Re: Blood and Iron

Chapter 589: The Phantom Front

The room smelled of cigars, sweat, and tension.

Charles de Gaulle stood beside the long oak table, arms crossed, chin slightly raised, listening to his general staff speak in measured tones about failure.

The kind of failure that came not from incompetence; but from something they couldn’t yet define.

Something that was happening just beyond the French border, in the high passes of the Pyrenees, and deeper still in the scorched dust of Aragón.

“…losses in material are now exceeding projections by nearly 40%, mon general,” said Colonel Beraud, his voice tight. “We’ve had another supply column hit near Puigcerdà. No survivors. Same signatures as the last two attacks; small caliber, coordinated ambush, then thermite on the remains.”

De Gaulle said nothing.

Another general cleared his throat. “We’ve recovered German shell casings. Old ones. Marked with stamps from two decades ago. It’s deliberate misdirection.”

“No.” De Gaulle’s voice finally emerged. Cool. Sharp. “It’s their calling card.”

He turned slowly, finally facing the gathered men in the room.

“We’re not fighting Spanish militias. Not anymore. What we face now is a ghost. The Germans have sent more than volunteers. They’ve unleashed doctrine; discipline. A generation of soldiers bred in secret, forged in colonial war, trained for proxy fights that never made the newspapers. Now they emerge like phantoms. Truly deserving of the name Werewolf….”

Silence.

General Lemoine finally spoke. “Some reports coming out of the Aragon front suggest there’s an entire mechanized division operating under ’humanitarian’ cover. Bearing the insignia of the so-called International Legion. A mix of Hungarians, Greeks, Bulgarians, Germans, Italians, Russians… and even a few Frenchmen.”

That stung. The idea that some of his countrymen were fighting against the Republic, under the black eagle banner of Berlin, filled him with a kind of cold, national fury.

“Traitors, and Thugs” he muttered, “armed with German steel, waving false flags.”

“But they’re not claiming to be German forces,” Lemoine added. “Every official communique labels them as international peacekeepers sent to defend Spanish civilians from reprisals. They enter cities, post manifestos about neutrality, distribute food and medicine. And then hours later, their armored cars are pushing our allies back into the hills.”

“And we can’t even condemn it,” another staffer said, exasperated. “They’ve mastered the optics. Our Republican allies look like the aggressors on camera. They even have embedded photographers. French journalists! Neutral ones!”

“Neutral?” De Gaulle scoffed. “Useful idiots. And what of our agents in Zaragoza?”

Colonel Beraud shook his head. “Dead. Or fled. The International Legion took the city within 48 hours. Minimal casualties. No reprisals. No mass executions. Just a firm ’occupation’ and a curiously generous distribution of fuel, bread, and order.”

“They’re trying to win the civilians.”

“They are winning them,” Lemoine said bitterly. “Our propaganda efforts have failed. We can’t label them as butchers if they aren’t butchering. We can’t call them invaders if the locals are calling them liberators.”

De Gaulle slammed his fist on the table.

“This was our game. Our board. And they flipped it over.”

The outburst echoed through the room. But no one spoke. He straightened, jaw clenched.

“We spent years preparing this,” he muttered. “We armed the Committee, trained their officers, built the underground routes from Toulouse to Lleida, stocked the Pyrenean caches. And now… now we find ourselves being bled out in our own mountains by ghosts.”

Lemoine hesitated, then said what they were all thinking.

“Sir… the Werwolf problem is no longer containable. We believe there are at least five independent cells operating between the Spanish side of the Pyrenees and the forests of Occitanie. They’ve hit road convoys, telegraph lines, and even our forward munitions depot near Prades.”

“Germans?”

“Unclear. Some are probably Franco-Spanish exiles trained abroad. But the methods are textbook Fall Gelb-era infiltration. Long-range reconnaissance patrols, exfiltration on foot across seventy kilometers of harsh terrain, coordinated signal jamming, even falsified checkpoint credentials.”

“Not just amateurs,” Beraud added. “Professionals. Trained in the art of irregular war.”

De Gaulle paced slowly to the window. Rain streaked the glass. Beyond lay Paris; still serene, still untouched. But he could feel the storm building behind the clouds.

“What do we know of the commanders?” he asked.

A moment passed before Lemoine answered.

“The International Legion’s field leader in Aragon is confirmed to be Erwin Rommel.”

The room held its breath.

“That Rommel?” de Gaulle asked.

“The very one. And his adjutant; Erich von Zehntner. He’s less known to us, but the name keeps appearing. Coordinated strikes, zero casualties, popular support. He’s commanding a mixed force of Central Europeans and auxiliaries from the Balkans. No official Reich markings, but they’re equipped like a proper panzer Brigade….”

De Gaulle shook his head slowly, then muttered to himself: “von Zehntner… And a younger one no less, Christ. Those damn wolves of Tyrol are writing their own myth already.”

