Snow still clung to Bruno's greatcoat as he strode into the High Command war room, an unwelcome souvenir from the estate grounds he had walked minutes before.
The moment he entered, the room snapped into silence. The Generals of the Reich knew what that expression meant.
It was the face of a man who had already made a decision, and required the rest of the world to keep up.
Maps of the Mediterranean, North Africa, Sicily, and the Atlantic coast were pinned across the chamber.
Red arrows, blue markers, and black lines denoting railheads, port capacities, and fuel reserves. The room smelled of ink, sweat, coffee, and inevitability.
Bruno removed his gloves and placed them on the table.
"Gentlemen," he said, "we begin."
Field Marshal Sepp Dietrich straightened. Admiral Donitz folded his hands behind his back.
Even the seasoned officers from Mittelafrika, hardened by decades of colonial wars, leaned forward.
