Chapter 192: Old Friend
The passionate fervor of the idealists had been shattered by the baseball bat of reality, leaving behind only a bitter pile of dregs.
The encirclement by the Eighth Armored Division and the Fourth Armored Division had not even begun, yet the International Brigade had already split into two factions.
Those aligned with Soviet Russia were granted the right to return to the front lines. Those suspected of colluding with Trotskyites were placed under strict surveillance, until their ideals were slowly ground into dust.
One by one, they left the passionate land where they had once shed their blood.
On a ship bound for England, Orwell sat beneath the dim cabin lamp and smoked a cigarette. His tired eyes showed that he had not slept properly for several days.
Even so, the pen in his hand continued moving across the white paper.
Two drafts swayed with the waves under the moonlight of the Strait of Gibraltar.
One had not yet truly begun. On the blank title page, he had only written the first two digits of a year.
The other was already underway.
On its title page, two concise English words had been written in bold strokes.
Animal Farm.
Half a month later, the fully assembled Spanish Forward Army launched an operation against Madrid.
Its name was simple.
Final Offensive.
Pavlov wanted to replicate Zhukov's success.
But the difference in tactical skill and armored doctrine soon gave the Soviet Russian Second Armored Division, which directly confronted Germany's Eighth Armored Division, a disastrous lesson.
In the armored engagement, more than two thousand Soviet Russian soldiers and forty tanks were completely lost.
The next day, Spanish gold was delivered to Moscow.
At almost the same time, an urgent telegram arrived on Pavlov's desk.
It marked the end of Soviet Russia's involvement in the defense of Madrid.
Without Soviet Russia's military aid, calls for surrender inside the Spanish Communist Party grew louder and louder.
Realizing that all was lost, Larivich, the elder of the Soviet Russian faction, boarded a ship to France and left behind the land he had once claimed he would fight for until the end.
In the final moments, only Kalon and his moderates continued fighting for Spain and the Spanish Communist Party.
They fought until the last possible moment.
At dawn, the roar of artillery became the funeral dirge for this warrior.
The white marble government building was riddled with bullet holes. Spanish Forward Party soldiers waged the final battle for the building complex against the entrenched Spanish Communist Party defenders.
Wearing a steel helmet, Kalon rejected the suggestion of the recently released Minister of Logistics to evacuate.
Under the protection of his guards, he went to the broadcasting room and delivered his final speech to Madrid, and to those in Spain who still clung to their ideals.
"Ladies and gentlemen."
His voice was hoarse, but still steady.
"We once drove out the emperor. We drove out the princes and nobles who oppressed us. But now, the old clouds have once again gathered over Spain. They have gathered over Madrid."
As he spoke, gunfire drew closer.
The ear splitting roar of bombers circled overhead.
"We may lose, but... I..."
A bomb did not give this warrior, who had chosen to fight to the death, a chance to finish his final words.
Bang!
The broadcast vanished in the explosion.
Rubble and shattered wood became Kalon's final coffin.
One day later, Madrid fell.
One week later, the Spanish Forward Party raised the Spanish royal flag in Valencia.
By then, every major city had been captured by the Spanish Forward Party.
Although the remaining Spanish Communist Party soldiers were still resisting, everyone understood that their defeat was only a matter of time.
Two months later, José Sanjurjo held a victory parade in Madrid.
A photograph of him standing beside Jörg was published by The Times under a striking caption.
The Pope and His Disciple.
Almost at the same time, Britain expressed recognition of José's regime. It was the first to send him an invitation to the League of Nations and establish diplomatic relations.
Most members of the League of Nations quickly followed.
Only France and Italy proved to be exceptions.
France recognized José's legitimacy, but attached one condition: a demilitarized zone had to be established along the Franco Spanish border.
Italy, however, completely refused to recognize José's regime. Rome declared that the remaining Falange soldiers controlling the Ibiza Islands were the legitimate heirs to the Spanish government.
