Chapter 84: Romantic Figure
Inside the large conference room, Manstein let his gaze sweep across the hall.
The Army and the political world were very different in form, but in essence, they shared one unchanging truth: both were ruled by factions.
Among the officers present, the divide was obvious to anyone with eyes. One group consisted of middle-aged officers hungry for promotion, reform, and a chance to move upward. The other was made up of older men who had held power for years and had no intention of surrendering it. And within those two broad camps, there were further divisions: aristocratic officers, commoner officers, staff men, front-line men, traditionalists, opportunists, and quiet careerists who belonged to no banner except their own advancement.
During Seckt's tenure as Commander-in-Chief, the old guard had overwhelmingly dominated the Reichswehr. Most of the key posts had remained in the hands of men who had already occupied high office during the war years.
But Jörg's sudden rise had shattered that pattern.
For the first time in years, the balance inside the Army had shifted. The vigorous younger faction and the conservative establishment now stood in a kind of tense, unnatural equilibrium.
As far as Manstein knew, from the lowest-ranking soldiers to many mid-level officers like himself, support for a young man ascending to the position of Deputy Commander-in-Chief was almost unanimous. In barracks and mess halls alike, people spoke of it with a kind of restrained excitement.
Yet that support did not mean the danger was gone.
Many commoner officers instinctively distrusted Jörg because of his aristocratic background. They believed that when the time came, a man born into the nobility would never truly open the road upward for them.
At the same time, many aristocratic officers had begun to fear him for the opposite reason. Since taking power, he had ruthlessly dismantled the cavalry system, long regarded as one of the strongholds of aristocratic officer influence, while rapidly promoting men such as Guderian and Rommel, officers who by birth and faction should never have risen so quickly.
Manstein had even heard a handful of aristocratic officers mockingly, and not without bitterness, refer to Jörg as the "Saint of the Commoners."
That same hidden division was plainly visible in the room today.
Still, compared to the full complexity of the Army's internal power struggle, the atmosphere here was simpler. There were only a few officers present who were close to his own age, or only a few years older. Naturally, Manstein had no interest in sitting among a cluster of old men whose résumés were older than some regiments' banners.
After a brief glance around, he chose a seat beside someone who appeared to be of a similar generation.
The young officer looked a few years younger than he was. His hands were clasped too tightly, and the tension in his posture was impossible to miss.
Since there was nothing else to do while they waited, Manstein decided to open the conversation first.
"May I ask your name?"
The other man seemed startled to be addressed at all, but quickly replied, "Frederick Paulus. Just call me Paulus."
"Erich von Manstein."
Removing one glove, Manstein extended a hand.
Paulus froze for the briefest moment.
As an officer from a provincial background, he naturally understood the significance of that small word, von. In Germany, it still carried weight even before the speaker said anything else.
"Pleased to meet you, Mr. Manstein."
Manstein nodded. Before he could continue, another voice joined the conversation from the side.
"Manstein? When you write to your uncle next, give him my regards."
Turning, Manstein immediately recognized the newcomer. They had met once before at a formal banquet.
"Fedor von Bock," he said, standing slightly straighter. "It has been a long time. I had heard you were serving at Headquarters as a staff officer now. I did not expect to see you at a gathering like this."
Bock gave a slight shrug.
"So had I, before Christmas. But events have not unfolded as expected."
Seeing the two men sink into conversation, Paulus found himself awkwardly excluded. He gave a strained smile and was just about to retreat into silence when another officer seated nearby extended a hand toward him.
"Otto Model."
"Frederick Paulus. It is an honor to meet you, Mr. Model."
Model nodded, removed his glasses, and glanced around the room.
Not far away sat two other officers who had said almost nothing from the moment they entered, listening instead like statues carved from discipline itself.
Rundstedt cast a brief glance at Manstein.
Of everyone present, he only truly knew Manstein, and not because of the younger man's views on armor or maneuver warfare. The reason was simpler. Manstein's uncle was Hindenburg.
Reichenau, wearing a monocle, cared less about the officers around him and more about Jörg himself. What interested him was not the Deputy Commander-in-Chief's age, but his politics. Of all the men in the Army's higher ranks, Reichenau was perhaps among the few most openly receptive to the ideals of the Progress Party.
