Re: Blood and Iron

The Palais Bourbon reeked of cigar smoke and hubris.

At the far end of the table, Charles de Gaulle flicked his long fingers over a map, the corners weighted down by ashtrays and half-empty glasses.

A colonel leaned forward eagerly, pointing with a pencil.

"Successful strike, General. The German outpost at Saarbrücken has been silenced. Reports indicate several dozen casualties."

A ripple of laughter spread around the table. One minister muttered, "Perhaps this time the Boches will think twice before whining for reparations."

Another added, "Berlin will issue another note, no doubt. Demands for apologies, demands for gold. They think to shame France with parchment. Let them try."

De Gaulle leaned back in his chair, exhaling smoke, his eyes glittering.

"A fine day's work, gentlemen. Keep the pressure constant. Every shell reminds Berlin who dictates the frontier."

But then the doors burst open. A pale aide stumbled inside, clutching a telegram. His voice trembled.

"General… it was not an outpost. The strike—" He faltered, glancing around the room.

De Gaulle snapped, "Speak plainly, man."

The aide swallowed. "It was a hospital. A hospital near Saarbrücken. Civilians… women, children. The Germans have photographs already."

The laughter drained from the room. Ministers exchanged wary glances. The colonel who had boasted a moment earlier sat frozen, his pencil slipping from his fingers.

De Gaulle waved it off with a sneer. "Propaganda. They will fabricate anything. We struck their soldiers, nothing more."

But the silence that followed was heavy, uneasy. Every man in that chamber knew: whether accident or not, Paris had handed Berlin a weapon sharper than steel.

---

Berlin was silent.

Not the silence of peace, but the silence of rage withheld. The Chancellery's corridors were hushed, every clerk and adjutant moving with the weight of what had been reported.

Bruno stood at the Kaiser's side, the dispatch in his hand.

His face did not move, but the room seemed to grow colder as he read.

"A hospital," he said flatly. "Children among the dead."

The Kaiser slammed his fist against the table. "Monsters! Barbarians! They call us butchers, and yet they bomb the sick?"

A general spat, "Enough patience, Reichsmarschall. Give the order! Let us answer fire with fire!"

Bruno raised a single hand. The room fell silent. His pale eyes cut across the table like blades.

"No," he said. "Not yet. They wish for us to lash out. They hunger for it. But this…" He tapped the telegram with one gloved finger.

"…this is different. Soldiers may fall, it is their duty. But civilians, the helpless, the children? This is not war. This is crime."

He looked directly at the Kaiser. His voice was calm, but it carried the weight of iron.

"Majesty, we must demand justice. Issue an ultimatum to Paris: Charles de Gaulle is to be delivered to Berlin, to stand trial for crimes against humanity."

The generals erupted. "Impossible!" one shouted. "They'll never hand him over!"

"That," Bruno said coldly, "is the point."

The Kaiser stared at him, then slowly nodded. "Yes. They will refuse. And in that refusal, the world will know who began this war."

The ultimatum left Berlin within the hour.

Its words were clear: Deliver Charles de Gaulle to Berlin to answer for the massacre at Saarbrücken, or accept full responsibility for the crime.

The French reply came swiftly, bristling with pride and fury: "France bows to no Reich. The Republic answers to no foreign tyrant."

In the Palais Bourbon, De Gaulle had thundered about honor, sovereignty, and France's dignity. By dawn, a formal declaration of war was issued.

And in Berlin, Bruno stepped into the Reichstag.

The chamber was packed, every seat filled, every balcony crowded with correspondents and dignitaries.

The air buzzed with anticipation, fear, and anger. At the podium, Bruno laid down a black folder. Slowly, deliberately, he opened it and spread its contents across the wood.

Photographs.

The gasps rippled instantly: shattered beds, a ward reduced to rubble, tiny forms shrouded in bloodied sheets. Women clutched to dead children. Nurses buried in stone.

Bruno stood behind them in silence. The chamber stirred restlessly, unable to look away. At last, he lifted his gaze.

"For months," he began, voice low, even, every syllable measured, "we have endured the arrogance of France."

He paused, his eyes sweeping across the hall.

"They have fired upon our soldiers and called it training. They have struck at our outposts and called it accidents. They have spilled German blood and called it clumsiness. And still, we abided. For nearly five months, we abided. Because as lamentable as it is, it is a soldier's duty to die for his country. That is to expected…."

He lowered his eyes to the photographs, then looked up again, his voice rising.

"But to strike a hospital? To murder women and children, the sick and the wounded? This is no accident. This is no mistake. It is inhuman. It is demonic. And we do not tolerate the devil in the Reich!"

The chamber shook with shouts of fury, but Bruno's voice cut through like thunder.

"We offered them peace. We begged them for reason. We demanded only justice for our dead. And what was their answer? Mockery. Insults. Defiance. When we demanded justice for Saarbrücken, they spat in our face and declared war."

He slammed his fist upon the podium, the sound echoing.

"So hear me now. France has bared her fangs. She has chosen her path. And I swear to you, as long as I draw breath, I will conduct this war with the same determination, the same righteousness, with which I have waged every campaign of my life. And that determination is this…"

He leaned forward, eyes blazing, his voice a roar that shook the chamber:

"To fight until the very last! With this madness France has shown a willingness to condemn the entire world to the tragedy of another Great War. And since her dictator seems intent to destroy Germany, I will show him who shall be ruined in the end! To the good people of France, of which only have my sympathy, my love, and my prayer, you have the common criminal Charles de Gaulle to thank for the cruelty that can only follow such insanity. In his hysteria, de Gaulle has condemned France to a fate, that one way or another will be the death of the Republic!"

The Reichstag erupted.

Men leapt to their feet, fists pounding, voices thundering in unison. The galleries roared.

Reporters scribbled furiously as the words already burned into history.

Across Germany, radios carried the speech.

In Rome, Madrid, Vienna, and Stockholm, papers reprinted his vow.

In London, headlines asked if the Republic had gone mad.

In Washington, senators muttered that perhaps they were mistaken for siding wit the Allies.

And in Paris, the words landed like a hammer blow.

De Gaulle had his war.

But Bruno had his cause.