Chapter 400144Chapter NaN

October 9, 1940

Rome, the Capital of Italy

“Gasp, pant, hack!”

Heinrich Himmler ran through the alleyways of the streets of Rome, dripping with sweat.

Fortunately, the villa he was in, owned by Mussolini, was some distance from the downtown area where the civil unrest in Rome was in full swing.

Thanks to his quick escape as soon as he grasped the situation, he was able to avoid being swept up in Rome's chaos.

“Haha, hahaha, hahahaha…!”

Himmler laughed as he ran, a laugh half-filled with hollowness and half with relief.

His Lord, Hitler, the hero of the great Aryans, had been killed by the traitor Rommel.

His respected senior, Göring, had also been betrayed by his precious Luftwaffe and executed.

But he was still alive.

He had survived.

Unlike in Germany, almost no one in Italy knew Himmler’s face, so despite his tension every time he encountered someone, no one paid him any mind, rendering his anxiety pointless.

“Ha…sob…”

Himmler, who had been laughing while running, soon burst into tears.

People might point fingers at him as a traitor who abandoned Hitler and fled, but at least Himmler himself never thought so.

If there was a loyal subject like Goebbels who met death alongside his lord, then there must also be those who survive to carry on his will and show their loyalty.

Anyway, that's how it is.

But then there were those guys who, not understanding that, said they were disappointed he had forsaken his Lord—traitors who didn't know true loyalty.

Those guys were just vile opportunists who turned their backs on him because his power had weakened.

“Sob, sniff, sniffle…”

Himmler, who had been running and gasping for breath, stopped in his tracks, panting and sobbing.

But it was all over.

The achievements of the Third Reich, built by his lord and loyal subjects, were being thoroughly denied by the Germany of those traitors.

Schellenberg and his subordinates, who at least recognized his true loyalty, had been captured in Germany, and now he had nothing left in his hands.

To deny the true Aryan leader who saved Germany from the chaos of Weimar, to deny us, his Order of Knights—what ungrateful bastards!

“Sob, sniff, sob…”

Himmler trudged along, weeping with tears and a runny nose. His once-loyal Order of Knights had all been arrested in Germany or had betrayed him and fled.

His only sponsor, Mussolini, was also finished.

Although France had been an ally of Italy, he knew very well that unlike Mussolini, they would not welcome him.

Now, he would likely be unable to carry on his Lord's will.

After crying for a while, Himmler took off his glasses, wiped his eyes with his hand, and opened them with a resolute gaze.

Although he might not be able to carry on his Lord's will, he still had to survive.

That itself was probably his Lord's will.

Anyway, that's how it is.

Should I go to Spain? But that guy Franco was not to be trusted.

The way he acted like he would enter the war against Germany, only to sit on the fence until the end and not join, proved it.

If he couldn't do anything in Europe anyway, a remote South American country seemed better.

Like Venezuela, or Argentina…

Himmler, walking sluggishly, rummaged through his pocket and took out a capsule. He was determined to escape safely for his Lord's sake and did not want to die, but this was just in case.

Just in case.

If, by some chance, he couldn't escape and was captured, becoming an object of all sorts of ridicule and contempt before being executed in the court of those traitors, it would be too miserable.

His Lord would surely not want that. Anyway, that's how it is.

So, Himmler opened his mouth to place the capsule between his teeth, but was startled when someone, who had appeared without a sound, suddenly grabbed the hand holding the capsule from behind him.

“H-Hieeeeeek!”

“Your act was so amusing I was just watching, but this is a bit of a difficulty, Herr Reichsführer-SS.”

Himmler glanced behind him and was terrified by the sight of a menacing, large man.

“W-Who, who, who are you!”

Unlike Himmler, who was thrashing about in fear like a victim in a horror movie, the man greeted him calmly.

“Ah, I am Otto Skorzeny, who almost had the honor of serving you, sir. Fortunately, another employer offered better conditions.

I'm currently dispatched to Italy for a short time.”

Skorzeny added with a grin.

“My employer wishes to escort you respectfully, sir. Absolutely, and alive.”

-

October 10, 1940

Rome, the Capital of Italy

“Ugh.”

I almost gagged, but the stomach I had developed on the battlefield was still there, allowing me to barely suppress it.