As he weighed those thoughts, the conference room doors opened.
Jörg walked in.
He was dressed in black.
Unlike the standard field uniform of division commanders, the general officer's version was visibly more elaborate. Gold thread ran along the collar. The cuffs and shoulders were ornamented with a level of restraint and precision that made the entire uniform appear severe rather than ostentatious. It was new, not yet broadly issued. The design had only just been completed before the Christmas coup interrupted everything.
By a strange turn of fate, Jörg had become the first man to wear it.
The moment he entered, nearly every officer in the room rose at once and saluted.
"Your Excellency, Deputy Commander-in-Chief!"
The united shout rolled through the room like a single wave.
A faint smile touched Jörg's lips.
No matter how fierce the factional struggle beneath the surface, the quality of German military personnel remained among the finest in the world. Discipline, bearing, instinctive recognition of command, these things had survived defeat, humiliation, political chaos, and internal decay.
And for Jörg, that legacy was the finest material imaginable.
It was the canvas.
After returning the salute, he stepped to the front, lightly tapped the microphone, and spoke.
"Please be seated, gentlemen."
Chairs scraped in unison as the room settled.
"I know that recently all of you have had doubts," Jörg continued evenly. "Doubts about whether the Christmas coup investigation would continue expanding. Doubts about why the cavalry was reorganized so quickly. Doubts about why six high-ranking officers at the division level were removed from office in less than a month."
He paused and let the silence gather.
"I called you here today to answer those doubts. At the same time, I will announce the President's latest military directives and the new arrangements for the Reichswehr this year."
His voice was calm, controlled, and entirely without notes.
"First, the investigation into the coup ends here."
A stir ran through the room, slight but unmistakable.
"The six senior officers who were relieved of their posts were all implicated," he said. "However, after careful review, it was determined that none of them directly participated in the active planning or execution of the coup itself. Therefore, they have only been removed from command."
No one interrupted.
"As for the cavalry," Jörg went on, "the decision was made only after systematic review by the General Staff. Senior cavalry officers were invited to Berlin for extensive and serious discussion. They also acknowledged the inability of cavalry forces to adapt effectively to the weapons and demands of the new era, and voluntarily agreed to cooperate with the restructuring process."
It was a lie. Or rather, it was a political truth, the kind that replaced facts once enough power stood behind it.
No script lay before him. Yet in a few short sentences he had already drawn the boundaries of the official narrative and buried the methods by which the outcome had actually been achieved.
Now he moved on.
"I will therefore formally announce the Headquarters decision regarding the reorganization of the cavalry arm."
The room grew still.
"Three cavalry divisions, including two elite regimental groupings, will be removed from combat establishment immediately. One cavalry regiment will be retained for diplomatic ceremony, parade functions, and other symbolic duties."
"Stable personnel and all other non-combat specialists will be transferred into the Logistics Coordination Department. Horse breeding will gradually shift from combat support to transport, logistics, and diversified domestic use."
"As for the remaining combat personnel, they will be reorganized into two armored divisions and one infantry coordinated assault division."
Then he lifted his gaze and looked slowly across the conference hall.
"Does anyone object?"
That was the moment the room held its breath.
A few veteran infantry officers visibly wanted to speak. Several older men exchanged glances. But in the end, not a single voice rose in opposition.
Silence became assent.
Then, after several heavy seconds, Guderian began to applaud.
The sound was sharp, controlled, almost deliberate. It spread outward quickly, one officer after another joining in until the entire conference room filled with applause.
Jörg did not acknowledge it.
He simply lifted one hand, and the applause died almost immediately.
"Good," he said. "Since there are no objections, we will proceed to the next matter."
He let the sentence land before finishing it.
"Personnel promotion, and the prevention of political infiltration into the Army."
This time the reaction was immediate, if still contained.
The officers in the hall had listened quietly to the cavalry question because most of them knew it was already settled. But promotions and transfers were different. Promotions touched status. Transfers touched careers. Every man in the room suddenly understood that what came next might concern him directly.
And for that reason, every eye in the hall turned fully toward Jörg von Roman.
…..
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