The American government did not turn its gaze toward European affairs.
Neither the Republican Party nor the Democratic Party's major newspapers published any clear opinions. Only private publications reported on the events in Spain.
Time Magazine processed a photograph of José raising his hand and shouting for Spain's progress into an oil painting, making it the cover of the year.
The cover also included a line of German text.
Another victory for the Progress Party?
Before José, Jörg had already appeared on the magazine's cover for three consecutive years.
Germany.
Berlin.
Morning mist draped the forest in a pale gray veil.
Cold winds from the Arctic Ocean swept through the treetops, stirring the branches and leaves with a soft rustle.
Jörg tucked the issue of Time Magazine into his saddlebag and tightened the strap against the horse's back.
The black horse, which had accompanied him for nearly ten years, lifted its hooves and ambled through the early morning forest.
Autumn had arrived.
The forest path was covered in fallen leaves, beautiful in a quiet and lonely way, like an oil painting hanging unnoticed inside a gallery.
Clip clop.
The black horse stopped in front of a sanatorium.
The soldiers who had just begun their shift saw the arriving figure and immediately stood at attention, saluting.
"Führer."
Jörg dismounted.
Looking at the sanatorium gate, which looked almost exactly as it had years before, he could not help feeling a trace of emotion.
After taking a bullet for Hindenburg, he had recuperated here for some time.
It was also here that he had received his first Iron Cross.
Years had passed.
The security policeman who once gambled his life for a future had become the Führer of Germany, the undisputed and singular pivot of European politics.
"Bora," Jörg said, looking toward one of the guards. "How is your mother?"
The soldier froze.
Jörg smiled faintly.
"And why are you still guarding the gate after all these years? Did you offend an officer? Tell me. I will listen."
Seeing that the Führer still remembered his name, Bora's face lit up with joy.
There was more stubble on his chin now, and several wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, but his excitement was as clear as that of a young recruit. He jogged over to take the reins for this seemingly approachable leader.
"I did not offend anyone, Führer."
Bora carefully held the horse's reins.
"After you left, I served in the Third Cavalry Division for two years. Later, during the military reform, I was supposed to retire, but somehow I was transferred back to this sanatorium and have worked here ever since."
His voice lowered.
"As for my mother... she passed away."
Jörg patted his shoulder and gently moved past the heavy topic.
"The usual. Feed him grass, not carrots."
Bora nodded happily.
As he led the horse away, he glanced at the man behind Jörg.
"And this gentleman?"
Jörg looked back at Heinz Guderian and the brown horse he had never quite managed to tame.
"The same."
After receiving the Führer's order, Bora led the two horses into the sanatorium.
Only Jörg and Heinz Guderian remained at the entrance.
They leaned against the wall and chatted quietly while watching autumn leaves scatter in the wind.
"Führer," Guderian said, "there is something I must report to you."
"It concerns the moderates within the military, does it not?"
Jörg took a deep breath of the cold air, as if he had already anticipated the matter.
Guderian's expression changed slightly.
"You already know?"
Jörg nodded.
"Vito reported it to me."
He looked toward the forest path.
"I can understand. After all, I have fought many battles in the few years since taking office. It is good while we keep winning, but what if one day we do not?"
Guderian remained silent.
Jörg continued, "The military is not the only group with such concerns. The government has them as well. Some people say we have already taken enough."
His voice remained calm.
"Spain has submitted. Austria and Czechoslovakia have become region. Middle Eastern oil means we no longer need to care so much about other people's opinions."
He lowered his gaze.
"Next, they believe we need peace, transition, and time to build our own economic circle."
The autumn wind passed between them.
"Some people are privately saying that I am too insatiable. That even after achieving unparalleled accomplishments, I still carry a sword like Caesar and sing songs of conquest."
.....
[If you don't want to wait for the next update, read 50 chapters ahead on P@treon.]
[[email protected]/FanficLord03]