Grand Quartier Général, Paris
A small bead of sweat ran down the forehead of Maurice Gamelin, Général d'Armée of the French Army, as he stared at the report in his hands.
"German tanks," he muttered quietly. "Sighted in the Ardennes."
He glanced sideways at the general standing beside him.
Maxime Weygand swallowed hard.
"They must be the divisions coming from Luxembourg," he said, shaking his head in disbelief. "How could they have been this fast? Through the Ardennes… Who is even in command of these armored troops?"
"According to the latest intelligence report, there are three possibilities," Gamelin replied, his voice tight.
"Three?" Weygand asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Guderian, although reports suggest his tank division is further north. Rommel, or…"Gamelin stopped, his eyes fixing on the inked letters before him."Jaeger."
Weygand pressed his lips together.
"Is that not the maniac who encircled Warsaw and drove ninety kilometers in a single day, straight through the Polish hinterland?"
Gamelin nodded, then straightened himself.
"We have to act. We are being pushed back in Belgium as well. If we are not careful, if we do not stop them, then…"He broke off, his eyes locking with Weygand's.
"We are finished," he whispered.
Weygand nodded grimly and bent over the map.
"If they truly are already there, we can only commit the 5th Armored Brigade and the 132nd Reserve Battalion. If they manage to regroup with the clustered forces, they will be forced to meet them somewh—"
The door was suddenly thrown open.
A man in a dark suit stormed into the room, anger flashing in his eyes, a still smoking cigar clenched between his fingers.
President Albert Lebrun exchanged a hard look with both generals, his gaze sending a chill down their spines.
"What," he began, then stopped, leaning heavily against the table. "What am I supposed to tell the people? What should I tell our allies? Britain?"He exhaled sharply. "I have a call with the new Prime Minister in five minutes."
Gamelin exchanged a careful, questioning glance with Weygand.
"Sir," he said cautiously, "Britain has a new Prime Minister?"
"Yes, yes," Lebrun muttered, raising the cigar before lowering it again. "What was his name again? Ah yes. Churchill. Chamberlain resigned this morning. The pressure from the House became too great. He declared that Churchill was the better man to lead a wartime government."
He exhaled slowly.
"A surprising turnaround, but not an unwelcome one for us. Perhaps now they will finally send more troops. Something Chamberlain was always hesitant about."
"That would be good," Gamelin said eagerly. "Then perhaps we could stop the advance, maybe even push them back."
Lebrun only sighed, the creases in his face deepening in the eyes of the two generals. Then he turned.
"You two," he said, tilting his head slightly. "Bring this back into order."He raised his voice. "At once!"
He left as quickly as he had arrived.
Walking through the cold hallway, Lebrun shook his head and massaged his temples.
A car was waiting outside. The door was opened by a French soldier, a security measure introduced at the beginning of the war.
Quickly, he climbed into his limousine, the car rolling away from the building.
Meanwhile, in London.
A chorus of footsteps echoed through the ancient hallways of Westminster. Men clad in every kind of suit moved forward, tall and short, some still wearing their hats.
They halted before a dark wooden door. At their forefront stood a burly man, a cigar clenched between his lips.
The door was opened.
The group stepped inside, and all eyes turned toward the newcomers, weighing them with expectation.
Churchill lifted his head slightly, his gaze wandering across the chamber. He exchanged glances with friends, with enemies, with temporary allies. Yet they all looked at him in the same way, not with friendliness or disdain, but with hope.
He lowered his head once more and continued his walk toward the speaker's podium.
Then he reached it.
For a brief moment, the chamber fell completely silent.
He removed the cigar from his lips, set it aside, and placed both hands on the wood before him.
"Gentlemen of the House," he began, his voice steady, carrying easily through the hall, "I stand before you at a moment of the gravest consequence for our nation and for Europe."
He paused, his eyes turning towards a certain direction.
Berlin, Reichskanzlei
Hitler stood at the window, his gaze fixed through the large glass panes on something far beyond the rooftops of Berlin. His eyebrow twitched slightly as he listened to the report. Suddenly, he turned and stepped closer to the adjutant, who was visibly under strain, sweat running down his forehead.