Another staffer nervously added, “There’s even a Frenchman among their officers. A nobleman. Went missing during the Algerian collapse. We believe he’s now leading one of the Werwolf units in Ariège.”

De Gaulle said nothing.

He stood there for several moments, letting the silence hang.

Then he spoke with chilling clarity.

“They are testing us. Berlin has unleashed its hounds. Not under their own flag, but under a hundred different ones. Greece. Hungary. Bulgaria. They have assembled a cordon of discipline; a bloc of small kings and old soldiers who remember what Europe used to be. And while we posture and protest, they prepare.”

He turned slowly, eyes sweeping the room.

“We have one choice left. Escalation.”

A rustle of discomfort went through the generals.

“With respect, sir,” Beraud said, “we escalate in Spain, and the Germans will call our bluff. They’ll denounce us and parade our sabotage efforts before the press. If we do respond overtly—”

“Then we risk war,” Lemoine finished grimly.

“We’re already at war,” De Gaulle snapped. “We just haven’t admitted it yet.”

Another silence.

Finally, Beraud asked, “What are your orders, mon Général?”

De Gaulle looked to the map on the wall; Spain, France, the border dotted with pins and red thread. Supply routes. Failures. Corpses.

“Cut the funding to the Zaragoza front. Redirect arms and support to Catalonia. We fortify Girona. And begin operations to identify and eliminate Werwolf assets in the Occitan corridor.”

“And the press?”

De Gaulle exhaled slowly. “Spin it. Say the International Legion has overstepped its mandate. Accuse them of imperialism. Atrocity. It doesn’t matter. Truth is irrelevant if you say the lie first.”

He paused, then added, almost as an afterthought:

“And send a diplomatic query to Berlin. Ask them what exactly their ’humanitarians’ are doing with tanks and flamethrowers.”

Lemoine raised a brow. “A warning?”

“No. A formality.”

He turned back to the window. His reflection, tall, severe, watchful… it stared back through the rain.

“France cannot afford to lose in Spain,” he whispered. “Not again.”

—

Headquarters of the International Legion – Former Aragonese Governor’s Palace

The tap of boots echoed down the marble corridor, purposeful and brisk.

Inside the war room, lit by the low golden glow of electric lamps and filtered Spanish sunlight, Erwin Rommel stood bent over the campaign table, a lit cigarette smoldering between two fingers as his eyes traced a red-ink map of northern Spain.

Across from him, Erich von Zehntner adjusted the leather strap of his sidearm, still stiff from his recent wound, but his posture betraying no discomfort.

Dust clung to the cuff of his tunic. Blood, long dried, flecked one boot. He hadn’t bothered changing yet.

Rommel glanced up. “The transmission came through confirmed?”

Erich nodded. “Encrypted French military dispatches out of Toulouse. Our agents intercepted a communique sent directly to De Gaulle’s desk. They know about Werwolf.”

Rommel exhaled through his nose. “Took them long enough.”

“They’re redirecting efforts. Intelligence operations are shifting south of Perpignan. The Occitan corridor’s being hardened. Surveillance increases by the day.”

Rommel stubbed out his cigarette on a silver tray. “Then we abandon the north.”

“You’re sure?” Erich asked, stepping closer.

Rommel looked up, eyes glinting like razors. “Werwolf’s value lies in its invisibility. In maneuver. In myth. If the French want to hunt shadows, we let them. Let them bleed resources fortifying phantoms.”

Erich folded his arms, considering. “Zaragoza’s secured, but the south is thin. The Syndicalists are starting to probe the outer towns again.”

“Then that’s where Werwolf goes next,” Rommel said flatly. “We send the ghosts to the fire. Relocate all five cells. Reassign them to reinforce the Aragonian interior: Alcañiz, Teruel, Calamocha. The old towns. The places we still need hearts and eyes.”

Erich nodded. “And in Zaragoza?”

“We hold it. The Legion stays visible here. Humanitarian optics remain in place; bread lines, medical caravans, reconstruction volunteers. Let the cameras roll.”

Erich smirked. “While the real war moves off-screen.”

Rommel returned the grin. “Exactly.”

A long moment passed. Outside, church bells rang across the city; no longer to summon prayers, but to mark supply shifts and signal curfews. Zaragoza had adjusted to the Legion’s presence remarkably well.

Rommel poured two glasses of cognac, offering one to Erich. “You know the irony?”

Erich raised a brow.

“Every time they accuse us of being invaders, we tighten the grip just a little more. Not through force; through discipline. Through order. Through giving the people something better than fear.”

Erich accepted the glass and sipped. “The war will escalate.”

Rommel looked out the tall window, the evening sun casting fire across the city’s skyline.

“It already has,” he said quietly. “We’re just the only ones winning it with silence.”

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