Re: Blood and Iron

They thought the war would be fought with tanks and planes. But Bruno knew better. Wars were not won by firepower alone—but by foresight.

In 1910, his agents helped wire the first transcontinental telephone line. In 1915, his shell corporations quietly funded the Rural Expansion Act. By 1920, proprietary switchboard tech—licensed through innocuous front companies—was embedded in AT&T, Bell, and Western Union.

Not one phone. Not one wire. Not one signal moved through an American government building without first passing through his system.

The Capitol? Monitored. The War Department? Transcribed. The Federal Reserve? Logged. Even the Oval Office's so-called "secure line" routed briefly through a nondescript relay station—installed by a "trusted private vendor," which, of course, traced back to a manor outside Potsdam.

And every night, at 0200 Berlin Time, the day's recordings—compressed, indexed, translated—were couriered to Abteilung XII of the Großes Generalstab.

There, behind cipher-sealed bronze vaults, linguists and analysts parsed everything from agricultural subsidies to naval procurement memos. They didn't guess Washington's intentions. They already knew.

Bruno rarely spoke during high-level meetings about America. What was there to say?

"They speak into our ears and call it freedom."

Only one American had ever uncovered the truth: President Charles Evans Hughes. But by the time he realized the depth of German infiltration, it was already too late. Whether out of fear, defeat, or a quiet understanding that resistance was futile—he told no one.

Every plot. Every backroom deal. Every secret. Documented. Archived. On ice.

If ever unleashed, the evidence would collapse the American state from within. Bruno didn't need tanks in Washington. He had tape. Tape, transcripts… and timing.

The American media—radio, press, even early television tech ferried in via German intermediaries—would erupt with scandal. The result? Civil war. Or revolution. Maybe both. A republic devoured by its own illusions.

But Herbert Hoover didn't know this. He thought himself discreet. He thought Britain's help would buy him leverage. He thought Bruno could be boxed out.

He was wrong.

In Berlin, Bruno sipped black coffee while reviewing the latest batch of tapes.Hoover's voice crackled through the headset, livid and desperate:

"What the hell do you mean Standard Oil's stock has been bought up? By whom? Who the hell has that kind of cash? You don't know? Well, you'd better find out—OR I'LL HAVE YOUR GUTS FOR GARTERS!"

Bruno nearly choked. He had to suppress a laugh with a swig of coffee as the door creaked open.

Heinrich von Koch entered, looking miraculously five years younger than the last time Bruno had seen him.

"If I didn't know better," Bruno smirked, "I'd say you finally found a woman to make an honest man out of you."

Instead of scowling, Heinrich shot back smoothly:" Laugh all you want. Just don't hate me because an old dog still has teeth."

Bruno nearly dropped his mug."Are you fucking kidding me? Now? In your fifties? You're getting married? To who?!"

Heinrich brushed him off and took a seat, speaking with practiced calm. "I'm old, Bruno. It just took a while to admit it. Not all of us are frozen in time like you. You don't age—you just refine. But me? After Alya left to marry your son, the house got... quiet."

Bruno blinked, stunned. When he finally spoke, it came out harsher than he meant: "Alya and Erwin have been married for over a decade. Their oldest is almost thirteen. You're just now realizing this?"

Heinrich grunted, trying to defuse the tension. "Shut the fuck up and be happy for me, will you?"

Bruno exhaled through a grin, then chuckled until he had to wipe his eyes. "Fine. So who is it?"

"You wouldn't know her," Heinrich said. "Third daughter of a countess from Württemberg. Half my age. Our families have ties—it makes sense."

Bruno leaned back, smiling wickedly. "So the notorious Heinrich von Koch—playboy, duelist, rake of the Rhine—finally settles down…with someone younger than his own daughter. That's poetry."

Heinrich glared."You're an ass."

"And you're a cradle robber," Bruno replied. "I look forward to the wedding."

Bruno sat alone once Heinrich had gone, sipping what remained of his coffee. The sun outside had begun its descent behind the snow-dusted rooftops of Berlin, casting long shadows across the parquet floor.

He didn't expect to be disturbed again that evening—until a knock came at the door.

"Come in," Bruno called without looking up.

