Through various supplies left behind by the British, French, and Belgian armies, Paul and Rommel's divisions have been restocked once again. Their pillaging tactics are proving to be high-risk, high-reward.
The tragedy of Dunkirk has been taken in by the world in different forms. The Allies remained paralyzed, especially the British, who lost a third of their professional soldiers and are now calling for extensive conscription. But in Britain's case, quantity could never replace quality.
The French government was in absolute turmoil, with some ministers even fleeing south on their own accord. The surrender of nearly 100,000 French soldiers installed fear in the remaining ones, triggering mass surrenders. Although some units still remained stubborn, continuing the fight.
Other countries like Italy, Romania, and Hungary have begun to improve their connections with Germany, especially Italy, which is expected to meet with German officials in the near future.
The USA remained as still as ever, only increasing their arms shipments to Britain slightly.
Only the tank tracks remained, now driving at maximum pace, thundering through forests, grasslands, fields, and cities. Paul and Rommel were after the ultimate prize, the prestige goal every commander in the Wehrmacht dreamed of: Paris. Now, the city lay open, free for the taking for whoever arrived first.
If the war had taught the world one thing, if Berlin understood one thing, it was that Rommel and Jaeger were the fastest.
And so it happened as it had to. On the morning of the 6th of June, the command tanks of Paul and Rommel touched the ground of Paris. After a shocking 300-kilometer sprint, the 7th and 8th Panzer Divisions remained unbeatable in terms of speed.
8:15 AM. The 7th and 8th Panzer Divisions report that the city of Paris has fallen. All remaining defenders have been defeated; the city is now in the hands of the Reich.
Slowly, more and more residents left their houses, shops, and workplaces, stepping carefully onto the sidewalks. Children, adults, the elderly, all turned in one direction. Some lowered their hats, others sobbed openly, some shouted insults, yet it did not matter. The sound did not diminish, it grew louder and louder.
Paul watched the crowd, his face betraying no emotion. Only a slight, almost nonexistent smile distinguished his lips from the rest.
His tank, like all the others, drove at a walking pace. Many soldiers sat on top of their vehicles or marched in formation in between. Their cheers felt utterly out of place to the residents of Paris, who watched the infinitely long column of tanks with utter disbelief.
"France has fallen," an elderly man said, shaking his head.
"What will happen to us, Emmanuel?" a woman asked, a child on her arm. Her husband's gaze was frozen on the foremost tank, watching the General. Slowly he turned, sighing, and embraced his wife. He did not know.
The cheers of Paul's and Rommel's soldiers only increased, their enthusiasm at an all-time high.
"Jaeger! Jaeger! Jaeger!" someone began the familiar shout. Others joined in.
"JAEGER! JAEGER! JAEGER!" echoed the rhythm of their march.
With that, the tanks continued through the Champs-Élysées, their goal evident. It was the tall structure standing before them, a gate of some sort, but it was far more than that.
"Their pride," Paul whispered, his eyes remaining fixed on the front, looking at the massive Arc de Triomphe.
"What a triumph," Paul added almost ironicly. His tank came to a halt before the grand structure, with all the others lining up behind him.
Beside him was Rommel's tank. Rommel climbed out, and Paul followed. The two men walked the final few meters together before coming to a stop. Their uniforms gleaming in the morning sun.
Then, they turned toward each other, reaching out their hands and shaking them. From the side, the sound of clicking cameras echoed. A photo that would become history, that is what Paul and Rommel had created on this fateful morning.
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The sun had begun to set, casting long, golden shadows over the city of light. Paul stood on the balcony of the Palais de Chaillot, his gaze fixed on the Eiffel Tower. The iron structure looked like a dark silhouette against the burning orange of the horizon. Below him, the streets were unnaturally quiet, a stark contrast to the thundering engines from only a few hours ago.
"You look like a man who has reached his destination, yet you still look for something more," a voice said from the shadows behind him.
Paul did not flinch. He recognized the calm tone immediately.
"I was wondering when you would show up, Gustaf," Paul said without turning around.
Gustaf stepped out of the darkness and walked toward the edge of the balcony. He looked tired, his coat dusty from travel, but his expression was one of cold satisfaction. He had not been at the front, but his work in the shadows had been just as vital.
"I have been in Berlin," Gustaf began, his voice barely louder than the wind."The news of Paris arrived before the official reports did. The city is in a state of shock, and the Chancellery is in chaos."
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a plain white envelope. He did not hand it over immediately.
"Your friend Canaris believes the time is ripe. The preparations are complete."
He finally held out the letter.
"He told me that everything you need is in here. Berlin is waiting for its new master."
Paul finally turned while taking the envelope. The paper felt heavy in his hand, a physical weight that represented the end of an era.
"Then we should not keep them waiting, I have been patient enough," Paul replied while his voice remained cold and determined. "I will inform Rommel...and Hasso. He will have to take over the rest."
When the sun finally set and darkness returned over the city of Paris, the echoes of thunder could be heard in the distance.
Something else could be heard if one listened closely in between the thunder, the sound of engines. A hundred tanks, the elite of the two Panzer divisions and only the fastest units, left the city of Paris under the guise of the night and harsh rain. They moved silently while informing no one and packed enough fuel to last for days. It was a phantom army that left no trace behind.
Officially, the divisions remained in Paris. The slow units and the majority of the tanks stayed to maintain the illusion of a victory parade.
An unspecified amount of time later, somewhere in the heart of Germany, tank after tank rolled onto the area of a familiar casern.
This was a place that had once been home to a unit under a man named Schwarzer, a place Paul knew all too well. His tank was caked in mud and the engine was virtually snorting from the immense stress of the journey.
Paul climbed out while Gustaf waited for him in the shadows. Without any haste, he adjusted his collar and his uniform while brushing away the dust that had collected on his shoulders.
He walked toward the entrance where a group of men stood in wait. At the forefront was Admiral Canaris, the man Paul had managed to bring to his side some time ago. He was the vital key to the gates of Berlin.
"Canaris, your letter has reached me," Paul said while shaking hands with the Admiral. Canaris wore a black leather coat that was wet from the constant downpour.
"We will do maintenance and repairs for the rest of the day. You will continue as soon as the sun sets," Canaris said while gesturing for Paul to step inside.
Paul only nodded while his mind was already wandering toward the bigger picture.
"Did you establish it?" he asked while they walked through the familiar, cold halls.
"I did. A secure line toward Berlin, safe from any and all ears," Canaris answered.
"Then I will have to make some calls," Paul whispered while his eyes revealed something dangerous. Something that had been suppressed for far too long.
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The time has come. I cannot tell exactly when I will be finished with all the Coup chapters, but I plan to do a mass release. You will have to wait a bit, but it will be worth it.
Thank you all for the support! I appreciate every Power Stone, comment, and review.