Bruno the Younger and what remained of the brigade he was part of boarded a series of five-ton trucks and were hauled away from the front lines of the conflict in Sicily.
They watched with haunted expressions as the reorganized defensive line prepared for heavy contact with the enemy.
The men who stared back at them had no grievances to express, only their utmost respect, a short salute, then a return to their duties.
It was the same with every unit when the time came to rotate out.
Come hell or high water, the Reich would find a way to get them their leave and replace them with fresh faces, rested enough to perform their duties at optimum capacity.
In fact, the very vehicles that Bruno the Younger and his men now rode out on had moments earlier carried in a brand-new brigade, one wholly intact and eager to fight.
If anything, the fact that Bruno the Younger and his men were just now rotating out two hours behind schedule was a statistical anomaly, one caused by the sudden attack that struck as their transfer process was about to begin.
The echo of machine-gun fire, rockets, and artillery thundered in the distance as the men they had left behind engaged the American landing force once more.
Yet Bruno nor any of his men said a word.
The silence between them was louder than the sound of combat in the distance.
Before boarding the aircraft that would take them home, Bruno lingered at the edge of the runway. Rows of body bags were laid out beside the hangars, each tagged, numbered, and anonymous.
He knelt beside one, brushing the nameplate with his thumb until the grime cleared enough to read it.
A private from his company, barely eighteen.
Bruno whispered a quiet prayer under his breath. A fragment of Latin learned in childhood, during visits to the grandfather whose name he bore. Thɪs chapter is updatᴇd by novel~fire~net
It wasn’t for the dead; they were beyond hearing. It was for himself, so that he wouldn’t forget their faces once Berlin began counting victories again.
He rose, adjusted his webbing, and boarded the plane.
The engines roared, and the island slipped away beneath them, dark and burning at the edges.
The journey wasn’t long, but when they arrived, it was evening, and the news had already begun to spread across the streets.
Sicily was under siege.
Air travel beyond the borders of the Reich was being suspended indefinitely for civilians without a valid reason to leave.
There was a brief uproar at the airport, stranded businessmen, frightened families, but the protests died instantly when they saw the soldiers disembarking.
Men with sunburned faces and the dust of Mediterranean shores still clinging to their uniforms.
Their presence silenced the crowd. The air filled instead with quiet awe, a kind of reverence that needed no orders.
Bruno the Younger could only light another cigarette and exhale slowly as he passed through the terminal, his men following behind him in solemn procession.
The smell of perfume and roasted coffee struck him harder than the scent of cordite ever could. Civilization smelled wrong after battle, too clean, too alive.
Hours had passed since the battle and their final landing in Berlin, and through it all, none had dared utter a single word. And yet, finally, Bruno broke the silence.
"I’ll be headed back to the Palace," he said softly. "My mother’s probably worried sick, as is my wife. I’ll see you all in a few months. Get some rest... you’ll need it."
The men saluted their captain before departing, leaving Bruno the Younger alone at the curb.
He gathered his duffel, stepped outside, and found a black sedan idling under the lamps.
Members of the Kaiser’s Leibgarde stood beside it, wearing plain black suits. The extravagant regalia of the 19th century had long since been retired.
Their leader approached and spoke quietly.
"Your Majesty, the motorcade is ready to depart when you are."
Bruno the Younger nodded and entered the vehicle without a word. His sigh was enough to convey his orders.
The convoy pulled onto the autobahn, cutting a clean line through the quiet of Berlin.
He gazed out the window.
The city glowed beneath the night, whole, untouched, unscarred.
Children laughed in parks. Cafés stayed open late. Neon signs blinked lazily over storefronts.
It was a world completely disconnected from the inferno he’d left behind.
He stared for a long while, thinking of the price paid by the men in his brigade, hell, the men in his own company who had given their lives so that this peace could exist.
He lamented their passing, but he understood what they had bought with their deaths.
And that was enough for him to move on.
The Grand Prince of Tyrol and Reichsmarschall of the German Reich sat within his office, his collar loosened, the medals normally worn beneath it draped over the edge of his desk.
In one hand was a list of names, men whose deeds in recent combat had earned them an honor.
Whether that honor would be received in person or by their widows depended on circumstance.
On the documents scattered before him, red and blue lines crawled across a map of the Mediterranean.
Locations were marked where divisions had been wiped from existence.
He traced one of the casualty markers with his index finger, then turned his eyes back to the document in his hand.
Three names on the list carried his blood. Two bore his surname, and one bore the name of the Kaiser.
The medals recommended for each varied by the intensity of their contributions to the war effort so far, and the sheer number of commendations they’d accumulated in succession.
It was no surprise that Erich, the eldest of the next generation, and the most ambitious, had drawn the highest praise.
He had already earned an Iron Cross 2nd Class for his actions in Dunkirk.
Now, he was being recommended for the Iron Cross 1st Class for his heroism during Operation Donarsblitz, where his regiment’s airborne assault had annihilated half of the American 3rd Armored Division in the jungles of Luzon.
As for Konrad and Bruno the Younger, both were now being considered for the Iron Cross 2nd Class.
Bruno could not help but shake his head, He stared at the medals hanging from the edge of his desk with a mourning gaze.
"So this is it? I am now a glorified relic of the ancient past? Better suited to giving out medals to younger men than storming the trenches? Is this all that remains of my military career?"
He took a slow drink from his liter glass and allowed himself a faint, tired smile.
Despite his sharp tongue, he was genuinely happy that a new generation of his blood was proving itself in battle.
And for the first time in many years, the old warlord felt something resembling peace, the quiet assurance that perhaps, when his time finally came, there would still be guardians left to watch the realm.