So, that unidentifiable… something… is Mussolini.

In this history, Mussolini avoided the fate of being dangled from somewhere.

The reason he avoided it was that his appearance had become so grotesque that it was impossible to look at, let alone hang up for display.

What a harsh end, Duce.

“We also wanted to hand him over to Germany, but things ended up like this…”

Ivanoe Bonomi, Ferruccio Parri, and Alcide De Gasperi, the high command of the Anti-Fascist National Liberation Committee, stood before me, at a loss.

They must have wanted to hand Mussolini over to Germany as a war criminal to reduce their reparations even a little, but this… well…

“I understand.”

They wouldn't have wanted it to turn out like this. Seeing the pandemonium in the streets of Rome, it's painfully obvious what the situation was like during the coup.

“Still, a renegotiation after discussing it with my home country will be necessary.”

Hearing my words, the three men's faces grew sullen.

But in a negotiation between the warring nations, even offering a give-and-take is generous.

Himmler's capture was also carried out by Skorzeny, whom we had lent them, but even if we consider that as a gift from Italy, we must take what we're owed.

“By the way, what did the King do?”

At that, Ferruccio Parri, who was next to me, let out a hollow laugh and spoke.

“The King fled to Southern Italy as soon as we turned our military around.”

Running away before even grasping the situation… that's impressive in many ways. Should I say he's a man of action?

“But when he found out that the only banner we raised was anti-fascism, he proposed that if we recognized his right to maintain the throne, he would capture and hand over the Fascist Party personnel who were with him.”

Good grief.

Victor Emmanuel III is truly, truly, truly amazing in so many ways.

Wilhelm III is a saint by comparison, a saint.

I let out a hollow laugh in disbelief.

“What are you planning to do?”

“We will reject the King's demand and advance into Southern Italy to secure the King and all the fascists. Then, after legitimately abolishing the monarchy through a public vote, we will hand Victor Emmanuel III over to Germany as a war criminal.”

Ivanoe Bonomi said with blazing eyes. He was a Social Democrat.

He wouldn't have had good feelings toward the royal family anyway, but after seeing such disgraceful conduct, it's painfully obvious.

“Hmm, in place of Mussolini.

That's fine.”

However, I don't think Wilhelm III will like that.

As an emperor, he wouldn't feel comfortable seeing the king of a neighboring country being dethroned and then dragged over as a war criminal.

He's already having a headache because Wilhelm II wants to come to Germany now that the Netherlands has joined the Allied Powers, and now this…

“If you hand over Victor Emmanuel III, we'll consider active leniency.”

I like it. Screw you, Emperor.

That damn former emperor with the mustache, and Wilhelm III too, don't they need to realize with a bit of a shock that the era has changed?

-

October 10, 1940

Berlin General Staff, Northern Germany

While Dietrich Schacht was busy with the post-war settlement in Italy, a meeting was underway in Berlin to discuss the start of the war with the Soviet Union.

“According to the Vice-Chancellor, the Soviet Union's supplies won't be smooth right now due to something they call, what was it, Rasputitsa?”

Said Wilhelm Ritter von Leeb, Commander-in-Chief of the Army and one of only two Field Marshals in Germany at the time.

Major General Henning von Tresckow, unable to smoke a cigarette during a meeting with his far-outranking superiors, just fidgeted with his empty hands and nodded.

“Yes, Field Marshal.

The Abwehr has confirmed it as fact. The roads have turned to mud, making movement and supplies difficult.

They say it's a phenomenon that occurs every year at the end of March and the beginning of October.”

“Hmm, I can't quite imagine what kind of phenomenon it is.

I wonder how the Vice-Chancellor knows such things, but since the Soviet offensive in Poland is actually slowing down…”

Field Marshal Leeb stroked his chin, then looked at the just-arrived commander of the Rundstedt Army Group, Colonel General Gerd von Rundstedt, and spoke.

“The Vice-Chancellor's opinion is that since it seems Warsaw won't fall immediately, we should delay the declaration of war a little while the Soviet offensive is stalled and begin the war when the Italian Front Army returns, but Beck's thoughts are a bit different.”

Rundstedt nodded.

“Field Marshal Beck says that if they can't even carry out the Warsaw offensive they were pushing for because of poor supplies, then now is, in fact, the opportune time for an attack.

