Bruno sighed in relief after the peace had been negotiated. How the deconstruction of the Japanese Empire unfolded was not his concern. He was not a politician; he was a soldier, and the war was over.
Because of this, Bruno found himself on a flight back to Innsbruck. He had been away for too long. Nearly three years in total. From the fall of 1929 to the sumr of 1932, the war had waged.
Could it have been concluded sooner? Most certainly; but that would have required moving greater assets from the Fatherland to the Pacific cause. And that would not have the intended effect Bruno desired.
Germany had won the war, with Russian support. They had done so entirely with their eastern colonial forces, not a shred of support from the main army or the naval assets designed to counter Britain, France, and Arica in the Atlantic.
That was why the war had lasted so long: limited manpower, limited resources, small gains that accumulated over years.
Ironically, the war between Germany and Japan had lasted nearly a year longer than the Great War itself.
When Bruno finally entered his ho, he was a tired man. He had only seen his family on brief occasions throughout these last three years. His heart was heavy with the costs paid for victory.
But the mont he stepped through the door, all of that was forgotten.
His wife stood in the doorway, stunned that her man had returned. No ssage had been sent ahead, no call made.
When she saw him there in full regalia, she rushed into his arms as if she were still a young maiden in love, wrapping herself around his neck, kissing him again and again, barely whispering between gasps.
"Is it done? Are you ho at last? For good this ti?"
Bruno snickered and kissed her back. She, like him, had aged gracefully; yet even now there was still no woman in this world he would dare say was more beautiful.
As he wiped a greying strand from Heidi’s face, he plucked it gently and tossed it away.
"That’s right... I’m back, and hopefully for good this ti."
Both of them knew it was a lie. Heidi was as aware as Bruno that the war with Japan was far smaller, far shorter, and far less cruel than the one that lood on the horizon.
But she didn’t call him on it. She rely clung tighter to his chest, and in that silence they shared more about the last few years than words ever could.
---
Turin, weeks later
The Kingdom of Italy threw a grand parade to celebrate their "victory."
Banners of the House of Savoy hung heavy over Turin’s main square, their white fields catching in the breeze alongside German imperial eagles.
A long procession of soldiers marched beneath them, boots drumming against sun-ward cobblestones.
It was a parade ant more for optics than any real martial pride. Italy had contributed only a token force to the Pacific war: a pair of regints, so artillery detachnts, a handful of naval observers.
Not even enough to justify the brass bands or the endless speeches by fat ministers waving feathered hats.
But it was enough to claim laurels.
People packed every window and crowded every balcony. Won tossed garlands of red callias that struck steel helts and rolled off in lazy tumbles. Children waved tricolor flags, shouting themselves hoarse.
Through it all, on a reviewing stand draped in Savoy blue, sat King Victor Emmanuel III. His short legs barely reached the step, military tunic straining over a chest that had once been far slimr.
Beside him stood Anna von Zehntner; Bruno’s daughter, soon to be Crown Princess of Italy by marriage to the kingdom’s heir.
Her gloved hand rested on Umberto’s forearm, her eyes bright with that quiet, regal pleasure that only ca from knowing the crowd adored her.
The marriage had been arranged over a decade prior when she was still a girl, sealed by contracts thicker than most Bibles.
Yet Anna had taken to her new role with startling grace.
She entered the Piedmont court preparing for her wedding day with fluent Italian, better spoken than many of the native noblen, and was often seen visiting hospitals and foundling hos when more jaded royals might have preferred theaters.
Anna leaned toward her fiancé, whispering sothing that made him grin. She looked every inch the royal consort: perfect posture, chin lifted, a faint flush from the sumr heat.
But beneath her tailored gown, she wore a dagger at her hip; a gift from Bruno on her sixteenth na day.
Not rely symbolic. The blade had been tempered in his own foundries. That was the von Zehntner legacy: never purely ornantal, even when draped in silk.
From the crowd rose cries of "Long live the House of Savoy!" and then layered over it, "Long live the German Reich!"
For a flicker, Anna’s eyes darted to a balcony opposite, where one of Bruno’s aides watched. She gave the subtlest nod; confirmation that her family’s banner still flew securely in this realm, no matter how many Italian colors fluttered around it.
---
Inside a private salon overlooking the square
A row of uniford attachés stood by the long glass doors, watching the parade. Italian grenadiers, cavalry on horseback, even Bersaglieri with plud hats bobbing at every asured step.
On a side table, a polished telegraph machine clicked every few monts as dispatches arrived from Vienna, Berlin, Saint Petersburg.
An Italian major fussed over it, jotting notes, before finally turning to the figure seated alone near the fireplace.
Bruno von Zehntner did not look like a man fresh from a war that reshaped the world. He wore a plain charcoal trench coat, open at the collar.
His boots were dusty from the courtyard, his hair streaked deeper with iron than when he’d left Tyrol.
Yet his eyes were sharp; absurdly sharp, like dueling rapiers. They settled on the major without warmth.
"Well?" he asked, voice low, unhurried.
"Reports confirm, Excellency," the major stamred. "Your daughter has been beside the king all afternoon. The people chant her na nearly as often as his. They’re calling her ’Madonna Tedesca.’ It’s—"
"A spectacle," Bruno cut in. His lips twitched, not quite a smile. "Good. That’s what this parade is for. Not their few dead in Korea or Manchuria, but to show the alliance endures. That Italy won’t fall to socialist delusions or French ddling."
The major hesitated. "The army is growing. Rapidly. They’ve nearly doubled chanized regints in Lombardy. Your attachés in Milan say the training grounds are full of the latest tank designs, manufactured with lessons from your advisors."
"And the navy?" Bruno shifted slightly in his chair.
"Three new carriers laid down at La Spezia, with your engineers overseeing flight deck integration. More destroyers, modernized torpedo doctrines... Your High Seas Fleet staff believe by 1940 they might field a diterranean strike force nearly equal to France."
Bruno’s eyes narrowed, not in displeasure but in thought. "That’s acceptable. So long as their ambitions stay within the diterranean."
Italy was an ally of the Reich, though not to the sa extent as Russia. Germany provided advisory capacity in engineering and doctrine; little more.
The Italians developed their own platforms based on that advice and on German logistical conditions like munitions commonality.
Just as Bruno kept many of his most advanced weapons out of Russian hands, such as the new Panzer IIIs, nuclear-powered carriers, atomic warheads already nearing deploynt. He let Italy grow carefully.
Under his guidance, the Italian Army stood in far better shape than in his past life. At least this ti, he thought grimly, they might not be a weight dragging to the bottom of the sea when war broke.
So he let them have their "victory parade." For now, keeping Italy happy and building its national pride was necessary; even if their contributions against Japan had been virtually nonexistent.
User Comments
0 comments from readers