Re: Blood and Iron

The rain lashed against the tall windows of the White House, casting streaks across the glass as if nature itself wept for the state of the world.

A fire crackled in the hearth, attempting in vain to warm the heavy silence that hung in the room like a funeral shroud.

President Franklin Delano Roosevelt sat with his back to the door, hands resting firmly on the supports of his wheel chair staring intently at a large wall-mounted map of Europe.

Pins marked key cities in Spain, with red lines tracking the rapid advances of the Royalist forces. Barcelona remained untouched, but for how long?

Across the room, Prime Minister James Ramsay MacDonald of the United Kingdom sat in one of the deep leather chairs, coat still damp from his arrival. His cane rested against the arm of the chair, untouched.

He wore the look of a man who had traveled across the Atlantic not out of diplomacy, but out of desperation.

Roosevelt finally turned.

"I assume you've seen the Valencia reports?"

MacDonald nodded grimly. "Yes. What's left of them. The last dispatch from the British medical corps claimed entire battalions had been incinerated before they'd even engaged."

FDR moved to his desk and sat down, exhaling through his nose. His polio-ravaged legs stretched stiffly beneath the desk, but he ignored the pain.

His face was composed, but the strain behind his eyes betrayed the storm beneath.

"So then the question is simple," Roosevelt said. "Do we continue this? Or do we pull out and let the Republicans fend for themselves?"

MacDonald hesitated.

"Public opinion in Britain is split," he admitted. "The Tories say we're throwing good money and blood after bad. The liberals say it's our moral duty to spread democracy."

FDR smiled thinly. "And what does the Prime Minister say?"

"I say we've stepped into a fire we don't know how to put out."

There was a long pause.

Roosevelt reached into a drawer and pulled out a folder stamped with the seal of Army Intelligence.

He tossed it onto the desk. The pages inside, if MacDonald cared to read them, documented the German logistical system now feeding the Spanish Royalist war machine.

"They're treating this as a dress rehearsal," FDR said. "They don't just want Spain. They want a training ground, a proving ground, a logistics corridor to Gibraltar, the Atlantic, and North Africa."

MacDonald ran a hand down his weary face.

"Then the question isn't Spain," he said. "It's Europe."

Roosevelt nodded slowly. "And who decides whether this ends in a localized bloodbath or global war."

"If we escalate," MacDonald said, voice steady, "then they will escalate. You saw what they did to Catalonia. If we pour in another ten thousand rifles, another fifty tanks, they'll answer with five hundred. They'll carpet-bomb the whole country and roll over the ashes with mechanized divisions."

"And if we pull out," Roosevelt countered, "they win. Not just in Spain. But in perception. The Germans will be seen as the future. The Reich as the inevitable victors of the next great conflict."

MacDonald met his gaze. "Then what do you suggest? Total war? You and I both know the American people aren't ready for that. Nor are mine."

"Not war," Roosevelt said, leaning forward. "Deterrence. We keep the stream of aid going. We make it costly for them to continue. We rally other nations to pressure Germany diplomatically. We delay them until they overextend."

"You're gambling with Spain."

"No. I'm gambling on time. And time has always been the only thing democracies ever have before the wolves come howling."

MacDonald stood and began pacing slowly. "And when Berlin decides that Valencia, Seville, and Zaragoza aren't enough? When do they start looking at Tunisia? At Morocco? At the Atlantic ports of Portugal?"

"Then we confront them with something they're not ready for," Roosevelt said calmly. "A wall of steel. Unified purpose. Economic pressure. Strategic encirclement. Not bombs. Not yet."

MacDonald paused. "And if they don't stop?"

FDR looked toward the map again.

"Then we stop them the old-fashioned way."

Another silence passed between them. The clock on the mantel chimed softly. Midnight.

"I need to be honest with you, Franklin," MacDonald said finally. "If Britain sees another thousand of our boys come home in bags for a war we can't explain, my government won't last the month."

"And if Spain enters Germany's hands, yours may not last the year."

MacDonald inhaled sharply through his nose. "So we're agreed then?"

Roosevelt nodded.

"Aid continues. But no escalation. Not yet."

MacDonald retrieved his cane and moved toward the door, but paused before opening it.

