offensive, allowing the homeland to be invaded, you lost face to the retreating German Army, and now the home country itself is in danger. And to top it off, I hear the socialists are running rampant and demanding my abdication?”

“I have nothing to say, Your Majesty.

But the Navy is scheduled to begin an offensive soon, and France is also preparing reinforcements to send to us. If you could just wait a little longer…”

Victor Emmanuel III glared at the Duce with displeased eyes.

Appointing Mussolini, who appeared like a comet in the chaotic political landscape of Italy after World War I, had been quite useful while he was beating down socialists and gaining the people's support.

But once the country was in a full-fledged wartime situation, Mussolini made one blunder after another, losing public support, and now the socialists he thought were eradicated were stirring again, causing damage even to his innocent self.

Of course, the king himself knew of and approved all of the Italian army's operations, and he was the fellow who had rejoiced at the Ethiopian imperial title and the Albanian Throne that the Duce had presented to him, but in any case, he had no intention of sharing a fate with a mere prime minister he had appointed.

“Didn't the Navy suffer great damage in the Taranto raid? I heard they're short on fuel too.

And is France actually coming to help?”

At the king's doubtful question, Mussolini broke into a cold sweat.

The king received the same reports as Duce Mussolini without fail, and as such, he was well aware that the fuel storage tanks were destroyed in the Taranto raid, leaving little fuel even for naval activities.

Furthermore, he knew that while France paid lip service to helping, they ultimately wouldn't specify a date or the scale of troop deployment, but for now, they were his only hope.

Mussolini was suddenly overcome by a great sense of fatigue.

His dream of rebuilding the great Roman Empire was already distant. Italy's weakness had already become the laughingstock of the world, and Mussolini himself had become an object of ridicule.

Mussolini thought it might be easier to just give it all up, but his mind snapped back to reality when he recalled that the Polish Inspector General Rydz-Śmigły, dragged to Germany as a war criminal, had been sentenced to death by a German court's unilateral verdict.

“Please give me one more chance, Your Majesty.

Our navy still overwhelms the British Mediterranean Fleet. I will deal them a blow and ensure France's entry into the war.”

Launching an all-out offensive would jeopardize even their ability to defend naval supremacy in the Mediterranean due to fuel shortages, but it was the only card politically cornered Mussolini had left to play.

The king didn't find Mussolini very reliable, but he soon sighed and spoke.

“I know nothing of this. And this is your last chance, Duce.”

Mussolini was infuriated by the sight of the king, who had so far praised and favored him and actively agreed to this war, now so blatantly trying to abandon him—

“…Thank you, Your Majesty.”

The ambitious dictator who dreamed of a great Roman Empire was already gone, and only a hideous politician remained, struggling to prolong his own life with the blood of his people.

-

July 13, 1940

Berlin, Northern Germany – Wehrmacht Army Headquarters

I thought we had made sufficient preparations, but the situation was changing rapidly.

“Yesterday, the Soviet Union launched an all-out offensive against Poland.

The Soviet Army is estimated at about 2.5 million, while the Polish Army is countering with 1.

2 million. Until now, we had clear air superiority thanks to the performance of the Bf109s we provided, but the number of Soviet aircraft mobilized for this offensive is estimated to be at least 5,000 u-

nits.”

“At least 5,000…”

Hearing Major General Oster's words, I couldn't hide my horror.

That's insane.

The Soviet Union has that big an air force even without Lend-Lease? I wasn't ignorant of the Soviet Union's latent power, but I was still feeling something close to shock and awe.

They're clearly on a different level from France or Britain in terms of numbers.

We've sent less than a thousand Bf109s in total to Poland and Finland; a gap that large can't be covered by fighter performance alone.

In the original history's German-Soviet War, the Soviet Air Force was wiped out in a surprise attack during Operation Barbarossa without even being able to scramble, but I never expected the aftermath of a completely different war to turn out like this…

“Hmm, Poland won't be able to hold out for long.”

The Commander-in-Chief of the Army, General Wilhelm Ritter von Leeb, said calmly.

Has it been about four months that Poland has bought us against the Soviet Union? They'll probably hold out for at least another month.

Considering that Finland is safely getting through its most vulnerable spring and summer because Poland is holding out, I honestly think the return on investment isn't bad.

