Re: Blood and Iron

The jungle was still that morning, save for the hum of insects and the distant churn of armored engines crawling down the broken road toward Puerto Princesa.

Oberstleutnant Erich von Zehntner walked at the head of the column, his helmet tucked under one arm, the other resting on the grip of his sidearm.

Around him, the men of Der Falke marched in silence, helmets streaked with soot and mud, uniforms torn and sweat-soaked from three days of fighting.

The first phase of the operation was over; an airstrip had been seized in the north of Luzon. Allowing men and materiel to flood the region.

But the true battle had only begun.

He had no illusions about what came next. Armies could crush fortifications, but a guerilla campaign would be a brutal death march into oblivion.

And the Reich had no interest in fighting ghosts in the jungle.

Erich halted the column outside a small fishing village nestled beside the river.

A dozen nipa huts leaned over the water on stilts, smoke curling from their thatched roofs.

Chickens scattered as the lead half-track rolled to a stop, its engine coughing before dying into silence.

The villagers gathered at the edge of the clearing, cautious but not terrified.

Men in worn shirts and straw hats held back their families.

Some clutched farming tools as if they could be spears. At their center stood the village headman, an old man in a sun-bleached undershirt and trousers, his face carved deep with the lines of poverty and pride.

Erich motioned for his interpreter, a wiry young man named Santos, a Manila native who had once studied engineering in Hamburg before the war turned his life into a bridge between worlds.

"Tell him we come as liberators, not conquerors," Erich said. "And that I'd speak with him… alone."

Santos hesitated, then translated. The headman's eyes studied Erich for a long moment before he nodded once.

They stepped beneath the shade of a banyan tree overlooking the river, away from the wary villagers and the restless German sentries.

The old man spoke first.

"You drive out the Americans. You say you come for peace. But peace never stays long with men in steel."

Erich listened. He let the silence hang a moment before answering, his tone even.

"You've seen many flags, haven't you? Spanish, American, and now ours."

The headman's eyes narrowed. "Each promised freedom. Each left graves."

Erich nodded slightly. "I know. And if I were you, I'd doubt me too. But understand this… the Americans broke their word to you. They said they'd grant independence. Instead, they came back with soldiers and bombs. We've come to make sure no empire uses you again as a shield."

The headman looked at him for a long moment, then said quietly, "And what do you call yourselves, if not an empire?"

Erich's gaze hardened, but there was no anger in it, only conviction.

"The fatherland is an Empire in and of itself. We have no need for colonies across the world. The Kaiser began the process of decolonization in what little possessions we have decades ago. Most of which are now independent and sovereign nations. We are only here because the Americans wanted to use your lands as a staging point to invoke chaos in the region."

Santos translated, and the old man said nothing.

His eyes flicked toward the village, toward the German medics unloading supplies from the trucks, crates of food, water filters, and medical kits.

The sight seemed to stir something in him.

One of the village boys, maybe twelve, limped forward, curiosity overcoming fear.

A German soldier knelt to his level, handed him a tin of condensed milk, and smiled. The boy took it hesitantly, then grinned and ran back to his mother.

The headman exhaled slowly. "The Americans took our rice last month to feed their garrisons," he said. "They said they would pay later. They never did."

Erich's voice softened. "Then take ours. And our medicine. If any of your people are sick, send a messenger to the airbase just north of here. It is under our occupation until this war is over. No soldier of mine touches your women, your crops, or your homes. That's not a request… it's law."

Santos translated, his tone reverent, almost proud. The old man finally nodded, and the tension in the clearing began to ease.

By afternoon, Der Falke's engineers were helping the villagers repair their collapsed bridge, while others distributed rations and dug a clean well.

Children gathered around the strange machines, armored vehicles with the Imperial Eagle painted in muted grey, their crews washing blood from the tracks.

That night, as the jungle grew quiet again, the headman came to Erich's campfire. He carried a clay jug of rice wine. "For peace," he said simply.

Erich accepted the drink and poured two cups, passing one back. "For peace," he echoed.

They drank in silence, the fire crackling between them. The stars above were sharp and white, like steel points pressing through the canopy.

The following morning, Der Falke continued its advance northward, leaving behind not submission, but cooperation.

Small patrols of local militia now scouted ahead for them, carrying German-supplied radios and ammunition.

The black-white-red flag flew beside the old Philippine sunburst on the bridge they had rebuilt, not as a mark of conquest, but of uneasy alliance.

As they rolled onward, Santos rode beside Erich atop the lead half-track. He lit a cigarette, exhaling toward the sunrise.

"You think it'll last, Herr Oberstleutnant?"

Erich didn't answer right away. He watched the road disappear into the jungle ahead, where the war still waited.

"Peace?" he finally said. "No. Not at all… Peace is only the silence between gunfire after all. The only thing we have done here is turned the anger and hatred of the locals towards those who are responsible for it, and in doing so hopefully we have avoided fighting a two front war against the Americans and the land itself."

Santos nodded, flicking his cigarette into the dust.

"Your grandfather would approve."

Erich smiled faintly, eyes fixed on the horizon.

"That he would…."

The engines roared, and the column moved on.

Behind them, the village children waved. Ahead, the radio crackled with new orders, reconnaissance flights spotted American movement near the northern coast.

Another battle awaited.

Another war waged.

And another price was paid with blood.