"I hope to God we're right."

Roosevelt didn't answer. He simply stared out the rain-streaked window, toward a continent already beginning to bleed.

---

The drawing room in Bruno's Tyrolean estate was warm with firelight, filled with the scent of mountain pine and aged oak.

Outside, the peaks loomed pale and immense beneath the mid-morning sun.

The world was still and serene, as if the war were a distant memory, not a living thing grinding men to dust just over the Pyrenees.

Bruno von Zehntner sat by the window, a silver tray of freshly brewed Darjeeling tea set between himself and Kaiser Wilhelm II.

The old monarch reclined in a high-backed chair, his great white mustache still perfectly combed, his uniform immaculate as ever despite the years.

The only sign of age was in his hands, slightly trembled as he reached for his cup.

Bruno, by contrast, radiated energy beneath his calm exterior.

His eyes gleamed with quiet amusement as he perused the latest reports from the Iberian front, printed on crisp linen paper and bound with wax seals.

"Well," he said finally, setting the packet down. "They truly have no sense of self-preservation."

Wilhelm sipped his tea. "The British?"

"The Americans as well," Bruno replied. He gestured at the dispatch. "More aid shipments, more volunteer units. They are still throwing men and materiel into the furnace that is the Republican front. Hoping, perhaps, that sheer willpower can counter air superiority and doctrinal dominance."

The Kaiser chuckled. "Old habits die hard. The British have always believed the world can be bought, the Americans that it can be bluffed."

Bruno leaned back, the sunlight catching the edges of his silver epaulets.

"It would be humorous if not so predictable. They hoped of course, to box us in. Sanctions, embargoes, pressure through neutral powers. But what did they imagine? That the German Reich, backed by the Russian Empire, could be starved into submission like some island banana republic?"

He poured himself more tea, letting the aroma swirl upward before continuing.

"With the Hohenzollerns and the Romanovs united through blood and iron, there is no economic power on this earth that can stall our rise. It is inevitable."

Wilhelm nodded slowly. "You speak with the assurance of a prophet. But even prophets are sometimes burned."

Bruno smiled, sharp and assured. "Then let them bring fire. We have perfected the art of fighting it."

He rose from his chair, walking slowly toward the great map mounted along the far wall.

It spanned the entire European continent, with thread work lines and colored flags denoting the shifting tides of conflict. Bruno's hand hovered over the Iberian Peninsula.

"You see now," he said without turning, "why I felt it so pertinent to rope the Russians into a long-term strategic and economic alliance following our victory in the Great War? It was not merely an idea; it was a fortress. A wall of civilization raised against the tide of what was to come. No communism. No fascism. Just order. Continuity. Steel and legacy."

Wilhelm stood slowly, his cane tapping gently on the stone floor as he approached. "You rebuilt the world, Bruno. And yet, you still sound surprised when it obeys your design."

Bruno laughed, not unkindly. "Designs are theory. Reality is always messier."

He glanced again at the report, then tapped the portion detailing British arms deliveries and American pilot losses.

"The Spanish will break through within the month. The Republican command is fractured, morale crumbling. The Royalist flag will fly from Gibraltar to the Basque coast before the harvest ends. And once it does, our position on the continent will be locked."

Wilhelm exhaled softly. "And what then? France?"

Bruno tilted his head slightly. "France will scream. But they will not move. Not yet. They know the Reich fights with restraint now. But not forever. And if they force our hand, if they make this war global before we are prepared... then we will respond with such force that Paris itself will weep to remember the days of Ypres."

The Kaiser looked at the younger man, eyes filled with both pride and a trace of something older; awe, perhaps, or quiet pride.

"To think that on a mere whim I decided to give you patronage, because you waged a duel for the honor of your betrothed against a grown prince, as a fifteen-year-old junker boy. And yet here we are at the end of my lifespan, having built an Empire even Bismarck couldn't forge, and a war away where victory seems more certain than ever." Wilhelm said.

Bruno turned to face him fully. With a slight grin on his face, he sipped his tea like a proper gentleman.

"Perhaps it was God's will?"

The two men stood in silence as the wind stirred the curtains and the bells of a distant church began to toll.

It was spring in Tyrol.

And elsewhere, it was the spring of war.