The problem is France.

France is openly preparing for war with Germany, and I want to avoid a two-front war at all costs.

“Yes, at this rate, Poland might fall before we even defeat Italy.

How is the Italian front?”

“The Chief of the General Staff is overseeing that front, and work on securing the supply route through the Alps is almost complete. Now we just need to launch the offensive, but the problem is the terrain of the Italian peninsula.

It's so rugged that a rapid advance will be difficult.”

The one who answered me was Major General Tresckow.

With Manstein down on the Italian front, he is serving in a role similar to an Acting Chief of the General Staff at the Berlin General Staff.

I had to struggle to swallow the words, ‘Please hurry the capture of Italy as much as possible,’ that had risen to the tip of my tongue.

I think I know why Hitler and Churchill made such blunders in the original history.

A politician's words are light, but history proves what a heavy burden they place on soldiers and what sacrifices they cause when delivered to the front lines.

In any case, the generals on the front lines will find the best possible method without a politician nagging them here. At least tactically, Germany's generals are competent enough.

More so than someone like me.

“Understood.

First, let's consider increasing materiel support so that Poland can hold out a little longer.”

“Hmm.

I'm counting on you, Undersecretary. But there's still an opinion in the military that it would be better to let a country like Poland fall and have the German Army use that equipment instead.”

The words of the Army's Commander-in-Chief, Leeb, gave me another headache. Anyway, you have to acknowledge the German military's contempt for Poland.

Telling them here that we're revitalizing our economy with the payments from Poland probably wouldn't resonate much with them as soldiers.

“The efficiency of the equipment might be so, but Germans aren't churned out of a factory, Your Excellency.”

“Ahem. I know, Undersecretary.

I was just informing you, as it is also my job as Commander-in-Chief to express the opinions of some.”

My thought is that the rigid, royalist Junker, Field Marshal Leeb, is probably included in that 'some,' but there's no good in pointing that out.

“I appreciate that, Your Excellency.”

When I deliberately smiled, Field Marshal Leeb, who had looked slightly uncomfortable, managed an awkward smile in return.

I guess I've now reached the point where I can put on a business smile just as well as Claudia. …Should I be happy about this?

On our way out after the meeting, for the first time in a while, the three working-level members of the Black Orchestra were walking side by side.

“You've become quite resolute. It feels like just yesterday you were a naive brat full of nothing but passion, and now you don't even flinch in front of a Field Marshal?”

“Well, the position makes the man, General Tresckow.”

General Tresckow's expression was a confusing mix of being fed up and somewhat proud. Well, I have been through a lot and changed a great deal myself.

“Haha, don't overdo it. You'll lose your hair.”

Major General Oster, who had overwhelmed me with his charisma at our first meeting, said that as he casually brushed back his receding hairline with his hand.

Even a man who went down in history as a hero against Hitler, a competent soldier who handled all of Germany's information warfare missions, looks pathetic in the face of hair loss…

I could only look on with pity, unable to bring myself to say it out loud—

“It’s easier if you just give up, Oster.”

Major General Tresckow, whose forehead was already quite bare, tossed out the remark, and Major General Oster's face looked as if he was seeing his own future ruin.

It's a shame to see the two key players and core figures of the New Government Coup having such a pathetic, middle-aged-man-like conversation.

I need to work hard for a short time and retire before I get to that age. I don't want to be recorded as one of the 'Three Bald Working-Level Founders of the Fourth Reich' and leave a pretty wife behind…

-

July 14, 1940

Coyoacán, Central Mexico

“Frank.

You have no idea how happy I am to be able to introduce you to the person we are about to meet.”

“I'm looking forward to it too, my love.”

Even as he kissed his lover, Sylvia Ageloff, the man called Frank – Ramón Mercader – inwardly scoffed at her as a reactionary fanatic.

Following Sylvia, Mercader had to marvel at the mansion, reminiscent of a mafia boss's estate, and its tight security.

'Damn it, does it make any sense to tell me to infiltrate a place like this and take Trotsky's head?'

If it weren't for Trotsky's female secretary, Sylvia, whose trust he had painstakingly earned over a long time, it was obvious he wouldn't have even been able to get close, let alone infiltrate.

