Re: Blood and Iron

The late afternoon sun cast long shafts of amber light across the polished marble floor.

Dust motes drifted lazily in the still air, disturbed only by the shuffle of boots and the rustle of crisp paper.

King Victor Emmanuel III stood at the head of a broad table strewn with staff maps and intelligence briefs.

His uniform was immaculate, the light catching on his array of medals; tokens of old wars from a bygone era.

But his eyes were tired, darker than even the heavy circles beneath them.

Around him clustered his senior staff: Marshal Badoglio with his sharp-boned hawk’s face, the stooped Chief of the General Staff who toyed nervously with a pen, and the Minister of War who kept dabbing sweat from his upper lip despite the cool palace air.

A junior aide read from a typed dispatch, voice tight.

“Confirmed reports out of Barcelona: the anarchists have executed another bishop; French agitators suspected among the ringleaders. Catalonia has become… well, sire, the word used by our attaché was festering.”

A grim silence. The King’s thin mouth tightened. He stepped forward, hands braced on the edge of the table.

“Festering, yes. Like the arrondissements of Paris after their armies came home broken and bitter, their ministries hollowed by syndicates. How many dukes did they string up on lampposts in Bordeaux? How many chateaus turned to communes? That was a plague born of defeat.”

His gaze flicked around the circle, pinning each man in turn.

“Spain is no mere neighbor; it is the mirror of Italy’s future should we lack the spine to act. Alfonso’s weakness becomes our own. His collapse means refugees by the hundreds of thousands over our border, and the French funding new committees in Liguria by winter.”

Badoglio cleared his throat, voice measured.

“We have long suspected de Gaulle’s agents pour coin into these Catalan cells. ‘Ensure the revolution cannot be contained to Spain alone.’ Those were the words intercepted from Marseille last month. It is clear that while he has no official love for the red banners, he endorses them nonetheless if not simply for the chaos they sow.”

The Minister of War gave a sharp nod. “Sire, our industry at last stands ready. Our foundries are rebuilt under your direct patronage. Now they produce steel plates welded, not riveted in part thanks to the lessons we have learned from the Germans. Our workshops turn out proper sloped chassis. The new Carro M Celere is a match for anything crawling across Spanish hills.”

He slid a glossy photograph across the table. It showed a lean tank with sharply raked armor, an angular turret perched atop like a waiting hawk.

“And our new squadrons of Veltro fighters; the Germans say they perform near equal to their latest variants of the infamous Bf-109 fighters that shot the Japanese out of the skies of the South Pacific with ease. If we move now, with air and armor both, we may break the Catalan syndicalists before they metastasize. A short war, not the years of ruin France endured.”

Victor Emmanuel tapped the photograph once, then turned his eyes to a map of Iberia pinned with crimson markers along the Pyrenees and clustered thickly around Barcelona.

“We all remember St. Petersburg, gentlemen. The Red Scourge put down the bolsheviks in 1905 with fire and gallows. Russia stands today with no communists, no syndical committees, only factories and cathedrals humming in order. Alfonso must be given that same chance.”

His hand fell heavily on the table.

“Draft the orders. Two battalions of the new Celere tanks, the 149s still yet to be re-bored to German shell standards, three air groups of Veltros, and attach a legion of volunteers from the Arditi reserve regimentsp; we shall cloak them in the banners of ‘voluntary defenders of monarchy,’ just as Berlin does with Werwolf.”

Marshal Badoglio inclined his head, an eager spark in his eyes.

“We will call it an expedition for Iberian stability, under the shared heritage of the crowns. The Germans will approve; rumor has it they are already there in Catalonia. And it will keep the blood from ever flowing down into our fields.”

A secretary hurried forward, parchment decree ready, fountain pen quivering. Victor Emmanuel signed with a firm, elegant flourish, the purple ink soaking deep into the fibers.

“Let it be known we stand by thrones, not mobs. Tell Alfonso he has our steel, our wings, and our loyalty.”

He looked up, expression softening just a fraction.

“And by God’s grace, may it be swift. For the world grows tired of revolutions that devour their own children.”

—

A man stood outside a farmhouse in the countryside of Navarre.

His facial features and skin tone were distinctly north of the Alps; perhaps Westphalian in nature, or maybe straight out of Luxembourg.

But his attire was local. Earthy tones, perhaps a few surplus pieces of kit here and there.

What was unmistakable, though, was the khakigrau webbing wrapped around his brown farmhand’s jacket, and the rifle in his hands that was distinctly German.

The man was young, but not young enough to be just another conscript or local partisan.

If the way he rested his free hand on his slung carbine while smoking under the moonlight of the Pyrenees foothills was any indication, he had seen enough in this life to be far more than a mere amateur.

“Oi!”

A voice called out, instantly causing the man to raise his rifle and press the button on the large lamp clamped to its hand guard.

A cone of blinding light caught a figure ten meters away, provoking a string of curses.

“Fucking Christ, Fritz! Are you trying to kill me?”

Fritz sighed, clicking off the lamp and lowering his weapon.

“Kurt, I damn near did kill you. What the fuck are you doing sneaking up on me at this ungodly hour?”

Kurt rubbed his eyes, blinking away the afterimages.

“The separatists are at it again. It would seem our last sweep only drove them underground. I swear to God these Marxists are like roaches. No matter how many we stomp, they just won’t die.”

A cruel smirk curled on Fritz’s lips. He tapped a stamped steel feldgrau cannister hanging from the back of his webbing. Kurt’s eyes locked on it, wary.

“That’s because you don’t stomp roaches, Kurt… When you have an infestation, what’s the best way to rid yourself of the vermin?”

Kurt stood silent a beat too long, like he’d glimpsed Medusa herself. Only when Fritz tapped the cannister again did he find his voice.

“You don’t mean… we’re not actually—”

Fritz dropped his cigarette and ground out its cinders under his boot. He stepped closer, gaze sweeping the dark ridgeline where the farmhouse perched.

“Orders come from the Commandant himself. I hope you haven’t misplaced your gas mask. Because the air here is going to grow quite suffocating.”

It was only then that Kurt noticed a pallet of crates stacked in neat rows; each one stenciled with a totenkopf.

His throat worked dryly. The night smelled of pine, gun oil, and something darker, still waiting to be set loose.

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