Heinrich von Zehntner was the second son of Erwin von Zehntner, named after his mother’s adopted father, and Erwin’s own godfather.
He had grown up in the House of Zehntner within the main line of succession. And yet, throughout his life, he was expected to maintain a standard of discipline that would have been unthinkable for the aristocratic sons of the previous era.
Bruno’s reforms had changed things. Not just in the military, but in society as a whole.
The new nobility, those ancient families of merit elevated to the ranks of the realm, were expected to behave like guardians, not dilettantes.
Their sons were raised like warrior-philosophers, men who bore stoic virtues as creed, who swore to uphold the old European concept of chivalry, and pledged their rifle and bayonet to the defense of the common man in accordance with the revived spirit of Noblesse Oblige.
A new aristocratic class, bred not for privilege, but for responsibility.
Heinrich and his brother, Erich, were the second generation shaped by this new template.
And though their father Erwin had not served during the long peace that followed the Great War, his sons were among the first to pick up the sword and cross when the storms returned.
Heinrich was several years younger than Erich, born after him and two sisters. He was just old enough to graduate from flight school in the spring of ’41.
This morning, he stood proudly among the men of his class who had done the same.
The airfield outside Berlin shimmered under the rising sun. Moisture lifted off the tarmac in waves, turning the ground into molten gold.
Training aircraft sat in two perfect rows behind the formation, sleek, polished machines whose silver skins reflected the Prussian-blue sky.
The smell of fuel and machine oil drifted with the breeze.
Families stood behind a roped-off area, quiet, reverent. This was not a place for cheering.
Boots clicked in precise rhythm as the Air Marshal of the Luftstreitkräfte moved down the line.
Each cadet braced a little straighter as he approached. Heinrich felt the moment narrowing around him like a noose or a crown, he didn’t know which.
Then it was his turn.
The Air Marshal stopped before him. No words. His face was carved from stone. He pinned the golden wings onto Heinrich’s chest with a firm, practiced gesture.
A weight, not of metal, but of lineage, settled on Heinrich’s shoulders.
He saluted. The Air Marshal returned it with equal frost.
No recognition of who Heinrich was. No acknowledgment of his bloodline.
Today, he was not the grandson of the Reichsmarschall, he was simply another lieutenant.
He stepped back into formation, and only then did his thoughts drift unbidden across the world, to Erich.
His older brother was fighting in jungles Heinrich could barely imagine, somewhere in the Philippines, bleeding for men Heinrich had never met.
Letters from Manila had been short, tired, written in a voice that no longer belonged to the laughing older brother Heinrich remembered.
A few times, Heinrich had been to visit his sister-in-law to see if she received any additional word. But her letters were barely less sparse all the same.
But his thoughts drifted still to the titan of their family. If Erich was a legend to live up to, then their grandfather was a god.
Standing behind Erich, like a mountain, stood Bruno, an immovable monument whose shadow shaped every Zehntner for three generations.
Heinrich wondered if he could ever measure up to either of them.
When the Air Marshal returned to the podium, silence fell instantly.
"I wish I could congratulate you for passing under more peaceful circumstances," he began, his voice carrying across the field like winter wind. "That I could tell you I expect long lives and bright futures for all of you."
"But these are not the times we live in."
He let the words settle like a weight on every chest.
"While the Luftstreitkräfte may boast the lowest casualty rates of the branches, many of you will not survive this war. And yet the Reich demands your sacrifice nonetheless."
His gaze swept the formation like a judge passing sentence.
"For those of you who depart today and carve your name into the annals of history, know this: if you survive the coming storms, you will bear witness to a new golden age of mankind, forged by your own hands. So go forth, and fear no evil, for you are the sword and the light that guard every soul under your wings."
Heinrich’s hand snapped to his brow.
"GOD WITH US!" the formation roared back.
It was not a motto. Not a chant. The source of this content ɪs Nove1Fire.net
It was an invocation.
As the echo faded, silence replaced it, not of uncertainty, but of clarity. Heinrich felt something settle deep inside him. Not fear. Not pride.
This was the moment boyhood ended, as it had for every Zehntner before him.
The ceremony dispersed slowly. Officers congratulated their new squadron members. Families embraced their sons. Mechanics rolled aircraft back toward the hangars.
That evening, the sky dimmed to the soft gray of Brandenburg dusk. He stood alone at the mess hall window, watching his reflection framed against rows of hangars. The wings on his chest glinted under the lantern light.
Tomorrow, he would receive his assignment papers.
He had a suspicion even before the envelope arrived.
Where Erich could not shield him. Where Bruno would not intervene.
Where he would stand or fall on merit alone.
He rested a hand on the cold glass, imagining the battles to come, the flak, the tracer fire, the thrum of engines, the roar of air ripping past his canopy. A younger version of himself might have felt fear.
Now he felt only purpose.
Somewhere far away, Erich was fighting for the Reich in jungles soaked with rain and blood. Soon Heinrich would fight under the same banners, from the sky rather than the soil.
And so another Zehntner answered the call.
If the day ever came when there was no Zehntner left to do so, Heinrich thought grimly, may God have mercy on the world.
For they would have none for themselves.