“Working hard.”

“Miss Ageloff.”

The bodyguard smiled and greeted Sylvia while naturally performing a body search, which Sylvia accepted as if it were routine.

'Trotsky, you damn paranoid bastard.'

Though dumbfounded by the act of suspecting even a follower who had served him for years, Mercader tried his best not to show his tension as he submitted to the body search.

While the bodyguard searched his body, Mercader had to tremble in anxiety, wondering if he would be discovered.

In fact, what he was doing right now was a completely crazy act.

Assassinating a man under such ironclad security.

Normally, this was something to be attempted after scouting the internal layout, earning trust to lower their guard a bit, and then making a move.

But the head of the NKVD, Lavrentiy Beria, after ordering the assassination to be done within a year, suddenly changed the situation while the plan was proceeding step-by-step and gave the absurd order to handle Trotsky within a month.

At first, Mercader considered refusing the unreasonable order that completely ignored the difficulties on the ground and fleeing, but his opponent was none other than the NKVD.

As someone who knew their tenacity and viciousness best, he figured his chances of survival were about the same whether he ran or went through with it, and had come to throw his gamble.

'That bastard Beria, I hope he falls out of favor with the General Secretary and drops dead.

'

Fortunately, the bodyguard finished searching Mercader's body and belongings and let him pass.

Mercader walked down the hall with Sylvia and finally came face to face with a man of intense impression, despite his clear signs of old age.

“Sir. This is the Mr.

Frank Jackson I told you about. He is someone who pursues your communism, not that perverted Soviet socialism in one country.”

“Oh, I've heard a lot. A pleasure, Jackson.

I am Leon Trotsky.”

“It is an honor to meet a truly great communist.

I am Frank Jackson.”

Despite his words, the old giant of communism was carefully observing Jackson.

Mercader suppressed the urge to swallow a dry gulp of nervousness and smiled.

Mercader hesitated for a moment.

Could he do the deed here and escape? Honestly, it seemed impossible, but he had no choice but to do it.

This was a man he could only get a difficult audience with after nearly a year of earning Sylvia's trust, and the deadline Beria had set was almost up.

If he ran, he wouldn't face a good end from the NKVD. He solidified his determination in a brief moment.

Mercader offered Trotsky a handshake.

As Trotsky, who had shaken his hand with a smile, tried to let go, he realized Mercader was gripping his hand tightly, and in the moment he tensed up, Mercader drew out a short, and thus unnoticed by the bodyguards, sharp blade hidden in his sleeve with his left hand.

“Gasp!”

With his right hand caught by Mercader, the flustered old man couldn't react immediately. In the instant Mercader agilely aimed for Trotsky's neck and swung the sharp blade—

“Sir!”

The one who saved Trotsky was not Trotsky himself, but Sylvia, who pushed Mercader away.

“Damn it!”

Mercader shouted roughly, kicked Sylvia to the ground, and swung the blade at Trotsky, but Trotsky, who had already recovered from his surprise, blocked it with his arm.

“Kraaaagh!”

Trotsky screamed, but the short blade, which was only meant for one use, dug into his arm and broke in half.

“Damn it, if only I had a proper weapon!”

As an enraged Mercader lunged at the fallen, screaming Trotsky who was clutching his arm, intending to plunge the broken blade into his neck, the gunshot of a bodyguard who had burst through the door rang out.

“Gack, Beria, you son of a…”

Mercader collapsed on the spot.

“Kgh, Uwaaah— Hah, heok, heoo-eok…”

“S-Sir!”

“You fool! Bringing an assassin you call your lover!”

“I-I'm sorry, I'm sorry.”

Sylvia practically prostrated herself on the floor and begged, but Trotsky coldly turned away from her and glared at the fallen Mercader.

“Ha, Beria, so it was Beria. Haha, hahaha.

That damn Stalin. So he's decided he has to kill me after all.”

The flame of fury ignited in the eyes of the old communist who, after facing numerous assassination threats and finally forming the Fourth International only for it to fizzle out due to internal conflict, had grown despondent, accepted reality, gone into seclusion, and even written his will.

“If I am fated to die by that vicious usurper's hands, I will not remain a quietly vanished loser.”