I agree.”

Tresckow thought.

Ah, I'm craving a cigarette.

“According to Poland's claims, the Soviet Army began a general offensive with 2.

5 million men, they annihilated 1 million, and now there are 3.5 million?”

Rundstedt smirked at Leeb's words, spoken while reading the report without any soul.

“The Polish Army started the battle with 1.2 million, lost 500,000, mobilized an additional 300,000, and now has 1 million.”

Leeb and Rundstedt looked at each other, then burst into laughter.

“Pahahahaha!”

“Those Polski guys, hahaha!”

The desperate resistance that Sikorski had built with the blood, tears, and corpses of the Polish people, scraping the very bottom of the barrel, was reduced to a mere laughingstock for the Junkers of the German Army.

“If that's true, didn't those Polski guys hold out for months against 4.5 million with 1.

5 million?”

“The entire military force of our German Army is 2 million, and we're now mobilizing an additional 500,000. For those inferior Soviets to have mobilized 4.

5 million, it's impossible. If it's possible, they must be a ragtag mob, hastily conscripted without proper armament.”

Words Hitler had cried out in horror at the latent power of the Soviet Union during Operation Barbarossa in the original history.

'Our Intelligence Bureau told me that the Soviet Union has 160 divisions and 3,000 tanks.

We have so far destroyed 400 divisions and 20,000 tanks, and now before us stand 500 divisions and 30,000 tanks.'

That desperate cry was something no one of this era who hadn't experienced it could possibly imagine.

In the original history, the Soviet Union's mobilization capability, which spewed forth such latent power even after losing all its western industrial zones to Operation Barbarossa and before American Lend-Lease had even arrived, was now, in this history where it hadn't been struck by Operation Barbarossa, surpassing even that.

“They say their tanks number 10,000, but most are outdated light tanks.

The heavy tank called KV-1 and the new model tank called T-34 are quite threatening, but the Panzer IV should be able to handle them.”

In Leeb's hand was a report from the Polish Front, meticulously and desperately written and delivered by Sikorski in his fervent hope for German aid.

But that effort was thoroughly underestimated by the German military high command, who looked down on the Polish Army for having been brutally crushed in the last war.

“Aren't the young guys running too wild lately? Manstein, Model, Rommel… we, the old guard of the Army, need to show something too.”

Hearing Leeb's words, Rundstedt smiled with satisfaction.

“Leave it to me, Commander-in-Chief.

I will show those inferior Slavs a magnificent surprise attack.”

Rundstedt, having come up in advance, was full of motivation to score a military merit, and Leeb also nodded.

“Beck also has high expectations for you, so put on a great performance.”

Tresckow, who had been silent until then, opened his mouth.

“A declaration of war against the Soviet Union has already been decided, but if we launch an offensive here instead of a defense, that opens up a route of advance for them into East Prussia.”

“That would only be if I am defeated.”

Rundstedt raised an eyebrow at Tresckow, whose position as Acting Chief of the General Staff he considered to be too high for a Major General who, in his mind, only got the job for participating in the new government coup.

Tresckow, once again desperately thinking of a cigarette, spoke.

“Of course, I am not saying that you will be defeated, General. However, the front surrounding East Prussia is wide, and your military force, even combined with the mobilized reserve forces, is 600,000.

I believe leaving some forces as reserves and for defense would also help in concentrating the offensive.”

Tresckow's statement seemed to have some validity, as Leeb and Rundstedt both fell into thought.

“Indeed, relying only on the border guards is a bit much. They could be committed as an offensive reserve if needed, and in an emergency, they could buy time until other armies arrive from the Italian front.”

As Leeb agreed, Rundstedt, who was generally receptive to his subordinates' opinions, also nodded.

“Fine, let's do that.

Though I'll need a subordinate who's willing to take on a role that isn't great for scoring military merit.”

Tresckow secretly let out a sigh.

He had done what he could, but he was still anxious.

Having spent a long time with Dietrich, Tresckow knew well how he was constantly on guard against the Soviet Union, almost like a habit.

The things that guy used to say, which at the time seemed like excessive worrying, often had a way of becoming reality.

Tresckow desperately awaited the moment this damn meeting would end, even one second sooner, so he could put a cigarette in his mouth.