"I wonder, Your Excellency, what you think of the current war?" Mainz asked, as he walked past the hum of rifle assembly lines in the factory.
There was little to see here. Russia's industry, at this stage, could produce no tanks or armored vehicles; most factories were limited to rifles and light artillery. For frontline combat, such equipment was barely sufficient. For a foreign war, it was wholly inadequate.
Mainz's mind drifted to the lessons of World War I. Trench warfare had emerged from the Russo-Japanese War and was perfected during the Great War: a deadly stalemate where infantry assaults against entrenched machine guns meant almost certain death.
Tanks, developed by Britain and France, had been one solution. But Mainz, trained in modern German military thought, favored another: blitzkrieg—speed and surprise to disrupt the enemy before they could dig in. To achieve this, tanks and armored vehicles were essential, but so was firepower. Heavy artillery—155 mm and above—was indispensable. Infantry rifles needed improvement, too; single-shot rifles lacked the suppressive power to cover an assault. Submachine guns, despite their limited range and crude sights, gave infantry the ability to suppress enemy machine-gun nests—a crucial advantage in open assault.
After the Great War, every major power pursued these lessons. Germany, the United States, Britain, and even Soviet Russia had begun experimenting with semi-automatic and fully automatic rifles. Light machine guns were designed to move with infantry, providing mobile firepower for assaults.
Mainz considered the broader implications. Nations that clung to outdated tactics or senior officers with entrenched, conservative thinking often found themselves left behind. France, for example, poured decades of resources into the Maginot Line, believing static fortifications could stop Germany. It was a remarkable engineering achievement, but it could not compensate for rigid, outdated strategic thought. The Germans bypassed the fortifications via the Low Countries, and the supposedly impregnable line became little more than decoration.
Britain and France in the Second World War, the German Empire in the First—these were all examples of military stagnation caused by a hierarchical, conservative officer corps.
The Third Reich, however, had the advantage of a fresh start. Disarmament and strict arms-control policies had cleared out much of the old guard, leaving positions open for young officers with new ideas. Soviet Russia, after the revolution, experienced a similar phenomenon. The old aristocracy had been purged; the Red Army had to rebuild almost from scratch, but it emerged flexible, innovative, and less burdened by outdated thinking.
Mainz's attention returned to the present. Tukhachevsky, only twenty-six—four years older than Mainz himself—was already one of the most capable generals in the Red Army. Mainz wanted to know how this young, brilliant officer assessed both domestic and European conflicts.
"Do you mean the war in Europe, or the internal conflict here?" Tukhachevsky asked.
There was no hatred in his tone. He had fought Germans out of necessity, not malice. Today, German weapons could help him stabilize the domestic situation, and he felt no animosity toward Mainz. The officer's calm, direct demeanor suggested competence rather than pretense—a man of action rather than show.
"What of the civil war in your country—and the war in Europe?" Mainz pressed, deliberately choosing his words.
Tukhachevsky frowned slightly at the term "civil war." To him, it was a struggle against bandits and counterrevolutionaries, not a grand ideological conflict. Mainz, of course, considered it the Russian Civil War, a nation-defining struggle.
"I do not think the war in Europe is the same as the struggle here," Tukhachevsky said bluntly.
"Oh? And why is that?" Mainz asked, genuinely curious.
"Europe is too small," Tukhachevsky replied, eyes flicking over the maps in the factory. "Russia… Russia is too vast."