"Are you saying," Hitler asked quietly, "that Rommel and Jaeger are disobeying orders?"
Before the man could answer, Hitler grabbed him by the collar and pulled him forward. "Are you saying that?" he shouted, his spit striking the man's face. The adjutant stood there, helpless.
"Traitors!" Hitler roared, releasing his grip and storming away.
A group of the highest generals of the Reich stood before him. Their eyes were lowered, their hands clasped behind their backs, none daring to meet his gaze.
"What is this?" Hitler shouted, pacing back and forth. "Didn't you, Keitel, tell me they were to wait?" He pointed sharply at him. "Did I not say that?"
"You did, my Führer," another voice answered. It was General Alfred Jodl.
Keitel stiffened, surprised. Witzleben raised an eyebrow as well, taken aback by Jodl's firm tone.
"Yes, I did," Hitler snapped, turning on him. "And what does my word mean, Jodl?"
"It is absolute, my Führer," Jodl replied calmly, a faint smile on his lips.
Keitel's face darkened, his anger mixed with jealousy. Witzleben's expression hardened with pure disdain.
"Yet they ignored it," Hitler said, his voice suddenly quieter, almost controlled.
"My Führer," Witzleben began. "The 7th and 8th Panzer Divisions have reported technical difficulties. Nevertheless, their advance has been remarkable."
"Are you suggesting such coincidences exist, Witzleben?" Keitel asked sharply.
"Either way," Witzleben replied coldly, "they are more successful than any other division, battalion, or general, including you and me, Keitel."
The two men locked eyes. Hitler nodded slowly, his eyes narrowing.
"Are they truly this successful?" he asked. Jodl and Keitel exchanged brief looks of surprise.
"Yes, my Führer," Witzleben continued. "They have repeatedly pushed back French forces. Their tanks covered nearly eighty kilometers yesterday alone, deep in enemy territory. In my opinion, we should not punish them, but support them." He hesitated for a moment. "The corridor they are creating could allow for an encirclement—one decisive enough to end the war. Jaeger once spoke to me of such an operation."
Witzleben thought back to Poland, to a long night spent discussing war with Paul. Even then, he had spoken of a moment like this, when hesitation would decide everything.
Hitler's eyes widened, a visible gleam igniting within them. "Is that so?" he murmured. "Fine. I will refrain from punishment for the moment, but tell them to fix their technical issues and order the other troops to quicken their pace."
Hitler waved his hand dismissively before leaving the room. He left behind a relieved Witzleben and a shocked Keitel and Jodl.
Keitel opened his mouth with a sneer as soon as the door closed. "You are dreaming, Witzleben. Their lines are stretched to the breaking point. They will run out of fuel soon."
Witzleben turned to him, his expression calm and unimpressed.
"They might be living off the land for now, Keitel," Witzleben replied. "According to the latest reports, they have already bypassed a Belgian munitions and fuel depot. I am merely organizing the route to ensure we don't lose the ground they have already won."
He gave them a curt nod.
"I won't have them cut off because the rest of the army was too slow to follow."
Witzleben said, leaving the other two behind in the silence of the Chancellery.
Far from all the talk, the discussions, the papers.
"Look, mom, look!" a child shouted, pointing out of the window.
"What is it?" his mother called back as she walked toward him, the old wooden floor creaking beneath her feet.
"What…" she began, her eyes shifting from her son to the street outside.
A large tank stood in front of their house. Foreign voices echoed from below. Then came a heavy knock.
Her eyes widened. She shoved her son away.
"Go. Hide!" she shouted, grabbing the first thing within reach, a small vase standing on the sill.
Slowly, she moved toward the door. The knocking grew louder, more urgent, the voices outside sharper, closer.
She tore the door open, the vase already raised.
Before she could act, a hand closed around her arm. Black leather. Strong fingers.
The door was pushed wider. She could finally see them.
A officer stood before her, dressed in a German uniform, or so she guessed. The man holding her arm removed his cap with his free hand, revealing dark hair and sharp, composed features.
He guided her inside with calm force, took the vase from her hand, and placed it back beneath the window.
"Bonjour," he said, a faint accent coloring the word."How far is Dunkerque, dear miss?"
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