Re: Blood and Iron

De Gaulle’s loyalists within the 4th Republic’s army stormed the rebuilt palace of Versailles under cover of early morning fog.

What remained of the old palace, reconstructed from war-torn ruins during the fragile peace, was still a symbol. Not of monarchy, but of French authority. And now, it was being seized.

To de Gaulle’s surprise, Pétain’s own personal guard offered no resistance. They stood aside silently as the rebels entered. Whether out of fear, disillusionment, or tacit approval, they yielded.

The marble corridors echoed with boots and whispered tension until they reached the President’s office. De Gaulle raised a fist, then lowered it.

His men burst in.

He stepped forward into the high-ceilinged chamber, where the tall-backed leather chair behind the desk faced the wide windows overlooking the gardens.

A cold grin touched de Gaulle’s face.”You may have outmaneuvered me in Paris all those years ago. I underestimated how many bodies you were willing to stack just to hold the city. But it ends here, Marshal. You’re under arrest for treason against the Republic and the people of France.”

Silence.

De Gaulle gave a nod. Two soldiers advanced, rounding the desk and froze.

It was not Pétain who sat slumped in the chair, but Maxime Weygand; head lolled to one side, eyes open and lifeless. A clean hole was punched through his temple. Blood had congealed against the high leather headrest.

De Gaulle’s blood ran cold.

He spun toward his men, barking: “Seal the palace. Find that bastard! He’s gone to ground! He knew!”

The soldiers scattered.

De Gaulle stepped forward and stared at Weygand. There was no sorrow. No prayer. No honor for the dead. Only contempt.

So, the collaborator had gambled; and lost.

But there was something else.

On the floor near the desk lay a single item. De Gaulle picked it up carefully: a faded Great War propaganda leaflet, once circulated by the Americans to deter intervention.

On it was the twisted image of a German Field Marshal marching through gas-slicked trenches. His face replaced with a skull. Green vapor wafted behind him, curling over the corpses of French soldiers.

At his side, German stormtroopers with gas masks and bayonets stood as specters. Painted on their masks were grinning skulls. A ghost battalion walking through slaughter.

A Latin phrase had been scrawled across the top; fresh and crude, written in what could only be blood.

“Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori.”

De Gaulle translated it in a murmur, almost to himself:

“It is sweet and fitting to die for one’s country…”

A bitter, mocking twist of ancient honor.

His eyes narrowedl; then widened. The hairs on his neck rose. He looked up toward the bell tower above the courtyard.

Crack.

The shot echoed like thunder.

Pain burst through his shoulder, and a chunk of shattered bone ricocheted into the neck of a nearby soldier, who collapsed choking on blood.

De Gaulle hit the ground hard, gasping, clutching his wound.

“Sniper! Find him! Now!”

But the assassin was already gone. No second shot. No flash. No trace.

Medics rushed in. The wound was bad, but not fatal. De Gaulle would live.

—

Berlin – Hours Later

Bruno stood alone in his study as the report was read to him. The sniper had failed. De Gaulle survived.

He said nothing at first. Only nodded once, slowly.

So be it.

Had the shot killed him, it might’ve changed everything. No war with France. No future bloodshed.

But now the Frenchman would be cautious, and a second attempt would invite scrutiny that Germany could not afford.

Bruno turned to his desk. There lay his old Iron Division pathfinder knife. The blade was pristine, save for one detail: a Latin inscription etched in gold.

He picked it up, and with the solemn calm of a man who had weighed every possible cost, whispered:

“Si vis pacem, para bellum… If you want peace, prepare for war.”

He slid the knife back into its sheath and poured himself a drink. After what had just occurred, there was nothing else that could take the edge off the back of his mind at this moment.

—

Somewhere outside Geneva

Armored diplomatic train, en route to Berlin

The rhythmic thrum of the rails was a strange kind of lullaby. It shouldn’t have been comforting, yet to Marshal Philippe Pétain, it was.

He had not slept the night before; not truly. Instead, he sat now in a leather-upholstered bench beside a narrow window, one gloved hand resting on the walking stick between his knees, the other clutching a glass of wine that he had not touched.

Outside, snow traced the jagged ridges of the Alps. Switzerland had let the train pass without inspection. Word was already spreading of the incident in Versailles.

He knew what they would call it soon: a coup.

A soft knock on the compartment door interrupted his thoughts. One of the German attachés entered. Young, clean-shaven, and clearly uncomfortable in the Marshal’s presence. He handed over a sealed envelope with a clipped bow.

“From Berlin. Field Marshal von Zehntner sends his regards and confirms your safe passage.”

Pétain took the envelope, but did not open it. The man remained standing, fidgeting slightly. He cleared his throat.

“The… the radio has reported that General Weygand was found dead. Execution-style. And de Gaulle… well, he survived an assassination attempt. He’s been hospitalized.”

There it was.

Pétain nodded slowly. “Thank you. That will be all.”

The young officer saluted and exited with relief.

Pétain let the silence return.

So, Weygand had made his choice. Perhaps he believed in de Gaulle’s fantasy of resurrection. Of a new France unshackled from German dominion. Or perhaps he simply envied what little power Pétain had left.

Whatever the reason, the fool was dead now.

He opened the envelope finally. Inside was a short note, penned in a steady, confident hand:

“France must not fall into the hands of children. We will keep it safe for them until they learn the weight of it. — B.”

Pétain allowed himself a faint smirk. The Germans had never spoken to him with such bluntness before Bruno von Zehntner came along. That man… he was not a soldier in the old sense. He was a builder. A strategist of empires.

Pétain had once believed himself to be the savior of France. With the failures of the third republic, and the chaos that ensured after their surrender to the Reich. He had taken up cause to reunite a bloodied and brokened mess.

But even now, de Gaulle would rather return to that fractured, festering, humiliated shadow of a nation, if he could be the ruler of its ashes.

No, after all he had done, Petain knew now he could not save it.

Nor could he hold it.

He had done what any old soldier would do when the tide turned.

He retreated.

Pétain leaned back and shut his eyes. The train rocked gently beneath him, the armor plating groaning slightly as it passed through a tunnel.

Let de Gaulle have Paris.

Let him raise his little banners and shout of liberty. Let him believe he’d seized power.

Because, in truth, the war for France was only beginning.

And when the time came to choose between blood and sovereignty. Between nation and ego; Pétain knew that the world would not ask who ruled the Palais Bourbon.

They would ask who ruled the sky.

And the trains.

And the flow of steel, and coal, and bread.

He took a breath, deep and cold.

Berlin would give him shelter.

But France? France would remember.

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