Chapter 101:

Words : 1161 Updated : Sep 12th, 2025

Chapter 101: "Ehre dem Vaterland. Honor to the Fatherland.”The message reached Paris before sunrise. By morning, the newspapers shouted it. "HITLER REINTRODUCES CONSCRIPTION 550,000-MAN ARMY PLANNED" "GERMANY SHREDS TREATY OF VERSAILLES" Inside the Palais Bourbon, the mood was raw. The emergency joint session had been called without ceremony, but word spread fast. Deputies stormed in from every corner of the political spectrum, their breath fogging in the cold air, their nerves hotter than they let on. President Albert Lebrun sat quietly at the head of the chamber, hands clasped. Prime Minister Flandin stood near the podium, flanked by Jean Fabry, Minister of War, and General Beauchamp in full uniform. No one spoke until the chamber was full. Then. Chaos "Outrage!" someone bellowed. "An open declaration of war!" Sёarch* The novёlF~ire.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality. "They promised us peace!" shouted a Radical deputy. "And we stood by like fools when they built their Luftwaffe!" "Where the hell is London?" another voice cried. "We gave them guarantees, where is their protest?" A centrist stood. "Britain is cautious, yes but it’s not their soil that borders the Rhine!" Fabry’s voice cracked through it all like a rifle shot. "SILENCE!" The room paused. Fabry stepped forward. "We are not here to scream. We are here to respond." Beauchamp spoke next, calm but unsparing. "We have no illusions. Germany has broken the Treaty. Openly. Brazenly. We now face the largest standing army on our border since 1914." Someone murmured, "And we haven’t called up a single reserve." "Why not a mobilization?" asked one deputy. "They arm...so must we." "Because Britain won’t support us," Flandin said, voice tight. "We act alone, and the press calls us warmongers." "Then we should be warmongers!" shouted a Socialist. "Better that than grave diggers!" Eynac, the Air Minister, muttered under his breath, "You’ll get your grave either way." The tension broke again. Yelling. Debating. No decision. No orders. No action. London. House of Commons. March 17 It was almost theatrical. Winston Churchill stood at the dispatch box, fists curled around the edges of the bench. His voice cut through the hall with the fury of someone long dismissed, now proven correct. "This is not the first betrayal, and it will not be the last! The German Chancellor has told you who he is. He has told you what he will do. The world is listening. And this House dithers!" Behind him, the Labour benches nodded, even some Conservatives murmuring agreement. Across the aisle, Prime Minister Baldwin leaned back, expression unreadable. Churchill continued. "We have watched Hitler build an air force. We have watched him retake the Saar. Now we watch him raise a conscript army of half a million men. And our answer is to watch some more." He let it sit. Baldwin rose slowly. "Mr. Churchill would have us charge at shadows," he said. "Britain does not act on noise. We act on necessity." Churchill’s face flushed. "And by the time you decide it’s necessary, Neville, it will already be too late." The chamber erupted. Applause and boos alike. But no policy changed. Washington, D.C. March 17 President Franklin D. Roosevelt read the cable in silence. Cordell Hull stood nearby, arms folded. "It’s real. Multiple confirmations. Berlin has conscription again." Roosevelt set the paper down slowly. "And what does the American press say?" "Some are alarmed. Most are indifferent. The public wants peace. Congress wants neutrality. You know how it is." Roosevelt didn’t look up. "I know how it is. I just don’t like it." He turned toward the tall windows of the Oval Office, light flooding through the glass. "Europe’s unraveling. And we’re too far, too tired, and too blind to see the rope tightening around our own neck." Hull cleared his throat. "We issue a statement?" Roosevelt shook his head. "Issue nothing. For now." The Parisian newspapers carried headlines of fury and embarrassment. Le Matin: "Conscription in the Reich. A Humiliation for France" Le Temps: "Europe Sleeps. Germany Arms." L’Humanité: "Treaties Are Dust. And So Is the Peace They Promised." In cafés, the talk was bitter. "Where are our tanks?" "Where are our planes?" "Where is our spine?" Inside the Ministry of War, Beauchamp stood before a group of senior officers. Maps were pinned to the wall. The eastern border glared in red pencil. "They’re not going to stop," he said quietly. "What does the cabinet want?" "Silence. Protests. Words." "And us?" Beauchamp looked away. "We train. We wait." "Until?" "Until we’re no longer alone." The radio played softly in the barracks. German marches. Then French commentary. Then the silence between. Moreau stood outside, coat unbuttoned, eyes lifted toward the starless sky. The paper still sat folded in his hand: the transcript of Hitler’s speech. "...Germany lives again..." He muttered, "And Europe begins to die." He looked east, toward the Rhine, where clouds gathered like fists on the horizon. "No one will stop them now," he whispered. "Not this year. Not next." A pause. "Damn them. Damn every coward in Paris. Damn every fool in London." He looked down at the dirt. "The countdown has begun." By late morning, the streets of Berlin were a sea of red and black. The swastika flew from every window, draped across balconies, tacked to lampposts, stitched onto armbands worn by boys barely old enough to shave. From Alexanderplatz to the Brandenburg Gate, people poured into the boulevards chanting, cheering, and waving miniature flags handed out by uniformed Hitler Youth. Vendors sold sausage rolls, cheap beer, and paper pennants reading: "Ehre dem Vaterland. Honor to the Fatherland." Loudspeakers on corners replayed fragments of Hitler’s speech on loop, each line met with fresh applause from crowds that already knew it by heart. "Germany lives again!" "The Treaty is broken!" "The Führer gives us pride!" Old veterans in tattered WWI uniforms marched slowly down Unter den Linden, saluting the banners flapping from the Reichstag. Children ran beside them with wide eyes, shouting, "Wir marschieren für Deutschland!" We march for Germany! From rooftops and second-floor cafes, families leaned out windows with binoculars and cigarettes, watching the mass gather. On Wilhelmstraße, near the Chancellery, SA men formed makeshift cordons to guide people toward a hastily erected stage. A youth choir sang the Horst-Wessel-Lied. Then came a speech by a local Party official, his voice thick with praise: "No longer will the German man bend his knee! Today, we stand. Tomorrow, we lead!" Applause. Firecrackers. The rhythmic call and response of "Sieg Heil!" ringing like cannon blasts through the avenues. It was choreographed madness. But to the crowd, it was resurrection. Men who had lost limbs in the last war wept openly. Wives stood straighter. And young men grinned at each other, clutching their conscription leaflets like invitations to glory. No one mentioned Versailles. No one questioned what came next. The only word anyone spoke louder than Hitler... was Germany.

Chapter 101:

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