The door creaked open, and a boy's voice—unsteady but determined—cut through the quiet.

"Grandfather?"

Bruno looked up.

It was Erich—Erwin's eldest. Nearly thirteen now. Broad-shouldered for his age, with his father's pale eyes and his mother's dark, straight hair. He carried himself with a military stiffness, though the oversized coat he wore made him look like a child trying on a soldier's uniform.

"What brings you here at this hour?" Bruno asked, gesturing to the chair across from him.

"I was told you were listening to tapes again," Erich said as he sat. "Father says it's rude to disturb you during state business. But I thought... you might have a moment."

Bruno tilted his head. The boy's tone was measured—too formal for someone so young.

"I always have a moment for you," Bruno replied, quietly setting the earpiece aside. "What's on your mind?"

Erich hesitated, then reached into his coat and pulled out a folded pamphlet—creased, dog-eared. A cadet recruitment brochure.

Bruno's brow furrowed slightly.

"I found this," Erich said. "At the academy. I've been reading it every day."

"You've years before you can apply," Bruno said calmly. "And your father—"

"My father wants me to become a diplomat," Erich interrupted, surprising even himself. "To study languages. Economics. Trade negotiations."

He looked down, fingers gripping the pamphlet like a shield.

"But I want to be like you."

The words hung in the air like gunpowder waiting for a match.

Bruno leaned back, observing the boy not as a grandfather, but as a judge might weigh a defendant—eyes unreadable, features carved from stone.

"You want to fight wars," Bruno said flatly.

"No," Erich answered, his voice cracking for a moment before regaining strength. "I want to protect the Reich. Like you do."

Bruno was silent.

"You saved us," Erich went on, voice growing more impassioned. "Father says that despite fighting enemies in the east, the south, and the west, you were there breaking through the line, and forcing the enemies to capitulate!"

A pause.

"The Serbians, the Ottomans, The Italians, the French and the British. They were incapable of taking an inch of German soil because of you. You protected our borders; you protected our way of life... You protected our family and I want to do the same!"

He looked up, eyes wide. "I want to help do that. I don't want to sit in offices and sign papers while other men die."

Bruno closed his eyes just for a moment.

So young, he thought. So certain.

And yet… wasn't he the same at that age? A boy with fire in his blood and a vision in his mind? Back when he had still been Karl, just a weary old man reborn into a world that didn't know what it was about to awaken.

He looked at his grandson again—not as a child, but as a possible heir to something greater than blood.

"You know nothing of war, Erich," he said at last. "You think there's honor and glory in warfare? But there isn't. There's Fear.... Fear and Blood."

Despite Bruno's warnings, Erich did not yield. His position stiffened as he reasserted his claim.

"I want to learn."

Bruno's tone was stern and decisive in his response.

"You will. But not yet."

Bruno stood and moved toward the window, hands clasped behind his back.

"You see, a Reich victorious. You see strength. Power. Respect. But what you don't see are the coffins behind every treaty. The empty chairs at every feast."

He turned slightly, eyes catching Erich's in the glass reflection.

"When I go to war, I do so with a heavy hand and a heavier heart. You cannot lead men into hell with just ambition. You need to carry their names when they don't come home."

Erich said nothing.

"I built this Reich so men like you wouldn't have to die," Bruno continued. "But if war comes again—and it will—then it must be men like you who end it."

Silence again.

Then Bruno walked back to the desk and placed a hand on Erich's shoulder. "You will learn what it means to serve. But you will not learn it through pamphlets. Or parades. You'll learn it from me."

Erich's eyes lit up. "You mean—"

"I'll teach you. Personally. History. Politics. War. Strategy. You will not become a soldier," Bruno said, "until you understand the burden of command."

The boy stood up, nearly forgetting to salute in his excitement before realizing this was not an officer, but his grandfather.

Bruno waved him off. "Go home. It's late."

"Yes, Grandfather."

As the door clicked shut behind him, Bruno returned to his desk. He picked up the earpiece again, but didn't put it back on.

He simply sat there, staring into the distance.

The future had just walked into his office.

And it bore his name.

A single thought escaped Bruno's lips, in a whisper so low only he could hear it.

"I won't let him suffer the same fate...."